#pretty chill chapter and ending its nice :]

[alienssstufff]

mini etho-related doodles for the final chapter of You Could've Applied Online that dropped today (good ending: REAL, FREE at shade-e-es glass factory emporium) (+unreal boatboys final goodbye sequence)... gonna miss it ;w;

this one courtesy quote by chloe

and unrelated DO2 etho doodle frum yesterday (idk what to do with this atm)

[wardenparker]

Vampire Waltz - ch 10

Max Phillips x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

A mysterious inheritance, sprawling mansion, eccentric roommates, friendly bat, and coven of New England witches are the newest chapter of your life after being unceremoniously dumped and kicked out by your boyfriend. For Max, the biggest change in his life is you, and what exactly he's going to do about the fact that he is stuck living with you as long as his sire continues to punish him for that incident at his last office...

Rating: E for Explicit! 18+ Word Count: 10k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: deceased parents, cursing, food, blood and blood drinking, depictions and references to abusive relationships. Anxiety and trauma responses. Self-worth issues.* Heavy flirting, mention of a safe word, technically public groping/making out, drunkenness, weapon, threats/arguing, accidental injury, character death, blood drinking Summary: An interrupted date and a magical mishap end up with very surprising results. Notes: This chapter has been marked explicit for violence! Please proceed knowing that tags are intentionally vague so as not to give away plot points!

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9

The farm that Max found is two towns over, crawling with families and teenagers and other couples out on similar dates. The little food stand they have open is cranking out fresh doughnuts and corn dogs, and French fries from potatoes grown right there on their land — along with locally pressed apple cider and hot cocoa that is nice and rich but Max is certain just came from a powdered mix. Considering his prowess on the topic, you’re not inclined to disagree with him. Surprised to enjoy yourself so very much that hours fly by without your notice, it isn’t until you shiver in the October chill and Max very dutifully wraps you up in his leather jacket, that you start to think about home again.

Is it possible you’re only thinking that because you want to snuggle up beside him? Very possible. But that’s not such a bad thing to want to do.

“Warm now?” He asks, his arm around your waist and leans in close. He has the opportunity to snuggle close to you and he’s going to take it. The atmosphere is positively sweet and he’s hoping that you are relaxed.

“Much.” Even if he doesn’t radiate body heat, the proximity of him and his bearing makes him into a walking blanket — and his jacket is deceptively warm for being deliberately stylish. “I feel like we’ve done everything but I’m not ready to go home…which seems silly.”

“We can always go through the hayride again.” He offers, thrilled that you want to spend time out with him again.

“You wouldn’t mind that?” The last thing you want to do is bore him, but Max seems to be enjoying himself. Or at least he’s looking at you so softly and happily that you can’t imagine the expression is false — which is really its own sort of miracle.

“I’m out with you.” He hums softly. “I don’t mind at all.” It’s pretty astonishing how soft he has become for you. Managing to have you break through his crusty, self-important exterior to the soft and mushy inside.

“And you’ll really never understand how astonishing I find it that you feel that way.” You lean into his side and sigh, the heavy sound so opposed to the lightness and easiness in your heart. “One more hayride and then we’ll call it a night?”

“That sounds good, sweetheart.” He leans in and nuzzles your cheek. “We can always slip off into the woods to canoodle if you want.”

“Max!” The tone of scandal in your voice is obvious, but not in a way that disagrees by any means. In fact, your pulse jumps up and your cheeks burn hot immediately at the suggestion. “How very scandalous of you.”

With no one looking, Max flashes his fangs at you playfully. “That’s me. Scandalous.”

“Scandalous and sexy.” You huff a little laugh, letting your arm around his waist relax as the two of you walk back toward the start of the hayrides together. “And elegant, of course.”

“Always elegant.” He jokes. “You should see how elegantly I can pin you against a tree.”

Prior to Max, that probably wouldn’t have affected you too much in any particular way, but knowing that Max has never used his strength in any way but to care for you makes that image some even sexier. You know for certain that any way he had you in his arms, you would be protected and cared for — as well as absolutely wrecked. “M—maybe I’d like to see that.”

You manage to shock him. His step falters and the elegantly graceful vampire damn near stumbles. His eyes dart towards your face as he gauges how serious you are. “Give me a safe word.” He demands when he sees you’re serious. “One word that stops anything and everything happening.”

“I—” You’ve never had to have a safe word before, partially because you had a partner who didn’t prioritize your safety, but that is beside the point. Right now all that matters is the hungry way Max is staring at you. “I don’t…” The first word that pops into your head is what comes out of your mouth. “Napkin.”

He wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. Knowing that you would be embarrassed if he did. Probably interpret it as him laughing at you, rather than the word. Instead, he nods. “Napkin. Okay, sweetheart, if you ever want to stop anything – I mean even holding my hand – you just say ‘napkin’.”

"It was the only word I could think of," you defend, embarrassment hot in your cheeks even as you cuddle closer into Max's side. "But I understand what you mean. And...for the record?" Looking up at him from this close to his shoulder makes you crane your neck as though he was twelve feet tall and that's somehow even sexier. "I can't imagine that I would ever want you to stop holding my hand."

“That’s perfectly fine, sweetheart.” A cute little Hallmark perfect date wasn’t the setting he had in mind for discussions about boundaries and safe words, but here you are. “But the second that changes, I want you to tell me. Without being scared I will get mad or it will hurt my feelings. Invalidating your own comfort for mine isn’t something I want.”

"And you'll tell me too?" Somehow you know that he would, but you still feel the need to say it out loud. "Don't be afraid that it will hurt my feelings. I would rather that you always be honest with me."

“You’re my person.” He stresses, tossing you a grin. “My little ketchup packet, my favorite fantasy snack. I would never lie to you.” That part he’s serious about. He doesn’t want you to feel like you can’t trust him, you’re part of his soul. If you can’t trust the person the universe said was your perfect match, can you even trust yourself?

"I'm claiming that as my new pet name," you tell him, practically doubling over and cackling beside him as you wait in line for one more hayride through the farm. "I'm your little ketchup packet from now on. That's the weirdest and cutest thing I've ever heard."

“Then that’s what you’ll be.” He grins, enjoying your amusement and watching you with steadfast affection.

******

Eventually, after another five or ten minutes of waiting, snuggling together like every other couple in line, the tractor pulling the trailer with the bales of hay piled up to make seats arrives. Unloading the last giggling, excitable group before they motion towards you and Max to climb on. He sets a precedent by helping you up onto the trailer with a flourish that makes the other men of your group seemingly follow suit, making him grin as he settles down beside you against a surprisingly comfortable backrest of hay.

“Show off,” you tease under your breath as he puts his arm around you in the back of the truck bed and rest your head on his shoulder. “Forcing them all to up their game.”

He snorts and leans down against your head. “Poor them.” He mocks silently.

“All the girls are probably thanking you, though.” The way your hand creeps into his, fingers threading together and locking into place, is comfortable and practiced now.

“They should have been helping them up anyway.” He muses, smirking at you, “Helps get them laid.”

“Oh yeah?” Your eyes flash mischief and you grin. “Are you hoping it’ll help you, too?”

“Well, I’m always hoping.” He nuzzles your nose with his and chuckles. “But as long as I get to hold you while you sleep, I’m perfectly good.”

“I don’t think it will take too long.” It’s less a promise than a reassurance, because with the way you feel about him you’re just not going to be able to resist very long. And that’s okay.

“We’ll get there.” He’s not concerned about sex, which is amazing considering he was kicked out of the college he was supposed to meet you at because he was thinking with his dick. Maybe it’s because he knows you are his, his soulmate bond stronger than just mere physical attraction.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” The question is soft, and more plaintive than you meant it to be, but it’s honest. Just because he’s stayed beside you for the last two nights doesn’t mean that he is always going to want to. But you want him there. For every possible second that he’ll allow.

“I was hoping you would ask.” He admits, squeezing your hand gently. He wasn’t going to push you for another night beside you while you sleep, but if you want him there, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“I always want you there,” you admit quietly. “But I don’t want to keep you if you have other things to do.”

"I can do any work I need to get done on my phone." He tells you. "Unless the light would bother you."

“It doesn’t.” That is an easy promise, considering you sleep more deeply in Max’s arms than anywhere else. “You could probably talk to me in my sleep and the most that would happen is I would hear your voice is my dreams.”

"Good." He curls a little closer to you and nudges your ear with his nose. "Maybe we can...sleep together regularly?"

“Honestly?” The closer he gets the more you warm up, the heat of attraction rolling off you in waves. “Stay with me every night. Just screw having different rooms, I don’t even care.”

"Ready to move me in, Queenie?" He grins, not bothered by it at all. "You must really like me." He has zero problem staying in your room from now on. Only going back to his room to dress if you couldn't, or wouldn't, give him closet space.

“You’re my soulmate.” As if it were some kind of all-powerful spell, a brisk breeze sweeps through the cart and nudges you to nuzzle closer to Max as the hayride takes off. “And technically I’m the one who moved in with you. You were already there.”

“Technically.” He hums happily, tightening his hold on you as the ride starts.

The first hayride you took had been full of local teens and one young family all looking to enjoy some seasonal entertainment, but this time it is very obviously all couples. There is no doubt about it when seven pairs of people are all sitting in their own little corners of the truck bed and cuddling without a single care in the world for anyone else present. You and Max are able to just watch the night go by from your perched spot on a bale of hay, and when you approach the tree line again towards the end of the ride you bite back a giggle. He makes you feel giddy, and you have to wonder privately how scandalous it really would be to sneak off into those woods.

“Hold on, sweetheart.” Max can move faster than you can. Wrapping his arm around your waist, he pulls you off the trailer with his inhuman vampiric strength and speed to move you to the trees, out of sight of the continuing hayride.

Clinging to him is sort of an understatement for how tight you hold on, but in just two seconds’ time or less you’re well-hidden with him in the tree line and gasping for air as you try to muffle exuberant giggles. “I can’t believe we just did that!” It feels like breaking the rules and you never break the rules.

He chuckles and leans against you gently, pinning you against the tree “Yeah?” He hums, nuzzling your pulse. “We are breaking the rules and being naughty.”

“Max…” Breathy and plaintive, his name on your lips is as certain as the way your fingers are digging into his sides to keep him close as your eyes flutter shut. He’s like a wall around you, surrounding you and blocking out the world, and somehow that is even sexier than you ever thought it would be.

“What do you want, my Dolly?” He asks, sliding his tongue out to trail lightly along your skin. “What do you need?” His voice dips down low and sensual, caressing you with his words.

It’s the most fantastic thing in your mind when he does this, lips and tongue and just the gentlest nip of his teeth on your skin making you forget everything in the world besides him. Far from any feeling you’ve had before, it is intoxicating and all-encompassing and you have to wonder how much it is the soulmate connection and how much is just your physical attraction to him. “Drive me crazy—” you gasp and it drops to a low moan when his hand spreads out over your hip and he presses in closer.

“Good.” He huffs against your skin and grins. He wants to drive you crazy, to make you forget about everything but him and the moment. He presses against you a little more and continues to kiss along your throat. “Wanna drive you crazy.”

Everything else around the two of you truly dissolves and the only thought in your head is how long you can possibly make your neck to give Max more and more skin to kiss. One of your hands finds its way under the hem of his sweater with such ease that you don’t even realize you’re touching him at first. It’s like an unconscious effort to crawl inside the strength of his embrace and just stay there forever.

“Do you know how good it feels to have you touch me?” Max growls against your skin, shivering slightly. Not from the chilly weather, but from the exquisite feeling of your touch. The feel of someone who was meant for him.

“Tell me.” Your hands seek out skin like a magnet, grazing Max’s sides and dipping delicately under the waistband of his jeans.

“It’s— it’s electric.” Even though he doesn’t need to breathe, his voice falters, nearly losing track of what he was saying. “Tingling. Like waking up Christmas morning.”

“Ooo, a fan of Christmas?” The giggle that bubbles out of you is throaty and you find yourself pressing back against the tree to give him maximum leverage while your hands retrace familiar routes. “I’ll remember that.”

“Only when there are presents under the tree.” He teases, his own hand sliding under your shirt at your back. Loving how hot you are as he caresses your skin.

“I’ll put a ribbon on my forehead,” you tease, rolling your hips forward in an effort to connect every possible part of your bodies.

“Yeah? You gonna be my present?” He groans at the thought and imagines unwrapping you from the most delicate lingerie you can buy.

“I’d like to be.” The idea that he could be bored of you by then flickers across your mind but you don’t let it stay. Max has never given a single indication that that could happen. He didn’t even spook when your abuela’s letter mentioned a husband, which would have sent any previous boyfriend running for the hills.

“You’re—” There’s a crack of a branch, one that doesn’t sound like it’s from an animal. A scent that is definitely human. Making Max groan as he pulls away from you, putting his finger to his lips to tell you to be quiet.

Being seen is mortifying enough, but the look on Max’s face is seriously displeased and you clam up instantly. A nod of your head is your promise to obey, and you’re instantly pulling your clothes back into place.

“Well, what do we have here?” The condescending tone isn’t one of a displeased hayride worker, it’s more of someone looking for trouble. Max can smell the booze from here he knows that you won’t like being accosted by a drunkard, especially this drunkard.

It should say something that you recognize his slur as easily as his voice, and you know that Max just heard the way your heartbeat jumped into your throat in fear rather than arousal. Still, you stay silent like Max ordered. “Whaddaya got there?” In the dark he can’t see details very well, but he wobbles forward another step with unearned certainty. “Little lady like her hayride?”

“Funny running into you here.” Max keeps his voice slightly jovial with a tinge of warning in it. No need to start hostile. He’s sure that will come later.  “Didn’t take you for the pumpkin patch type.”

Derek reels back slightly when he recognizes Max, his mocking smile dipping down to a frown. “You.” He huffs, craning his neck to look behind the younger man’s large frame. “I’m just out with some new friends,” Derek insists, waving his arm vaguely in back of him as though fifty people should have appeared out of the trees there. “Trying to get to know my girl’s new home a little.”

“Not your girl.” Max reminds him. “You are done. Best thing you can do is leave.”

“Not gonna happen.” Derek informs him with an amused shake of his head. The arrogance rolling off him in waves is different from Max’s breed of cockiness. It’s downright sinister. “And what do you even care, man? You’ve had her, what…a month?” He scoffs at that and takes a swig out of the brown bottle in his hand. “Just go find somebody else. No harm, no foul. No problem between us.”

“There is a problem between us.” Max turns, shielding you from your ex and acting as a barrier between you. “There’s no one else for me. She’s it. So I suggest you find another punching bag to break in. She’s done taking your abuse.”

“That little mouse?” The doubtful expression on Derek’s face is all for show. He hears the resolve in the other man’s voice and sees the set of his shoulders. The only reason he’s certain he could survive going toe-to-toe with this guy is because Derek knows his own speed. “C’mon man,” he takes another step forward, adopting a friendly posture. “I’m doing you a favor here. Trust me.”

“Trust me, pal.” Max snorts and grins evilly. “You don’t want to push me. She is the only reason you are still breathing.”

The habitual haze of alcohol has Derek interpreting that statement entirely backwards, and he moves toward you with all the confidence of a swaggering buffoon. “I knew my girl could never give me up that easily.” After ten fucking years of training you, you had better not.

“Queenie.” Max snarls your nickname, ready to pounce on this piece of shit and tear him apart if he so much as touches a hair on your body. “Leave.”

“Not without you.” As much as you want to get the hell out of here, there’s no way. If Max is still here then you’re staying, and you’re not sure how foolish that deep loyalty is in your decision making but the decision has been made.

“I’m gonna rip your fucking throat out and shit down your neck if you don’t get the fuck out of here.” Max warns. “Don’t fucking bother staying around.”

“Baby.” The way Derek turns his eyes to you in the dark is practiced. Measured. And more than a little demanding. “Are you gonna let him threaten me like that, little girl?”

Once upon a time it was baby girl. Crooned and sweet and sighed in your ear to make you feel completely complacent and like he was where you belonged. It was a trick. A nasty, dirty one, and you’re ashamed of yourself for ever falling for such an obvious act. “He can threaten you however he likes,” you tell Derek, though your voice isn’t as strong as the words are. “The second I give him permission, he’ll kill you.”

Derek scoffs and shakes his head. “No he won’t, because he isn’t gonna go to jail for you.”

Max chuckles. “Wanna bet, fuckface?” He growls. “Besides, they would never find you after I’m done with you.”

“They wouldn’t.” You know that. Hell, considering who Max’s sire — your own grandfather is — you doubt there would even be a body left to find. “You should go, Derek.” The kindest thing you can possibly do for this piece of shit is warn him off, but you know that he won’t listen to you. Not now. He never even did when he was pretending to love you.

“I’m not leaving without what is mine.” His face twists into one of pure rage and he reaches into the pocket of the thin jacket he is wearing. The gun in his hand was not what Max had been expecting. Nothing in your few stories about the bastard had ever indicated that he had a penchant for brandishing a weapon. His fangs instantly descend and he’s clenching his fists together as his nails elongate into claws.

The world seems to go into slow motion all at once. As soon as you see the flash of steel in Derek’s hand your mind goes into high gear. You barely register Max’s growl or Derek’s shouting, or even the unsteady pounding of blood in your own ears. All you can think in this split second of terrified panic is that Max is about to be shot. If ever there was a time for your magic to manifest itself, let it be with this moment of intense emotion.

According to all of your grandmother’s letters — and the memories that have begun to spill back into your mind from their locked away place — you have more magic in your little finger than you do strength in your body. And that means something when it’s said about a dancer. Your body propels itself forward, voice calling out to Max to be careful, but all your thoughts are on all the things that will never happen if Derek pulls that trigger. No more dances. No more feeling Max’s heartbeat when you kiss him. No more reading aloud to him. No more dreaming. You’ll never get to spend innumerable lifetimes with this man that you’ve fallen so deeply in love with. That you want to marry. And hadn’t Yayo said his line could even have children? Without Max you would never have the strength and support to try going back in time to see your mother and grandmother again.

“Stop!” Your hand connects with Derek’s wrist at the same moment your other touches Max’s chest, and you push yourself between them with purpose. Only to feel the world turn upside down a moment later.

Max is furious when you move in front of him, knowing that it’s him that can handle whatever this little shit can throw at him. “Noooooo—” his angry yell rips out and he grabs your arm just as something happens and suddenly he feels like he’s being tossed in a tornado.

Rougher than Dorothy getting tossed into Oz, you find yourself face down in the dirt with one hand still clinging to Max just seconds later. It’s darker, somehow — the glow of festive lights from the nearby farm deadens so the moon and stars seem brighter but only from the loss of competition. There’s panting to your other side, and you scramble to your feet to grab the gun that has fallen out of Derek’s hands. Your desire to never touch a weapon in your life is far outweighed by your desire to protect your soulmate.

It takes Max a second to orient himself again, whatever you had just done had fucked with his equilibrium. Taking him longer than normal to situate himself and immediately zooms over to you as soon as you reach the gun.

“Are you okay?” Nothing else matters, and the moment Max is at your side you are wrapping one arm around him tightly and clinging carefully to the butt of the gun with the other. “I-I—I don’t think— I mean I tried to cast a protection spell,” you blurt out, rushing and stammering through the words.

“Are you insane?” Max huffs, shaking his head and his own hands slide over your body to check you for any injuries. “How could you step between me and a gun?”

“He was going to shoot you!” It was instinct, pure and simple, and the grumbling moan that comes from a few feet away signals your entire system to flood with adrenaline all over again. Derek is on his knees in the grass, shaking his head as you raise the weapon with shaky hands. “Was I supposed to just let him hurt you?”

“He wouldn’t have hurt me unless it was a wooden bullet to the heart.” Max huffs, still shaken by how you could have been killed. “Don’t ever do that for me again.”

It isn’t until he spells it out for you that you even realize the stupid mistake you made, and your eyes grow even wider looking at the weapon in your hand before you drop it to your side and instantly look around for a way to get rid of it.

“Goddamn fucking idiot—” As he starts to clamor back to his feet, Derek is cradling his head on one side and practically snarling at you. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing charging at me like that you stupid bitch? I should kill both of you!”

Max’s fangs come down again, beautiful and deadly as he grins. Hoping the bastard keeps coming. Even if you don’t want him to kill Derek, he’s going to.

“What is the meaning of this!” a scandalized voice rings out, and Max pauses, turning to see none other than Mrs. Taylor.

“Mrs. Taylor!” The surprise of seeing her out here outweighs anything else and you jump back, dropping the gun into the grass in the process but Max steps forward immediately to cover half of it with his foot and discourage Derek from trying to grab the thing. “What are you doing here?” In the dark of night, it is difficult to see that her outfit is nothing like what you are used to seeing her in, and clothing certainly isn’t where your mind’s focus is right now.

“I could ask you the same, dear girl.” Her voice is more prim, accent a little crisper, and she surveys your group with the air of a captain on deck of his ship. “Alone with two men unchaperoned. And dressed as a boy! You will be lucky if I do not inform your family. And what could you gentlemen possibly mean, cornering a young lady in the dark woods like this? Anyone would think you had no breeding at all.”

Max relaxes slightly, smirking because he knows that Mrs. Taylor won’t put up with any nonsense out of Derek. Even if she doesn’t quite know who you are yet. There’s a little bit of a reckless history in her past and he flashes her his fangs. “The lady is my wife.” He tells her. “The man is a delusional ex-beau who refuses to believe that we are honeymooning.”

“I see.” The honorable vampire draws herself up to her full height and sets her eyes on each of you carefully. “Then you will attend to the matter yourself? There is nothing but privacy, of course, this late into the night.”

Max hears you inhale roughly and he sighs. Rolling his eyes at the inability to tear the rat apart. “My wife is tenderhearted.” He tells the older vampire. “She does not wish for me to take his life.”

“Why are you being so weird?” Nothing about anything makes sense right now but maybe you’re just missing some kind of vampiric social intricacy.

“You have clearly been unsettled by this intrusion, ma’am.” Mrs. Taylor never seems to break her poise, and as she steps forward into a shaft of moonlight you see that the thing you missed isn’t an intricacy, but something very obvious. The dress she has on is one that you saw in the attic of the mansion barely a week ago. One she said was one hundred and fifty years old. “Allow your husband to escort you home. This gentleman will trouble you no further.” She assures you with a demure, polite smile.

“Come, my dear.” Max turns towards you and even though you are in modern clothing, he offers his elbow to you like he’d seen his sire do with Cookie hundreds of times before. Mrs. Taylor is about to dispose of his problem and while he would love to stay and watch, you shouldn’t. “You don’t want to see this.”

“Don’t walk away from me.” Derek spits, finally pushing himself up on his feet. He must have hit his head on a rock because his hair is matted with blood. “What’s some middle-aged bitch in a Halloween costume gonna do? Scold me?”

She’ll do a hell of a lot more than that if you so much as say the word, but for a moment you truly consider amnesty. But he was going to kill Max. That was his intention, anyway. And while you have taken endless worlds of abuse from him for yourself, you can’t let that intention against your soulmate stand. There is anger brewing in you from that intention. There is so much anger, and a decade of frustrations, fears, and failings to cap it off with. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lean over and pick the gun up again to hand it to Max before you turn back to Mrs. Taylor with eyes of stone. “No one will miss him,” you tell her with certainty. “But he still should not be found.”

And understanding passes through her eyes and she nods once. “I assure you, he will never be found.” She says before she turns back to the man who is stumbling forward.

“You stupid bitch, you think you’re through with me? You aren’t done until I say you’re done.” He yells, balling his hand up into a fist.

Despite having an inclination of how poorly your magic obeyed you when you tried to protect Max, your hand shoots out to stop Derek’s just as his juts out. His fist collides with your palm, but instead of hurting you, he yelps in pain and recoils in shock. “I am through with you.” You tell him steadily, though you’re disappointed to find that your palm produced no flames when you look down at it. You had intended to burn him with fire but it seems like your hand only temporarily turned to a lava-like texture. It still did the job though, if the way he’s cradling his hand is any indication. “The whole world is through with you. And history will completely forget your name, just like I will.”

His hand is injured but his ego more so. “He will be bored with you in a week.” He spits. “I was. But I just let you hang around like that unwanted stray.” He wants to lash out at you, feel that hurt rolling off you again. It feeds his need to push around someone else, props him up.

“You wanted someone around to pay your bills.” It hurts to admit, but they say the truth will set you free. In a way, as distorted as it is, it feels a little true. “Go to hell, Derek. And make sure you let the Devil know who sent you when you get there. He’s a friend of the family.”

Max doesn’t allow the shit stain to say another word, whisking you away so you can’t see what Mrs. Taylor does, but within seconds, a panicked, tormented scream starts to echo in the woods. Stopping a few seconds later, nearly five hundred yards from where you had last seen your ex, Max keeps you close.

You shudder visibly, leaning into Max’s side and burying your face in his chest. “Tell me I did the right thing?” You beg quietly, knowing that he deserved worse but not feeling good at all about being the one to deliver it.

“You did the right thing.” He promises sincerely, turning into you and pulling you closer. “He’s— he would have continued until he hurt you again, or worse.”

"He was going to hurt you." Or he thought he was. He intended to. And that matters far more to you than anything else. "And I couldn't—" Your voice cracks a little and you sigh, eyes closing against the weighty truth of the moment. "I couldn't let that happen."

“Sweetheart,” Max sighs softly, pressing his face to your hair and inhaling your mouth-watering scent. “At the risk of sounding completely sexist, I’m supposed to protect you.” He hums. “You are so much braver than you give yourself credit for.”

"It's not about being brave." He said he would protect you and you believe him, but if he's focused on you then he's likely not protecting himself as well as he could. It's a vicious cycle that flashed in your mind and left doubt there, which you are not fond of. "It's..." You sigh into his sweater. "It's that I love you. And I can't stomach the thought of losing you."

“You won’t lose me.” It’s a hollow promise since he’s been brought back once before, but he still kisses your forehead. “You’re stuck with me.” He stares into your eyes and cups your cheeks, making sure you are looking at him. “I love you, Queenie, my queen, my soulmate.”

“And…apparently…your wife?” You do have to crack a smile over it, even as dower as this moment might be otherwise. “That was a surprise, I admit.”

“You will be.” He predicts with certainty. “But…sweetheart, we – whatever you did – we have time traveled back to your letters.”

“No we did not.” There is no way. It’s just not something you’re capable of. “I couldn’t even cast a Protection spell when I tried to. Or conjure a simple flame. There’s no way.”

“Did you see the way that Mrs. Taylor was dressed? The lights have changed and it smells different.” Max insists. “We are back in time.”

The fact that you noticed two of those things doesn’t quite deter your stubborn incredulousness. But it doesn’t stop you from burying yourself against his chest again and shaking with anxious fear. “What—” You blow out a long breath. “What if I can’t get us home again?”

“Obviously you do.” Max reminds you quietly. “Because the letters continued.”

“This is insane.” It feels like a trick. Like the twist of some Halloween film you turned in on Netflix out of boredom. But it is as real as the grass under your feet or Max’s arms around you.

“We need to find Mr. Taylor.” Max huffs. “If she is here, I know he is also around. The best thing we can do is get to the house.”

“What do we even tell them?” You look up at him with doubtful eyes. “We can’t just spew out that I’m family. Who knows when we are? My mother might not even be alive yet.” To make this remarkable journey and not see her would feel awful, but it isn’t as though you simply set a destination in your GPS and drove back in time. This all happened by accident.

“My sire will know that he has made me.” Max promises. “He can smell blood. He will be able to smell your blood as well.”

“I’m not sure if that’s comforting or not,” you admit with a weak smile. But there isn’t time to protest more, as Mrs. Taylor walks out of the woods looking as put-together as ever. Not so much as a hair is out of place.

“That was an unfortunate tasting gentleman.” She huffs and smooths down her dress. “Now, wherever did you come from?” She asks as she looks up and down at your clothing. “Obviously not from around here.”

“It is…a very long story, I think.” Looking over her now, in the clear moonlight, there is no denying it. Mrs. Taylor may look exactly the same as she did this morning in the dining room of your house, but she is also a much different version of herself. And her appearance is undeniably old fashioned. “Unfortunately, it seems that we are without a place to stay or any of our luggage. And…as you will understand…my husband,” calling him that is so odd and yet feels so right. “He is not everyone’s ideal guest.”

“You will come back to the estate with me.” She decides with a jut of her chin. “My mistress will sort everything out and her soulmate has the same inclinations as your husband.”

“We…know of your mistress,” you murmur, looking around to make truly sure there is no one to overhear you. “As her husband shares the inclinations of my own…so, so I share with your mistress’.”

Her brow furrows and she is curious about how you know about Cookie Brown. “A vampire and a witch… interesting.” She looks past you to where her own soulmate is pulling into the clearing with a cart. “And our ride.”

“I suppose it behooves you both to get work done at night.” The cart is full of barrels and things stacked up under oilcloth, and you accept help from both Max and Mr. Taylor in getting you up onto the bench of the cart.

“Our skin is sensitive to the sun. We cannot be out for many hours during daylight.” She explains. “But your husband should experience the same issue.”

“He does.” You reach for Max and squeeze his hand once he’s seated behind you. “Our…carriage…has darkened windows. To allow him comfortable travel.”

“That is good. Modern conveniences have made our existence easier.” She nods as the four of you start to move. “What brings you to our area?” She asks. “There has been no request for a coven transfer.”

“I am afraid it is not an easy matter.” And you have no idea if you’re even talking the right way, let alone explaining yourself well, but so far just pretending you’re in a Jane Austen novel or an episode of Downton Abbey seems to be working. “But my husband and I had thought to take a house here in town.”

“I am afraid that you will find that houses here are few.” Mrs. Taylor hums. “My mistress and her soulmate built their estate.”

The carriage ride takes far longer than the little ride in Max’s sports car did to get out here, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It will help you to get a handle on the situation, if nothing else, because the situation is a very big one. “We have heard it is very grand.” You commend, nodding at the mention of the house you’ve come to think of as home. “With forty acres and a view of the sea, they say? It must be very grand.”

“People love to talk.” She’s suspicious, but you look familiar in some way although she cannot pinpoint how. Something about your eyes.

“They do.” Sensing you might be overstepping; you walk back your interest and squeeze Max’s hand gently. “Thank you again, ma’am. For helping us.”

“My mistress would be very upset if I did not help someone of her kind in need.” She tells you.

“But you did not yet know that your mistress and I were alike when you stepped in.” The smile you offer her is sincere and deeply felt, and you practically bow your head. “We are most grateful.”

“I heard the shouting and the vile curses.” Her placid expression turns into a fierce frown. “Disgusting man. Were you really entangled with him before?”

"I cannot deny it." Though you dearly wish you could. Although...none of that matters now. It is over, done with, and truly a thing of the past. An irony which does not escape you at all. "Before I met my husband, of course." You add quickly.

“Meeting one’s soulmate has a way of making the past fade from memory, does it not?” Mr. Taylor is the one who speaks up, looking fondly as his own.

There is no way to deny that, and you turn back to Max again with the sort of honest smile that seems specifically reserved these days to be just for him. "More than I ever could have expected."

“Again, we thank you for your hospitality.” Max murmurs. His fingers slide under your shirt to caress your skin reassuringly.

"The master will be about when we arrive, no doubt, and he will see to any arrangements for you after I have explained how we have all come to be acquainted." Mrs. Taylor tells you both. "And, of course, your lady wife will require rest."

“She will.” Max acknowledges with a nod of his head. He’s drained after whatever magic spell you used so he knows that you are probably even more tired due to still being human.

Conversation is polite but not overly familiar as the ride drags on, and by the time the horses are pulling the four of you down Bellevue Avenue with Chateau-sur-Mer in sight, you're practically asleep on Max's shoulder. It's only the sight of the house that perks you up again, realizing that you've come back in time far enough that the landscaping is drastically different. The huge weeping beech outside your front door is nowhere to be seen and neither is the hedge maze in the north garden. For the first time you realize that your beloved teahouse might not be here, either.

“Wow.” Max whistles and shakes his head. “Those hedges can hide so many bodies.”

Mr. Taylor chuckles, glancing over at their passenger in amusement. "The upper class like to play at a bit of mystery. Keeping the house half hidden is a game the mistress likes to play."

“I like the idea of privacy.” He admits. “They should have kept them. It complements the gothic vibe of the house.”

"Should have?" Mrs. Taylor raises one eyebrow in question as her own soulmate steers the horses and cart toward the service door of the house on the other side of the east wing.

“An estate we were close to, back home.” Max supplies quickly, with a shrug. “They tore out their maze.”

"A shame." That has the vampiric housekeeper nodding in understanding. "Such a feature is a talking point, at the very least. One that humans seem to enjoy very much." When the carriage comes to a halt, Mrs. Taylor lifts herself out with ease and dusts her hands on her skirt. "Come inside," she beckons toward the service door. "I will have you wait below stairs while I inform the master of your circumstances."

Max helps you down and immediately takes your hand. “It will be alright.” He assures you softly, aware that Mrs. Taylor can still hear every word he says. “We are safe and together.”

"This is where I feel safest," you tell him honestly, holding onto his one hand with both of yours. Whether the assembled vampires take that to mean this house or with Max is up to them. "It's all just...so much has happened the last few days. And now this?"

“At least now, you completely understand that the visit was a joy. You can relax.” He smirks, squeezing your hand. “And we can still sleep in the same bed. Or…you can sleep.”

"I will return momentarily," Mrs. Taylor tells you with a polite smile before she disappears up the stairs faster than any human housekeeper would ever be able to manage.

“At least we know the layout.” He jokes quietly as he pulls you closer to cuddle against him. Knowing that despite the letter, you are anxious.

“I guess that’s true.” Despite it, though, the nerves running through you are heavy and stinging. What was once a perfectly beautiful date night has spiraled out of control. “I just hope you’re right and he lets us stay.”

“He will let us stay.” Max is confident in that. He might not understand the connection quite yet, but the blood running through your veins is his and he will smell it.

“I hope so.” The house might be the same but all the mechanisms are different. The Viking appliances that outfit the current kitchen are obviously nowhere to be seen, and the great, coal burning, cast iron monstrosity that sits against the wall here looks more complicated to use than you could ever wrap your head around. Mr. Taylor pops in and out of the delivery door toting things off the cart from the farm with his immense strength but does not use his uncanny speed, and you wonder if he is trying to be discreet around a mortal. That sounds just like him.

“This is like living in the twilight zone.” Max snorts and shakes his head and looks around the vastly different kitchen. “I wonder what the bathrooms will look like.”

“Rene said the master bathroom on the second floor was the only bathroom on the second floor until the renovations they did in 1872.” Leaning into his side, a layer of anxiety and tension eases away when Max’s arms come around you and hold you tightly against him. “From the look of the house, it’s after that. But I saw the formal entrance on our way in, and that was closed off in 1893, so we’re somewhere in that twenty-year span between renovations.”

"So how old was your mother during that time?" Max frowns slightly, trying to keep the timeline in order in his mind.

“Yayo said they built the house when abuela Cookie was pregnant, so…at the youngest maybe around twenty? Or as old as forty, depending on what end of that spectrum of time we’ve arrived in.” It’s mind boggling, but the idea of seeing your mother again makes you feel infinitely less dreary about the entire prospect.

"We should not say anything about our true origins until we speak to him." Max tells you. He knows that you would never affect the future on purpose, but you might slip up and greet her as your mother and you can't do that. Not when you haven't been born yet. "We will see what your grandfather says."

“Believe me, I’ve read enough time travel stories and seen enough movies to know that you don’t fuck with the timeline.” The prospect of it terrifies you, if you’re honest, and you have to shake it off quickly. “I’m done with changing anything. But…what’s done is done.”

"Absolutely." He nods quickly and his fingers squeeze your reassuringly. "Do not even think about that unfortunate episode at the farm. "We know it was successful because she had written to you about it."

“I’m glad you’re here,” you murmur into his chest, knowing he’ll hear you all the same. “I think I’d be scared out of my mind if you weren’t.”

"I'm glad I'm here too." He admits quietly. "Although.....my phone doesn't work here." He jokes, attempting to lighten the worry and unsettling unease of the moment.

For just a second you think he might be serious, but in looking at his face, your lips twist into a smirk. “I’m sure your clients will forgive a short absence.”

"I need to text." He huffs, playing up the joke a little more. "My fingers are burning with the need."

“Then I suggest you learn the art of sending a note,” you murmur, hearing very deliberate steps out in the servants’ hall. “Because until I can learn how to send us back correctly, I can’t just take a chance on my magic getting us home by accident.”

"I am sure that with my business savvy and romantic heart..." He grins at you and winks. "I will be sending missives that will stand the test of time." He vows, holding his hand over his non-beating heart. "Love notes, dirty notes."

Mrs. Taylor clears her throat politely in the doorway and nods in an equal sore off manners. “Follow me,” she intones, and it feels very much more like an order than a suggestion.

He raises his eyebrows and makes a comical face as she whirls around and the two of you follow her down the hall. "I have to admit that the lanterns give the hall a proper....austere look." He whispers to you, fully aware that Mrs. Taylor can hear him.

“The estate has the finest of everything available to it.” She commends, heading for the servants’ stairs at a brisk pace that gives Max no trouble but you have to hurry to keep up with. “It is the greatest house in Newport without competition.”

"I am sure the Vanderbilts would disagree." He chuckles under his breath.

The absolutely derisive huff Mrs. Taylor exhales is fully for show, and you have to admit that you love her for it. She obviously doesn’t care a fig for those new money millionaires who built up the palaces along Bellevue Avenue that are now museums. “That cottage they bought from Mr. Lorillard is no match for a house of this grandeur,” she asserts proudly.

Max snickers, appreciating that he can still get under her skin and yet she's just as poised as she always is. "Of course not." He agrees with a serious nod. "Peasant’s cottages."

Your little trio emerges upstairs and Mrs. Taylor deposits you in the library with one more polite nod of her head. “He will be in momentarily,” she tells you, before heading back to the servants’ side of the house. If you Mrs. Taylor at all she’s off to make up a bed and probably a tea tray, but that is just a guess.

Max snorts as he walks around the room. "Good to know they still had the same taste back then." He tells you. "Or is it now?" He asks with a tilt of his head. "This is going to get confusing."

“Aren’t you the one who always says the house is a time capsule?” The chair sitting at the large library desk isn’t exactly the same, but it was definitely from the same maker. Maybe even the same set. “Fair warning. If Yayo makes me wear those giant dresses while we’re here, you’re going to have to help me keep my balance.”

He throws his head back and laughs just as the door opens and your grandfather appears. “It seems as if I have missed a joke.” He muses, his sharp eyes narrowing on the two of you.

Whatever instinct it is that’s ingrained in you, the relieving sight of your grandfather almost makes you stumble forward to hug him. It’s only the fact that you are holding Max’s arm that stops you, and you end up nodding nervously. “We’re…very sorry to intrude like this,” you start, hoping that sounds appropriately contrite.

“No, no you are not.” He hums, arching a brow. “You are relieved, but not apologetic.”

"Sorry to intrude," you clarify, though you swallow thickly at the fact that this is obviously not the doting grandfather you knew as a child. "But not to be offered sanctuary. In that, you are correct."

“And why should I offer sanctuary to a vampire and his mate who somehow smell like my progeny?” His head tilts and his fangs descend into a pair of sharp needles extending from his gums.

There seems to be no beating about the bush tonight, and you look over at Max with a plaintive expression though you both know that this is your story to tell. "Because we are." You tell him honestly, keeping your voice as whisper quiet as you can possibly manage. "In different ways. And it is a long story, but we didn't come here with any...nefarious purpose. In fact...it was an accident. Sort of."

In the blink of an eye, your grandfather is beside you, his hand around Max’s wrist and his fingernail sliced into his skin. The elder vampire's lips wrap around the wound as he tastes the other vampire’s blood and he reels back. “I have never seen you, yet it is my blood that travels in your veins?” His voice is astonished and mystified as he stares at Max curiously.

"I am afraid it is...an unusual story." And one that you are going to have to tell, whether you like it or not. A fact which makes your heart thump with nerves.

He turns to you and leans in close, inhaling your scent. While you are human, you are the soulmate of a vampire. To touch you would be a grave sin. “You smell like my daughter.”

“I should.” You don’t flinch the way someone else might have when he gets close to you and he notes it with a flick of his eyes and nothing more. “I am her daughter.”

The smell of you proves that, but he knows that his daughter hasn’t given birth. “Explain.”

“I…attempted a spell that was more powerful than any other I have tried before.” It isn’t worth mentioning that you haven’t tried much of any spell work at all before, so you keep that to yourself. “But I was able to make us travel through time by some mechanism that I don’t yet understand.”

“And my biological granddaughter managed to transport herself and her soulmate – my vampiric offspring – back in time.” Your grandfather fills in, talking mostly to himself. You nod and he is silent for a moment. “We will keep this to ourselves.” He decides, softening immediately. “You will be related through your soulmate.” Turning towards Max, he arches a brow. “What is your name? I must know it at some point, since-”

Max introduces both of you, making sure he calls you Queenie like you had discussed before. If Yayo is going to be the only one to know the truth, it makes sense to just be straightforward about most things. What you don’t want to do, however, is influence any future decisions if you can help it.

Your grandfather nods. “Cookie will be interested to meet you. As well as your mother.” He cups your cheek again and stares at you, memorizing your face. “You are beautiful. Do I tell you that in your proper time?”

“You do.” His cool hand is a welcome sensation against your hot skin and you nod softly against it. “You are always very kind to me.”

“Good.” Your answer pleases him and he smiles, his fangs once again hidden from sight. “Cookie will have settled down for the evening, so I will show you the bedroom Mrs. Taylor has no doubt prepared for you.” He glances at your clothes. “She will sort out suitable clothing. You cannot wear that.” He gestures towards your outfit.

“It certainly doesn’t seem that way.” Which is frustrating, if not realistic. You like your clothes most of the time. “But…what should we call you?” You ask after a moment. “I can’t go around calling you ‘grandfather’.”

“As you can imagine, I have had many identities through the times.” It’s almost bragging, but not quite. “For now, I am John Jacob Brown, residing here with my wife, Cookie and our daughter.”

“Mr. Brown.” Of course that makes perfect sense, and you nod accordingly. But it does make you wonder what his original name was. “And she is…here? Now? Annie?” It’s impossible not to ask, even though you know you shouldn’t make a big deal out of seeing your mother.

“By now, if you have come from as great a time in the future as I imagine, you know by now that your mother is far older than she appears.” He smiles proudly, happy he can provide centuries of life to his offspring to enjoy. “Right now. She is thirty-one. A ‘spinster’ by the collective society, yet she still receives callers regularly.”

“I would guess that most of society does not know her real age,” you venture, before looking up at Max. “Mom always had a baby face. It really was impossible to know how old she was.”

Your grandfather’s eyes flicker between you and your partner, not missing the terms you are using to describe your mother. Past tense, as if she is no longer in your life. “She appears to be eighteen.” He nods and Max snorts. “Sweetheart, you should look in the mirror. You don’t look twenty-one yourself.”

“It runs in the family,” you joke quietly, always glad for any way you could be positively compared to your mother.

“Have you eaten?” Your grandfather asks and then shakes his head. “I meant the vampire; I know that Mrs. Taylor has prepared a tray to have sitting in your room.” His eyes crinkle in amusement.

It is something of a comfort to know that Mrs. Taylor has always been the same, and you smile at how pleased the vampire housekeeper would be to know that the house still operates like a well-oiled machine under her supervision. “Actually…Mrs. Taylor takes wonderful care of us, still. So Max had blood at tea today.”

“I see.” He nods in understanding. “When you are needing some, we have a donor, so the supply is fresh.”

You both thank him, not wanting to say too much about your own time and give away more than you have. When Mrs. Taylor appears a moment later to escort you to your room, it is only at the prospect of sleep that you really start to feel how exhausted you are.

“Don’t worry, Dolly.” Max murmurs as the two of you are guided through the familiar halls. It’s not as if you can say that you know the way since you’ve supposedly never been in this house. “I will not leave you during the night.”

The third-floor guest room you are shown to has a big, beautiful canopy bed carved in Chinese imagery and with a typically Chinese element in the carvings. Renee had told you once that he took Cookie to China when they were first married and she had loved it there. As far as you know, this is known as the Gold Room, and judging by the even more brilliant color of the gold silk brocade wall coverings and golden bedclothes, it probably is called that in this time as well.

“The bell cord is right here.” Mrs. Taylor wraps her hand around a gold braid rope. “If you require anything, just pull it sharply and we will be up.”

“Thank you,” a simple nod seems to work best, but you chew your bottom lip nervously and add, “for everything.”

“My pleasure.” She nods and motions towards the sitting area. “There is a tray with some refreshments if you wish.”

“Thank you,” you murmur again, barely stopping yourself from assuring her that she always takes such good care of you. Yayo says your origin needs to remain a secret from everyone else, and you absolutely understand why.

Once Mrs. Taylor leaves the room, Max turns to you and cups your cheek. “When you want to talk about it, sweetheart…why don’t we call it ‘back home’?” He suggests. “I know this will be hard, but we can do this, we did this before.”

“It’s hard to wrap my head around.” With your face in his hands, your shoulders droop from pure exhaustion rather than anything else, and you sigh. “We’ll say we’re from Tennessee? Since that’s where we would have met if things had gone differently?”

“Perfect.” He winks at you. “I’ll adopt a hillbilly accent and everything.” He teases, knowing that he was nothing but happy in Tennessee before he was kicked out of Vanderbilt.

“Don’t push it.” Even though you try for a warning tone it comes out in a laugh. “I’m so fucking grateful you’re here, honey. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“Sweetheart, we are in this together.” He promises, leaning in and giving you a soft kiss on the lips, relishing the sudden bump of his heart. Something he doesn’t know if he will ever get used to and he loves it.

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Without that solidarity, with his utter and complete support, you really don’t know how you would manage whatever is to come. But with him? You just might be able to make it work.

______

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My Masterlist!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

LANDLESS GULL (I)

|| COV MASTERLIST || PREVIOUS: PROLOGUE || NEXT: CHAPTER II ||

PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Three years later, you find yourself in a similar situation. But will new revelations put more of the past event into perspective? Or will your anger overcloud your judgment?

WORDCOUNT: 9.7k

WARNINGS: Implied stalking, angst, illegal activities, self destructive tendencies, insinuations of PTSD, sleeplessness, violence, abductions, talks of death, drugs etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The routine was the only thing that saved you, and it had never once wavered. Not in two out of the three years since the death of your father.

Wake up at five, sit in silence until six, and leave the house by seven.

Though you were in your last year of college, the wallet in the pocket of your sweatpants was still bare of the plastic of a standard driver’s license, so, you take the same long route you did every morning; feet hitting the concrete. The black iron under your grip leaves you shivering as you lock the front gate to your family’s estate, the end of the long walkway a grand, overgrown, sight as you take one last glance.

Hucking your backpack higher over your shoulder the elusive black form of the resident stray cat darts from one of the overgrown and thick bushes to another; the steadily browning leaves a barrier of dying flora.

“Don’t kill the finches, yeah?” You huff quietly, eyes dull and heavy with fatigue as the morning air chills your skin. Even if it was getting colder as the seasons changed, your mind never once went to the prospect of calling a cab.

The thought of someone you didn’t know driving you somewhere…you frown as you think it over, shoes stamping on top of weeds sprouting from the broken sidewalk as the utter stillness of the morning grows long. No. No, It was easier to walk or take the bus. A train, maybe.

But walking lets you think; makes you tired.

So, by eight AM you were always at the Café an hour's journey away, cheeks chilled and body quivering like your bones were made of ice. The winter was worse, so you didn’t have it in you to even consider complaining.

Hector smiles at you when you walk through the old front door, dodging the umbrella holder slightly in the way as your nose sniffles. You pointedly stare at his large mustache instead of into his eyes, sighing lightly.

“Ah, there she is!” He exclaims. The excitable Café owner had told you that his family had come up to Chicago from New Jersey only a decade ago, which would explain the still prominent accent. “Just in time, eh? C’mon then, I got a nice hot one ready just for you like always, Sweetheart.”

“Trying to make me wife number three, Hec?” You slyly remark, walking over the hardwood floors and itching at the skin under your eye. Lids flicking open and closed as a call to sleep seeps into your brain, you take comfort in the familiar atmosphere.

It was dimly lit, the business, relying more on natural light than anything. The scent of coffee and baked goods stuck to your nose, waking you up as you pull the thick cotton canvas of your jacket closer and look around as you shuffle to the counter. Shelves lined with bags and small homemade treats make a quick smile grow.

How does he find the time to bake all of that?

Hector laughs, but you pay little mind. In your coat pocket, your fingers play with a coin, thumbing the engraved face slightly. A slow glaze of memory spreads its fingers over your eyes when you spy a family picture on the counter—the mustached man with his two daughters.

“Hell, if all it takes is fresh coffee cake and two espressos, my odds are lookin’ pretty good if I can say so myself.”

You snap back to the present with a stiff neck, blinking quickly. Clearing your throat, you roll your orbs and remove your hands from your pockets, rubbing them together and creating friction when the lack of heat starts to burn.

“No offense, but I think I’ll stick to my oppressively single ways, Big Guy. You have better luck with the lady down at the bank anyways. What’s her name,” you stare at Hector’s large nose, raising a brow as he moves his body to the side and grabs his utensils. “Cassidy? Crissy? It’s something with a ‘C’.”

The man’s filling up your drinks and pulling a piece of fluffy cake from the display case, rushing about as if he’d never known peace in his relatively normal life.

Hector was in his mid-forties. Balding. Large and stocky—not exactly someone you’d envision running a business like this all on his own and actually enjoying it. His pasty complexion reminded you of a carton of milk left in the sun, but he got on well enough with the locals to a point where everyone on this street knew him personally. Above all, Hector was a people person. Speaking to him was easy, and the constant burning anger in your chest loosened when he was around. Let you breathe.

All things considered, you quite liked the man.

“Clarissa,” Hector enunciates, putting everything on the counter as you pull out your wallet from your back pocket. “And, yeah, she’s the security guard down there. Beautiful damn woman, Kid.”

Your lips quirk as you take the items in crowded hands carefully, slapping two tens and a few crumpled fives to the counter. As you’re turning and walking to your seat, you call over your shoulder.

“Like a woman who can beat you up, then?”

“God, do I.” You share a chuckle together, and, knowing your routine, Hector begins to whistle under his breath and wipe the front counter clean of crumbs.

Always taking the corner seat next to the large front window, you slip into the wall booth and put everything on the table grunting before shucking off your backpack. Besides you, most of the morning customers just came and went as they pleased, picking up what they needed and leaving—realistically you should as well.

Majoring in history and minoring in business left you deep in work and covered to the neck with projects; already sleepless nights didn’t help when the large classrooms of the University of Chicago got too loud to stand, the raised speaking of students like screaming in your ears. You always skipped morning classes, particularly the large ones for your own sanity. Attendance was tanked, but because the work was all posted online your grade hadn’t suffered.

You'd gotten it up since the first year, at least. That was all that mattered.

Taking a sip of your first cup of espresso, you let the caffeinated liquid hit the emptiness of your stomach and sigh. You place it down on the woodgrain, closing your eyes for a minute and tilting your head down. Around the beverage, your hands twitch at the warm material, feeling your own blood pump in your veins and the loose shirt under your jacket sag as warm air comes to create a dichotomy of senses. Hector always kept the Café warm, but it was never enough for you.

Everything always felt cold.

Blinking back to the present, the Tv situated atop the small bookshelf in the corner spews the early run of the news as you gather your laptop from your bag and set it down; eager to get to work.

“...As we experience the anniversary of the death of—” You blink, fingers pausing over the keys as half of your password is typed out. Staring at the blinking black bar, you hear a violent inhalation of air from the front desk.

“Oh, fuck, Dear, I’m sorry. I forgot that it was today. Here let me–”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head harshly and tiling your gaze in Hector’s direction. You stare hard at his dirty apron. “No, it’s okay. Leave it on.”

Your voice is stiff, digging into that well in your stomach of barred teeth and barbed wire. Blood instead of water and a bucket made of bone that dips into crimson liquid.

“But…” He trails, and your hands hover above the laptop. You notice a tremor before picking up your drink once more, downing a good portion of the scalding liquid with a gulp. You clear your throat against the burn and lower it.

“If I had an issue with it, Hec, I’d tell you. Trust me, I already know what the date is. Lived it for three years to the day.”

The man grumbles, itching at his round chin. Not too keen. He picks up the remote near the cash register and lowers the volume all the while he sends your hunched form glances with creased brown eyes.

“We remember the countless donations to those less fortunate than himself, the man always seen with a smile on his face greeting visitors, and the tragic end he met as a result of a robbery gone wrong.” Your jaw clenches, hands curling in as you glare at the blinking black bar with hidden hatred. A cruel smirk slashes your lips. Robbery gone wrong, now that was funny. You never knew how anyone believed that. “...Admissions to the Museum of Natural History are at half-price all week.”

The news anchor moves on and your fingers spread to rest atop the smooth keys, lungs tight.

They had been talking about your father, of course. The fabricated story was like a knife to the chest every time someone brought it up. Acquaintances at school, professors. Taking a peek outside, you see groups of random people walk past wondering for an instant if they’d come in and recognize you.

Your dad was incredibly well-known when he was alive.

A robbery, your sneer grows as you log into your laptop, face falling to a blank slate as you clink on a plethora of named files. Pathetic. Of course, the CIA would spew something like that.

“What’s going on? Please, Dad, what’s happening?” The world is swirling with technicolored lights. Amber eyes. A hand on the top of your head.

The words pop up as a document loads, bolded and black. You shake off nausea and take down more caffeine, finishing off the first cup with muted disgust. Pushing it farther down the table, you move the second closer.

OPERATION: KINGFISHER

OVERSIGHT: STATION CHIEF KATE LASWELL, TS/SCI

OPERATIVES: CLASSIFIED

STATUS: ACTIVE

MISSION REPORT: MONDAY, 0823, CHICAGO, USA: THREE YEARS PRIOR:

All the rest was blacked out in long streaks of dark highlighter, the image fuzzy. A sharp needle inserts itself into your nerves, every slam of your heart like a gunshot as your sides pinch with disappointment.

No. Your jaw clenches.

How long had you been trying to get access to all of the government documents that were relevant to your case after you figured out the CIA was behind your father's and your abduction? A full year at this point? So many sleepless nights and under-the-table deals. And the information that mattered the most was still a level above the fabricated station you had given yourself to slip past lines upon lines of code like a snake in the grass.

You want information on Private Samson Row. The name you had figured out belonged to the person who had pulled the trigger on your father. You’d sleuthed out the others’ names as well through a straight week of only coffee and red-eyes. But you'd done it.

Captain John Price, Lieutenant Ghost, Sergeant John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, and Sergeant Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick.

Private Samson Row.

What had given them away to be a government body was the one-word phrase that Price had barked after the shot was only an echo.

“What in the fucking hell are you thinking, Private?!” The leader's voice yowls and grunts as you slowly open your eyelids, lashes fluttering over your cheeks. “We needed him alive, you Muppet!”

From then it was history.

Blatant irritation stems in your veins at the brick wall that now presents itself mere black lines away from a reason as to why this all had happened, fingers flinging across the pad to fly through the fifty-two-page file. Not a single word was visible.

“Son of a…” You strangle the curse under your breath and go to dig your fingernails into the back of your neck until crescents form. Blazing white pain and a shifting of sinuses.

If it wasn’t obvious, the laptop with you now was rarely used for schoolwork. In fact, you never even planned on going to campus today—no one expected you to, so it was better to feign brokenness instead of icy fury.

“Kate Laswell,” scoffing humorlessly, you shake your head at the only portions of the document filled in, “I keep seeing your name on everything. Christ, with the intel that I’ve read up on involving you, I’m surprised your personal file wasn’t more difficult to crack open. Only took me four days. ” You mutter to no one and nothing numbly.

But it seems an answer is given.

The bell atop the front door swings, a small tinkering of tarnished silver metal and a creak of rusted hinges. Feet that stamp lightly, but press firmly. Bleeding contained purpose.

Your body stills; lungs going immobile.

When you were young, you could memorize the sounds of the staff going down the stairs at the mansion. Tell who was who just by the pace and the weight on the creaking wood; it was a game that you were sure you could still play even years later in that practically abandoned estate. The slightest sound made you snap to attention when you were alone.

Just as this one did. But that wasn’t because of paranoia.

“Ah! Hello, Sir, welcome!” Hector calls, motioning with a hand as the air goes tense. “What can I get you today? We’ve got a little Coffee Cake left if you want, I gotta say, man, it’s my best batch yet.”

It was because you knew him. Those feet.

This can’t be right.

A throat clears. “Sorry, Sir. Not today.”

That voice. Your eyes shutter wider, eyelashes frozen at the screen of your laptop.

British. Smooth. It was a voice that played in your subconscious at a constant—never leaving. A flash of amber eyes. Blood slashed your vision, coating the world in a sheen of red; gore dripping down your face faster than water. A funeral shroud of pure hatred.

Gaz. Kyle Garrick.

With a quivering hand, your finger slowly clicks the Escape key like it was an intimate partner, watching the document disappear on quick feet and with ruffled clothes into the scene of your wallpaper. Staring blankly at the multiple incriminating folders that meet you, your ears twitch to the sound of a slow inhalation; tapping digits over a pant pocket.

You don’t dare look up.

A tall shadow begins approaching, and you briefly seize. Humming emanates in the back of your head like a kind of drunken sloshing of senses.

Run.

Your heart mirrors the steps that Gaz takes. Against the nature of the cortisol and rampaging adrenaline in your blood, a flicker of your lips betrays a chilled amusement. A part of you had always known this would happen. It’s strange to say, but even as your legs start shaking, your expression is measured; held-back brows, loose lips, and a fluidness to your shifting eyes.

But your mind…

What’s he doing here? You panic. Why…why is he here? They couldn’t have possibly known I was reading up on them, could they? No, no, I’ve been careful.

You can’t move. Your mind can’t function. Every nerve is sparking with a need to sprint and flee. But yet again, your body leaves you frozen.

One of the double chairs in front of your table is pulled out, and a figure dressed in a white shirt covered by the second layer of a fitted blue athletic top calls your gaze. The build of an intensive workout schedule is shown unabashedly, sleeves pulled up to dark elbows that shift the tense forearm muscles. Brown and tan Army pants cause your eyebrow to raise incredulously before the limbs disappear under the barrier.

The frozen shackles on your limbs break and your lips move before you can shut yourself up. Maybe it was the familiar atmosphere, or maybe it was the therapist’s words from that month-long fiasco of court-mandated therapy way back in the beginning.

The coin in your pocket burns, and you long to clench it in your fist until you’re dripping blood like a stuck pig.

“Not exactly trying to hide it, are you?” You look back down at your laptop, opening the search browser and pretending to look up something unimportant. “I’ll admit it, Gaz, I like this instead of having a gun shoved halfway into my vertebrae. Not too fond of it, you understand?”

Silence holds out. A head turns away for a moment as his body shifts in uncomfortableness.

“I’ll be needing you to come with me, Ma’am.” The accent punches you in the throat, the stern order that coasts along like a fish in water.

What gave him the right?

How does one stay calm when your head is like a pot of boiling water? The bubbles roll in great waves of anger and fear as you try and stay outwardly calm with struggling success. You doubted you were able to look anything besides purely rage-filled, but didn’t dare check by looking into the man’s eyes—or even his face for that matter.

You glared over the screen and dug daggers into his bobbing Adam’s Apple, settling on your answer. Sarcasm.

“And I’ll need you to understand that I’d rather choke on this coffee cake.” Your finger points slightly to the untouched plate with a tremor in its bones. “I don’t want another barrel pointed at my forehead, no offense.”

Gaz’s jaw shifts, clenching before loosening, and in his sensitive ear, the radio sizzles to life with a spark.

“Kyle, I’ve got eyes. Talk to me.” The Brit looks outside through the glass, immediately finding the large figure leaning against the wall of a library across the street.

Gaz’s Captain has his arms crossed, beanie-covered head tilted to seem like he’s watching cars that pass by; a gruff-looking man simply people-watching. Everyone misses the bulge of a pistol stuffed into the small of his back—under a brown leather jacket and a black sweater. Price itches at his brown beard with a frown.

“In position, Sir. Speaking with her now.” The man at the front desk of the Café watches him closely, pretending to clean a spot on the back counter that seems to never go away despite the multiple passes. He wouldn’t be a problem if it came down to that.

“Copy. Keep on schedule.” The Sergeant wasn’t sure why he was here—why out of all the others in his Task Force, Price had decided he needed to be the one to engage with you.

“Roger that.”

This was the last thing he wanted to do.

He didn’t know how to convince you to come with him without replaying the scene from three years ago; it was imperative that he didn’t do that. Though it had been necessary…his thighs shifted over the rickety chair. It wasn’t supposed to end like that. Everyone was paying for it.

Gaz’s brown eyes glance to the table, one hand going to fix the position of his favorite ball cap over his head and press it down.

He felt naked without his gear.

Figures I’d be the only one bloody stripped down to nothing.

“Ma’am,” the Brit starts slowly, watching your ears twitch as you burrow deeper into your large jacket. A flicker of hesitation seeps into his heart. With a frown on his tense lips, he could still see your shoulders bunched up; breathing labored. You were terrified—rightly so. “It would be best to listen to me, yeah? No one’s going to hurt you. This is for your own safety but I need you to come quietly.”

Kyle had put all of his cards to the shock value; the hope that your fear of him would prompt you to come along in a shell-shocked reaction and a hesitance of an imaginary weapon. It worked in a few other missions, he’d even done it a few other times in the army, though it was always a hit or miss.

But staring hard at your thin lips, he noticed anger as well and was forced to face reality. This was never going to work.

Your internal timer ends, and all the primal instincts trapped in your mind let loose a vile scream. The memories are too great; too violent. Even this man’s voice is a brand in your soft tissue.

“Listen to who? An accomplice to murder? And ‘not hurt me’.” You snort, reaching up to grab the top of your laptop and close it with a slam. Hector pauses his fake cleaning as you stare at Gaz’s nose and the barely-there stubble that lives over his upper lip and cheeks. “You’ve done a pretty horrible job of that…The only way you’re getting me to go with you is in a body bag.” Your brow raises. “I’m sure you’re familiar with them, hm? I’d kind of hoped you’d already be in one by now if I’m being honest.”

“Listen,” Kyle prided himself on being patient, but the clock was ticking. Laswell needed you at the designated location and that was where he intended to take you in one piece. The injection needle in his back pocket was looking more and more promising if this continued to be difficult, a mixed concoction that only the CIA could put together to knock a person out for a long while. But why did he feel so hesitant to use it? He’d also been the only one to suggest someone try and speak to you first before forcing you to go along with them.

I guess this is what happens when I try and put in my two damn cents. Stick to procedure next time.

“I don’t think you understand the position you’re in—”

“The position I’m in is entirely you and your little friends’ fault.” You growl, voice breaking and eyes turning to look outside. Snapping when you see his lips part, “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Kyle’s mouth closes with a clench of teeth.

Trapped like an animal you have half a sense to gnaw your own leg off. There was a hunch in your mind as to what was happening—the files you’ve read that weren’t blackout out gave in-depth mission details; play-by-plays. These people worked in teams. Always.

Your eyes dart with frantic knowledge as Gaz sits tense, a subdued annoyance flaring as his hands tap the table and thinks deeply.

You find Captain Price easily and the agony grows. The stocky man shifts in the morning light, the familiar body leading to a slashed remembrance of folded arms and black balaclavas. His stare was like a burning piece of wood shoved directly into your eye sockets.

Alleyway in the back, your feet shuffle, tense. You had to get out of this. Take the corner and run to the busier intersections. Try to keep calm. Breathe.

Easier said than done. Kyle was the same man who had put a gun to your head with the intention of pulling the trigger—your life was nothing more than a bargaining chip. Would he do the same again?

Yes. No one was saying he didn’t have a weapon on him now; the only difference was this time you didn’t know why he was here in the first place. The easiest answer was the documents, but was it that simple? Why send the same people after you?

Not that simple, but it is illegal. The thought of going back to a small room; a rope around your wrists…your hands go to itch at the healed skin, still sensitive despite the years. The Sergeant clocks it with a pulling frown and tight brows.

“Ma’am,” Gaz’s voice snaps your vision back to the table, and you go to take a drink of the remaining cup of espresso to calm your nerves. You send a glance at the heavy backpack beside you and blink. “I didn’t have to come and speak to you, alright? I’m doing this to try to find some standing. This isn’t a ploy, but you have to follow me.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Bloody…no.” Kyle grunts, itching at his neck as his earpiece goes off. He looks sideways.

“Kyle, this isn’t working. Stick ‘er.”

“I can get her to come along,” he mutters harshly, not noticing one of your hands going to place the drink down while the other sneaks to the strap of your bag. “There’s no need to—!”

The force hits him right in the neck, and his head snaps back with a heavy jerk. His chair falls backward from the weight, sending him sprawling in a tangle of limbs and rushing feet over the floor. A heavy crash emanates throughout the building and the wind is knocked from his lungs as brown eyes bug out of the sockets.

“Hector! Call the police!” The front door is slammed open with a violent noise of shaking glass and a bell. Shrieking hinges.

“Bloody fucking hell!” Kyle shouts, shoving the backpack off of him and ignoring the sharp pang in the back of his skull. He recovers quickly. Hot irritation spikes as Price barks into the earpiece; the Sergeant scrambles after you with fast force.

“After her!”

Your feet slam to the concrete as the laptop stays tucked into the crook of your elbow, chest conforming to the press of it as you puff out quick breaths. Inside your ribs, the blood rushes out to your head, creating a pound like a drum.

Shoving aside others on the sidewalk, shouting sounds out from behind you before the dark shadow of an alleyway meets your snapping vision like a blessing from above. Pushing past an older man, you take a sudden turn into the darkness, the morning chill momentarily getting pushed back by the fire under your skin. Wind rushes past your ears.

Faster, you tell yourself, feet flying over stray garbage bags and puddles, don’t let them catch you. They can’t catch you.

Easier said than done. They were trained soldiers. SAS in league with the CIA.

Panting, you clutch your laptop tighter and feel cold sweat drip down your spine before a yell echoes from the entrance behind you.

“Hey!” It was Kyle’s voice, stern, but the sound of another set of feet told you who else was in pursuit. If you were being honest, the Captain scared you far more than the Sergeant did.

Your eyes go unfocused as reality sets in.

“They came back for me,” muttering, you see the brief alleyway end up ahead. “They tracked me down again to finish the job.”

“Bravo 7-1 she’s comin’ to you!” You don’t register the grunted words until you’re already taking the corner on the opposite side of the street, about to disappear into the expanse of a crowded downtown rush.

The wall of muscle sends you sprawling out on your back, the laptop flying from your hands in a wide display of just how fast you’d been running as discomfort ripples up your spine as the ground meets you. The pain that blossoms in your nose is sharp and immediate; a groan exiting into the air as you close your eyes tight to push back the shock and the momentum that had just been immediately halted. Nonsensical words exit you in slurring huffs.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” A Scottish accent hits your pulsing ears, as your shaking hand covers your eyes, teeth bared as a dull ache stems from the back of your head. Rocks poke into your back. “You alright down there? Didnea expect that.”

A hand snaps to the collar of your shirt, hauling you up easily as your bearing has yet to come back to you. The word spins.

“Ow,” your lips release a whine, face turned down as you blink away black dots. Large feet covered by brown combat boots become clear as the running slam of the other two gets closer.

Starling, you snap your head forward and attempt to rush off with barely functioning feet.

“Ah, ah!” The Scot laughs, and a locked fist stays rooted into the textile of your clothes. “Can’t have that, now.”

You look up at a strong man with pale skin—brunette stubble over a sculpted jaw and a scar over the chin. Long lips that curl into a smirk to show off white teeth. If you had to guess, this was John MacTavish. Soap—otherwise called Johnny.

You’ve seen the photos in the files, but you have no rush to look into his bright cerulean gaze anytime soon, but you see wisps of his mohawk sitting on his forehead.

“Get your hands off of me.” You growl, feet straining to stay steady. Your lids blink quickly to gain control as, like a newborn foal, it’s like your body doesn’t know how to control itself. “Bastard.”

Jesus, my head’s yelling at me to sit down. The hell is this guy made out of? Stone?

The Scot only chuckles as Gaz and Price catch up.

“No can do, Little Lady.”

Kyle lets out a deep sigh as he stops, having seen the entire scene play out when you ran head-on into the older man and tries to tell himself to feel bad—he did slightly, but the mirrored pain in the back of his own skull found some sort of redemption.

Girl’s got an arm on her. He rubs at the back of his head.

“I think that makes us even. Wouldn’t you say, Ma’am?” The Sergeant huffs light-heartedly, staring at you without so much as breaking a sweat from the short pursuit. The Captain shakes his head, going to pick up the laptop on the ground as your teeth clench.

“Call Ghost. Get him over here for the Exfil.” Civilians watch, but like they usually do, no one steps in to say anything or to spare more than a glance. “ASAP.”

“Shut up.” You scowl at Gaz’s chest, replying to his comment. Jerking yourself out of Soap’s hold, he lets you stand fully by yourself before he presses large fingers into his earpiece to mutter something out. The Scot still eyes you closely. There was no use trying to run anymore. “It was the least you deserved. Or are we forgetting how we met in the first place—should have dumped coffee over your head too.”

“Now that’s overkill, isn’t it, Love?” He can’t help but snap. Perhaps it was the dull thumping in his skull, or perhaps it was just you. “Manners never a prospect in your home?”

No one tested his patience quite like this and he’s only just re-met you. Your anger was justified, the Sergeant knew deep down, but he’d never expected this. In the brief time, you had insulted him, thrown a bookbag at his head, and then insulted him some more. Maybe the Captain had been right when he suggested all those weeks ago that it would be better to just knock you out right off the bat.

Still could…Kyle twitches his nose, huffing to himself and shaking his head.

You bare your teeth. “Shove that overkill and that stupid nickname up your—”

“Enough. Both of you.” The Captain interjects, growling out as a black van pulls alongside the road. Walking to it, Price shakes his head, fingers pressing into his nose bridge as he enters the passenger seat. “Fuckin’ hell.”

You fall silent and fight back the burning heat in your cheeks as the lack of ability to escape becomes evident to you. What else could you do? Scream? No—they’d just shove you in the car and put a gun to your spine again.

Every option led to you getting into that car. That…that compacted black car with tinted windows and filled with the men you hate the most.

Will Private Row be in there? A pang of horror enters you. Will he…?

Your father’s blood is forever stuck into the fabric of your flesh like a tapestry. Lining the stitching of your pores and the embroidery of your genes.

“Go on, then,” Soap prompts, a hand pressing into your shoulder blades like you were an unruly calf. Your eyes narrow, lips pinching down into a tight frown.

Today was supposed to be easy. Simple. No college, no questions, and certainly no abductions. Your dad was always on your mind—what happened? Why did the Private shoot him when in every report you had read interrogations of that kind took hours upon hours to finish?

If I keep my cool, you reason, feeling all of the eyes on you as you grab the car handle and pull it open with a pop, maybe I can get answers as well. Straight from the source.

Your eyes search the interior and a great weight is lifted. No one else besides the driver and the Captain, who are separated by a wall and a small window in the front, is present. No Private Row.

Thank God.

What would you have done then?

These last three years were a learning period, and when you hop into the vehicle and shuffle to the far right, your hand delves into your jacket pockets; the one connecting with the coin, its metal cold to the touch. Your finger skims it, pressing into the groves until an indent forms in your flesh. But there was one thing you learned in the time you spent destroying yourself to get even a sliver of information on your abductors. They were always playing games.

Games of intellect, of mental fortitude and knowledge. It was a chess piece being moved and hoping yours was in the line of fire so the king could be checked. Your unease is still present, the quivering fingers and the snapping gaze but if you can keep your head on, then maybe—

The car door on your side opens.

“Excuse me, Ma’am. Can’t have you by the door,” Gaz mutters, and your lips release a stifled scoff. But you do as you’re told, watching from the corner of your eyes as the tall body scoots inside, easily situating itself in between you and the door they were apparently afraid you’d throw yourself out of.

They’re going to lock it anyways—what's the point? You could call them paranoid, but that would just be hypocritical. When the last sliver of outside light is cut off as the door closes, you flinch at the loud noise and take a steadying deep breath. Soap sits on your opposite.

You’re completely stuck in the middle.

Kyle watches as Ghost sends a glance back. The Sergeant nods stiffly and the car peels out. Johnny leans back, arms crossed, and watches the world as it passes by while those brown orbs stay locked on you. The subtle shaking of your shoulders; the way your eyes bug and the pupils stay small.

Sweat stays on your eyebrow ridge, and Gaz thinks about how close you’ll become to a snowball if you pull in even farther. The man clears his throat in dismissal and a small sliver of regret. After all, you are a mostly innocent party in this.

He’s about to open his mouth and ask if your head is okay when a deep chuckle sounds off from the front of the car.

“Well, you’ve been busy. Laswell was right.” Your ears perk, mind forcing back thoughts of the walls closing in around you as Price’s gravel voice sounds out. The car smells like gunpowder and leather. “How’d you manage this, then?” You blink at the interior window and say nothing.

You’d seen the bear of a man take the computer; had no doubt he could find a way into it, though you had never thought it would happen that fast.

Your lips thinned.

Kyle and Soap exchange glances, curiosity sparking as Ghost drives them to where Laswell told them to meet with the package.

“That’s none of your business.” The comment exits you in a string of whispers, defensiveness sparking.

“Well, it’s my business when my name’s on it, eh? How long did this take to pile together?” Your mouth stays shut as the Captain’s visage looks back at you from the rearview mirror with narrowed lids.

“Sir?” Gaz asks, confused.

“She’s got files on us—on all of us. Kate too. More than she thought.” The Sergeant looks down at you in surprise, eyes going slightly wider.

“What in the hell does that mean?” Soap questions, hands gesturing out from his cross-body hold as you sink even deeper into yourself. Bitter tears bite at the back of your vision.

“It means someone’s been digging where they weren’t supposed to.” It’s the first time that Ghost has spoken, but it was all that was needed. Your body shivers at the Manchester accent; the numb brutality of it.

But you say nothing, and the ride is silent besides the way all of the hard stares nearly spoke words out loud.

Everything just felt like a blur of sound and color. Separate; removed. If you tried hard enough, you were back in the Café with Hector—eating that coffee cake you never even got a bite out of and chugging down espresso that you were already craving again.

Your finger digs deeper into the coin in your pocket.

The cops would show up. There was no doubt that the past New Jersey resident hadn’t called them when you told him to. But there was also no doubt that the CIA would step in and take jurisdiction. It was what they did when your father was murdered—they’d spun a story as you sat in a room that belonged to a detective and sobbed in an inconsolable state. Reporters and news crews outside.

Nothing we can do, you were told, it was a robbery. Out of our hands, but we’ll try our best to find the culprit.

You already knew the culprit. The man in the corner. His name was Samson Row and he had been nervous. He had a trigger finger.

Your eyes harden as they glare at the floor and your jumping feet. For your father, you would get as much information as you could, and then leak it if you had to—if these people let you live. But before that, you wanted to know why. Why had he died? You’d do nothing until that was answered.

Swallowing down saliva, you speak as the car turns off the main road, heading farther and farther away from the parts of town you knew. Your lungs go stiff.

“So where’s Row?” The air shifts as your hoarse voice coldly utters, “What? Is he not part of your little group now? Figured he’d be here to finish off the rest of it, he only did half a job last time.”

Kyle looks to the side, an elbow resting on the window sill. Soap clears his throat awkwardly as his great body shifts.

“Hm,” Price grunts out. But if you were looking for an answer, no one gives you one.

Hatred flairs. What gave these men the right to think they could just push you aside like that? They put a gun to your head! Killed your father!

The rabid sense of justice and entitlement grow until your jaw is clenching, unease mixing with agony. You deserve answers even if it kills you.

Your mouth opens, and your instinctually watering eyes stay stuck to the floor.

“I–”

“Laswell’ll explain,” Gaz’s quiet voice leaves you tense, muscles wound up as if you had forgotten he was there. A barrel flashes over your sight and you want to shift away but know you can’t.

Kate Laswell. So that’s who you’re going to meet.

“...Good,” you lick your lips.

About time.

It’s only ten minutes later that you’re let out of the vehicle, an underground parking garage and its dim lighting making your pupils widen to accommodate the darkness. Gaz gets out first, keeping the door open for you by the frame and you pause before following after, keeping a wary eye on him.

“Head alright?” You frown and stare at the Brit’s nose.

“Hope yours hurts even more.”

“This way.” You follow after the Captain’s voice, leaving the Sergeant behind to gape, blink, and slowly shut the car door. Ghost slips past with a hidden amusement and the group continues on.

This is going to be one hell of a mission.

To you, it was clear that this was a military base.

The entrance needed a keycard, and the vehicles stored underground were armored besides the one that you’d been brought in. The hallways were lined with tile and the staff that walked past were all dressed in clothes ranging from fatigues to full-on issued uniforms. People would try to meet your eyes, but you always looked away before they were able.

“In here.” Price utters, sliding an identification card through a reader before a faint clicking emanates out. The brunette tilts his head firmly as he opens the door.

You blink, but unlike the strange and heated interactions with Gaz, you hesitate to get on the Captain’s bad side. The chilled eyes digging into you as you state at his scarred hands… Your body shivers and you slip past the men into a brightly lit room.

Even without a weapon pointed at you, their eyes still felt like knives. Their words like bullets. Everything reminds you of three years ago, and try as you might, all you want to do is go to bed and forget about this.

Still the adrenaline hadn’t crashed, and when it did you knew you were going to be out of school for a week. Shaking. Sobbing. Rolling on the floor refusing to eat because what if they were right outside the door of your bedroom?

As you expected, the door closes behind you with a lock being set in place. But what you didn’t expect was to not be alone in this medium-sized room holding only a table and…

Your gaze widens on the figure in one of two chairs. Slim, yet fit, her pale skin sits under a simple white blouse and a lanyard over her neck. Hands intertwined and sitting over a stack of physical files in manila folders as a wedding band glints.

Dirty-blonde hair forms strands of bangs with the rest held back like a hostage near the top of her back, wrinkles in her forehead and around her lips. Without thinking clearly, your eyes make contact with hers, and you’re left violently flinching away, blinking rapidly and tilting your head down to force away amber and gold. Your heart seizes, but you recognize that shade of blue you’d just seen.

Gunmetal. So, this was Kate Laswell in the flesh.

A soft sigh meets the air.

“Please, sit.”

Biting your lip wearily, you start forward, hand connecting with the extra seat before you slowly pull it out. Your fingers tap the material before you hesitantly lower yourself into it, eyes going to any possible exit beyond the door behind you.

There was none.

“I’d like to apologize for the stress, but you can imagine that we wanted to cause the least amount of panic possible. To both you and the public.” Your vision sits on her lanyard, watching the picture jump as she moves to sit farther upright. “Kyle was the one to suggest speaking to you first, though I didn’t think it would work.”

You slouch.

“It didn’t.”

Kate blinks at your frame, studying the ragged look and evident sleeplessness. She would almost call it sickly. A frown grows over her serious face.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Where’s Row?” To hell with subtlety, you decided.

“It’s not as simple as that.” The woman doesn’t miss a beat, shaking her head back and forth slowly. “I’ll need you to listen to what I’m about to tell you.”

“...And why should I do that?” Your brow raises, voice gaining ice. “You’re responsible for my father’s death. You know that? You had oversight for that Operation.” Laswell stares at you, you can feel it. “Hell, you had oversight for a lot of Operations. What was the number… forty-five and counting? But that’s really just a blanket number, isn’t it?”

You can’t help the comments, they fall from you quicker than blood, and the back of your head burns something awful. Lights dance.

“John told me you had government documents on your laptop. A number on all of the members of One-Four-One.” Kate sighs quickly, motioning to you with a hand. “I have to admit, I did expect something like that to happen—so I made sure to let them know that you most likely already knew they were SAS.” A pause. Your hand goes to itch at your nose, peeling back skin as a way to ground yourself. But you’d be lying by saying you weren’t intrigued and a bit in awe. You’d underestimated how much Laswell actually knew about you. Who was to say they hadn’t been keeping an eye on you this whole time? Who are you kidding, of course they did. You curse yourself internally. “But unfortunately, that’s not why we’re here.”

Your fidgeting halts; eyes narrow. The Agent moves back, taking up a file and spreading it open, you watch with rapt attention.

If not the stolen documents, then what?

“Do,” pictures meet light, and your interest peeks, “these individuals seem familiar?”

One was of a man in a nice suit, expensive looking with a well-trimmed beard of blonde hair and a bald head. Tattoos are inked into visibly pale skin. The photo was taken as he was getting out of a large vehicle, armed guards holding a door open though it looked like he himself wasn’t in need of the entourage.

He was built like a boar on steroids.

Your hand grabs the page and brings it closer, face pulling close in concentration as your hands go clammy. You had no recollection of this stranger.

So what is this about?

The next was of a woman with a darker skin tone, perhaps from South Asia, though you couldn’t be certain. She was dressed nicely as well, in silk skirts and a long-sleeved shirt that wraps around her smaller body. The look is finished off with a thin garment over her shoulders.

She’s picking out spices at an outdoor market, the image partially covered by the lip of a jacket as if someone had been trying to be discreet.

But the guns of the armed guards are still seen as they flank the woman.

You look up, placing the photos down and shaking your head. Pulled in eyebrows causing your gaze to stop at Kate’s nose. “No, why?”

“Because they’ve put a price on your head.” Your body freezes and it takes a moment to register what she just told you.

Eyes wide and lips slightly parted; the ache in the back of your skull burns brighter as you find your breath has stopped. Sucking down a gasp, you bring a hand out of your pocket to scratch at your neck, mind running.

“What…what?” Laswell takes the pictures back, continuing nonchalantly as if your heart isn’t about to explode. You feel faint, and the lights buzz in your ears.

A price on my head?

“Crime syndicates with terrorist connections.” She begins, and you can’t help but listen. “Since your father’s death, they’ve been waiting for you to take up the mantle. Your families held tight bonds in the past—the museum your father was running was a cover to smuggle Yaromir Osipov’s weapons,” Kate points to the man, then to the woman, “and Mala Kham’s drugs. They were later sold at an undisclosed location and a portion of the profits was sent back to fund conflicts. Hired assassinations. Symbolic murders...”

The rest is left as an open statement.

“I…” You stutter, panic palpable. The air was getting thicker; harder to breathe. You can’t remember a time when your own clothes had felt so suffocating to wear.

It wasn’t a question to you as to why you’d restrained yourself from looking anything about your father up in the CIA databases. It was a fresh wound and an incredibly bloody one. The man that raised you wasn’t that man—the one that would smuggle drugs and weapons into Chicago and sell them off somewhere else.

The man you remembered was respectable and above all, kind. Indirectly causing the deaths of people? No, that wasn’t him. Your mind broke at even the barest insinuation. It… it refused to even consider it.

Kate Laswell watches blankly, humming under her breath and nodding to herself. As if she’d just confirmed something that she’d been on the fence about.

She continues.

“When three years passed and you never got into contact, your mother either, their product wasn’t getting sold at high rates anymore. Chicago is a vastly important playing field. The best way to get another house in power is to take out any remaining opposition and reinstate someone else.”

“My mother and I,” you murmur with a hysterical look that snaps into your eye. A sharp rigidness enters vertebrae, hands hastily slam the table in a grand display along with a crashing chair behind you as your feet push you upwards. “She’s in Ireland,” your mother was a traveling nurse, going abroad more often than not and away constantly. You hadn’t talked much after the first year of your father's passing. She left you to your grief and took hers with her. “D–do you have her in custody already or…or—She should be with someone! Is she still just—?”

“She’s in a secure location.” Kate interrupts, her hands raising. She’s calm; incredibly so, and you feel that serenity of her voice leaks into you, your shoulders lessen from their raised-hair stance. “And an Agent I trust is with her. She’ll be back in Chicago soon.”

“Jesus…” A hand spreads over your face, digits on the table clenching. While your mother and you didn't talk often, there was no part of you that wanted her dead. Not a single piece.

A sheen of embarrassment floods your blood at the scene you’d just made, but that doesn’t stop the confusion.

“But, wait,” your hand lowers, and you frown at the lanyard, “why would you care?” Kate places the photos back into the folder and closes it. “And why would you murder my father if you felt like this would happen?”

Where’s Samson Row?

“Our intention was never to have a casualty involved with our investigation.” Laswell sends you a glance with her emotionless eyes. “Nonetheless with a witness. It was an unfortunate accident.”

Your face blanks.

Unfortunate accident.

“Then why did your Private,” your mouth spits, hostility immediately pushing past formality, “shoot?”

No hesitation.

“We don’t know.” The laugh that rockets from you is cruel; violent and full of malice.

“What?!” You point at her, leaning forward over the table as your common sense vanishes. “You're the CIA and you can’t even control who you employ?! You murdered an innocent man!”

Kate looks at you with nothing, blinking slowly as you glare at her forehead. Did she not even care? The Agent says your name seriously.

“Your father was many things, but I can assure you, innocent was never one of them.”

“You expect me to just believe you?” You nod sarcastically multiple times, your loud voice no doubt flying under the opening of the door. “Just to, what? Accept that your Private shot him in the head right next to me for nothing? That’s hilarious if you think I’m that dumb.”

“What Samson Row did was against orders. No one here gave him the green light and thus I can’t say why he pulled the trigger. You’re going to have to accept that we don’t have the answers you’re looking for.”

Angry tears are splattering the table, a rampant betrayal. It was getting incredibly hard to not start swearing at this woman, but your father raised you better.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I have no doubt about that,” Laswell speaks lowly, “but I’m not lying to you. If your father kept all of this hidden…then there’s no thought as to if he cared about you,” a delicate silence as your jaw clenches, both hands clenched over the table as your head bows down, salty water bouncing off the flesh. “You should remember that.”

Your mouth opens, but you close it just as quickly. What could you say to that?

“You…don’t know…” Whispering can’t hide the enraged tremor of your tone. “Why?” The hopelessness.

Kate gives you a minute, and when your tears come to a slow stop, she opens her mouth.

“I’ll be providing you a protection detail until the cells overseas can be disposed of. You and your mother will be well taken care of in the safety of your own home.” She continues, “If you can do something for me in return in the meantime.”

A harsh laugh exits and bounces off the walls.

“Why am I not surprised?” Laswell ignores you.

“Your father had sensitive information that searches of his shipping lot and museum office didn’t offer any leads on. While you’re spending more time at your home, I want you to look for them. Anything that involves other dealers or a location to a hub.” You roll your eyes, smirk growing on bitter pieces of flesh.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” You ask the Agent with a splay of your hand, foot tapping the ground in a rhythmic beat as you stare hard into the wall above her hair. Swiping at your cheeks until they’re raw. “I know you’re not above breaking into houses.”

“After the event three years ago, my superiors are,” a small noise in the back of her throat as she pushes herself up from the table, “less than pleased with how One-Four-One and I are handling this situation. It would look better on paper if you cooperated.”

“Is Samson dead?” Shoving your hands into your pockets, you lean back on your heels, tilting your head as you look at Kate’s collarbone. You can see her take a breath; lungs inflating like plastic sacks.

“Yes.” It’s like a punch to the gut—you have to stop yourself from staggering backward. Your next words are strained as your hands clench. But the woman just watches, intrigue laced in her studious eyes; half-narrowed with a dipped chin.

“How.”

“Do you have any other questions for me?” It was apparent that your inquiries would get you nowhere, at least the ones that mattered to you.

You nod stiffly, cutting your losses. You’d just look into it yourself. “Who’s going to be at my house?”

“Kyle.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“And why him?” Your voice growls, and you have a sudden need to pace around the room as your ears twitch to Laswell’s sighing and the shifting of her papers.

“Sergeant Garrick is trained in VIP protection. I’m sure you’ve read all about that.” Slyness enters her tone.

Of course you had.

Every file on your laptop was a mix of both professional and personal documents—all unimaginably delicate information if it were to get out into the public. For the Task Force itself, as well as their families. It would mean even more death and slaughter.

A nail in a coffin. Blackmail.

“I know that.” You grunt, taking a hung skin by your fingernail in between your teeth and biting down until you rip out portions of your flesh with a dull burn. “That’s not what I’m asking you—he’s the man who put a gun to my head.”

The insinuation is bare to the world.

“And now he’ll be the one using it to point at others.” The Agent slips past you, and your nose picks up the scent of linen and cigarette smoke.

This is the point that you should stop talking. Cut off loose ends and think of a way out of this. But you’d gotten cruel; cold-hearted with little regard for others feelings. What you wanted was the upper hand. You needed it. Some semblance of control in a situation that was so far out of it that the concept itself should be in space. Control was how you’d survived. You recall a flash of a file with Kate Laswell’s name attached and you’re speaking before the connotation fully registers.

“I wonder if your wife knows what you do. How many families have you ruined?” The woman pauses behind you, a hand on the door. Her legs shift. “Do you tell her? Or do you keep her conscious clean as you spread the blood on your hands over to her?”

Scream at me, you plead, eyes small. Yell. Rage. Please, just do something predictable. Let me win something.

Kate looks over her shoulder at you, but your vision stays anchored ahead; back turned away from the door entirely. Eyes blinking; lungs jumping like frogs to find oxygen as if to suck down flies.

“I should thank you.” The words echo. “You’re giving my department leeway to move on Osipov and Kham now that a US citizen is in direct crossfire…” The woman turns back to the door. “I’ll be expecting Garrick to send updates every two days. Try not to kill him.” She walks out the door on steady feet and it stays unlocked behind her when the metal eventually closes with the semblance of a period in a sentence. The almost inhuman silence left in its wake makes your ears ring with noise in the absence of all else.

Alone, mere seconds later, your hand quickly snaps to your mouth to muffle a wail, eyes kept firmly shut in grief as your knees shake. You only barely stop yourself from hitting the floor as the panic finally registers; halfway folded over the table.

A ways off in the hallway, none the wiser, Gaz leans against the wall—arms crossed and head resting behind him. It’s only at the sight of Laswell that the calm man perks to attention like an eager soldier.

Since he knew his charge already, Kyle had stayed behind while all the others of the Task Force had left with various degrees of goodbyes and well-wishes. Pats on his shoulders as he chuckled and made them swear to not have too much fun without him.

About to open his mouth and ask the fast-paced woman how it went, he’s interrupted by Kate’s blue eyes blazing as she glances at him.

“Good luck, Sergeant.” Her still voice is grim. “You’ll need it.” The female Agent walks on without another word, leaving the Brit wide-eyed and staring after.

“...Brilliant.” He fixes his cap and sighs before the sound of his cracking knuckles echoes through the hall. “Just bloody brilliant.”

TAGS:

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[vitzi9]

Hi there. Would you be willing to write a fic where ethan landry and the reader (female) are friends? Ethan is obsessed with the reader and wants to be more than friends. Reader doesn't know that Ethan is ghostface and she walks down an alley at night just to see Ethan killing her boyfriend. He then witnesses her freak out while trying to call the police. He then kidnaps her and shows her how much he loves and that he would continue killing for her.

He's a liar, open your eyes !

Ethan Landry x Fem!Reader

Masterlist if you want to read my other things.

CW/TW: description of a dead body, kidnapping, mention of suicide(not you), manipulation, voyeurism, insults

I feel like it's too repetitive. I don't know why my things always end up being so long. (03/07/2023) (9062 words)

Damn, why does this lesson has to be so hard ? You don't understand a thing ! Hell, that's why Ethan's here. Seriously what even is economic policies ? Did you learn that ? The teacher keep telling everyone this chapter was taught last year. How ?

Ethan comes back ten long minutes later from the bathroom, a sheepish smile on. His cheeks are red and he wears an almost stupid smile. You never saw someone so happy to use the bathroom before.

You notice something poking from his pocket. Did he really take a piss with a pen in his pocket ? He can chill, you're not going to steal it from him... Though, you smile at him fondly, softened by his nerdy behaviour.

"Did you make progress ? He asks.

-You're really asking ?"

You notice that his hair are a little disheveled. It's probably time to pack your things. You've been talking for a while now. He laughs slightly at your irony.

"You really don't know how to wash your hands, do you?"

His face flash you a deep shade of red as he looks down at his pant. You weren't really making fun of him. You just found it funny how he had a single water stain beside his zipper. Embarrassed, he hide the spot with his hands.

He quickly sits back at his place. Immediatly abandoning your lesson, you put it away. Your whole attention back onto him. You were previously gossiping about this man in your class. Rumor has it that he sleeps with his teachers for good grades. Ethan and you were trying to figure out if it was true or not.

It wasn't that important but it allowed you to talk freely. Ethan and you were close but weren't hanging out together that often. But he was really nice and an excellent friend, you liked to talk to him mindlessly like now.

"But on the other side he could juste be a good student. I can't really tell... Plus, some teachers actually don't really like him. You ever saw him be weird around a teacher?"

You noticed it but had tried not to embarrass him by asking but Ethan was acting a little different. As if in his own world, in a bliss you couldn't quite understand. He was looking at you with a fond smile and hadn't uttered a word. Differently from before.

"Are you okay ?" You decide to ask.

You almost feel bad for getting him out of his bubble. He widens his eyes, stuttering things you don't understand before sighing.

"Actually I....

-Yes ?

-I just wanted to let you know that..."

You look at Ethan, smiling to encourage him to continue. You don't quite get why he's suddenly back to his shy demeanor. He was doing pretty well until then.

"It-its... Like... We, the-the both of us, we've known each other for a really long time now and uh..."

When he was finally going to spit his thoughts, the door of your apartement open wide. Ethan stops abrutptly talking while you divert your attention from him. Your boyfriend was here. He didn't told you he was coming but you were at a stage in your relation which you didn't need to. Your boyfriend of almost one year stare nastily at Ethan seated next to you. You sigh, he knew Ethan would come today, you had told him. Why is he being so mean about it ?

You were supposed to be studying for a group project but when you started talking about a book you read, Ethan and you did nothing but study. Book talk turned into gossiping and finally nothing was done. You talked for hours about everything and anything. Then, there was a long silence before Ethan looked like he had something really big to tell you.

"Hi, didn't know he was still here. says your jaded boyfriend.

Here we go again... You clench your jaw, sensing he was going at it, for the umpteenth time.

-Do you need that many times to study? he says in a false disinterest.

-Yes, we do." you say coldly.

He was being rude and you didn't like it. Ethan was your friend. The least he deserved was respect. You invited him here. He was a guest. If anything, your boyrfriend should be rude to you.

"It's pretty dark outside, man. You should go. it was a fake advice, he wanted him to go.

Before you could lecture him about his rudeness, Ethan stands up. He gathers his things, eyes avoiding yours and cheeks red. You look disappointly at your boyfriend.

-Ethan you don't have to go, we can...

-N-no it's okay, it's late anyway, I'm... I'm gonna go. See you tomorrow ?" he tells you in a small voice.

You sigh out his name, embarrassed that your boyfriend would throw him out like that. So you decide to accompany him outside. You spent the few minutes of the route apologizing. He ketp saying it was okay, laughing lightly. But he was still meek. You were scared the bad behaviour of your boyfriend had made him distant. Bitterly, you let him walk away not without apologizing once again to him. You had to make it up to him later.

It was weird. Your boyfriend wasn't the posessive type, at all. You could go out butt naked that he'd tell that you're pretty. You could have as many friends as you wanted, male or female. He was normal, a normal man and your relationship was sane. But as soon as Ethan was mentionned, he was acting like this.

Your boyfriend thought he was playing the victim on purpose. According to him, Ethan wanted to separate you both. He was making your boyfriend the evil monster of the story when in reality, Ethan was manipulating you. You didn't know where he invented all that but it wasn't funny.

Ethan was an old friend. Old because you had known him for a long time. He wasn't exactly your bestfriend but you knew if you had some serious problem, he'd be happy to help. And vice versa. He was nice and never hurt anyone.

When you two met, his laces were undone and he fell on you. It was the 'worst day of his life'. You've know each other for years, now. But your boyfriend still wasn't trusting him.

When you enter back your apartement, nothing changed. He was stil in the middle of the livingroom, arms crossed on his chest. A scowl on the face. You slam the door shut.

"Seriously, what's wrong with you ? you immediatly start.

-I swear on my life I saw him smile. When you weren't looking he...

-Shut it, I'm tired. Don't wanna argue." you say, closing your eyes. Wanting to avoid a headache.

He says nothing, noticing your really tired expression. Compassionate, he opens his arms. Although hesitating at first, you dive right in. Angry but still loving him. You'd talk another day. Maybe understand where this hatred he hold against Ethan come from.

The next morning, everything was already forgotten. Well, not entirely. You were late and didn't have time to question your partner. You were both in a rush, grabbing breakfast to eat on the way and running to your class. Still, you knew you needed to have a talk with him. But it had to wait for now.

Frowning your brows in the bathroom, you tamper everywhere near the sink and the drawer but still can't find your toothbrush. You call out to your boyfriend in the kitchen. Asking him if he saw it or touched it recently. Though you don't understand why he would move your stuff.

"Where did you last put it? he asks, the question was silly but you appreciate his will to help. Why would you put your toothbrush anywhere else than in your damn bathroom ?

-On the sink, as usual."

It's weird though, you already lost it twice this month. Well, you got other one but if you could keep them as long as possible that'd be nice. You could've sworn you put it on the sink ! Where the hell did it go ? You really are tired.

Anyway, you think, you have to go. You and your boyfriend depart from the apartment and quickly arrive at destination. You kiss each other goodbye, and separate from each other. Thursday is usually a tough day since you can't see him much. But he promised you he was sleeping at your place tonight, too.

The day was a boring one. Nothing to entertain yourself. You went to your class, you took notes, you left class and so on. Even your friends were dying of boredom. Your boyfriend and yourself didn't get to spend much time with each other today as he was studying. But finally, you could go home. He sent you a text ten minutes ago, asking you to wait for him beside the entrance. And you did.

You only wanted one thing, go home and sleep. You stretch your muscles and sigh of tiredness. He usually is done studying at five on thursday. You juste have to wait five to ten minutes more.

You take out your phone to mindlessly scroll on it when a curly head appear in your field of view. Ethan already saw you, he's waving shyly at you. You smile happily and put your phone back in your pocket. Walking towards him, you observe how he seems so tired.

"Rough day ?" you ask him and he chuckles lightly, nodding his head. "You're okay, still ?

-Yes, don't worry. I'm fine. And you? Did you have a nice day ? It was cute how eager he was to talk to his friends, nervermind his state.

-I'm always fine when you're so kind to me. He smiles sheepishly, looking to the ground. You hope he understood you were joking and you didn't make him uneasy. Are you waiting someone ?

-Oh, yeah. I'm actually waiting for Chad to...." He trails off while looking at something behind you, his smile fading.

Worried, you furrow your brows before turning around only to see your boyfriend. Your smile instantly comes back. You would have hugged him if Ethan wasn't here. You weren't too much of a fan of PDA. Your partner's face seem closed, weird considering he's always happy when you're going home.

"Let's get home. he simply says.

Can't he see you're talking to someone ? You waited a few minutes for him, he can do the same.

-Wait a moment I'm talking to... he interrupted you, without listening to your words.

-I'm really tired, babe. Let's get home, now.

-We're all tired, I'm just asking you to wait a few...

-Just let's get home. he says coldy and you stop talking.

You look at him sternly. Since when does he give you any orders ? Since when does he forces you to listen to him? You have the right to talk to your friend, why does he deter you to do so ? You just want to talk to your friend two more minutes, is that too much to ask ?

-She doesn't want to, you can't force her... try Ethan, wanting to support you.

-Don't fucking talk to her, okay? he snap. You're not part of the damn conversation so just stay the fuck out of it. I know who the hell you are and what you're doing. Don't fucking talk to us you sociopath. you almost could see the smoke coming out of his ears.

Your heart stop seeing Ethan so humiliated and a ringing echo through your body. You were speechless. That's it, you decide. He doesn't have any right to talk to someone like that. He has to calm down because you are not staying with a violent man, whether he is towards you or someone else ! You step before Ethan to face your partner. You never saw him raise his voice at someone before but you don't like it.

-What the hell is wrong with you?

First he's rude to him when he's litteraly a guest and now he plainly insult him ? You were going to apologize to Ethan but when you searched him, you realized he disappeared. Fuck, you thought, he was that affected ? You can't blame him, you'd probably be as insulted as him in his case. But now you just feel like the worst person ever.

-Why do you hate Ethan so much?

He opens his mouth, searching his words as if not knowing where to begin. His eyes were screaming obviousness. As if for him, every reasons were easy to find to justify his hate.

-Because he's a creep. he agitates his hands to prove his point. Open your eyes, can't you see he's flirting with you ? He's trying to separate us !

-I guarantee you he's not. He's just shy! He's like that with everyone! You're seeing things ! You know what ? I won't tolerate your disrespect any longer. You ever saw me insult your friends ? No, never. Then why do you feel free to do so ? Seriously what is wrong with you ?

He is taken aback by the seriousness you take to discuss this subject. It's not even about Ethan anymore, it's simply about his rude behaviour. He needs to understand that you are not forgiving everything just because you're together.

-He's not just shy. He's really really creepy. He's constantly staring at you. He's on the verge of drooling ! He's sending me fucking death glare ! I tried to override it but it's been one year ! He did not change !

You almost laughed out loud. Ethan ? Sending death glare ? He can't even look at poeple in the eyes. Threathening them ? Just unimaginable. He's inventing things again and it's terribly annoying.

-Will you stop ?

-How can I stop ? He hates my guts ! he softens his tone. I love you, okay ? I'm incredibly in love with you and that's why this guy get me worried sick. He is not normal. If we were in a horror movie, he'd be the type to hide bodies in his basement ! I swear he hides something.

It's true that you don't know Ethan that much. But right now, he wasn't in your mind. You were only thinking about the fact that your boyfriend wanted to forbid you something. And that was the problem. He could tell you to be careful, to avoid being alone with him. But not ordering you to stay away from him. You weren't a child. And you're not stupid, you know the people your befriend. If Ethan was weird, you would have seen it by now.

-I love you too, you said heartly. Really. But Ethan is a nice guy. If he tries anything, I'll tell you right away. But I am not stopping from seeing him. You can't tell me what to do. You know that.

Your boyfriend clench his jaw but nods reluctantly. He doesn't like this deal but if he contradicts you, the argument will worsen and he didn't want that right now. You tried to share the wrongs, even if you find it difficult in your side as you don't know what you did, to ease the situation. You loved your boyfriend, you didn't want it to end on a stupid quarrel. Though, you knew you probably hurt him by doubting of him.

You'd ask him to apologize to your friend but it would be too much and you thought he'd do it himself when everything calmed down. Eventually. You came back home without him, crashing on your couch face first and breathing in it for a few minutes before getting up.

You were overthinking so much your head was hurting you. After a burning shower to ease your nerves (it didn't work), you decided to call Ethan to ensure he was okay. Guilt was eating you alive. You needed to apologize. He left before you could do so.

After the first ring, Ethan picks up. You panic. You don't really know what to say now, you hoped he wouldn't pick up so you could just leave a vocal message. You thought that a simple text wasn't enough and don't show the honesty of your words.

"Hey. he says as awkwardly as in real life.

You didn't know where to begin.

-You're okay? you ask and you hate yourself for asking that so bluntly.

He doesn't answer. You were thinking back on the face he made after being insulted, the humiliation, the utter mortification he felt. Your words are nothing, the wrong is already done. But you hope they'll help him feeling better. Even if just a little. Ethan is silent.

-Listen, I... you start.

Better apologize now before he hates you too.

-I'm sorry about my boyfriend. Like really. I... I don't know why he's acting like that. I talked to him but...

-It's okay, I'm used to it by now, you know ?

Guilt wasn't even enough to express your feelings. He's used to it ? That's not reassuring at all. In fact, you want the ground to open under you, to chew and swallow you. You were a horrible friend for letting your partner lower his self esteem like this.

-God, don't say that... It sounds horrible.

He laughs but he's not amused.

-If he does it again, and I hope he won't but just in case, you can bite back. You can insult him, too. I can give you insults he doesn't like if you want !"

This time, he truly laughed. A real chuckle and you were happy. You were happy your friend didn't hate you. You continued to talk long time after that. Eventually, you hung up, feeling tired. But with a smile nonetheless as you knew things were slowly getting better.

The next morning, you did your routine. With your new toothbrush in hand, you stare at yourself in the mirror. You had bags under your eyes. You were happy the week end was coming. Tomorrow is saturday, the week is finally completed. You felt enough stress for a whole month after that. You needed to rest.

You spit in the sink and wash your mouth with water. Raising your head again, you look if you still have toothpaste on your face when your body freeze. Are you dreaming or is there something behind your mirror ? You swear you just saw a red dot flashes.

You stop moving completly, eyes glued to the mirror. Three minutes pass wihtout anything new. Are you really that tired ?

Maybe it's just the reflection of the twinkling fire protection system ? The point is red too, after all. In any case, you're tired. You don't need others problems for today. You'll have to ask your boyfriend about it. If he stops sulking. Either way, you're curious. You'll try to take off the mirror another time. Tonight maybe, if you don't forget about it until then.

Later this day, you still hadn't talk to your boyfriend and the mirror thing had disappeared from your mind. As if life wanted to keep you occupied to avoid thinking about your problems, the morning classes were only tests. You hoped you did good because it didn't fell like it.

It was already noon and you were searching for your friends. They told you they'd be waiting for you in the cafeteria. You came out late of your last class so you needed to speed up a little. The halways are already crowded at this hour, more than usually it is. You sigh thinking about the long journey you'll have to make to join your friends. You'll have to dodge every rushing students, find your ways through everyone and hope something is good in the today's menu.

You start searching for someone you know in the crowd to mentally support you on this long day and you recognize the tall curly man named Ethan going to the bathroom in the opposite direction of yours. Damn, you sigh, you wanted to ask him if he could send you his notes for econ.

You texted your friends, saying that you'll meet up with them later. Your boyfriend still hadn't text you. He was mad at you, after all. In your opinion, you did nothing wrong. He's the one who put a target on Ethan's back. You recognize one can be jealous but damn, he can't disrespect your friend like that forever. He can't make hasty assumptions on people and then forbiding you to talk to them.

That's why you wanted someone to accompagny you to the cafeteria. Now, you're alone with your thoughts and you're overthinking. You didn't allow him to explain himself, but on the other side he didn't really try to. His reasons are unfounded. He was quite closed up on the subject.

You do not have to appreciate someone but why does he hate him ? That's another level. He even called Ethan a sociopath ! Why ? The common area wasn't so far from you anymore. You grab your phone, ready to send a text to your friends when someone suddenly rush into you. Your phone fall on the ground and you curse under your breath.

Looking up, the person already left. You grab your phone quickly and search behind you to know who pushed you this hard, only to see some curly hair, again. Wait, if you saw him going in the opposite direction, how did he end up stumbling on you ? He ran or something ?

-Ethan? you call after him and he stops in his track. you approach him. Why are you in such a rush... Oh.

And then you see it, the pink spot stuck in his hair. Gum, Ethan has gum in his hair. Obviously, it wasn't supposed to be here. You understand his embarrassment now, you wouldn't like to be seen like this too.

-Oh, Ethan...

At your change of tone, he reluctantly moves his body in your direction and lift his gaze towards you. An embarrassed expression clearly on display. You're suddenly really close to him staring at his stuck hair.

-Its... It's nothing, really ! He laughs awkwardly. I'll get it off, eventually.

-No, come here. you wanted to make it quick as to avoid him being stared at by people.

Head low in shame, Ethan follows you to the bathroom where you wetted his hair as much as you could. You thought that if you helped him, he'd understand that you're really not okay with your boyfriend's ideas of him. By helping him, you show him that you're still his friend and you're sorry for the behaviour of your partner. Acts are louder than words. Ethan's head was heavy in your hands, as if he was resting it against your palm. He probably was but your hair were a calming area for you too, so you understand. When your boyfriend scratch your head, you're out like a light.

-How did you get gum in here ?

He doesn't answer. The worst was already on your mind; is Ethan bullied ? You're not in highschool anymore but people are still mean and Ethan is a perfect target, he's a shy guy with little friends. He's usually the kind of people meanie make fun of.

-Did someone do this ? you ask while untangling his curls.

Ethan lower his face, eyes staring straight onto your phone screen where a picture of you and your boyfriend was on display. His gaze staying a little too long on your partner's face. With a bitter laugh, he shakes his head.

-You won't like the answer."

Something deep in you was telling you your boyfriend had something to do with it. After all, it was as if Ethan was giving you hints at this point. But you still believed in the kindness of your partner. He was never mean, physically at least. He wouldn't hurt a fly. But at the same time, he changed a lot recently, surprising you and not really in a good way. Could it really be him ? Ethan saw your hesitation since he smiles sympatheticly, understanding you.

"Don't be too mean on him, it's not important anyway. It's just gum."

And it was all you needed to hear before calling your boyfriend as soon as gum was out of the way. You asked him to come to your place when his classes were done.

Ethan texted you later on with all the sincerity in the world, 'is he violent with you? you can talk to me, you know? He can't force you to do anything. i'm here for you.' His words triggered certains thoughts in you, thinking that yeah, he wasn't like this when you first talked to him. And that's how every violent man start. By establishing rules in a relationship. Rules only relevant to one person in the couple. By getting angry more often.

By manipulating you with your feelings. It was too soon to really know if he was in fact getting violent but at the same time you didn't want to stay long to discover it.

When he came home this night, he knew something was off. You were seated on the couch, staring at the black screen of the TV. Your arms were crossed over your chest. Tonight was the big talk time.

As soon as the door slam shut, you start.

"Where were you at noon ?

He rises a brow, laughing nervously at your sudden question. He didn't even get the time to place down his bag.

-At my club ? You know I'm always there at this time.

You were afraid he was lying to you. One of your friend, in the same club as him, joke to you about how your arguments got to him so hard that he didn't even bother to come. Well, she said that she herself didn't stay long today but that's all you needed to know. He wasn't at the club.

-I didn't see you, that's all.

-You came to see me ? I was late. I joined the club ten or fifteen minutes later. Something happened?

You wonder if you should just spit it out. It would take a weight off your shoulders and appease your nerves. Yes, you'll just spit it out. You need answers.

-Ethan, as soon as his name leave your mouth he sighs, yeah, exactly, him, again. Someone put gum in his hair today. It was impossible to get rid off. One day after you insulted him. Crazy coincidence.

-Are you accusing me ? he asks in disbelief. You invited me over to argue ?

-I just want to hear where you were at noon today.

-It's not me, okay ? he says in a defensive tone. I don't like him but I'm not an asshole. I know he's your friend, I wouldn't do that to him.

-I know, but recently you've been acting really weird around him so I'm starting to ask questions. I'm going to ask this once and I want you to be honest with me. you take a pause, gauging his reaction. he simply waits for you to continue. Are you the one bullying Ethan ?

-I'm not ! Hell, why would I do that !

He's hurt seeing you so little convinced. He shakes his head and frown his brows. He's standing right before you now. He's panicked as if he knows your relationship depends on this discussion.

-I get it now, he says seriously. He accused me, right ? I don't blame you for listening to him, he's a good friend to you, okay. I get that. But he's sabotaging your life, he's sabotaging our relationship. You can't just believe everything he says. I don't like him, that's a fact. But I never put shit in his hair. And I never will. Don't you understand what's happening ?

He kneels before you and takes your hands in his, his warmth enveloping your body. He looks up at you with pretty sad eyes and you know you won't last long.

-Each time we argue, it's because of him. It's because he's always stuck to you, because he always does or says something.

-Or because you hold a stupid grudge toward him for no reason.

-No reason ? He gives me the creep !

-That's what I'm saying, you have no reason ! contradicting him allowed you to avoid looking into his eyes. Because if you did, you'd forgive him far too quickly.

-Baby, please, listen to me. He's not what he makes you think he is. He's a vicious manipulator. I can't prove it now with anything else than my words but I'll prove it to you. I don't know how yet but I promise. He sounded so desperate he had you doubting about everthing.

-I have to think about it."

Even though he wanted to convince you more, he understood your state of mind and decided not to push his luck. Sadly, he let go of your hand. And that was it.

He did not sleep here tonight, either.

When you woke up, you felt alone for the first time in a while. A bitter feeling lingering in your throat. All day, you stayed in bed scrolling on your phone. It was saturday, you usually go out with your friends but you were not in the mood today.

After emptying your head and forgetting your feelings on social media for hours, you decided you couldn't stay angry at your partner for an eternity. So you sent him a text offering him to come tonight to discuss. He accepted surprisingly quickly. You spent the rest of the day cleaning your apartment. As if it was your first date and you wanted to make a good first impression.

You just wanted to spend a chill night with your man.

A movie was already planned for his arrival. You had cleaned every spot of your house. You were wore and now wanted to relax. Weirdly enough, something in you was telling you that the night wouldn't be as relawing as you wanted it to be. You didn't really know why. Maybe you'd be arguing again ? Maybe he'd leave you ?

You couldn't quite pinpoint the feeling you had.

You check your phone one last time, 'i'm almost there' he texted. But his message was sent already fifteen minutes ago. And the way to your apartment clearly wasn't that long. You decided to waste time until he eventually arrives by going to the nearest store. He had your keys anyway, if you arrive after him. You'd buy snacks to eat together there. And so that's what you did. You bid bye to the cashier and went back on your path. Suddenly, you realized how late it is. The alley was really dusky. Was it that dark when you left ?

You grab your phone, still no responses. What's taking him so long ?

Walking slowly in the dead of the night, you hear nothing but car in the background. Your own feet echo in the alley, you hit a bottle that's sent against the wall and you jolt before cursing. You're paranoid. Nothing's here. You grab once again your phone, no answer. He still isn't here ? Okay, maybe you're impatient here. But twenty minutes to arrive ? It's usually fifteen at best !

Deepening yourself slowly down the alley, you start to hear muffled voices. Two people. You hope it's not creepy men who'll follow you. Though, you're sure it isn't when the voices seem to be arguing.

You stop walking, trying to understand if you were in danger or not. It would be really stupid to get involved in a gang fight or simply in a fight. You though the two men would be drunk, since people arguing in a dark alley in night isn't that common for sober people(well, in your opinion), but they were not.

Approaching slowly, you realise you understand every one of the words they're echanging. Though, it's not reassuring.

"I always knew you were a fucked up little bitch..." you hear someone hiss.

Now what's happening ? It's getting scary. The more horrific part was probably that the voice sounded familiar to you. But it was distored and far away so you weren't sure. Either way, you needed to cross this alley. Your home was just a few meters further.

Holding your breath, you look at the ground, eyes glued to the pavement below you. You have nothing to do with this and you don't want to deal with it. But when you heard a scream of pain, your body jolt. Shaking from head to toe, you stop on your track. Your heart is beating too fast for your own good, your blood is pulsing. Slowly, your head turn towards the alley. What you saw at this moment was probably the worst sight you could have encountered in your life.

On the ground, a dead body. Eyes staring straight at you. His back was against the wall, blood dripping from his neck which was cut clean. He was shirtless and even though you didn't want to look at it, you knew his chest was covered in scars. But what's finally killed you is that you recognized his face.

It was your boyfriend.

Breathing becomes hard, you tug at your shirt, pupils slowly drowning in your tears. You couldn't look away. But you had to when someone step on a piece of glass. You jolt, searching for the responsible. Your senses on high alert. Everything in you were yelling at you to run but your legs were like jelly. It was a miracle you were still standing.

And that's when you saw it. Someone. You couldn't see their face but for some reason you knew they were watching you. Without diverting your gaze from them, you grab your phone from your back pocket, stepping back to put distance between you. The person calls your name and unfortunatly you recognize his voice.

"E-Ethan?" you ask with a watery and cracked voice.

You shake your head, slowly stepping back while he comes closer. You finally see his face. There's blood splattered on his face and he own a shiny knife in hand. It's straight out of a horror movie.

"Baby, it's not safe to wander around here at such a late hour. he laughs, surprisingly brightly for the situation.

-Ethan did you..." weakly, you point at the body in the alley behind him.

He's just smiling. He tilts his head to the side, staring at you longingly. Blood was dripping from his knife. Fuck, you need to run, right now. Sensing life coming back to your body, you bolt to the opposite direction. You hear him yell your name but you don't look back to see where he is. You rush to a place you hope will be full of people. There, you coud call for help.

Your rush, feeling every one of your muscle giving the best they have. You're out of breath, you already fell on the ground twice and hurt yourself but didn't bother stopping. Ethan was still yelling your name in your back, his voice getting progressivly more angry and desperate.

You weren't stopping, you couldn't. You were running haphazardly with your blurry vision, you couldn't see much. He's dead, you think. He's freaking dead. He killed him.

A violent side stitch takes you and you whine from the pain. Your muscles are burning so do each one of your breath. You see a building nearing and accelerate one last time to reach it.

But Ethan is seemingly trained for chasing people as he jumps on you and pin you against the ground. You try to scream but he doesn't allow you to as he maintain your mouth shut with his hand. You can feel his front against your back as you struggle to escape. Ethan hold you firmly against him, his weight on you guaranteeing you stay put.

"Why are you running? It's me. It's just me." you could hear the smile in his voice even though he's out of breath.

He was far too happy ! Did he plan this all along ? A million thoughts were racing in your head. Was that what your boyfriend saw in him ? Was that real ? Were you going to die ? You're crying all the water of your body at this point but Ethan doesn't say anything about it. You know he's ravished in the imbalance of power.

"It was supposed to be for the damn parasite, but I never could stand him anyway."

You don't have time to think about who or what he's talking about that a faint sting in your neck make you wince. A burning liquid propagate in your veins. Your vision soon become watery and blurry. Your body stop struggling and everything in you is numb.

"Sleep well now." was all you heard before black out.

When you woke up, (hours, days later ?) everything was pitch black around you. Even though you knew your eyes were open. What's happening ? Last night, you were at the local store buying things for your boyfriend and now you're here. Here, but where ?

You slowly start to realise something hides your view from the light and that your hands are tied up in your back. You couldn't move them at all, they were tightly attached with both scotch and cable tie. It was a miracle blood was still flowing. Or the person who attached you knew exactly how to do it. This thought was terrifying.

Your head aches trying to remember the last event but eventually you get the answer you needed. Ethan fucking Landry. He was in that alley with you. Tears brims your eyes at the reminder of your boyfriend. Your dead boyfriend. What will happen now ?

In your desperate state, you don't hear when someone enters the room. It's when a hand is put on your thight that you jolt and struggle to move. Trying to escape, the cable tie shear your wrists.

"You're gonna hurt yourself, love. Don't do that please."

The voice stops you. It was the same tender voice Ethan used to talk to you before. Ethan, shit, you spent the last few weeks arguing with your boyfriend over him, just for him to fucking kill him. Why is he doing this ? What did you do to him ? Can't he just kill you ? Is he so twisted that he needs to torture you ? It's all your fault, you should have listened to him. Ethan is a monster.

Tears are running down your cheeks, they're salty and sting a little. Ethan sees them and dry them with his thumbs. He tries to shush you but it don't work. Then, he decides to take off the cloth hiding your view. Upon seeing him, you burst into tears. You struggle, moving your whole body, trying to move the chair on which you're on. Crying more when he tries to touch you.

-No no no babe it's me! Don't freak out ! He laughs happily. It's just me, okay ? Everything's fine.

You were going to scream if he didn't interrupt you by roughly clading his palms against your lips. Your tears are no longer staining your chin, now flowing onto his fingers. You don't really understand the situation to be honest. Yesterday, Ethan was a really nice and polite friend. Why would he be otherwise ?

"That's it, calm down. Stop crying, please. It's okay. I'm here." he slowly part his hand away from your mouth.

You are terribly tired. Your body is numb. Your eyes are sore. You have difficulty breathing since you have a stuffy nose from all the crying. You sniff, blinking trying to get rid of the blurry vision you're having. You're sure you look pitiful but Ethan is looking at you like you're a damn art piece. He's analyzing you.

Ethan smiles. Sitting comfortably in front of you. On a chair he specifically placed here for you to talk. Or him to watch. You seem to be in a kind of garage. There's tools scattered on various worktable. Ethan tilts his head to where you're watching to catch your attention, when your eyes are on him again, he smiles brightly.

"You're comfortable here ? I'm sorry the chair is a little old, I wasn't really prepared. Don't worry I'll give you an armchair, soon. So you'll feel better.

You don't say anything. What does he want from you ? You have nothing left. According to his words, he plans on keeping you here for a while. Why ? He smiles, lifting his hand towards you, you flinch and turn your head.

-Don't look at me like that. he says angrily, his tone suddenly more serious.

Your eyes are back on him. You try to keep your gaze as neural as possible as to not angry him but your real feelings talks for you.

-Like you're scared of me. Like you're angry at me. I know you're not.

Why did you bother defending him. He's dead because of you, fuck, it's your fault ! You should have listened to him ! He told you Ethan was creepy, you should have fucking listened.... Tears are coming again, you try to keep them hidden but fail miserably and start crying all over again. Ethan sighs. He archs his back and lay his elbows on his knees.

-Ok, I guess I owe you an explaination. I'll try and make it quick, I have to go back to the kitchen soon after. I made pastas. Because I don't know if you can eat a lot right now, the medicine I injected you is quite strong. he seems to realise his words as his eyes widens and he agitates his hands agitatedly. It's strong but because it wasn't for you in the first place ! You weren't supposed to be there, don't worry. I'd never hurt you. I just improvised ! But you're gonna be fine. If not, it's okay too ! I can kill myself so we'll still be together !

What was his plan ? He wanted to kidnap your boyfriend ? Why ? What would he have done to him ? What would he have done to you ?

-But uh, love aside, if you feel like you'll throw up, warn me. There's probably a basin here or something. Anyway. I did what was best for you. you burst out crying and shake your head, denying his words. Yes I fucking did ! Okay ? He was a damn loser. I didn't have a choice, you know ? You should have just stayed loyal to me in the first place !

You were terrified. He changed emotions in a fraction of seconds. He could do whatever he wanted to you and you couldn't even move. You couldn't comprehend his words. It was as if he had invented a link between you two you weren't even aware of. As if for him, you've never been friends but much more.

-Stop crying, he's dead. It's too late. Seriously, stop. You didn't even love him ! Why would you keep defending me like that otherwise ? And he humiliated me, that fucker humilated me before you ! You know I can't let that pass. It just had to end.

You were still seeing his face in the alley. He was looking into your eyes, you swear. You just know his face will haunt you untill your death. Never would you have thought Ethan Landry was a fucked up man. Never would you have thought Ethan Landry was thinking about your kidnapping and your boyfriend's death.

You didn't know what to feel. Too many emotions were in your heart. Hate, fear, disdain, grief, anger and sadness. All caused by him.

-It's not my fault, okay ? Stop looking at me like that !

He passes his hand through his hair. He's agitated. Too much for your own good. His hair, you're now sure he puts that damn gum himself. What kind of fucked up manipulator you have to be to do that ? To take your sweet time in creating arguments between two person ?

-I was supposed to come and pick him up. Thus, I would have sent you each one of his fingers in pretty pink enveloppes. I'm sure you would have loved it. But it's even better that you're here. We're always stumbling on each other, right ? Isn't that so cute ? The way we're so magnetic ? he smiles bashfully, like a schoolgirl confessing her love to her crush.

His grabs your legs, you struggle to get away from his hold. Ethan is not amused. His fist tighten considerably around your ankle and you whine from the pain. You're sure he could break it. He stops, laying simply your leg on his tight. The palm of your feet was too far from his tummy for you to hit it. He smiles in seeing you so compliant. You still feel the burning hold he previously exerced on your ankle. How strong is that man ?

He slides his fingers dreamily from your ankle to the highest part of your leg he could touch without bending in two. You were utterly disgusted by his touch knowing it was these same hands which killed your boyfriend.

-It really is fate.

And suddenly he starts using his nails instead of his digits. Not quite hurting you but it was enough to make you understand he was able to. His smile turn bitter.

-It was fate until you decided to betray me by picking someone else. his tone is dark, threatening. Like a murderer. Then it go back to his usual tone and his digits are back on your leg. But I forgive you, you know ? At first, I cried a lot. Because I thought that you didn't love me. But I soon realised that you wanted to test me. You wanted to see me jealous ! And it's okay ! You probably wanted me to make a move on you first... he smiles sheepishly, cheeks red.

What the fuck is he talking about ? You never loved him ! You never tried to test him ! Why does he keep inventing things ? Did you two have the same discussion ? Where does he gets these interpretation from? You're pratically sure it's impossible to declare your love to someone by accident so why does he thinks you're in love with him ?

-Though, I gotta admit I was really sad when you decided to fuck him. Because I understand your testing, but it didn't need to go that far, you know ? You wanted to practice ? Because it really hurt me.

You don't answer. You certainly didn't want to talk about that to him.

-For practice, right ? Tell me it was. You just wanted to practice for when we'd be together ? the death glare he sent you was enough to make you nod, even if he saw it was fake he didn't care. Good, good. I was scared for a sec ! he smiles happily, as if he didn't just threaten you. I'm still a little disappointed, though. We could've learn together but I guess I can't condamn your eagerness.

You needed to get out of here, right now. He could do so much more than just kill you and that thought was terrifying. You were helpless, stuck at his mercy.

-I'm glad you saw the camera I put in your bathroom. Felt like a creep watching you showering. But when you saw it and didn't say anything, that mean you allowed me to do it. Thanks for that. It helped me on the loneliest night.

What the fuck ? You try to remember when you ever saw a damn camera when suddenly it click. Everything click. The thing you thought was a pencil in his pocket when you invited him over, it was your toothbrush. The red point in your mirror, it was him, too.

Every time you brushed your hair, every time youu showered, every time you just lived your damn life, he was here.

You felt like a fool. He had played with you all along. You never saw anything when it was so painfully evident.

-Though once again, you didn't have to bring him in.

He was watching you from the very beginning. There wasn't a moment where you have been alone. Were others cameras in your apartment ? Probably if he knows you made love to your boyfriend.

-Ethan, you start with a shaking voice. His head snap to you, visibly excited to finally hearing you talk to him. Ethan I loved my boyfriend.

-What ? he laughed. No, silly. You do not. I'm the one you love. I'll marry you and everything, you know that.

He was smiling but you knew it wasn't genuine. You needed to talk to him calmly or this could be dangerous for you.

-I don't know you Ethan. I can't love you.

-But you do know me, sweetheart. he smiles while putting your leg back on the ground. Can I give you an advice ? he whispers then lays his hand on your cheek, his thumb caressing it. his eyes were empty of emotions while drilling into yours. You should really stop pushing me off because I'm starting to lose my fucking temper over here. Okay my love ? I'll go get you your food. I'm such a good househusband for you, right love ? You stay all pretty here, I'm coming back really quick."

With the unknow time he let you alone, you scanned your surrondings. All the tools could help you but they were too far away from you. You needed to change plan. At one point he'll have to go to sleep ? Or let you go to the bathroom ? As soon as he lets his guards down, you attack.

Ethan wasn't lying when he said he'd come back really quick as he was already here. He calmed down. Much better for you. He had a garnished plate in hand. He pushes his seat closer to you before smiling to you.

"It's gonna be fun. You'll be my beautfull wife whom I'd kill for. By the way have I told you about.. ? Wait, they haven't been discovered yet... Well, we don't care. Just a background character. he sits back down on his chair.

What ? Did he just told you he killed someone else ?

-Open your mouth, love. he says while taking a spoon full of pasta.

A spoon ? He probaby thinks you're gonna try to hurt him or yourself with a fork. He really think of you as a kid. He approaches the spoon near your mouth. You don't budge, staring at him dead in the eyes. you weren't even hungry. And if you were, you'd much rather die than to eat his food.

-Oh, I didn't even ask if you were hungry. Well, I'm putting that aside and when you need something you tell me. I won't leave your side anyway."

Him who was so nice and polite before, him who helped you with your homework. Him who killed your boyfriend, him who stalked and kidnapped you. Who was he ? Who was this man ? He sighs before your blank stare.

"Listen, I know you wanted to play that little game between us longer but he was turning violent, my love. I just... I couldn't stand to see you suffering with him. It was for your safety.

He stares at your thight on which he draws circle with his pointer. You don't even listen to the lies he tells you anymore. You're just trying to find a way out of here. Ethan sits on the ground next to you, his head now at the same level as your waist.

-He couldn't love you like I do. Nobody can. I'm going to take good care of you.

He lowers his head, his lips grazing against the clothe that separate him from the top of your thigh. You shudder. You feel his hot breath hitting your skin through the fabric. He lays his cheek flat against the fat of your thigh. He smiles. You want him to get away from you but any of your movement can angry him and you don't want that.

-I'll kill my dad after the plan, okay? So that he cannot oppose our union, our marriage.

Strangely, you wouldn't have thought someone like him had a father. Or any parent for that matter. His dad must be as fucked up as him, you're sure. You don't bother to try and understand him. A plan ? Yeah, good for him. You don't give a fuck. You just want to leave.

Though, he'd kill his dad ? He's even attacking his own family now ? Does this man have limits ? Your questionning must be visible from the outside as he laughs brightly at you.

-Why are you shocked pretty girl ? Didn't I show you how devoted I am to you ? he laughs again. And that's not even a quarter of what I'm ready to do for you.

His rub his nose against your skin covered thigh and sigh of contentement. Are you really stuck here ? No, no of course not. Someone is going to find you. Someone is going to find your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend. He tried to warn you. You hate yourself for that. It's too late now. You can simply hope he didn't suffer a lot in his death. That's all you can do. Tears are coming again, the few leaft in you anyway. You're tired. Terribly tired. You'll probably pass out soon.

Ethan kiss your thigh after taking a good sniff out of you.

-I could do so much more for you, my love. So much more. You have no idea what I could to for you."

[mrdixon]

A Rugged Muse | Chapter 3

pairing: eventual daryl dixon x f!reader

wc: 3.5k

warnings: merle being merle, nothing so far…? little bit of walker, itty bitty bit of romancing if you read between the lines

summary: reader and the dixons find a camp.

A/N: sorry i didnt mean for this to take so long again, i hope i havent completely lost the people following this series. i also just recently finished twd and despite knowing half the deaths i still cried like a little baby. anyways enjoy this chapter its pretty chill besides merle but thats a given

a rugged muse masterlist | regular masterlist

It had been about five hours since you three had started walking again. Your feet were sore and you felt lightheaded from the hot Georgia heat. You felt gross, you had taken off your jacket but it didn’t stop you from feeling overheated. Your shirt was damp and if this was still the old world you would have felt embarrassed, but all you could focus on was dragging your feet through the dirt.

“Pick up yer feet,” Daryl snapped, turning his head to you and glaring daggers into you. Mumbling a quick apology, you ducked your head and reluctantly picked up your feet.

You were starting to regret coming with these guys. First of all, you had one man who was uncomfortably close to you, to the point you could smell the cigarettes on his breath. Meanwhile the other was unapproachable. He wasn’t as bad as the elder, but he was quite irritable. You felt yourself feeling annoyed by him just as much as he was by you. He may have saved your ass a few hours ago but due to how things were going, you kind of wish he didn’t.

As you walked on behind Daryl, you felt a heavy presence behind you. Your hand reached for your daggers and wrapped your fingers around one, swinging it up and turning.

“Woah! Woah girlie, jus’ checkin’ you out.” Merle let out a raspy chuckle, your heart rate slowed and you rolled your eyes and you put your dagger back in its place. His hand slid towards your waist which you immediately flicked away, crossing your arms protectively as you walked. “Playin’ hard ta get huh?”

“Leave ‘er alone Merle,” Daryl glanced over his shoulder, silently blinking to you. You picked up the hint and walked ahead while Merle groaned quite heavily.

“C’mon Darlina, let your big bro get some. ‘s been a while.” Merle nudged Daryl on the shoulder while the younger glared at the nickname.

“Surprised you got any,” you mumbled under your breath, but to your misfortune. Merle heard. He narrowed his eyes, holding Daryl back to stop you three before slowly walking up to you.

“Ya think yer funny, woman?” His cigarette breath almost made you gag in his face, uncomfortably looking to the side. “You jus’ keep yer mouth shut and keep pretty, or else.”

Daryl stepped in and shoved Merle away from you, keeping his body between you two almost protectively. You looked down away from his face while he spat profanity at his brother, the two Dixon’s bickering while you stood awkwardly to the side.

“’m not gonna watch ya harass this woman, bad enough we let ‘er come.” Daryl growled, nudging you in front of him. “Keep walkin’.”

You ignored Merle’s protests, continuing to walk ahead of both the brothers. Every time you took a step a wave a soreness shot through your thighs, getting tired of this seemingly never-ending hike. You huffed as you adjusted your bag straps over your shoulders, the muscles tense and you felt as if they would burst. The three of you walked quietly now, the only sounds were of the distant groans of the undead and the occasional drag of your feet.

You could feel Daryl looming behind you, his eyes boring into your back to keep an eye on you. It felt nice having someone look out for you, especially with his creep of a brother preying on you.

You looked up from the corner of your eye as you saw the marker that stated you were on the interstate 85, you sighed in relief and turned to face the Dixons.

“We made it,” you smiled breathlessly, Daryl stared at you unimpressed.

“Ya think we’re done?” He raised a brow almost mockingly, “ya found a marker, ain’ nothin’ special abou’ tha’.” Your shoulders slumped, frowning as he walked past you and bumped your shoulder with his. Merle gave you a look and you audibly groaned at being stuck with him again.

“Daryl ‘ere wan’s ta find a camp, so we can ya know… rob ‘em of their supplies and get goin’.” Merle chuckled while Daryl turned fiercely.

“It was actually yer idea, dun’ go puttin’ this shit on me. ‘m jus’ a better tracker than you are.” Daryl huffed before Merle stepped up to him and glared back.

“’m the one who taught ya all tha’!” The two continued to argue again, and nothing taking any more of their bullshit, you walked ahead. Soon you heard their low grumbled and footsteps following behind.

You ignored them and pushed on, the both of them quietly bickering as siblings do. Eventually, Daryl spoke up and beckoned you and Merle over. You walked over to where he was, which was on the highway. It was the clearest you'd ever seen it, no sign of life anywhere. Eerie. Merle whistled, throwing an arm over your shoulder as he squeezed.

“Well damn, haven’ seen the road this clear before.” Merle rasped your thoughts into your ear, you just nodded and pushed him away. Daryl was headed to an abandoned car off the side of the road. It looked somewhat useable.

Daryl poked his head around the car, peeking through the windows. The both of you jumped back when one of the dead slammed against the window at the sound of humans. He reached for his knife and opened the door just a crack, plunging his knife into the head. The squelch of flesh made you wince though Daryl didn’t seem bothered at all. He turned to check on you and shrugged at your expression before dragging its body out of the car.

“Wha’ was tha’?” Merle called from the shade.

“Jus’ a walker,” Daryl responded and waved Merle over. A walker? You guessed that was the word for them, seemed reasonable. “I’ll go ahead and get this started, then we can drive the rest of the way.” Your shoulders slumped in relief at the idea of being able to sit in a car again. Merle nodded and moved to the trunk, rummaging around for something useful.

Meanwhile Daryl went into the driver’s seat and fumbled around with some wires, trying to get the car to start. You made a mental note to ask him to teach you how to start a car like that one day. While both brothers did their share of work you decided to hop into the back seats, finding a few bags of chips and tossing them to the middle console. You shut the door and made yourself comfy, you assumed the Dixons would be in the front so you kicked your feet up and lay flat in the back.

“Ya ain’ gonna help?” You heard Daryl grumble from the front.

“What would I help with? Seems you two got it down,” you sat up and poked your head through the two front seats. His eyes met yours from under the steering wheel, handing you a flashlight.

“Can ya jus’ hold this so I can cut the right wires?” You shrugged and took the flashlight, pointing the light at the jumble of wires his thick fingers were playing with. “Nah,” he mumbled and grabbed your hand gently, guiding the light properly. His large hand completely engulfed yours, providing warmth which quickly left as it came. You swallowed and held the light steady where he wanted, his eyes squinting as he did his thing.

The position you were in was uncomfortable, you were leaning over the central armrest and your body was turned to see where you were pointing the light. Naturally you shifted yourself, moving up on the armrest so your hip rested on it. The movement caused the light to go off to the side, Daryl’s intense gaze meeting yours again.

“Sorry,” you sighed and moved the flashlight back, but instead your elbow slipped and made you slide towards where he was under the wheel. Luckily, he caught you by the shoulder and scoffed, helping you back up.

“Careful,” he muttered and fumbled a bit more with the wire before the car started up. You pushed yourself up and handed him the flashlight. He nodded to you and got out from under the wheel. “Merle, car’s ready.”

Merle came from the side of the car, opening the door to the passenger’s side and getting in with a smirk. He handed Daryl a bag of half eaten beef jerky which Daryl accepted gratefully.

You remained seated on the central armrest as Daryl got into seat, watching him grab a piece of jerky and ripping it in half, only to offer it to you. You looked down at him and smiled, taking the piece from him before slithering into the back.

Daryl moved his crossbow into the back with you before quickly getting the car going, the three of you setting off down the highway. You moved yourself to sit across the backseats with your back leaned against the door, pulling your knees up to your chest before reaching for your bag. You placed the piece of jerky into your mouth, holding it between your teeth as you grabbed your sketchbook and a pencil.

While the two brothers talked amongst themselves, though it was really just Merle talking to Daryl, you decided to just draw and see where the pencil took you.

You chewed on the piece of jerky, savouring the salty taste of it while aimlessly sketching lines onto the paper. After a moment you focused on your drawing, cold eyes stared back at you. Ruffled short hair and an all too familiar irritated expression made your breath hitch, you just drew Daryl.

You looked to the side at the rearview mirror, noticing his eyes meet yours before they moved back to the road. You shoved the rest of the jerky into your mouth as you looked back down at the drawing, closing the sketchbook and tossing it back into your bag along with the pencil. It was quite odd how the first thing you decided to draw after months of artblock was a man you met no longer than three days ago. You didn't dwell on it though, after all he was attractive man. And you enjoyed drawing attractive things.

You shook your head and let your legs straighten out. The car was silent, Merle was chewing on the jerky and Daryl kept his eyes on the road driving with one hand. Daryl’s other hand was by his face, nibbling on the side of his thumb as he drove. Your eyelids started to feel heavy, and the drowsiness was catching up to you.

“Go ahead and get some sleep,” Daryl’s voice brought you back to your senses. Your eyes met his again in the rearview mirror, and he nodded to you. “’s gon’ be a while, get some rest.”

Merle snorted, and you watched him throw a glance with Daryl. The younger rolled his eyes and shook his head at the older Dixon. Just the usual siblings teasing each other, you and Glenn used to do that.

You sunk down into the seats. Thinking of your older brother made you feel hopeless, the thought of Glenn being blown up by the military made you feel miserable. But it also made you mad. The fact the military would kill off that many people to stop this disease was bizarre to you, but all you could do was hope Glenn made it out. You hoped he did.

You decided to listen to Daryl and curl up on the back seats, taking off your glasses and closing your eyes as you let the sleep take over your body.

That was probably the best sleep you’ve had since the shit hit the fan, even if you were sleeping in an uncomfortable position. You were still asleep, but you were aware of your surroundings. You could feel the car drive slowly over gravel, the sunset rays warming up your cheeks. Someone was humming, and judging by the way the voice sounded you assumed it was Daryl. It was really quiet, the humming.

You let your senses settle on the humming. You couldn't tell what song he was humming but it soothed the pit in your stomach.

“(Y/N),” a gruff voice called out gently. You stirred a little before a rough hand tapped your thigh, you instinctively sat up. Merle laughed and watched you rub your eyes.

“Wakey wakey,” he taunted. “We made it.”

You looked outside the window, noticing the tall trees around you as the car pulled up to a small clearing. A man stood atop an RV and a much younger man came walking up to the car suspiciously. You moved yourself onto the central armrest to look closer at the area, a little boy looked at you guys curiously before being hugged from behind by a woman with long brown hair — which you could only assume was his mother. Another woman with shorter hair sat near them, a little girl next to her. This was a camp.

The suspicious man came up to Daryl's side of the car, waiting for the window to roll down. Daryl sighed but obliged, the window rolling down. The man looked into the car, eyeing the three of you.

“What do you three want?” He asked with such authority that you just knew he was in charge here.

Daryl rubbed his chin before replying, “came from Atlanta. Shit’s bombed an’ figured there’d be some people aroun’.” The man nodded at Daryl’s response, placing his hands on his hips.

“Mind if I take a look inside?” Daryl snorted, narrowing his eyes.

“Wha’ are ya, a cop?” Daryl joked and Merle snickered. The man stood unimpressed outside the car, now crossing his arms.

“Sheriff, actually.” He paced to the side of the car, “may I?”

Daryl swallowed and nodded, unlocking the car. The man opened the door and you slid back into the seats, he looked at you and smiled slightly. You watched as the man investigated the interior of the car, looking at the Daryl’s crossbow and Merle’ gun at your feet. He glanced at your hand to which your gaze followed. Your finger was still bandaged from when you cut it back at your apartment. He raised a brow at you.

“Cut it on a box cutter,” you mumbled and held your breath in fear that you’d be turned away, but he nodded and stepped back.

“Any of you bit?” He gestured for all of you to come out. You didn't step out of the car until Daryl did, standing next to him as the man walked around you three. You all responded “no” to his question and he nodded again. “Okay, well then welcome to the Atlanta survivor camp. I’m Shane,” Shane introduced himself and held out his hand to Daryl who shook it reluctantly. You shook his next, then Merle.

You stood by idly with your hands clasped in front of you as other survivors started to emerge from the trees, some getting out of their tents. There were quite a lot of children here and the slight hope that Glenn was here hung heavy in your heart. New faces came out, two blonde women emerged with fresh catches of fish, another man poked his head out from the RV. You watched the little boy speak to his mother, clinging to her arm.

“We have an extra tent if y’all need it, you can set it up where ever you want.” Shane said as he led you three towards the RV. “Old man on the top here is Dale, our lookout. And this here is Jim who is kind of our mechanic.” Shane introduced the two men by the RV. You glanced at Daryl who averted his gaze from you, taking the tent from Shane before gesturing to Merle.

“I’ma go an’ set this up wit’ Merle,” Daryl mumbled to you. “Ya can go mingle with the others or somethin’.” You tried to protest and ask to go with them but they both stalked off before you could say anything. You looked around at the camp anxiously, people weren't really your thing.

Your eyes darted around nervously, eventually setting down on the ground. Your fingers fumbled together and eventually, the little boy came into your line of vision.

“My mom wants to talk to you,” he said and tugged on your sleeve. You raised a brow and looked up, the brown haired woman smiling and waving you over. The little boy then dragged you over, and you followed reluctantly.

“Hey, nice to meet you,” the brown haired woman said, patting the empty space on the log next to her. You sat down and smiled politely, keeping your hands on your lap. “My name's Lori, that's my son Carl.” The little boy who you now know as Carl just waved at you before joining the little girl by a makeshift table.

“(Y/N),” you replied, letting out a gentle breath as you settled. The woman with shorter hair sat across from you, letting out a small chuckle.

“Don't be so nervous, we don't bite.” The woman smiled comfortingly, “I’m Carol, the girl with Carl is Sophia, my daughter.” You looked towards the two kids who were doing what you guessed was math, nodding at Carol.

“I’m guessing you don't have kids yourself? You look pretty young,” Lori murmured as she reached over to help Carol fold some clothes.

You shook your head in response to her question, smiling slightly. “No, no kids. Just finished college actually…” You looked back down at your lap and thought how different life was gonna be from now on.

You saw Lori nod in your peripheral while she silently folded the clothing. You let out a breath and looked around at the others doing their little tasks. It seemed so normal, you hadn't seen a walker in a good few hours so it felt as if you were camping. Would it be like this forever?

“Is this everyone…?” You asked in hopes that maybe there were more people — as in Glenn. Lori smiled, shaking her head.

“Well no, a lot of us were stranded after the Atlanta incident. So Shane, thank god for him, rounded up all the survivors and we found this area. Walkers don't typically come up these mountains,” Lori explained but you were still confused where the others she mentioned were.

“And the others?” You raised your head at the sound of a truck pulling up, and Dale called out from the top of the RV:

“Supply runners are back!”

“Right there,” Lori smiled and stood up, wiping sweat off her brow. You looked towards the truck, seeing people start to come out.

Daryl and Merle returned, and you watched Daryl squint in curiosity, his hands placed on his hips. Shane chuckled and walked over to the supply runners, pointing to you and the Dixons, presumably explaining your presence.

A head perked up from behind the trunk, your brows knitted together as you somehow recognized that baseball cap. It looked like one worn by the person you so wished to meet again, that familiar face finally coming into view.

“(Y/N)?”

Your heart jumped at the sound of his voice, your feet moving involuntarily. You watched Glenn gulp, moving away from the truck and towards you. Your eyes immediately teared up as your speed increased, completely running towards your older brother. He smiled, his own eyes shining with tears as he engulfed you into his arms. You tucked your face into his shoulder, tears of relief wetting his shirt.

The rest of the camp watched the sweet reunion happily, and you could hear a few people clap distantly. You weren’t paying attention. All you thought of was the fact Glenn was here, alive, and you found him.

Glenn was the first to pull back, he wiped his eyes before cupping your face in his hands and checking over you frantically.

“You're okay? No bites? No problems?” He mumbled, practically to himself as you laughed softly and grabbed his hands.

“I'm fine, no bites or problems.” You looked up at him beaming, “I thought I lost you.”

Glenn smiled slightly, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought I lost you too, god after the whole Atlanta incident I couldn't stop thinking about where you'd go.”

You both sighed simultaneously, mostly in relief before hugging each other again. You both turned when you heard Shane clear his throat, the former sheriff grinning expectantly. Your eyes met Daryl’s and he squinted again, wiping the side of his nose as he eyed you and Glenn.

“Right. (Y/N), let me introduce you to everyone.” Glenn took your hand and led you to the center of the clearing, he looked down at you and ruffled your hair.

With Glenn by your side, you felt a glimmer of hope for the first time in days. He was the one who always encouraged you when you struggled in art school, he was your biggest supporter. Now, with his presence, you can continue on in this hell.

[forksianbeaute]

Bleed Me Dry | C. Cullen | 01

𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐.

Warnings: This chapter contains content that is intended to be consumed by those who are at least eighteen years old, such as strong language, discussions/thoughts about death, descriptions of an incurable disease that will ultimately lead to death, medical inaccuracies, an inappropriate relationship, an age gap and other mature content. Minors do not interact. Please take care of yourself before reading.

Previous Chapter | Series Masterlist

It’s cold in here.

And not just any kind of cold either, but the kind that has got shivers running down the length of your spine in what seems to be a never-ending stream, and that makes you pull the sleeves of your white doctor’s coat down to shield your hands from the chilled air that is surrounding you without you even noticing it yourself — brain working in hopes of the action bringing some warmth to those poor limbs of yours that have been cold to the touch for the better part of the day.

It’s not like you haven’t been to a hospital before, because you have — and hundreds of times too, for what it’s worth —, but judging from the past few days you’ve spent running around the premises of Forks Hospital, you figure that they must keep this hospital just a tad bit colder than the ones you have worked at before. You wonder if it’s because the people here are used to the cold — used to the endless rain and gloom that greet them every single time they step outside.

The cold is something you most certainly will never get used to. You’re sure of it.

The heels of your shoes clank against the concrete flooring in a rather loud manner as you make your way through one crowded corridor after another. Dodging people to the best of your ability as you go — trying your absolute hardest to keep from accidentally nudging them with your elbows when pushing past them.

Realizing that you’re not really getting anywhere, you knit your eyebrows together and pick up your pace.

You’re on a mission. A mission that was supposed to be a quick and easy thing, but that turned out to be much more difficult than what you originally thought it’d be, though, you’re pretty sure that that has got something to do with the fact that there really is a pair of nice, black heels adorning your feet instead of a pair of those comfy-looking sneakers that most of this hospital’s staff seem to opt for each day when choosing what shoes to wear to work.

But seriously, first tracing down Dr. Cullen, and now trying to catch up with him — damn if it isn’t nearly impossible in those shoes.

Even though you have not gotten the chance to work with him yet — or, to have any other kind of a conversation with him either, for that matter —, you have seen him around enough times to recognize the back of that head full of blonde hair you’ve been chasing for a good ten minutes now to be his.

Finally close enough to know that he is able to hear you, you call after him, “Dr. Cullen!”

He already knows you’re there — of course he does. And not just because the loud clanking of your shoes is practically impossible for one to miss, but because the scent of you is too strong, too overpowering for it to get mixed up with the scents of others — too intoxicating for him to not pick up on it even in a space like this; a space that is brimming with humans, each of them which is constructed of nothing but flesh, blood and bone.

He stops and turns around, a kind smile climbing to adorn his lips the second he lays those golden brown eyes of his on you.

You’re beautiful — there’s no denying that. Speed walking over to where he is standing like that, a patient file tucked tight beneat your arm. Dark, high-waisted dress pants and a pale blue turtleneck hugging your figure just right, a white doctor’s coat with your last name embroidered to its breast pocket resting on top of your shoulders, tying the whole look together — making you look like you belong, like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“I don’t think that we have properly met yet,” you start, sounding like you’re a little out of breath; all the speed walking you did just to be able to catch up with him is clearly taking its toll on your lungs too, not just on your feet. Stretching an arm out and offering it for him to shake, you proceed to introduce yourself to him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, not catching a hold of your hand like most people would. You don’t think much of it — many doctors aren’t really ones to shake hands with others upon meeting them for the first time, anyway.

“You as well,” you tell him, really meaning it.

Having overheard a few surgeons speak very highly of Dr. Cullen in the cafeteria a couple of days ago during your lunchbreak, you know now that the doctor who is standing right in front of you is one Hell of a good one, and really — to you, there is no other honor quite like getting to meet a world-class doctor, no matter how many of them you have already had the pleasure of meeting.

He hums in an answer.

Now, finally getting to look at him from this close, you’re beginning to understand what all the nurses have been gushing about; Dr. Carlisle Cullen really is one, insanely beautiful creature. Perhaps the most beautiful creature you’ve ever laid your eyes on, even.

Thick, blonde hair of which not a singular strand has fallen out of place. Pale skin that is seemingly free of all imperfections — a smooth canvas, that you don’t know just yet, but is untouched by the beams of sunlight. Sharp features that look like they have been carefully carved out of clay, by someone whose touch is nothing less but ever so perfect and precise.

And for reasons completely understandable, for a little while you just stand there, not saying a thing, only staring at him like a fool. Lost somewhere deep in the gold dust of his eyes and the pale of his skin because God, how could you not be?

“Was there something I could help you with?”

Those words of his, that are laced with nothing but kindness and patience, pull you from your thoughts. “Yes. I, uh—,” you stutter, giving your head a slight shake in an attempt to gather yourself before continuing, “I need your opinion on something.”

“Alright,” he says, pulling his hands out of the pockets of his white doctor’s coat. “What have you got?”

Catching a hold of the patient file that has been sitting in the snug embrace of your underarm for a while now and handing it over to Dr. Cullen, you begin explaining, “It’s this girl, Jamie. She’s nineteen years old, and came here for the first time a couple of months ago after experiencing immense pain in both of her legs after swimming practice. She was discharged then, after they found nothing to be wrong with her.”

“Mhm,” Dr. Cullen hummus in aknowledgement, golden brown eyes rummaging through the pages he is being presented with.

“She tells me that she still experiences this pain every now and then, and that she’s got this odd twitch in her left thigh that just won’t go away,” you tell him, watching the way there are now a few little lines appearing in between his eyebrows, making it evident that he is really concentrating on what you’re telling him. “Odd, right? I mean — she’s so young… Anyway, I ordered an EMG for her and the results just… I just… I was hoping to get your opinion on them.”

EMG, formally known as electromyography, is a test that is used to evaluate the electrical activity that is produced by the patient’s skeletal muscles. This particular test is often conducted in situations where the patient is showing symptoms that may indicate, for example, ALS — an incurable disease, in which the patient’s voluntary muscles will, in time, atrophy, ultimately resulting in death.

Dr. Cullen stays silent for a while, clearly deep in thought.

ALS is a rare disease, especially among those who are under sixty years of age. And this poor little girl — Jamie, as you said her name was —, is only nineteen years old. She still has got a whole lot of life yet to live, a whole lot of things to learn.

This is something that doesn’t happen all that often — you wishing that you weren’t right. You wishing that whatever it was that you thought you saw in those damned test results, would turn out to be anything, but what you think it is — what you know it is.

It’s when you swallow, hard and awfully loud, that Dr. Cullen finally tears his eyes away from the stack of papers he is still holding onto. His serious gaze soon meeting your nervous one — one, that worry is so very evidently veiling.

“Hm…?”

“You needed my opinion on these results?” he asks, eyebrows raising in question just ever so slightly. You are a smart woman. He knows you are — he can tell. Which is precisely why he also knows that you are able to see the exact same thing on these results that he is, and very evidently so too.

Letting your teeth sink into the soft flesh of your lower lip, you think about it for a while — think about what it is, that you want to say.

Figuring that there is no way around the truth, you end up telling him, “I guess I was hoping that you’d tell me I’m crazy — that you aren’t seeing what I’m seeing, and that there’s no need for me to page neuro.”

There is the smallest, yet still the most apologetic smile you’ve ever seen tugging the corners of Dr. Cullen’s mouth upwards. He has been there, too, more times than he cares to count. And he knows that it never gets easier — not for people like you; for people that have spent years studying medicine because they truly, wholeheartedly want nothing more than to help others.

“You know I can’t do that,” he then says, stretching his arm out and handing the patient file back to you.

“Yeah. I guess I do,” you sigh, the audible exhale unbeknownst to you carrying the scent of the fresh blood that is now leaking from your bottom lip on its back.

All the little muscles that adorn the length of Dr. Cullen’s neck tense visibly as the scent of your blood floods his nostrils — driving him absolutely mad in a matter of only a couple of seconds with the way the iron-like tang there is to your blood seems to be stronger, more intoxicating to him than anyone else’s.

He swallows, hard.

Dr. Cullen isn’t one to lose his self control. He hasn’t ever, nor will he ever. But goddamn if he ever was to, the reason behind it would need to be someone whose blood smells at least as good as yours does, because God, he hasn’t smelled anything like you throughout the almost four hundred years he has spent roaming the Earth.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You shake your head. “Don’t be. I mean — things like this happen, right?”

Dr. Cullen nods. “And they’ll keep happening.”

For someone so insanely good-looking, there is a lot of sympathy in Dr. Cullen’s eyes. You wonder if it’s because under all that beauty, there’s a heart full of gold that has been through more than it ever should have — which, for a doctor, is kinda rare —, or because he wants you to know that even though you are new here, there are people that are here for you.

“It’s just… God, she’s so young,” you speak your mind out loud, perhaps more to yourself than to him. “It’s so unfair.”

“I know.”

It’s actually quite a nice moment that the two of you share right here, in the middle of one of the many crowded corridors of Forks Hospital. It’s a moment of mutual understanding, of things of all sorts — understanding of each other, even.

Offering Dr. Cullen a kind smile in hopes of portraying yourself as someone who is a little less affected by these kinds of things than what you are, you proceed to excuse yourself, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Cullen. I’m sorry I’ve kept you from your patients.”

“No need for apologies,” he promises. “It was nice meeting you. I’ll see you around.”

You nod. “See you.”

It’s when you turn around on your heels and start walking away from him, those pretty heels of yours clanking against the concrete flooring just as loud as they did when you were chasing him down not too long ago, that Dr. Cullen brings his hand up and runs it along his features, wondering what on Earth should he do with you — how on Earth will he be able to work alongside you until the end of your residency, when you smell and look like that.

Next Chapter

Authors note: Thank you for reading! :)

I have not yet decided on whether or not Esme will make an appearance in this series, so please help your girl out! Is Esme around at all? And if so, is Carlisle married to her? Or was he married to her? What do you think...? 👀

Taglist: @hungrhay @itsmytimetoodream @glimmering-darling-dolly @stardust-and-snickerdoodles

[dispatchvampire]

Accidentally In Love (Chapter 1)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x FemaleOC

Warnings: Potentially lethal levels of fluffiness right now, potential for smut later. A little blood, canon levels of violence potentially. Plus size female OC, body descriptions.

Rating: PG-13 (right now for language, but look for this to change)

WC: 2200-ish.

Summary: 

Echo's living a normal life in NYC, a 911 dispatcher, the most excitement she gets is from the calls she takes. And then love comes crashing in one day when she's riding her bike through Central Park.

Steve and Bucky weren't looking for anything on their daily run around the park besides fresh air and exercise. The streak of purple eye candy on a bike that lapped them pretty regularly was a nice addition but not mandatory, at least until some impromptu roughhousing results in some civilian casualties in the form of the most beautiful woman either of them had seen in a long, long time.

A/N: AU, Post CACW, Bucky’s Chill and we have always lived in the Tower. Just call this a throwback to the found family, everyone lives in Stark Tower fics.

This is supposed to be a super-fluffy love story. Still undecided if I'm gonna keep this one going but posting now for giggles and grins. It's got some CSI:NY characters crossing over because why not.

I'm just messing about and playing in my WIPs folder. Not Beta'd: we die like men! (honestly, I tried but if you catch something I missed, let me know)

Chapter 1

Five miles at a time. Everything in the early morning hours was measured five miles at a time for Echo Nerys and her trusty mountain bike. From 6:30 to 8AM give or take, she was a glittery purple streak on a circuit through Central Park from end to end that she’d measured precisely both for distance and scenic value. The moment she left her job at NYPD Central Dispatch at 6AM, she was changed and on the bike, ready to go. She even had an appropriately timed playlist on Spotify. 

She’d started as early in the spring as the weather allowed for, in her long compression pants and jacket, getting her face chapped as she and her body remembered what it felt like to be on two wheels and free. A figure in all black in the early hours of the morning fast enough to pedal past the majority of the criminal element and yet still taking hits off her asthma bong when she paused to get drinks from her backpack. 

Now, though, with the summer slowly stretching out down the coast, she’d tied up her puff pigtails and ditched her all black for the wildly purple tie-dyed bike shorts, sports bra, and tank top, all matching, because why not and her favorite pair of sunglasses that made her look like a trained killer. Even her earbuds were purple. There were some who said she didn’t really have the body for the tightly clinging gear, but fuck those people, she was going to be comfortable and safe while she worked out and they didn’t have to look if it offended them. Her body, not-toned stomach, thick thighs and semi-floppy arms, was her own and had been through many of its own wars, and she could wear what made her happy. 

She’d picked up riding the previous summer and had taken it inside for the duration of the winter, riding in the basement gym of 1PP, but she didn’t have a whole lot to show for it physically other than shaplier calves and slightly thinner thighs. She wasn’t in it for the way she looked, but how good it felt to finally move after being sick and stuck with her joint pain for so long. Now that her meds were mostly managed, she was hell on two wheels, six days a week if she could manage, five if she wanted to go easy on it, and it felt amazing.  

On her pace, she saw herself coming up on a group of joggers just cresting the hill, the tallest among them, a hottie from the Homicide Squad, Donnie Flack. All black-haired, blue-eyed Irish, he was every dispatcher’s crush and untouchable as a museum piece because of his wife in the Coroner’s Office. No one wanted to test a forensic scientist’s ability to exact revenge. It was just poor planning. And he was such a sweetheart, it was impossible not to be his friend. 

“On ya left!” she hollered out as she approached the group, powering up the hill despite the way her knees screamed and her thighs burned. It was the principle of the thing, really, as she stood on her pedals and waved as she sailed past them with a jaunty grin. Now that she’d caught up to them, she saw it was a couple other guys from Homicide and one of the guys from down in Trace Evidence. 

“Lookin’ good, E!” Danny Messer, Flack’s whip-thin, mouthy bestie from Crime Scene Investigations, hollered back with a huge grin and a wave as Donnie stuck his fingers in his mouth and wolf-whistled. Messer was good people, and his wife was a doll. Echo lived in their building a couple floors down and had babysat their kids more than a couple times. 

Once she was out of sight, she concentrated on her speed according to the handlebar speedometer and focused on her Beastie Boys as she took the path around the edge of the Jackie O Reservoir. It was so beautiful, with duck families out in force, moms with their collections of babies trailing behind. The water made the air feel a bit cooler as the wind rushed over her skin as she progressed toward the Butterfly Garden. 

Next up on her list of gorgeous sights was the two guys in front of her that she’d dubbed Hotness 1 and Hotness 2. She passed them a few times on her rides, most mornings. Hotness 1 was tall like Donnie, but broader, with muscles upon muscles. He looked like an escapee from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, if Galatea had been 6’3” and blonde with cornflower blue eyes and an ass that would have reduced Michaelangelo to abject weeping. 

Hotness 2 wasn’t any easier on the libido, with his blue-grey peepers and long dark hair he kept in a bun at his neck to go with his panty-melting smile and muscles. His bangs broke free of their confinement framing his face as they drifted over his model-perfect cheekbones and brushed against his sharp jawline. Not that she’d been ogling. Much. 

Alone, they were the kind of flawless that caused traffic jams. Both of them together was an obscenity charge waiting to happen in their running shorts and sinfully well-fitting t-shirts, and more than one jogger—both male and female—had pulled up lame, run into a tree, or tripped over their own feet watching them go by.  

“On ya left!” she called as she approached them, smiling as they waved when she flew by. If she happened to be standing on the pedals and sticking her ass out a bit more than was strictly necessary, well, could anyone blame her? Really? Besides, their smiles and waves of acknowledgement were totally worth it.  

Just past The Loch was the Glen Span Arch, which always felt like a fairy garden to Echo. A stone bridge over the asphalt path with the stream running next to it and abundant trees, it was easy to imagine falling into a rabbit hole like Alice diving into Wonderland and never coming back. With the sun dappling through the leaves, it was here she felt like she was the only person in the world and life was perfect. 

At least it was, until a grizzly bear in a blue shirt and black shorts descended into her path from down the hill. Echo hit the brakes so hard the back tire came up off the path and ditched out on the bike to keep from hitting him. She went one way and flung the bike the other, doing her best to guard her face and head from what would likely be a hard hit.

“Fuckshit!” 

It was over in a second, she was in the creek, soaked to the bone on some very hard and unforgiving rocks that were currently poking into her ribs and hip, with no idea where her bike was. Or her sunglasses. Or phone. Taking inventory from toes upward, she was happy to report that for the most part, she’d likely sustained bruises but otherwise, she’d live. At least, until she tried to push herself up and her hand slipped on the wet rocks, sending her face first into the flowing water. 

“Ah Christ! Hold on!” a deep, unfamiliar male voice hissed as he hooked his hands under her arms and bodily lifted her from the stream. Literally picked her up like a discarded toy, and like she weighed just as little, cradling her to his surprisingly firm and muscular chest. “I got you, sweetheart.” If she wasn’t so busy reeling from the hit and sputtering from the water coming out of her sinuses, his warm, rumbling voice as he brushed his lips over her temple would have definitely done the job. “I gotchu, darlin’. Are you okay?”

“I think so?” Echo took a second to compose herself after he set her on her feet with his arm protectively around her waist, scrubbing a hand down her face to deal with the water and unfortunately blood coming from sore spots on the bridge of her nose and her chin. When she looked up from her bloody hand, she wondered exactly how hard she’d been hit in the head, because in front of her was the concerned face of the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, looking her over like she was the most delicate bone china and he’d just yeeted it off the dining room table. He cupped her jaw in his hand, thumb gently brushing over her cheekbone, it was familiar and more than a little terrifying. Who the hell was this guy and why the hell was he touching her? 

At her tiny, horrified squeak, his blue eyes widened, looking over his shoulder at his friend, Hotness 2, who had a cell phone pressed to his ear. ��This is your fault, ya jerk. You plannin’ on helpin’ or what?” 

The grey-eyed Adonis with the long dark hair held up a strangely metal-looking finger and spoke tersely into the phone before hanging up and coming over to them with a disgruntled look on his face for his friend. “Medics inbound. Settle down, Stevie.” The moment those steel-blue eyes turned on her, though, it could have been the sole cause of global warming because damn, if she didn’t melt a little on the spot from their tenderness. “I am so sorry, dollface. I didn’t see you. Are you okay?” 

When he reached for her face to examine her bloody chin, she recoiled out of reflex, not fear, but unfortunately that was the moment that everything went to shit for the second time in ten minutes. 

“NYPD! Step away from her!” Flack had his gun out and his badge around his neck, with Danny doing the same as he cautiously approached her with the rest of the heavily armed, sweaty contingent. Apparently Tall, Dark, and Yummy wasn’t moving fast enough because then Donnie barked, “Now, asshole! Move away from her or I’ll shoot.” 

Both hands up and out to the side, 2 stepped back, eyes never leaving the gun trained on him. “You don’t wanna do this, pal.” He seemed amusingly calm, which made about as much sense to her as any of the rest of this, which was none at all. Blondie slowly straightened up further but kept an arm around her waist to hold her up.

The very fact that the man spoke seemed to incense her friend further. “You think I give a fuck about your opinion?” 

“Hey, that’s not necessary…” The man standing with her gave her a reassuring squeeze before stepping over to stand with his friend. 

With them occupied, Danny crept up next to her and moved her off to the side, surrounded by the rest of the guys from Homicide and Evidence. “She’s secure, Flack.” 

“Good.” The detective nodded before turning his attention back to his quarry. “Now what the fuck were you doing feeling up an injured woman? You get off on that?”

Hotness 1 was all calmly defiant righteousness, standing shoulder to shoulder with his buddy. “We called a medic for her, they should be here in a couple minutes. We weren’t looking and didn’t see her on the path until it was too late.” 

“This true, Echo?” Danny asked softly as he gently seated her on a nearby boulder and seemed to be checking her over for more injuries than just her face and her pride.

She went to nod but that rattled her head too much. “Yeah, Messer. I guess. It was just a regular crash. My fault as much as theirs, really. No real harm done.” 

Frowning ferociously, Flack clearly was not content with her answer. “IDs, I want ‘em. Now.” 

Blondie nodded slowly, alarmingly unperturbed about having a .40 caliber pistol pointed at his face. “Front right pocket. You wanna get it or should I?”

“Don’t get us shot, Stevie,” the longhaired man admonished his friend. From his long-suffering expression, this was apparently not the first time this type of thing had happened to either of them. 

Rolling his eyes, Flack held out his hand. “Alright, smartass, wallets now.”

While the Homicide Hottie (as they called him in Dispatch) held court with her two new acquaintances, the ambulance rolled up and the medics  began cleaning her wounds and checking her over as her worried neighbor stood guard over her. The last thing she wanted or needed was stitches and additional facial scars, but it looked like she might not get a choice in the matter. 

“Messer! Get over here!” The note of concern in the detective’s voice had her looking over immediately, only to find all the guns put away and all their postures seemed substantially less aggressive, though no less agitated. 

“Ma’am, could you hold still please?” The female medic with the gentle hands turned her face so she could clean the wounds better. 

She didn’t know if it was the movement or what, but all of a sudden, she was going down, hard. The last thing she remembered was the ground rushing up to meet her. Again.

[tellerluna-stories]

episode 06: the puppy-boy bites back!

CONTENTS: 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. m.list!

TW/CW: mentions of violence. manipulative and entitled behaviour but from neither of the main characters.

A/N: I have returned, with eyebags aplenty and an extra chapter for the readers who didn't give up on this fic for some reason. thank u for waiting :((

“What’s on your mind?”

Thoma mirrored your pose, resting his head on top of his desk and gazing at you with a sympathetic look in his eyes; as usual, his hair flopped to the side like a pair of puppy-dog ears, giving him the appearance of a lounging golden retriever.

“Nothing much.” A smile made its way to your face in spite of yourself— the effect of a puppy-boy, no less. “Just wondering why everyone has been looking at me funny. It’s been quite a while now.”

Perhaps it was because of the bandages that still adorned your arms, or the new rumours that now surrounded you wherever you went, but you now had the reputation of a cold-hearted delinquent who ruthlessly picked fights with anyone who dared challenge you. Some whispered that you had done so to valiantly protect the honour of Thoma, but all good intentions were easily washed away in the sea of misinformation that was a school campus.

Well, you had to admit it was better to be feared than to be ridiculed, because at least people gave you a wide berth in the hallways. Now you never had to worry about getting squished to death during the rush for freshly-baked bread in the cafeteria.

“They’re jealous of you, that’s what.” He whispered back, giving you a goofy smile. “Not everyone gets to sport the cool bandage look like you do.”

“I look like I have eighth-grader syndrome.”

“Well I think it’s cool.” Thoma declared with an air of finality as he reached for your hands. “And I also think they're looking a little loose, so let me check them for you.”

You reluctantly allowed him to take your hands in his, ignoring the chills that surged down your arms as his fingers ghosted over your bandages. They were already healing nicely, so why did he insist on checking them every day?

“Just as I suspected.” Your (very clueless) puppy-nurse clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval. “I did tell you not to flail around too much— if you keep doing that they’re going to come off and leave the wounds exposed.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? I hold a pencil and the whole thing falls off.”

“Then just hold still and let me fix it for you. I’ll keep fixing these no matter how many times it takes.” 

Your traitorous heart jumped into your throat and nearly caused you to choke on your spit; it would be wise if someone told Thoma to not spew out such embarrassing lines out of the blue, because even the stoniest of hearts would quiver at such cheesy words. 

(But in reality, you knew that it only had this effect on you because of the person who was saying it. Stupid puppy-boy.)

“Is Thoma here?”

Said an unfamiliar voice, causing everyone’s heads to snap to its source; a stranger hovered in the doorway, obstructing the path of practically everyone who might’ve wanted to enter the classroom. She was a fairly pretty girl, with shiny, well-kept hair and sparkling eyes— if you had actually remembered to pay attention to other people, you might’ve identified her as one of the more popular students in one of the other classes.

Her shining eyes fixated on the puppy-boy beside you, who was fiddling with your bandages with an adorable frown on his face; in turn, everyone’s gazes followed suit to stare at Thoma. The weight of their gazes made you squirm.

“Psst.” You nudged him with your foot. “Someone’s looking for you.”

“I’m almost done, wait…” He only scrunched up his face even further, practically burying his face into the palms of your hands as he tucked a loose end away. You almost died right then and there.

“Thoma, I don’t think she can wait.”

Meanwhile the girl had invited herself in, slipping between the rows of desks with a natural grace; silently she made her way to where you and Thoma sat… and then she proceeded to stand there, radiating the most intimidating aura that you’d ever seen a person emit.

“Thoma.” You hissed, nudging him even harder this time. “Hurry up.”

Something sharp and intense practically bored itself into the back of your head, and you looked up to see a pair of slightly puffy eyes looking down on you; somehow, it felt like she was looking down on you in more ways than one. 

The girl rapped lightly on the top of Thoma’s desk, finally catching his attention. He looked up just in time for her to ask, “Could I speak to you after school?” 

You nearly kicked Thoma from the sheer straightforwardness of her question.

Was this the famed after-school confession that you’d only heard about? Back when you had been counseling regularly, this method of confessing was one of the most preferred by your clients due to its convenience. There was less chance of getting interrupted by class activities or watchful teachers, and behind the football field was a popular place to confess to the one you admired. 

(Hey, even if you hadn’t directly advised confessions, it was hard not to hear about all the romance-gossip that people liked to spew.)

“I- well…” Thoma’s eyes flickered briefly to meet yours, a faint shadow passing over his face.

“You don’t have to, but if you can…” The pretty girl’s voice faltered, and her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her uniform. “Please- please meet me behind the football field.”

Yep, it definitely was an after-school confession.

And on that note she left, leaving the classroom erupting in cheers as your classmates all congratulated Thoma. 

But somehow you couldn’t shake the uneasiness that hung over you like a dark cloud, weighing over your shoulders like an anchor wrapped in chains. The unpleasant look she had given you was one thing you could easily brush aside, but as for Thoma…

He fidgeted uneasily in his seat, awkwardly smiling as he received congratulations all around. Surely it wasn’t the first time he had received such a request, so why did he look so… uncomfortable? Everyone seemed approving of the situation, and even you had to admit that he looked good together with that girl.

One of your seatmates shoved Thoma by the shoulder playfully, muffled cheers of both awe and jealousy echoing in your ears like a distant dream— it was then that the realisation hit you like a bolt from the blue.

It was as if everyone expected him to automatically accept the confession of a pretty girl simply because he was 'Everyone's Thoma', a pretty face who was destined for a stellar life. A perfect girl who was perfectly suited for a perfect boy, a perfect couple who were both absolutely ideal in every way possible.

(Ah, why did those words taste so bitter in your mouth?) 

Anyway, it didn't matter whether Thoma wanted this path or not, because as long as he had the title worthy of a protagonist, everyone would be watching him… and just waiting to pounce on him once they deemed he had fallen from their good graces. He would be judged if he turned down a blessing such as this, and he would be judged if he accepted it.

“Thoma…” Subconsciously you reached out for his sleeve, but something stopped your fingers before they could— at this point, you weren’t even sure if you had the right to ask him if he was alright. 

You weren’t someone who was blind to the hierarchy of this world; in terms of social standing, you were currently at the very bottom of the food chain. Perhaps a highschool match-maker would have had better chances of being viewed as an acceptable side character to Thoma’s role as protagonist, but a delinquent, on the other hand… who were you, to drag him down with you? 

“Did you say something?” His gaze flicked to you; the way those angelic eyes lit up made you squirm with guilt. Maybe those people were right, after all. 

“Nah, it wasn’t anything important.” Your fingers curled into a tight fist, digging into your palms and leaving crescent-moon marks of shame— greedy Icarus, to reach for the heavens. You of all people did not deserve to stand with the sun, no matter how much hope kindled in your heart for such a dream. “Are you going to go see her?”

A smile worked its way up Thoma’s face, but this one was different; it was not his usual honey-sweet smile, forged from gold and sunshine eternal. This smile was of bitter resignation, the realisation that he never would truly be free from the expectations weighing down on his shoulders. You wanted to wipe that bitter smile from his face in an instant, even if you had to use your very lips to do so.

Sorry, what? said the small, intrusive part of your brain. Didn’t hear that last part clearly.

No, you told yourself firmly. This sick, unpleasant feeling that twisted in your gut like an angry snake was certainly not jealousy, and you were not going to let this or your own personal feelings get to your head and possibly ruin your friendship with Thoma. You were going to be fine and wish him the best with a smile on your face, and whatever outcome he chose, you would support him— that was what Thoma needed right now, and that was all you were going to do.

“Oy, Thoma.” Your voice cracked slightly. “Don’t… don’t let yourself be a piece of bread anymore.”

He gave you a look, and you suddenly realised what you had just said.

Was that seriously the best you could do?! You screamed internally, suppressing the urge to bash your head against the nearest wall— not even something comprehensive, like ‘I support whatever decision you make’ or ‘Follow your heart’?

Emerald-green eyes stared at you unwaveringly for one heart-beat, two heart-beats… and then the bitterness in Thoma’s smile disappeared, melting away like a bad dream as he broke into a real smile. “Again with the bread?”

Heat flooded to your face. “I- Well, in my defense—“

“Don’t worry, I understand what you’re talking about.” For the first time, you noticed the faint dimples on his cheeks as Thoma grinned even wider. “But even if I’m not bread, I’m still a snack, right?”

“…Shut it.”

Your heart throbbed painfully as he laughed, and part of you wondered if you had done the right thing. Reminding him that he had the freedom to choose was one thing, but could you really support him if he chose something that you did not like? Were you selfish enough to turn away if he didn’t choose you? The rolling, unpleasant feeling from earlier returned, simmering in the pit of your stomach as you thought of that pretty girl and her shining, disdainful eyes— oh, how you desperately hoped that you would never have to suffer through the pain of making such a choice. 

It wasn’t her fault she was pretty, nor was it your classmates fault for pairing her up with Thoma… but why did you feel this way?

You swallowed hard, devouring any feelings that might overstep the boundaries of your friendship; it wouldn’t matter if a garden flourished in your lungs from all the times you swallowed your blooming emotions. And he smiled away, oblivious to your inner turmoil.

“Well, I suppose I can’t run away from things forever.” 

He leaned back in his chair and stretched, pushing his notebooks to where you could reach them. “I’ll just be out for a minute, but I’ll be back for you.”

I’ll be back for you…?

Before you knew it, a warm, ticklish sensation landed on the top of your head— Thoma’s eyes softened as he ruffled your hair, his fingers tracing briefly against the curve of your cheek as he pulled away all too soon. You could only stare mutely as he slipped out of the classroom, taking every colour in your world with him.

Time seemed to pass slowly without Thoma by your side.

The perfect-attendance student who never skipped a single class was missing from the classroom, with no hints as to where he had gone. From the reactions of everyone else in your class, they were just as equally in the dark about the matter as you were. 

You told yourself it didn’t matter; it wasn’t like you weren’t used to being alone in the first place. You’d simply return to the same old routine as before.

But deep down you knew that it did matter to you.

Somehow your world had become muted, the colours dull and lifeless wherever you looked; everything was mechanically routine, a dull blur of ordinary life that felt so empty. Open your notebook, write down what the teacher was saying, then open your textbook to highlight the sections that were to be studied for today. Line up your pencils and pens into a straight line next to your eraser, with the ruler placed across the front of the desk like a nameplate. Your free periods were spent just as you had always wanted— in peace and quiet, and alone. 

It was as if Thoma had never existed in your life in the first place; there were no conversations brimming with laughter during free period, no passing of little notes when the teacher’s back was turned. When lunchtime came, no-one came to drag you to the rooftop and feed you home-cooked food with his own chopsticks. Was this really what your life had been like before you met Thoma?

If so, how truly miserable, you thought ruefully. By the time the last bell rang, it had already sunk in how truly alone you were without him, and you loathed yourself for feeling that way. Somewhere along the line, that puppy-boy had wormed his way into your life and now you were left with an aching heart when he wasn’t around. How wonderfully pathetic.

Your grip tightened on the straps of your backpack as you marched out of the classroom, hyper-aware of all the eyes that followed you as you left. They all probably thought you were pathetic, too.

Where was he? 

“Yo, have any of you seen where Thoma went?” One student asked loudly, intimidating everyone in the classroom with his extreme height and bright red eyeliner that was almost certainly against the dress-code. Next to him, a tall girl with dark bobbed hair tutted, smacking the top of his head with a rolled-up sheaf of papers. “Lower your voice, Crimson Idiot.”

“I didn’t ask you, Bird-brain.”

You ignored their squabbling and listened closely to the people around you, fishing for any info on where Thoma might’ve been. Seriously, how hard was it to find one puppy-boy?

“…Probably headed for behind the football field……”

“Isn’t that where people confess?”

“So that girl from earlier…”

Your gaze fixed on Thoma’s backpack, lying where he had left it. Perhaps you were just projecting, but it looked almost as lonely as you felt without him— and thus an idea sprung to mind.

Gritting your teeth, you swung what must have been at least fifty tons of overpriced educational material onto your back and stalked out of the classroom, ignoring the stares of your classmates. Get the backpack to Thoma, you chanted to yourself. Go behind the football field to see what’s really going on. But not because you were jealous or anything like that.

Find Thoma and bring him his backpack.

Go behind the football field and figure out what was happening.

FInd Thoma, because anything— anything would be better than this dull, lifeless world. Anything would be better than holding this ball of nauseating jealousy and insecurity in your stomach. For all you knew, he actually might’ve liked that girl, but- but…

You tightened your grip on his backpack straps, grounding your reality with the feeling of rough fabric against your trembling fingertips. It was time to get a move on.

Filled with a reckless bravery that was most unlike yourself, you had set off on another journey, similar to the journeys you had taken before. But this one was not a quest for delicious fresh-baked goods-- it was a quest to seek out a fair-haired prince who might or might not need rescuing.

Oh, and while lugging what must’ve been the world’s heaviest backpack in tow.

Flinging down the backpack with the last of your strength, you practically collapsed against the nearest wall and heaved for air— oxygen, sweet oxygen, don’t abandon this poor soul just yet.

You’d hauled Thoma’s bag all over the school as you checked all of the places he might’ve been, running upstairs and downstairs in search of one very elusive puppy-boy. Maybe it would’ve been wiser to just go straight to the football field and wait for him there, but there was no guarantee he was even going to be there if you had looked there first. 

(And you had ended up dragging that bag everywhere only to end up at the final destination anyway— that is, behind the football field.)

Even if it was an inanimate object, the offending backpack was not spared from the venomous glare you shot its way; you made a mental note to teach Thoma a couple of things, such as packing light for school, or the magic of digital textbooks. Maybe you’d even teach him the forbidden knowledge of free textbook websites— anything just so that he’d stop hauling around the Library of Alexandria in his backpack.

“-excuse me, but…”

The faint sound of voices brought you out of your self-induced misery, hushed tones coming from right around the corner; one the soft notes of a girl’s voice, and the other a very, very familiar way of barking– speaking. You pressed close to the wall, straining your ears to catch any words that he might be saying.

“You’re the friend of the girl who came to my classroom the other day, right?” Yep, that voice was definitely a puppy-boy’s.

Your curiosity (nosiness) got the better of you, and you dove into a nearby bush in order to camouflage your presence. You couldn’t see much with all the branches in the way, but you could at least make out Thoma standing with his back to you, a slight slouch in his posture and his hands shoved in his pockets.

…Weird.

You frowned slightly; for as long as you had known him, he had always stood with perfectly upright posture wherever he went, even to the point of nagging you about your own horrendous slouch. Now seemed like an odd time to be hypocritical.

“Ah, yes, that’s me…” Slouch or no slouch, the girl still blushed at the sight of Thoma, fanning her face with one hand. “Thank you for meeting me out here today.”

"Is what she said true— that you have feelings for me?"

Your heart caught itself in your throat; even though you absolutely hated to admit it, they looked good together. Two upright main characters in a world of their own, the perfect confession scene set up and the sidekick (yours truly) sitting in the bushes till your legs cramped over to death. And of course she’d have feelings for him, too– even you weren't immune to his charms, something which still made you want to pull your hair out every time you thought of it. 

She blushed even more and hid her face behind her hands, mumbling some response that you couldn't quite catch… but from her body language, the answer was most likely a yes. Of course it would be a yes.

“...I see.” His jaw tensed, and you suddenly noticed why he had been holding his hands in his pockets this whole time— for the entire conversation, Thoma had had his hands balled into fists.

What was going on here?

You clamped a hand over your mouth to suppress an ugly shriek— calm down, calm down, he didn’t seem to be postured to actually throw hands with some random girl. He wasn’t the type to start fights, anyway.

(All the same, you stole a guilty glance at your bandaged hands and mentally begged for forgiveness from his parents. Thoma was far too kind-hearted to actually hit someone, but still… sorry for being a bad influence on your son!)

Blissfully unaware, the girl coyly peeked through her fingers and smiled at him; it was clear that she was waiting for the “right” response to her confession, a perfect fairy-tale ending to this scene if this had been a rom-com film. But on the other hand, you weren’t so sure if Thoma was in the same genre…

His fist released slightly, the sound of a soft exhale barely audible over the background noise. “Frankly speaking, I…”

You waited with bated breath, every nerve tingling as Thoma paused to think over his next words. Your rival– er, the other girl also eagerly awaited his response, her eyes shining with anticipation through her fingers. 

“...I’m not too fond of people who twist the truth for their own convenience.” 

The blood chilled in your veins, freezing to a sudden stand-still from the sudden temperature drop.

At the same time, the smile froze onto the girl’s face. “Pardon?”

“Oh, I think that you and I both know what I’m talking about here. There have been some strange rumours flying around, and, well…” Thoma’s voice was light and easy-going once again, as if the sudden coldness had never existed in the first place. He very well could have been discussing what he had just had for lunch, or his plans for after school.

“...Well, rumours are just rumours, right?” She gave a nervous laugh, the sound of footsteps echoing against the asphalt as she stepped back. The branches rustled conspicuously as you squinted through the foliage– you couldn’t get a good view of the conversation if she kept fidgeting around and away from where you could see her. 

“I certainly agree with that statement,” He replied. “But rumours cause more problems if they’re not taken care of– why, I heard that a fight broke out recently because of a small misunderstanding.”

“Oh, my. That- that sounds awful, really…”

“It really is! What a horrible incident, too.”

Thoma shook his head ruefully, crossing his arms in a less-than-friendly manner; the girl nearly stumbled as she backed away, her smile twisting as her nerves began to show through. “Someone I hold very dear to me got hurt because of this, and the worst thing is that I can’t even find out who spread such dreadful lies.”

Was Thoma still hung up on that? You frowned– you could’ve sworn that you told him to let it be. And he was the one telling you not to be offended by things on his behalf. Hypocrite.

“I don’t take very kindly to such things, especially when it involves the safety of the people I care about.” A beat, before he continued, “You understand what I mean, right?”

“...Yes.”

“Really? I’m so glad to hear that.” A light, airy chuckle fills the air. “In that case… why did you spread those rumours?”

Silence. Fabric rustled as Thoma shifted his weight back to presumably look her in the eye. You did not want to know what sort of face he was making (okay, maybe you did. But just a little bit.)

“Ah- I think… I think you may have misunderstood something here. You may have mistaken me for someone else—”

“Oh, but I happened to hear a different story.” He seethed— no, growled would have been a more fitting description, though by some miracle Thoma still barely managed to keep a semblance of politeness. “The chemistry club, the president of the astronomy club… even the head of the student council and Ms. Minci herself. They all heard someone going around telling people about poor, innocent Thoma being manipulated by some troublemaker who kept hanging around him. Does that sound familiar, by any chance?”

Dread and ill-omen rolled off of Thoma in waves; this… was no puppy-boy, you realised.

(At this point you took a moment to pause and contemplate your life choices, because seeing him all riled up was making your heart skip in weird ways that were probably mildly concerning.)

This was a fully-grown, trained guard dog equipped with the knowledge of hunting and military training, and he was angry; the girl who stood so tall and proud only a few moments before now looked like a mouse cowering before a predator, looking for a way to run. You suddenly came to the bone-chilling realisation of how intimidating of an opponent Thoma actually was, considering the vast amount of connections he had and what sort of information — or favours — he managed to earn with the sheer power of puppy-politeness… all while he was still a student. 

It was enough for you to consider turning tail and fleeing, and you weren’t even the target of his anger— and it didn’t help that you were also pretty sure he was holding back.

(Wait, surely this couldn't be your fault, right? You had told him to let him live for himself, but then again you'd expected something like ‘Hey, please don't do that anymore, thanks’ and not… whatever this was. No amount of heart-racing could justify you being a bad influence, no matter how handsome he looked when absolutely royally pissed off.) 

“Like you said, rumours are just rumours. By themselves they don’t necessarily cause trouble, which really makes me curious…” Thoma’s voice dropped, lowering to a tone which you might’ve mistaken for almost friendly if you hadn’t known him better. “Do you mind telling me what you said to your friend that made her start a fight?”

“I… I didn’t tell her to do anything for me. She was the one who–”

“But I’m sure you knew that she would do that for you if you were really that close with her, right? If you fed her just the right information, she would go ballistic for you just because you’re her friend.” 

Silence once again, and Thoma clicked his tongue ruefully. “She might be a little hot-headed, but she’s certainly a loyal friend. You should treasure the friends you have while you still have them.”

“Thoma, please- please understand… I...” She stammered out. “I was- My friend made a mistake! She gets mixed up sometimes, it’s really not–“

“I’m really not the person you should be explaining that to.” His voice was dangerously soft. “I’m not the one who was directly affected by your actions.”

Now there was really no way for this girl to escape, now that all of her plans had been exposed– after manipulating the people around her with her words and throwing her classmate under the bus, you could only wonder: just how far was she willing to go for this? How low was she willing to sink for a stranger who she probably barely knew?

“Why do you care so much?” She spat; now she was changing tactics, going from blame-shifting to being defensive. You had to admit that in spite of the amount of secondhand embarrassment this was giving you, it was somewhat fascinating to witness such a fine example of how the human mind works when put in difficult situations— but also unfortunately for you, the secondhand embarrassment was far from over.

“Because it's not right. I…” A sigh of frustration, a rustle as Thoma reached up to rub his temples. “Look, it’s really that simple. You just need to apologise and stop doing what you’re doing right now. Can’t you see that people are suffering because of your actions?”

“Why should I? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

A tiny ladybug crawled past on a nearby branch, slowing as it drew nearer to you. It probably was wondering what was happening; it was unusual to find three strange humans here, two of whom were having a telenovela-worthy quarrel outside while the third crouched in the bushes to eavesdrop.

It gave you a questioning look, to which you responded with a shrug. Don’t look at me, I’m just the eavesdropping sidekick here.

“I was just expressing my concern for you, that’s all! I know you have a tendency to be taken advantage of—”

“You don’t know me.” Thoma’s voice became only quieter, barely above a murmur at this point. “You hardly know anything about me.”

Ooh, ouch.

Both you and the ladybug flinched on her behalf; true, she was acting weirdly entitled to him, but still… hearing that from him would sting, and not just a little bit.

(On another note, at least you knew that Thoma was definitely someone straight out of a telenovela— maybe a heartthrob-student-by-day, mafia-boss-by-night type of main character? Either way, you really should've brought popcorn for this.)

“I’m sure you’re a nice person, really… but we hardly know each other enough to warrant this sort of behaviour from you. If you were my friend or my classmate, perhaps, but…”

“So what?” She snapped. “Why does it matter who likes you? Is it so wrong for me to do that?”

“That is not what I said.”

“But why is it okay for that little friend of yours to cling to you like a leech?” A harsh, disbelieving laugh fills the air. “What, don’t tell me you have a crush on that- that—“

The girl continued laughing, but Thoma remained oddly quiet. Something twisted in your gut like a knife– she was referring to you, like it was some sort of joke that he would ever like you. A part of you wanted to agree with her.

“...Yeah, I do.” 

He paused a beat. “Why do you say it like it’s a bad thing?”

You nearly face-planted into the dirt as you clapped both hands over your mouth, just barely suppressing the unseemly shriek that you almost let out.

No, you couldn’t possibly have misheard him this time. You’d heard him loud and clear. 

“...What?”

“You heard me the first time.” His voice was clear and firm. “I wasn’t lying when I said that, so why do you look like you don’t believe me?”

“You- you’re kidding, right? Very funny, Thoma, but–” 

“I wouldn’t joke about such a thing. That’s just cruel.”

Meanwhile, you were very close to becoming the person to ever successfully shapeshift into an earthworm and bury yourself in the ground while those two were duking it out. The ladybug watched as you went through the five stages of grief in under a minute, offering its silent support in your hour of suffering– at least, you assumed it was offering its support. For all you knew, it might’ve found it enjoyable to watch your emotional turmoil for the sheer drama.

“Liar!” Her voice was sharp, the faintest hint of tears showing its edge through her words. “You just feel sorry for that loner, right? Thoma, I know you can do so much better than that—”

(In the midst of your agony, your eye twitched– oh, for goodness’ sake, this one was even more delusional than her best friend Panda-Eyes. Where had they even gotten the idea that they knew what was best for Thoma despite barely knowing him? And to top it all off, she sounded so desperately sure of herself that it made you want to melt into compost right then and there.)

“Thank you for having my best interests in mind, but I think I do a better job of deciding what’s best for me.” Thoma cut her off firmly, leaving no room for argument. 

Thick, heavy silence settled over like a dismal fog; neither party wanted to speak. Until…

“It’s not fair…” You caught a glimpse of shine as her shoes shuffled forward, her voice eerily quiet. “It’s not fair at all.”

“...Pardon?”

“What did I do?” Thoma was shoved backwards, and those shiny patent shoes continued marching towards him. “Tell me, where did I go wrong?”

“I don’t know—”

“Tell me!” The girl nearly shouted, her voice cracking and breaking down. “I was the one who cared ever since the beginning, Thoma. I was the one who took on all sorts of tasks so that you wouldn’t suffer so much. So why… why isn’t it me?”

You held your breath, hardly daring to move a muscle.

“Why is it some nobody who won’t even notice you until it’s too late?” She murmured– an unpleasant chill went down your spine when you realised she was talking about you. “I did everything, but…”

Even in the heat of your anger, there came a fleeting moment when you almost felt sorry for her in this pathetic state; from all of your counselling, you knew how difficult it was to muster the courage to stand before the person you liked. 

No, you corrected yourself. That wasn't quite right, because it wasn’t just from your counselling— you now had firsthand experience thanks to Thoma. To like someone so much that you started to behave irrationally, to leave your comfort zone and cross over into unknown territory just so you could walk their path with them— there were many beautiful, colourful memories that you had gained just from staying by his side. It was only natural that this girl would want to experience that too, even if she went about the wrong way to try and achieve it.

(Now, since when did you ever become this empathetic?)

For a moment, you wondered if you'd have done the same thing if you had been in her place; in a twisted sense, the two of you had been two sides of the same coin, both yearning for the same person in different ways. You knew nothing about who she was or what she did, but for a moment— just this moment — you pitied her. 

A loud, hiccuping sob interrupted your train of thought; the girl raised her head unsteadily, covering her face with one hand. The other hand raised itself in the air to harshly shove Thoma backwards, his shoes scraping against the ground as he tried to steady himself.

Did she just…?

That white-hot sensation from the other day reappeared, searing even brighter right behind your eyeballs and burning any semblance of pity you might’ve had for her; unconsciously, your bandaged hands curled into fists once again.

“Hey– wait just a second here.” Thoma’s voice sounded strained. “You don’t look so good. Are you–”

“Don’t touch me!” You flinched at the sharp sound of skin hitting skin, and once again he stumbled backwards. Through the leaves you could barely make out her silhouette as she raised her hand ready to strike again— and suddenly everything seared blinding white.

“Enough.”

Leaves rustled and scattered about you, the afternoon sunlight flashing in your eyes enough to leave you dazzled– in a blur, you barely registered the gaping looks of shock that met your gaze. Something warm struggled in your grasp, your nails digging into the unidentified object by instinct; apparently you had launched yourself out of the bushes and caught her hand just as it was about to hit his face, a flurry of leaves and flower petals showering around you in a horribly dramatic entrance.

Your first realisation was that you were very glad nobody else was around, or else you might’ve had the unfortunate experience of having your dramatic entrance caught on video. The second realisation was that you were very displeased with the idea that someone had actually just tried to hit Thoma— not on your watch, not now and not ever.

All the bitterness seeped into your voice and turned your words into a frigid cold. "If you have such a problem with me, then face me instead of taking it out on someone else like a coward."

Two pairs of eyes stared at you, completely stunned– Thoma could only gape at you in shock as you trudged forward to plant yourself in between him and the other party, a grumpy look on your face as you crossed your arms. Meanwhile, the offender in question stared at you with frightened, wary eyes, tears still dripping down her face like a leaking faucet.

“You…”

“Yep. It’s definitely me.” You replied, eye twitching as you desperately tried to restrain yourself from jumping her. If she was so keen on painting you as a violent delinquent, then congratulations! She was about to get her wish.

“Why– why are you here?” Thoma choked out, his jaw hanging slack as he gaped at you in shock— well, to be fair, you had literally just launched out of the shrubbery like some sort of vegan jack-in-the-box. You couldn't really blame him for staring.

“Oh, I was just passing by and saw something going on. Thought it looked like some fun violent activity that a troublemaker would enjoy.” You managed to muster the most bubblegum-flavoured, saccharine-sweet voice that your raging temper could allow, allowing yourself to give a side-eye to the girl in front of you. Look, you could only pity her so much— you could understand where she was coming from, but that didn't mean you agreed with what she was doing right now.

“You.”

She jumped nearly a foot in the air.

"What kind of head do you have screwed on your shoulders, huh?" You asked, the bitter edge of a taunt revealing itself through your words. "'I did everything for him, so only I have the right to monopolise his feelings.' It doesn't matter how Thoma feels about the matter— no, no, it's all about you and how you feel."

Sick satisfaction washed over your senses as her lower lip began to tremble once more, tears welling up in her shiny eyes— but then again, it was best to nip feelings like that in the bud. It was never good to attempt to resolve conflict by viewing the other party as your enemy, and from the beginning your goal had never been to hurt this girl.

Restrain yourself, said the slightly more rational part of your brain. Do not hold back on your honesty, but if only for Thoma’s sake, no more and no less than that.

For Thoma’s sake, you begrudgingly agreed. Even if you were reasonably pissed and just wanted to go home in peace.

“I– look.” You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed, wondering where to even begin. “"You might not see it now, but what you’re doing is hurting him more than anyone else. Can’t you see that?" 

The girl’s eyes wavered, teary pools of resentment and anger glaring at you hard enough to bury you six feet under. You hesitated for a minute— you had so many things to say to her, so much advice to give from all your experience as a bonafide relationship counselor. But would she even receive it from you?

But once again– for Thoma’s sake and his alone, you gritted your teeth and continued anyway. If doing this would ensure him a better future where he didn’t have to worry about his boundaries, then so be it.

"Why don’t you believe him?” You ask bluntly. “Has Thoma ever given anyone in this school any reason to doubt him?”

“Never!” She shot back.  

“Then why don’t you trust him?” The back of your eyes sear white as you try to keep your cool, your grip instinctively tightening over Thoma’s hand. “The entire conversation you had just now was just you calling him a liar or trying to prove him wrong. If you like him so much, then why don’t you believe in him?”

She opened her mouth, but no response came out.

It was a tough lesson for her to learn, but putting down other people and trampling on their lives was never going to win over someone's heart. No matter how good your intentions were or how earnest your feelings were, if the recipient was not ready or willing to accept your feelings, then it would never work out.

“Trust is an important part of every relationship, but if you can’t even believe him when he clearly states his boundaries, then you’re already setting yourself up for failure.” For the first time that day, your logic returned to you as you switched to counselor mode. “If you really cared for him like you said, then you wouldn’t have to pull strings on the people around him so that he’d come to you like a dog on a leash.”

You must’ve rattled on and on as you listed down everything she did wrong, from using her friend like a pawn and throwing her under the bus, to disrespecting Thoma’s choices and treating him like a trophy instead of seeing him as a person with thoughts and feelings, to using her influence for ill-intent instead of trying to win him over with honesty and sincerity.  You kept going even though you were pretty sure her eyes had glazed ten times over and she had already cried multiple times, because one thing was certain; what this girl was doing was not out of love.

You knew this because love felt like… love was… 

Suddenly a soft warmth gently pried your clenched fist open, encircling your fingers with a sense of safety— you looked up to see Thoma mouth, ‘I’ll take it from here.’

As your gaze locked with his, everything clicked into place like a jigsaw puzzle, the picture becoming perfectly crystal-clear to your eyes.

Love is patient, and love is kind. 

Love is forgiving and welcoming, even at the times you felt dirtiest and most unlovable. It went beyond infatuation, which felt like a swarm of nervous butterflies that played push and pull with your emotions with hormone-infused strings— no, love felt safe and warm, like a fire crackling on the hearth of a home. To be loved and to love was to protect and to trust, to hope and persevere for the other person. Things that you and Thoma had already been doing for each other long before you had ever come to this conclusion.

And it scared you. 

The weight, the seriousness of it all… it terrified you to no end, because it meant that perhaps you were wrong about yourself. Perhaps you had been wrong all along and that you really were capable of experiencing love and romance— perhaps it had never been a question of if, but when.

“…Thank you for asking to meet me here today.” Thoma’s voice was quiet but serious, and the girl flinched a little at the sudden change in atmosphere. “I’m sorry I can’t do anything more for you, but I hope you’ve fully grasped the situation now. Please don’t do this ever again.”

The finality of his tone was enough to get the point across.

Now stripped of her fangs, she nodded mutely, her eyes furtively glancing between the two of you— you still couldn’t entirely reconcile yourself with her actions, but at least she had the grace to accept the outcome without fuss. In the end, she was still just a girl with a broken heart.

“I… I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you. I really am.” The girl mumbled, giving a slight bow in apology. You watched as she walked away, the faint sound of her sniffling fading into the distance.

As soon as she was out of sight, his shoulders slumped; Thoma’s eyes slid wearily shut, his entire body deflating like a balloon as he practically leaned on you for support. Any traces of anger disappeared completely, slipping off his shoulders like water on a duck’s back.

He looked so… young. Vulnerable. 

With the way he was completely drained of energy after today’s events, you began to wonder if being angry was entirely out of his comfort zone– no, maybe that wasn’t the case. Maybe he wasn’t used to being angry for himself.

“...Should we report her to the teachers?”

“Maybe. I don’t know anymore.” He answered, leaning only further into you. “I’m just so… tired.”

The urge to reach for him returned, even stronger than before. Your fingers twitched and burned to nestle themselves in his soft, fluffy hair, to return the comfort that he always gave to you so freely. But like the coward you were, you didn’t dare– instead, you settled for giving his hand a tentative squeeze in reassurance.

Wait, his hand?!

Let’s try to recap! shouted the overly enthusiastic part of your brain. We managed to remove the problem of your rumours and confirm that Thoma does not like that girl! And we also managed to accomplish 10,000 steps in a day AND do some weight training, just by hauling his backpack all over the school! And in a surprise accomplishment, we also managed to confirm that Thoma… 

That he… that he…

You gaped at your intertwined fingers and looked back up at him, every nerve ending short-circuiting into a miniature fireworks shower as you struggled to process what had just happened. And judging from how a certain puppy-boy’s eyes had just snapped wide open to stare at you, he had also happened to arrive at the same conclusion you did.

“How long were you hiding in there?” Thoma’s face flushed tomato-red, his green eyes filled with something like panic or— gah, you couldn’t tell anymore. How could you tell what other people were feeling if you couldn’t even figure out your own problems? “No, wait— how much did you hear?”

“Well I… I, uh–”

You took one look at his pleading, anxious puppy-dog eyes, and at that point your brain broke from the strain. And so once again, you did the only thing you knew best when it came to situations like this: you ran away.

[darksigns-exe]

Sweet Like Honey - Caught In The Rain

Warnings: None Word Count: 715 Note: I wrote this at the beginning of the month with the intention of of churning out little fics all month. Evidently that didn’t happen. But here’s a little Sweet Like Honey bonus content for your entertainment. It’s basically unedited so don’t come for me and my bad punctuation. Regular chapters continue this week she’s been a bit busy <3

-

Under normal circumstances, PDA isn’t his style but he also knows that Bee loves a good romcom and if he can give her that cheesy, cliche kiss in the rain moment, he’ll do his damndest to make her knees buckle.

Noah has a whole day for them planned. It’s their one day off for the week and Bee’s time off is nearing its end, meaning that they’ll be separated again way too soon. The first half of the day goes as planned, they look at sights, have a nice little lunch, do some more sightseeing. It’s surprisingly normal, if someone spots them they don’t make contact for which Noah is more than grateful. He luxuriates in her presences, allows himself to just be Noah the boyfriend who gets dragged around Boston so that his lady can look at all the pretty things. It’s nice enough. He takes her picture whenever she asks and even when she doesn’t. He keeps the candids to himself for the most part, pretty little reminders of his girl when she goes back home. 

She’s dragged him into some little shop with little handmade trinkets. He doesn’t know how many of these shops they’ve already been to, but it makes her happy so he trudges along no matter how much he’d rather slip beneath the sheets of their bed right now. The twinkling in her eyes when she holds one of the little things she’s found up to him makes it worth it. 

By the time they leave the story he’s a good fifty bucks lighter, but Bee has that little spring in her step and so he forgets about it. Fifty dollars doesn’t hurt his wallet anymore. He barely notices that the air has a significant chill now and if Bee notices it, it doesn’t seem to bother her. 

When the first drop of rain hits his forehead they’re still a solid thirty minutes away from their hotel. Within no time one drop turns into a full on downpour that soaks them down to the bone in mere moments. He tries to shield her from the rain as best as he can while they maneouver the packed streets.

Noah pulls them under an awning, hoping that they’ll be able to wait out the worst of it. They’re soaked anyway so it doesn’t matter too much, but he doesn’t need either of them getting sick right now. 

Bee’s hand is still wrapped firmly around his when they find a free spot between the other soaked bodies trying to escape the rain. Her fringe sticks to her forehead, droplets of rain trailing along the strands of hair and down her face. She looks gorgeous, even wet as a dog. 

He brushes some of the wetness away from her cheek. Sometimes he still can’t quite believe it. Their start had been rough, but now that they’re through what he hopes to be the worst it’s absolute bliss. His fingers linger against her skin. It’s awfully cold. 

“Whatcha thinking about, pretty boy?”

The nickname forces the blood to rush up into his cheeks, it always does. 

“What I’m gonna do to you once we’re out of the rain and these clothes.” His reply comes low, whispered against her ear. 

He bites back the rest of what he wants to say. 

Bee squeezes his hand “Filthy.”

“Gotta use what time we have, don’t we?” He presses a kiss below her ear “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I sent you home without a souvenir of my own.”

He doesn’t know if the shiver that runs through her comes from the cold or his words. He likes to imagine that it’s the latter. 

He shifts his hand behind her neck and pulls her in for a kiss. Under normal circumstances, PDA isn’t his style but he also knows that Bee loves a good romcom and if he can give her that cheesy, cliche kiss in the rain moment, he’ll do his damndest to make her knees buckle. He brings a hand behind her back so that he can lean into her a little more. She lets out a little gasp when he draws his tongue against her lip. The hand that still holds his squeezes tighter still. 

She’s breathless and flushed bright pink when he pulls away from her. If she wants romcom, she’ll get romcom. 

He leans back in, once more whispering against her ear so that only she can hear him “Soaked as you are, we might as well brave the rain.”

[kiiromaru]

THH's Moral Alignement and Reasoning

[spoiler for danganronpa 1]

disclaimer: I haven't read the novels, also these aren't character analysis, just my reasoning for why i put them in this category, also please add onto it if you disagree or have anything to say ^^

Lawful Good

Sakura Ogami: She always takes decisions that she considers to be the best for the people around her : trying to proctect her dojo by accepting to work with Monokuma or committing suicide and making sure to write a letter explaining to everyone why she did it as to resolve the situation and create a more peaceful atmosphere among them.

Kyoko Kirigiri: She has good intentions and i feel like what pushes her to act is kind of a "i can do it therefore i should do it" mindset.

Chihiro Fujisaki: Cute baby sunshine, never did anything wrong in their life.

Ishimaru Kiyotaka: He's the Ultimate Moral Compass, pretty self-explanatory.

Naegi Makoto: A genuinely good person who tries his best to be kind.

Neutral Good

Aoi: We can see during chapter 4 that she put her personal beliefs above all else but even if she tried to kill everyone i still think that she is a good person.

Toko (Ultra Despair Girl): If we were talking solely about THH i would've put her in Neutral Evil since she doesn't care about anyone but herself and is pretty mean (also something that i find very interesting during the 4th trial is that even if throughout the game she seems totally devoted and in love with Byakuya + her obvious lack of self esteem she still chose to defend herself when she thought Genocide Jack had killed Sakura which could've led to his death), but the character development she gets in that game is golden so yeah.

Chaotic Good

Mondo: Feel free to disagree with me on that because of the fact that he killed Chihiro who very much did not deserve it but contrary to what Naegi says in the game it absolutely wasn't a cold blooded murder, himself stating that he blacked-out while killing them. I still chose to put him in good because otherwise he really tried to do the right thing (protecting Chihiro's secret by moving their body or even when in the anime he covered Mukuro's bldy with his coat it showed that he was a kind person) + we also know that he uses his influence to minimize tensions between gangs.

True Neutral

Byakuya: I feel like his god complex makes him kind of uncapable to relate to other people and consider their struggles on the same level as him so he doesn't care about anyone + we saw during the 2nd trial that he definitely can't be described as a good person. I truly feel like he couldn't care less about rules or moral implications as he considers himself above it.

Leon: His actions only seem to be motivated by what he wants in that moment without a lot of reasoning behind it, like changing from baseball to music or killing Sayaka when he could've totally ran away after she tried to kill him.

Chaotic Neutral 

Sayaka : I feel like she's morally neutral in the way where she's so goal-oriented that she doesn't care too much about the means to get to an end (which is also implicate in her backstory) but she's aware that what she does might bad : she was willing to let everyone die and pin the crime on Naegi but once her plan failed she still made sure to save everyone instead by writing Leon's name.

Yasuhiro : I hesitated to put him in chaotic evil because of the fact that he quite literally could have/tried to kill Sakura + he never was particularly kind to no one in the game and tried to steal money from us during his free time (tbh im still kinda mad at the wasted potential of making him a nice chill guy but well). In the end i went for neutral because i feel like its more a case of picking the worst possible choice than being a bad person, even if he is quite selfish.

Lawful Evil 

Hifumi: The reason i put him in "lawful" is because what convinced him to kill Ishimaru was Celestia accusing him of SA, which is an understandable reason especially paired with the chance to get out happy and with Celestia but he was still willing to sacrifice everyone to get out so lawful evil it is.

Neutral Evil

Celestia Lundenberg: It was pretty complicated but i settled on this alignement if we take the things she tells us at face value (since i've seen a few people saying that she wasn't actually trying to win the game and that's why her plan was so sloppy). I don't feel like she's a bad person but she doesn't care about doing bad things to get what she wants.

Mukuro Ikusaba: That's where me not reading the novels probably makes a difference because i know that she gets more development there but based on the game and the anime i have to put her here, even if she was obviously manipulated by Junko she still seemed to agree with her.

Chaotic Evil

Junko Enoshima: Do i really need to explain ?

Genocide Jack: I mean, she enjoys killing people and has no other reason for what she does.

Thank you if you read all of that, sorry for any typos/grammar mistakes, english isn't my first language and i wrote it all in one go. Please tell me what you think :)

[my-favourite-zhent]

New Tricks - Chapter 16

Status: Work In Progress Version: 1.01 Pairing: Rugan x AFAB!OC Rating: NC-17 (This chapter R for violence) Genre: Adventure/Romance Summary: Misadventures of Rugan and the original Zhentarim Gate's crew before and during the year of three sailing ships.

Notes: Sorry for the long delay folks. I ended up scrapping a lot of what was originally written for this chapter and some of it has been moved to the next one. But for what it's worth this chapter is almost triple the usual length so lets just pretend its 3 chapters.

Much love for my editor and plothole spotter @fistfuloftarenths as well as @dustdeepsea for their grammar and beta-reading support.

Table of Contents

Read on AO3 here or below the cut.

New Tricks - Chapter Sixteen

Ships, gods he hated ships. Ever since Rugan had first set foot on one as a lad back in Luskan he had hated them. Had been a bit of a running joke with the crew. Born to the city of sails yet he took to the sea about as well as a horse. Didn’t help that he had never learned to swim. The waters around Luskan were cold and biting, and he had known more than one lad growing up who had gotten frostbite or Winter’s chill from a reckless dip in the River Mirar.

At least travel by river was steadier than by sea.  They weren't busy swaying to and fro, battling unseen currents. Rivers were flat for the most part, if there were rapids then those were always present, not like the surprise of choppy seas set on you based upon the whims of Umberlee. Any storms wouldn’t dump torrents of water on the deck like they would at sea, wouldn’t have the weight to batter and tip them over. 

Generally river boats weren’t as grand as the ships that set out to sea, but Athkatla and Crimmor sat along the Alandor river. The Alandor was wide and deep enough to accommodate the seafaring caravels. This one was large enough to contain a few cramped passenger’s quarters and a small galley. Rugan laid in his narrow cabin bed, propped up against the headboard and sighed. It was the fastest way to get to Athkatla, but with no work to do it left him with entirely too much free time. Nothing to prevent his thoughts from drifting back to Crimmor and Iz. 

He would’ve liked to have stayed longer, apologise properly, bed her down in those soft sheets at least a few more times. But then the sending had come from Sal. The delivery recipients had yet to make contact. Unusual, highly unusual, enough so that it had set his hairs on end.

There had been instances in the past where a client could no longer pay for a shipment, or had even died before it had arrived. But even then the Zhents had always been contacted. They'd keep the cargo in part or full as a due in the former, or someone else would come to collect in the latter. Valuables were still valuables after all. But absolute silence? It made Rugan's gut turn the way it did just before a bit of violence. 

What he had hoped would be a leisurely recovery instead became hastily making arrangements to take the river down to Athkatla the next day. And where once they had planned to go together he had instead insisted that Izzy stay behind. As much as he wanted more time with her there was no sense showing up to what may very well be a trap with a civilian in tow.

So instead he'd been forced to say his goodbyes on the dock. 

+++++

Mists obscured the riverbanks the morning of his departure. When a torrent of rain had come down he used the excuse to pull her under his cloak, holding her close in the last slivers of dark before daybreak. He pressed his face into her hair, arms encircling her waist. She smelled of jasmine oil and citrus fruits.

“Lots of nice book shops in the Gate, you know.” She couldn't come to Athkatla, not now, but maybe in a few days or so…

He felt her laugh more than he heard it. “Great connoisseur are you?”

“Picked up a thing or two from a pretty lass in Waterdeep.”

She pulled away to smile up at him, pensively, then gave a sad shake of her head. “You'll have to show me in the spring. I'll try and find some work up your way.”

“Ah, the spring then.” He worked hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“Wintersmoot is soon. It's a celebration to mark the end of the caravan season. Maybe you could come back after your job?”

But he was already shaking his head. “Need to get home, boss’ll want a proper debriefing after what a mess this whole trip has been.”

“Ah.” The corners of her cheeks were upturned, but her eyes were so damned sad.

“Iz,” he sighed, slipping his fingers into those thick tresses of hers. “I've been unkind to you.” He spoke softly, such that only she could hear him against the patter of the rain.

“We can speak on it when we next meet. I don't want to dwell on that now.” Isolde turned to press her lips against the corner of his mouth, and he turned in kind to catch her in a lingering kiss. She was so soft and sweet and if he could have he would've devoured her whole.

The tempo of the rain slowed, the sound of its fall receded until the first rays of sunlight began to peek over the horizon. And still he did not let go, putting off boarding till the last possible moment.

“We're shipping off now, Saer.” The shiphand called from a no longer obscured riverboat. At last Rugan was forced to pull himself away from her.

“Tymora smile on you, Zhent.”

“She always does.” His fingers brushed over her cheek once more before alighting onto the barge.

There were shouts and hollers as the deckhands cast off the lines. They pushed off from the mooring with long poles, keeping the boat parallel to the docks as it slowly drifted into the river. Only when they reached the deeper waters of the river’s centre did they move to unfurl the sails. From the deck Rugan watched Izzy's solitary figure on the wharf till she too was consumed by the fast returning mists of the Alandor river.

+++++

The Adamantine Mug was an ostentatiously decorated inn. Everything was gleaming in silver: the bar rails, the wall sconces, the doorknobs. Salazon supposed this lent an air of respectability for its mostly merchant clientele, but he couldn't help but find it to be a bit of a waste.

Despite that, the rooms were surprisingly cheap, or at least they would have been if Bellar hadn't picked a fight with the innkeeper the first night. Sal had smoothed over the argument enough that the rooms were still affordable, but he wasn't pleased with paying half more than the going rate.

The trio were seated in the inn's taproom. Their table was tucked into a comfortable alcove to the rear of the building, and naturally they had their backs to the wall. From here they had a clear line of sight to the front door and could easily slip out through the kitchen if need be.

The place was quieter this time of year. With caravan season almost at its end there were less merchants in the city. Still, it was one of the more popular establishments and a good number of tables were taken up by groups of patrons chatting away or quiet individuals enjoying their drinks. 

It was also a good day to be indoors. The rain outside was pelting down, and seemed to form a thin layer of ice everywhere it touched. 

“Can you believe they made me get a licence to cast spells? What's next, a licence for breathing?” Salazon slammed his mug down on the table for emphasis.

“Zarys handled it, so what's the problem?” Bellar was leaning back in his chair, boots on the table, idly cleaning his nails with a knife.

“It's the principle of the matter!”

Olly sighed into his mug for the umpteenth time that afternoon, not being much in the mood for actual drinking.

“I already told you he's fine Olly.” Sal was getting a bit exasperated, it had been over an hour.

“Then why isn't he here yet?”

“I am here, you bastards just don't know how to use your damned eyes.” Rugan appeared at the right side of the alcove, throwing his hood back.

“Rugan!” Olly jumped to his feet. The boy was so earnest that Rugan forgot all his anger in an instant. Damn it all, that was going to make scolding him all the more difficult.

“Well if it isn’t Tymora’s chosen himself.” Sal smiled warmly.

“Should’ve tattooed a shamrock on your ass instead of that black hand.” Bellar added with a smirk.

“If I was half as jammy as you two seem to think, I wouldn’t have fallen ill in the first place.”

“Pretty girl falls out of the sky and puts you up in a nice house. If that’s what you call bad luck then Beshaba grant me her blessing.” Sal complained.

“He's been complaining like this the whole trip,” interjected Bellar. “Can't tell if he wants to fuck your girl’s friend or her library.”

“I'd happily take either.” Sal agreed.

“How did you get in here without us seeing you?” Olly piped up.

“Been here a while before you lot came down, lad. Bit disappointed no one was paying attention considering our current predicament.” He cast his gaze over Sal and Bellar. At least the former had the decency to look sheepish. Bellar didn't even meet his gaze.

“What situation? So they're a little late, if they don't show we just pawn the goods ourselves. Easy as that.” Bellar squinted at something on the tip of his blade.

“We don't even know what the cargo is .” Sal huffed.

“Aye, and that makes it all the more suspect. Usually we’re given a proper manifest but this one was all hush hush. Don't sit right with me, so mind your surroundings and no one goes out anywhere on their own.”

“Is it really that bad?” Asked Olly.

“Maybe, or maybe it's nothing. But I'd rather we were overly cautious and it turns out to be nothing rather than the opposite.” Rugan took the seat next to Sal. He hung his cloak over the chair's top rail and angled it such that his back was to the wall.

“Now that's a fine cloak.” Bellar noted, impressed. “Get that from your bit of skirt?”

“So what if I did?”

“Might've misjudged you, thought she was running a game on you but it looks like it's the other way round.”

Rugan bit his tongue. Better to let Bellar believe he was using Iz than to deal with the fallout of … well of them being what to each other exactly?

“That is nice,” remarked Sal eyeing the material, before locking eyes with Rugan and raising an eyebrow.

Rugan averted his eyes and instead flagged down the pretty blonde barmaid as an excuse to ignore the unspoken question.

+++++

The wooden steps of the inn creaked beneath Rugan's feet as he and Olly ascended. The evening in the taproom had passed quietly enough. There was still no word from the buyer but that could have been chalked up to the poor weather. The pair reached the top of the stairwell and passed down the carpeted hall.

“This is me.” Rugan nodded to the room on the right. “You're bunked with Sal?”

“That's right. He wanted to save some coin.”

“Good. Keep an eye on each other.” Rugan moved to unlock the door.

“Rugan, about what happened at the pass.” Olly hesitated for a moment, averting his gaze. The guilt had been steadily eating at him. He felt anxious, his stomach queasy. 

Rugan turned to him with a sigh. “Olly, I don’t think I need to tell you how blindingly stupid you were. And while we both know it warrants further discussion it’s one I’d rather not have till the job here is done, understood?” In truth it was one he would rather not have ever but it was overdue.

Olly nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, of course.”

“Right, get some sleep. Smother Sal if he snores.”

“Night, Rugan.”

+++++

As Rugan descended the stairs for breakfast the next morning he caught the eye of the barmaid from the night before. She straightened at the sight of him and scurried over, blonde curls bouncing with each step.

“Rugan, was it?” She asked sweetly.

“That's right, lass.” He smiled but inwardly wondered the best way to turn her down.

“Letter came for you this morning.” She pulled out an envelope from her apron and gingerly handed it to him. He felt a split second pang of disappointment when he didn't recognize the handwriting and hoped it didn't show on his face.

“My thanks. By any chance can you recall the likeness of the one who dropped it off?”

She scrunched her face up as she tried to remember. “Mmm, not one of the regular couriers, didn't recognize him. Human, short, tan with brown hair? Think I remember the hair being a bit longish in the back. Can't tell you much more than that.” 

Rugan placed a silver coin in her hand and smiled warmly. “That's plenty. But do let me know if you remember anything else, might be there's another coin or two in it for you.”

The girl brightened at the sight of the coin and nodded her head emphatically. “Yes saer, of course.”

Rugan was already climbing back up the stairs before she'd finished. If this wasn't from either Izzy or Zarys, there was only one other possibility. He opened the letter at the top of the stairs, reading and rereading it before advancing down the hall. Rugan quickly rapped on Bellar's door. 

“Come on then.” He jerked his head towards the others’ room when Bellar opened the door. The pair went down to the next door, an expectant Olly swinging it open just as Rugan raised his hand to knock.

“How did you…” Bellar trailed off.

“Heard Rugan through the door.” Olly replied sheepishly as he stepped back to let them in.

A Salazon-sized lump lay covered on one of the beds, and Rugan roughly pulled the blankets back.

“Up Sal, it's already well towards Elsun.”

The wizard groaned and rubbed his eyes. “Haven't you any manners? Is this how you usually wake people?”

“Usually waking pretty girls but if you want my cock up your arse next time I'll make note of it.”

Sal grumbled as he sat upright. “Well, why are we all in here, then?”

“Buyer made contact, they expect the delivery at Thulsun today, Wave District.”

“Thulsun’s not for a while,” Olly said tentatively.

“Too soon for my liking. But it's enough time to prepare ourselves.” Rugan handed the letter to Sal. “You're the most lettered, maybe you'll catch something I missed.”

The wizard’s eyes scanned the page. “It's a bit terse, but I don't see any hidden meaning or context. Writing’s neat, too.”

Rugan mulled over their next steps. “Bellar, how did you try to make contact when you first arrived?”

“Left a message with the innkeeper at the Sea’s Bounty Tavern as we were instructed. Checked back with them a few times since we've been here, but no messages were left.”

“And the warehouse where Zarys told us to store the cargo. How was it?”

Bellar shrugged. “Well lit, well guarded. Wasn't cheap to store it there.”

“Seemed popular with the other merchant houses,” added Olly. “Saw a lot of different emblems.”

“There were sigils about the place too,” remarked Sal. “So they must have a licensed wizard on staff.”

“Better do with what they charged us,” muttered Bellar.

“Good, Zarys' done her homework then. Not that I ever doubted her.”

“Take it you don't intend to bring the cargo to the meet.” Bellar arched an eyebrow before grinning. “Expecting a fight then?”

“I'm not intending and I am expecting.” Rugan agreed.

“Any particular reason besides them being late?” Sal yawned.

“The whole damned job. Rare for us to go this far south, what with the lack of Zhent presence in the city. The fact that they didn't have a warehouse or some other location for us to simply drop off the goods. And now, on top of being late to make contact, they wait specifically till I've shown up to reply. It's uncanny.”

“Could be just coincidence.” Bellar offered.

“Sure, and Wave District being home to the Galvarey Estate might be just a coincidence too.” Rugan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

Sal pursed his lips. “They don't still operate out of there do they?”

Rugan shrugged. “Can't see them staying in such a notorious location, but then again if it was me I wouldn't go far.”

There was a tense silence as everyone mulled over the implications. At long last Sal broke the silence with a sigh. “I'll get my spells ready.”

“And make sure to wear your leathers.” Rugan added.

“Yes, I know. I'm not completely green.”

+++++

The quartet went about their preparations together. All leathers were thoroughly oiled to the point that they bent and folded almost as well as cloth. 

Blades were sharpened and hidden, Bellar took extra care when returning his jock knife to its usual hiding place.

Olly and Rugan then moved onto sharpening the bodkins and bolts.

“Nice thing about a properly honed Broadhead, sometimes you can get it sharp enough that they don’t even know when you’ve stuck ‘em.” Rugan put down his whetstone and admired his work.

“On arrows sure, but the bolts don’t seem all that useful, using those little hand crossbows,” remarked Olly as he rubbed a bit of grease on an arrowhead. “Don’t got nearly the range of a longbow.”

“True enough lad, but besides Waterdeep you’ve only fought your battles on the open road so far. No, if this is a trap, and I do believe it is, they’ll come for us in the alley ways. You try swinging a longbow around in a ginnel that hardly fits two men abreast and you’ll see the use of a hand crossbow. Have a bolt already loaded in there, and you can squeeze yourself out of a tight situation.”

“Just don’t be like Brem and accidentally set it off into your own arse,” chuckled Bellar as he slid another knife into his boot.

+++++

Before long Thulsun was nearly upon them. Rugan grimaced as he and Bellar exited the Mug. By all rights the Adamantine Mug was a reasonably priced inn, but Rugan found it ostentatious and the rest of the Gem District was even worse. This was where the nouveau riche of the city lived, and it showed in the elaborate shoppes and fanciful houses. Each edifice more gaudily fashioned than the last. Perhaps the only building in the whole district that was not overwrought was the Dome of the Rose, a temple dedicated to Lathander. Rugan wondered idly what Izzy thought of the Gem District.

He felt more at ease as they entered the Wave District. There was a building of anxious energy as they got closer to the meet, but the Wave District felt more comfortable, more familiar. Folk here worked hard, honest trades. His trade might not have been honest but it was certainly hard.

The street was conspicuously empty as Rugan and Bellar approached the curio shop indicated in the letter. Perhaps the thin layer of ice that coated it could have deterred most residents from leaving their homes, but that didn't explain why every window was shuttered. As he had predicted, the roads and laneways were cramped in this section. Easy to bottleneck a group that might be more used to defensively circling wagons than back alley fights. Might .

“I thought there were more of you.” Came a call from the alley to their left and they both turned to look.

He was a human, of somewhat diminutive stature. His skin reminded Rugan of that of acorns and his hair was like the ochre he had seen on the banks of the Chionthar. The mysterious courier no doubt.

“Our comrades are just procuring the shipment while we iron out the details.”

“What's left to iron out? I've your coin, all four hundred gold pieces.”

So he knew that much, but Rugan was still suspicious. 

“Payment’s one thing, logistics is another. I don't see a warehouse.”

“You're looking at it.” The man patted the wooden planks behind him and Rugan realised it was a sliding barn door he hadn't made out due to the slant of the alley. 

“Where's your party, then? Surely you didn't mean to unload it all yourself. After all, it's not a light load.”

“They're just through here. We can discuss logistics inside.” 

Wrong answer, the expected response to ‘a light load’ was ‘for a stubborn mule’.

Rugan angled one hand behind his back so that only Bellar could see the gesture he made. ‘Trap.’

Not that he had needed to bother, Bellar was also familiar with the password. In fact, Bellar was already grinning in anticipation.

“Lead on, friend,” said Bellar. He was already grinning in anticipation.

The man threw open the door and stepped inside the darkened interior as they approached. He had a strange quirk to his gate as he stepped over the threshold. Rugan squinted and realised there was a tripwire running along it.

Noting a plank of wood leaning against the opposite wall, Rugan slid the door back shut with a slam and quickly jammed it in place with the plank. He felt two hands roughly take his shoulders and yank him back. Just in time, a quarrel knocked into the door where he’d just been standing.

They both turned to see a woman on the adjacent balcony reload her crossbow. It was the barmaid from the mug. Only now she was decked out in leathers and her blonde curls were pulled back in a high ponytail.

The door before them jolted as the man inside tried to get back out and into the fray.

“Teaberry! Now!” He shouted through the planks and a stout halfling stepped through a second story window on the opposite building. He was decked in wizard’s robes and his hands were glowing with some unknown spell.

Rugan and Bellar took off in opposite directions from one another, the sound of the door bursting open echoing behind them.

“You said rolling heads!” The blonde angrily shouted at her newly freed leader before running across the rooftops after Rugan.

The man and the halfling gave chase to Bellar, though the halfling was at a great disadvantage, stumbling over rooftops in his heavy robes. As Bellar approached the main thoroughfare an elf in cleric’s robes stepped out into the alley before him. He was shaking as he recited the beginnings of a prayer, a morningstar tightly gripped in one hand. The Zhent leapt and grabbed onto an overhanging shop sign, using his momentum to swing feet first into the cleric, knocking the elf to the ground. His head hit the stones with a thud. 

Bellar came back up in a roll and rounded the corner into the avenue. It opened into a larger plaza at one end and he continued in that direction. The man wasn’t far behind and charged at the Zhent, short sword in hand. Bellar turned to face him, drawing his own blade, the ring of steel on steel filling the air. There had been a dozen or so civilians milling about in the plaza, and they all stopped to gape at the ongoing fight. The pair traded slashes and feints. Bellar was easily able to ward off each strike, but had yet to make any serious attempt at his own.

Teaberry, tired of struggling over the rooftops, clambered down the first ladder he found and continued at street level. As he came out into the avenue it seemed he finally had a lucky break. In this wide open space he could easily cast at the Zhent from a distance. With a crackle, a bolt of lightning leapt from Teaberry’s fingertips. The sight of magic brought cries of horror from the onlookers and they fled the plaza in record time.

Bellar gave a cry of pain as the spell found him and staggered back. The brown-haired man sought to press the advantage but found himself coughing and gagging as a yellow cloud of gas engulfed him. He hastened forward to escape the cloud but was struck by an arrow to his thigh and screamed in pain.

“Nice one Olly.” Sal cheered from the rooftop where the pair were overlooking the plaza. Theirs was the tallest building on the perimeter and gave them a clear view of the battlefield.

Meanwhile, Teaberry had been similarly struck by the noxious fumes and had lost all concentration on his chain lighting. The mage stumbled back from the stinking cloud and seeing his friend hit, ducked behind the only available cover: a storm-lantern just as tall as the halfling himself. 

How unfortunate for him that Olly's next arrow was greased. Sal reached for it, a flickering flame appearing in his hand. A quick pass of Sal's hand and the arrowhead was alive with flame; Olly let it loose with the twitch of a finger.

In an instant the storm-lantern shattered in an explosion of glass, the oil within catching alight. There was a great roiling flame and shrieks of pain from the halfling wizard. The glass left deep lacerations across his whole body but especially his face, as flames licked at his oil soaked clothing. He dropped to the ground, rolling along the icy cobblestones to try and extinguish his robes. It was shocking and perhaps a testament to the mage’s experience that he had the presence of mind to even do that. Luckily for Teaberry the flames were swiftly extinguished.

The quick thinking had saved his life, but that would be little consolation to the now blinded mage as he heard the familiar sound of a portal opening.

“Who the hells?” Olly breathed as a pair of wizards stepped out to grab the halfling. He knocked another arrow and took aim at the new combatants when Sal grabbed his wrist.

“Cowled wizards, Olly,” Sal explained. “They're here to arrest him. Poor bugger isn't licensed.”

Indeed the pair of wizards gagged the sobbing halfling and whisked him away into another portal.

The pair turned their attention to Bellar, who had removed a blackjack from his belt. He raised the club over his head and brought it down on the retching man with a sickening crack. He crumpled to the ground and Sal was quite certain he was dead.

“Lucky those wizards left before he did that.” Olly shook his head.

“Nah, cowled wizards don’t give a shit about murder, just magic.”

Bellar looked up at them and waved, face plastered with a grin.

+++++

Though he could not see his assailant, Rugan was certain one of the attackers was following him. He thought he could hear the crash of footsteps on the rooftops behind him, and his suspicion was confirmed when another quarrel whizzed past his head. 

‘Shit shot, thank the Black Hand.’ He thought as skidded round the corner. The ice was thicker here, and one misstep could mean a broken bone or worse. But Rugan was a Luskan lad, and even if he hadn’t been gifted with a love of the sea he knew his way around an icy cobblestone.

The path here was more cramped but dotted with several overhangs and balconies which provided him with cover from his assailant. He raced beneath them before skidding into a particularly deep doorway, pressing himself tight against the wooden door.

He heard the approaching footsteps round the same corner and pause. There was a thump and a creak as the hunter jumped from one balcony to another. They were realising they had lost their rooftop advantage.

There was silence for a few agonising minutes, then he heard the sound of weight hitting the ground. The footsteps were approaching again, but on ground level now. Rugan quietly slipped his dagger from its sheath. No sense in trying to swing a sword in this narrow snicket.

They sounded so close now, though they were trying to be quiet. He held his breath, blood thundering in his ears.

Rugan saw the briefest glimpse of the crossbow pass the edge of the doorway and struck. He brought down the pommel of his dagger onto the weapon.

The girl let out a cry of surprise, the crossbow dropping from her hands as she stumbled back on the ice.

She drew her own dagger as Rugan stepped out from his hiding place.

He smirked when he saw her. “Girls always seem to like it when I play hard to get. This is the first time one’s chased me down though.”

She stared at him hard and he could tell she was debating her next move. A dagger’s short reach made it very personal. His arms were longer than hers and he was likely stronger than her too. A knife fight wouldn't go in her favour.

Her eyes darted for her crossbow but he kicked it away just as she lunged to retrieve it. Rugan pulled back to kick again but she was already rolling back to her feet and away from him.

“Don't fancy your odds, lass.”

He supposed she didn't fancy them either because she took off running back the way they'd come.

“Shite.” He hurried after her. It was stupid giving chase but he couldn't risk her going after one of the others. That could turn the tide against them.

Down each winding street and alley he managed to catch sight of her trailing ponytail just as she turned a corner. Ice was more familiar to him, but she was younger, faster.

As he came around the last bend he found himself at a dead end. A glass bottle came crashing down on his hand from another hidden nook and he dropped his dagger. He spun to face her and she leapt forward. Between her momentum and the ice he didn't stand a chance. He landed roughly on his tailbone. Rugan was certain he would feel that for a tenday at least.

The woman came forward and pressed her blade against his throat. “What does Moonrise want with Moonglow towers?” She stuttered. “I mean, Moonglow want with Moonrise?”

Rugan who had never even heard of Moonrise towers could only shrug. “Family reunion?” Moonrise certainly sounded like a halfling sort of town. Moonglow of Moonrise—that checked out.

“Don’t toy with me, you Zhent bastard!”

“If you insist.” There was a strange sound like the soft thud of metal on leather.

The woman squinted in confusion, as she felt a warm sensation starting at the corner of her mouth and pooling down her chin. She touched her fingers to it, and her eyes widened when they came away red. She stumbled back from him, only with the space now made between them did she see the bolt sticking out from between her ribs.

“Now a hit like that? It’d be a slow bleed. Could be someone would even find you in time.” Rugan stepped toward her, easily twisting her wrist and forcing the woman to drop her blade as he continued. “That’s why I feel it’s usually best to let the poison do most of the work.”

The woman stumbled back, bracing herself against the wall with one hand, the other grasping at the bolt futilely. She was doubling over, gasping.

Bellar came into view then, dragging a dazed cleric by the scruff of his robes.

“Harpers.” He stated matter of factly, and tossed Rugan a small silver pin with his free hand. It was a harp resting on a crescent moon. “Think we've mopped them all up.”

Rugan looked from the pin to the girl. “Now why don't you tell us what this is about, and we'll let your friend fix you up. Always a shame to kill a pretty girl.”

She hissed and sucked in a breath. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet sucking sound. Based upon the dark scowl she wore Rugan doubted she would've been forthcoming in any case. 

He sighed, hands on hips. “What about you then, priest? Want to save your little friend?”

When the elf did not immediately respond, Bellar clapped him against the ear to break him from his daze. He gave a cry of surprise and looked from one Zhent to the other.

“Tell us why you attacked us, and I'll let you heal the girl.”

“You're Zhents.” It sounded halfway like a question. The idiot only had half of his sense knocked back into him. Rugan looked to Bellar who clapped the elf again. Another startled yelp which Rugan would laugh about later over a pint.

“Lot of trouble to kill a few Zhents, and people say we're the rotten ones. Haven't even committed a crime.” At least not on this job.

The woman gave another wheezing gasp and Rugan looked from her to her companion. “You'd better hurry up, seems she doesn't have that much longer.”

“T-the delivery for Moonglow. She's smuggling things out of Moonrise towers. Weapons go in and something else comes out. Something worse, something secret.”

“And you expected us to know?” Rugan was utterly astonished.

“Your delivery was supposed to come from there. You're supposed to know, you're the leader.” It was as if the elf was pleading, begging for it to be true.

“You put a lot more faith in caravan guards than the Zhentarim does, lad. We've no idea what we're transporting. You would've been better off just breaking into the warehouse to take a peek yourself.”

The elf looked defeated and Rugan couldn't blame him. How many of the elf’s party were dead or wounded for this misstep? Another sigh and a shake of the head.

“Where’s our buyer, then?”

“Dead.” The priest flinched when he said it, as if expecting a reprisal.

“Dead?” Rugan raised his eyebrows., These Harpers were more cutthroat than he thought.

“He was like that when we got there!” The priest protested. “We only found his journal about where to expect a message and the price to be paid.”

“And you didn’t think that was suspicious?” A wry smile twisted his lips.

“Cassyn thought it was our good fortune.”

Rugan let out a laugh that was half relief and half amusement. Ambushed by Harpers, and they weren’t even particularly smart Harpers. Green and over eager.

“Cut him loose.” 

Bellar shoved the priest towards his companion with a smirk. The Zhent had gotten in his share of violence in today and would be in a good mood for a while.

“Now don't say we haven't been reasonable.” Rugan turned to leave, Bellar in tow, as the elf scrambled to lay his hands on his gasping friend.

“Oh, and if you're thinking of shooting us in the back—” A deadly lilt entered Rugan's voice as he glanced back at the pair over his shoulder. “Don't forget our friends are still about.”

The pair of Zhents walked off without any further incident, and rejoined with Olly and Sal at the pre-appointed meeting spot at the docks.

“Handy thing, that,” Sal said as he removed Izzy's ring of climbing from his finger and handed it back to Rugan. 

“Indeed.” He placed it on his own hand without looking. “Lead on to the warehouse then, lads. Let's go see what all the fuss is about.”

+++++

The quartet had discussed the attempted ambush on the trip over, supplying each other with the details of each encounter and fitting in the missing pieces.

“Seems like those Harpers knew more about our delivery than we do,” Bellar complained as he pulled open the doors to the warehouse. There were a half dozen wooden crates stacked haphazardly in the centre of the room. Rugan suppressed the urge to comment on the lads’ lack of organisation.

“What I want to know is—” He grunted as climbed to the top of the stack. “—What's in these fucking crates. Hand me a crowbar, Bellar.”

“We're not supposed to look in there!” Olly hissed.

“Here.” Bellar handed the crowbar up to Rugan.

“My thanks.”

“Is no one listening to me?” Olly looked like he might burst a vessel.

"No, Rugan's right," Sal interjected. "This whole job's smelled worse than Brem from the very start. We need to know, Olly."

Rugan wedged the bar under the lip of the crate and with a groan, pried it open. The crate was packed tight with straw, but as Rugan pulled it back he could find nothing at all. Finally at the bottom he found a pair of bricks.

Rugan lifted them from the crate for the others to see. He was met with looks of confusion.

“Open the rest, lads. Sal keep an eye on the door.” He tossed the bricks aside and set to opening the next crate. 

More bricks. Cussing from Bellar and Olly. They had found boulders and slag in their respective crates.

“What the hells is all this?” Olly asked.

“Junk,” supplied Bellar, he was also confused but starting to put it together.

“It's all just to weigh it down, make us and anyone else think it was a legitimate delivery.” Rugan ran his hand over his hair as he considered the implications of their findings.

“But if it's not a legitimate delivery, then what is it?”

“Bugger,” breathed Sal as he was coming to the same conclusion Rugan had already come to.

“It's bait, lad. Or more accurately, we were bait.”

“But on whose behalf?” Asked Bellar.

“Moonglow. They were asking about her and she signed off on this delivery. Either we’d kill them and remove an obstacle for her, or they’d kill us and find nothing but junk. She's probably got another team running her actual delivery.”

“It's not a very nice feeling being bait.” Olly muttered.

“Exactly why they didn't tell us.” Bellar laughed, more intrigued than angry.

“Do you think Zarys knew?” Sal pointed this question at Rugan.

“Hard to say, she doesn't like losing people but she’d like getting eliminated by Roah for insubordination even less.”

“Roah fucking Moonglow. You have to admit it was a good plan,” Bellar chuckled and shook his head.

Sal made a face. “Please try to sound less impressed with the woman who set us up.”

Rugan climbed down from the stack and wiped his hands on his pants as he mulled over the events of the past day. The Harpers had known he was in charge, it was him they had questioned, and they hadn’t struck until he had rejoined the group. Had Roah leaked that to them? Or had they been watching their crew since before Crimmor?

“Damn near died dragging this delivery from Nashkel and it’s all junk.” Rugan found himself laughing at the absurdity of it. He was increasingly feeling like it was time to retire.

He noted Olly watching him with a troubled expression and waved off his concerns. “It’s fine. We came out in one piece, didn’t we? Still, I’ll feel better the sooner we’re out of this damned city. Let’s get back and pack. We’re shipping out on the first boat to the Gate.”

‘And I’ll have to have a chat with Zarys about this when we return,’ he thought bitterly.

[carriehobbs]

Netflix and Chill

I know that the MC wakes up in their own room at the beginning of Chapter 3 in Blood Moon (by @barbwritesstuff), but I've always had this image in my head of my Marco-romancing MC, Mia, falling asleep with him while watching Netflix at the end of Chapter 2. So I wrote about it.

After an exhausting night finding Carrie, bringing her back to the den, and meeting with the Alpha, Mia and Marco watch a documentary. Marco/MC, 1417 words.

Read it on AO3

“This octopus here has sustained damage to one if its nerves. As a result, the octopus can no longer change the colour of its skin, which is controlled by cells called chromatophores. The Octopus vulgaris, or common octopus, however, will regain control over its colouring as the damage to the impacted nerve is naturally repaired over time,” the documentary’s narrator explains as the camera zooms in close on the image of a lone octopus sheltered in a cluster of underwater rocks. The skin of the octopus’s mantle is a milky white in stark contrast to the speckled brown of its arms.

For a second all Mia can think about is the stray, down on the ground in the dirt by a rusty swing set. The taste of rotten blood. Pale skin under ugly, flickering streetlights.

Mia reaches up abruptly to adjust the angle of the laptop screen. Marco shifts slightly beside her, his weight pushing down on the cheap mattress.

It’s only been about twenty minutes since their documentary started. The laptop rests on Marco’s stomach, balanced precariously and with its screen tilted ever so slightly more towards her than him. Marco’s blankets are kicked haphazardly to the foot of the bed, shoved away when they’d settled against Marco’s flattened old pillows, and his right earbud sits uncomfortably in her left ear. Mia feels the prick of cool, early-morning air on her exposed skin where her shirt rucks up on the right side. This moment is still a million times better than the cold patrol or the crammed ride home or the awkward report to the Alpha that followed, though that’s mostly because of the way she can bask in the warmth of Marco pressed flush against her, side-by-side from toe to shoulder.

“You still watching?” Marco asks softly, jostling her as he tries to glance down without jabbing her in the forehead with his chin. It’s the first time either of them has spoken since Marco pressed play.

“Yeah,” Mia mumbles. She leans her head against his shoulder, crown against bone, and watches the octopus crawl out from its hiding place between two rocks.

“I wouldn’t blame you, you know,” he says, but Mia can practically hear the smirk he must be wearing on his stupidly handsome face. “I’m pretty fucking tired too.”

Mia blinks, slow and heavy. “’m not tired.”

Marco laughs, a quick breath out through his nose that is more like a strong exhale than anything else, but he doesn’t challenge her claim.

They settle into relative silence again, their quiet breaths only interrupted by the documentary narrator’s voice coming tinny and uneven through their earbuds. Marco doesn’t normally let their movie nights get this quiet; usually she has to shush his stream of commentary during what he considers to be the boring parts of the movie. It’s nice, though, to sit here with him and feel his every breath through where she touches his shoulder. If she listens closely enough, she can pretend to hear his heartbeat.

While their movie nights are fairly frequent, they’re hardly ever planned more than a few hours in advance. They’re typically prompted by Marco, who drops the suggestion apropos of nothing in the middle of a conversation over lunch or on patrol or really any time it’s just the two of them. Mia always agrees and flushes warm all over in a way that makes her feel so obvious and girlish. Then he smiles that wide, familiar smile and she schools her hands into fists in her jacket pockets so that she doesn’t reach out and ruffle his hair or touch his shoulders or his jaw or his mouth with her mouth. Later, they hunch over Nikolas’s DVD collection and debate which movie to watch and her pick almost always wins.

Some nights, when the pack is asleep, they sequester themselves with Marco’s laptop in one of their bedrooms the same way they’ve hidden away tonight. Mia’s favourites, though, are the nights where they commandeer the TV and the use-worn bottle green couch in the den’s living room.

On those nights she has to sit so close to Marco in order to share the popcorn that she can feel the warm, solid press of his thigh against hers through their jeans and smell the scent of laundry detergent and his cheap cigarettes on his clothes. Sometimes, blissfully, they even fall asleep there on the couch, wrapped up together in the same blankets. These nights are the closest anything’s ever come to being perfect, even if she has trouble looking her packmates in the eyes the next morning because of the creeping, itching feeling along her skin that they can see through all her transparent excuses.

Mia subtly turns her face in to Marco’s shoulder and inhales with eyes fluttering shut, long and deep and slow. Laundry detergent and cigarettes. Even after tonight, he’s still her Marco.

“I can turn it off if you want,” Marco offers and for a foggy-brained second Mia doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“I’m watching,” she insists once she catches up.

Mia rolls to her left, in towards where Marco’s weight dips the mattress, and accidentally kicks his blankets the last few inches off the end of the bed where they land with an almost inaudible thump on the floor. As she settles again, she manages to resist the urge to drape her arm, heavy, across his body and pull him in close until she’s wrapped around him and can keep him near her forever. It’s a very near thing.

A few suspiciously-long seconds pass before Marco speaks again. “Your eyes are fucking closed. You can’t see anything.”

“No,” Mia lies, eyes closed.

“You’re totally not watching.”

“I’m listening.”

“Bullshit. If you’re watching, then what’s happening?”

“Shh,” Mia hushes. “I’m listening. You’re being too loud.”

“Bull-fucking-shit,” Marco repeats toothlessly while Mia presses her face firmly down into his shoulder even though it squishes her nose.

When Mia blinks her eyes open again, still lethargic and slow, it’s against the soft dawn light filtering past Marco’s thin curtains. Marco is fast asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly and evenly under her head and her palm, which is curled into the fabric of his shirt over his pectoral. Marco’s laptop lays abandoned on his stomach; the screen is dark.

For a second Mia just watches him, trying to commit to memory the way the stillness of sleep transforms his expression into something peaceful, so different from the bright smiles he usually lets her see. Then she slowly uncurls her hand from Marco’s shirt and smooths out the wrinkled fabric. Her face feels embarrassingly hot and she hopes that Marco had at least already been asleep before she grabbed at him like a child clinging to a favourite toy in the night. Not tonight, she had promised him, and she had meant it.

Mia closes the laptop and places it gently on her abandoned side of the bed, the space still warm and inviting, before slipping to the door as quietly as she can. Slowly she turns the doorknob and pulls the door open, glancing behind her one last time at Marco’s sleeping form. He hasn’t even stirred. Mia closes the door behind her with equal caution, gently settling the door back into its frame before turning the doorknob to prevent it from clicking as the mechanism latches.

Her trip one door down the hall to her own room is mercifully short. She strips off her day clothes perfunctorily as soon as the door is closed, leaving them abandoned in a heap in the middle of her floor to be dealt with later. She wriggles into a pair of worn cotton sleep shorts and an oversized, hand-me-down t-shirt and flops inelegantly down onto her own bed, paradoxically less comfortable than when she’d woken. Mia huffs a slow, deep sigh and drags a pillow towards herself to cling to before closing her eyes again. Hopefully she can eke out a few more hours of sleep before she has to deal with the pack, the stray, and the fallout from the night before. She lays her head down on the edge of the pillow, what little of it isn’t clutched in her arms. It’s a poor substitute for Marco just one room over, she can’t help but think as sleep drapes like a thick blanket over her, but maybe, just maybe, she will only have to make due with pillows for a little while longer.

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

(1) The fact about octopus’ nerve regeneration doesn’t actually come from a documentary, it comes from Imperadore, P., Parazzoli, D., Oldani, A., Duebbert, M., Büschges, A., & Fiorito, G. (2019). From injury to full repair: nerve regeneration and functional recovery in the common octopus, Octopus vulgaris. Journal of Experimental Biology, 222(19), 1-11. doi.org/10.1242/jeb.209965. I believe there were a few documentaries about octopuses released in 2019, but, as it turns out, I’m much better at finding journal articles than I am at finding documentaries online. I don’t know what kind of documentary Mia and Marco would have had to be watching to learn this information, but hopefully it interests someone.

(2) I’ve always pictured the pack as having a (sort of musty) old green couch for some reason. The pack’s musty green couch is a real Blood Moon character to me.

(3) The image of Mia and Marco falling asleep on the couch during their movie nights was inspired by this piece of art by @/toads-treasures here on tumblr.

[thewolfno11-blog-blog]

Random thoughts/headcanons/questions that keep me sane until the next chapter Of Exorcist wo Otosenai. (Sort of) Part 1

Originally I posted this on the wiki's discussion page, but I figured it might be entertaining enough for here. Albeit, with a few changes.

I want to see Mammon again. I honestly miss that dude. Like I get why his arc was so short because the manga was still in its uncertain phase. Still wish to see more of him.

I mean Tachibana is still going at it. Still, it is a surprise she's helping the witches of all people, but you go girl.

Also really want to know what all of his rings do and their combination.

Speaking of witches what's up with that ancient witch making deals and tricking demon lords? Wonder if it has anything to do with Walpurgis Night? Anyway, I look forward to learing more from her in the future.

You know it is weird how we have almost no mention of Lucifer. The only two times were Father-kun way back in the beginning and when Beelzebub was getting his ass kicked. And even those times were very brief.

What if they are hiding in plain sight? Like as an exorcist? (Looks at Mikhail, Aleksandra and Marco) .....Nah. Would be quite the twist though.

You know it’s pretty interesting that for the demon lord of Wrath, Satan is pretty chill.

....

That guy is going to go ape-shit when he's reborn, isn't he?

Side note: How long has it been since his last rebirth? It feels like it's a lot longer than compared to all the other demon lords. Or at least that's the impression I am getting.

Are the witches Cyril and Eskrine gay for each other?

In general, it would be nice to see Father-kun have an okay relationship with one of the sins aside from Leviathan. Hopefully with Belphegor.

What the hell do angels do in this world? Not like they actively help exorcists out.

Will there ever be a chapter about Leah's funeral?

Calling it now, the demon lord's irises match that with the color their sin usually is associated with. Wrath - Red, Gluttony - orange, Greed - yellow, Envy - green, Sloth - light blue, Lust - dark blue, and Pride - purple.

I wonder if Barbara's face looks beautiful or is slightly disfigured.

Wonder when Father-kun will call in that favor Leviathan offered. My headcannon is that when Father-kun realizes his feelings for Imuri, she gets injured and ends up in Gehenna. So he asks Leviathan for help to go to her.

I honestly just want an arc where we travel through Gehenna.

Why is Marco such a fanboy of Father-kun?

At first, I thought Father-kun's name would be like an anagram of Jezus, but what if his name was like Judas instead?

We have not seen a chapter title for part 2 of the chapter "Masses of Trash" yet. ....I am worried.

[steddie-as-they-come]

blame it all on human nature - chapter two

ao3 link || part one

☆Saturday, March 29th, 1986☆

The next morning, Wayne drops him off back in Hawkins, informing him that he’s gonna try to find a job in the next town over. 

“Call me when you can.” he says gruffly, which is weird because Eddie’s twenty and Wayne’s been letting him run around Hawkins like a wild child for long before that. 

End of the world does strange things to everyone, Eddie supposes. 

He straps his guitar over his shoulder and drapes his jacket over his arm. Wayne hesitates, then hugs him again. Eddie hugs back. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets as Wayne drives away, turning to look up at the driveway to the Henderson house. 

Eddie had driven Henderson home from Hellfire enough times to know where the kid’s bike was supposed to be when he was home. Dustin‘s bike is gone from its normal spot, leaning against the garage door. 

He walks casually around the side of the house. Dustin’s neighbors are far enough away that no one will see him and call the cops like “Yes, hello? A zombie serial killer is walking up my neighbor’s driveway. I think he’s looking for his next victim!” 

Turns out, he doesn’t need to worry about that. 

The entire backside to the Henderson’s house is collapsed. Planks and crumbling drywall are scattered everywhere. 

Eddie barrels into the wreckage. “Henderson!” he shouts. “Henderson, where are you?” He rips into a pile of bricks. “I swear to god if I saved you from bats and you got killed by debris, I’m gonna kick your ass!” 

As he’s poking around more, he begins to notice something. 

It seems…empty in here. 

Now, Eddie’s never been in Dustin’s house, but he’s pretty sure Claudia Henderson doesn’t keep the phone lines or fridge unplugged, and there’s no signs of a frantic escape. There’s footprints in the dust that definitely don’t belong to Eddie. It’s like neither of them were in the house when it collapsed, but came back later to pack up their stuff and take care of the utilities. 

Look at him. A regular Sherlock Holmes. 

Eddie sighs and turns on his heel, exiting the house. He doesn’t know where anyone else lives. Besides Steve Harrington, of course. And I’m not about to walk up to the Harrington household and possibly face the wrath of the parents of the former King. 

But Steve and Robin did still work at Family Video, right? He’d try there. And if he happened to run into any of his little sheepies on the way, all the better. 

No such luck, unfortunately. 

But he catches a glimpse of Steve and Robin, both looking bored as hell, slumped over at the counter in Family Video. 

“Man, do you guys see people die so often that it’s just a boring day back at work two days later?” Eddie announces, swinging open the door. 

“Holy shit!” Robin squawks, and Steve plants his hands and vaults the counter, landing squarely on his feet in Eddie’s path. 

Eddie takes a surprised step back. “Chill, man. I’m not gonna hurt you-“

Steve wraps him up in a hug. It’s brief, but it’s nice. And awkward. 

“Didn’t know we were that close, Harrington.” Eddie straightens his jacket, realizing that they’re the same clothes he almost died in and has been wearing for days. There’s not much worse they can get, honestly.

“No, it’s just -“ Steve rubs his neck, looking embarrassed. “Dustin’s gonna be so happy to see you.” 

Robin appears at Steve’s side. “Eddie! I can’t believe it- how are you even alive!” 

Eddie coughs. “My injuries weren’t as bad as everyone thought, apparently.” It’s weak and he knows it, but neither Steve nor Robin seem in any mood to argue the point. “Have you seen any of the kids? Can’t find ‘em at Dustin’s house, and that’s basically the only place I know where to look.”

Steve raises his hand halfheartedly. “Shitheads are all at my place. Turns out, a perk of having rich parents is that when the center of town blows up, our neighborhood is far enough out of the way to not be too affected.” He sneaks a look at the clock. “Hey, me and Rob are out of here in a couple hours, wanna stick around and we’ll drive you up there?”

Eddie shrugs and leans against the counter. “As long as you don’t mind a wanted man hanging around your shop.” 

“Course not!” Robin socks him on the shoulder playfully. “You’re not wanted anymore, Munson, everyone thinks you’re dead. Matter of fact, neither of us want to deal with customers, so maybe you’ll scare them away.”

Eddie sticks his fingers up at the sides of his head like horns and flicks his tongue out. Steve chuckles. “That’d work on me.”

True to form, for the rest of the shift, as soon as a customer comes in (not often), Eddie just looks at them and they turn white and back out. Steve and Robin cackle harder, like twin hyenas, every time it happens. 

Through the window, Eddie sees Jeff looking at him. Except, it’s not Jeff. He can tell by the blurry shape. He waves at Hawkins, offering them a cheeky smile.

“Who’re you waving at?” Robin asks, draping her whole entire body across the counter to see out the window. 

Eddie jerks a thumb at Hawkins. “Jeff’s out there. Just sayin’ hi.” 

“I don’t see him.” Steve says, standing up from where he was reorganizing the horror section. He casts a glance outside, directly at where Hawkins is standing. “Where?”

“He…must have walked off.” Eddie says slowly. He looks back at Hawkins, who grins and spreads their fingers…then vanishes . 

It’s only through sheer self-control that Eddie doesn’t jump when Hawkins disappears and reappears, blinking in and out of existence. 

They finally poof back into visibility, wiggling their fingers like they just did a magic trick, and Eddie understands. For reasons only known to Hawkins, Eddie is the chosen one, the only one able to see them. 

They disappear for good in the time it takes Steve to get back around the counter, and Eddie pulls himself up to sit on top, turning his attention back to Robin and Steve. 

In between customers, Steve tells Eddie how Dustin hijacked the computer to find him, with Robin jumping in to add her two cents every so often. 

Steve slings his keys around his finger as the three of them pack up to leave. “Kids are ith me because I normally drive them to school anyway, and their parents are either busy with work or busy with moving out. Rob’s staying at mine too, since she really wants to finish out senior year and her parents left town. Joyce and Hopper are in town, but they’re in the cabin out in the woods, so there’s not enough room for Will and El. Nancy and Jonathan left town - separately - to get away from the whole…” He gestures out to the fire and general destruction. 

Eddie nods solemnly, then blanches. “Wait, school’s still open? It’s the fuckin’ apocalypse out here!”

Steve laughs. “Yeah, man. Nothing short of the sun burning out is gonna close Hawkins High.” 

“Ugh.” Eddie groans. “I was really hoping I’d be able to escape going to school after my near-death experience.” 

“What happened to ‘eighty-six being your year?” Steve teases. 

Eddie splays his hands, the chill of early spring nipping under his collar as they walk into the parking lot. “Faced the terrifying reality of death.” Met a god, he wants to add, but Hawkins can decide for themself whether to reveal what had really happened to Eddie down there. 

“Now me personally,” Steve starts, watching Robin hurry ahead of them. “I’m more afraid of English homework than death.” 

Eddie’s cut off from whatever he’s about to say by Robin rapping her knuckles against Steve’s car. “Dingus, open up!”

Steve clicks the button and the car unlocks, allowing Robin to slide in the passenger seat. 

“I’ve got best friend privileges.” she brags as Eddie hops into the back. 

Eddie wasn’t expecting anything else, but he plays along anyway. “Oh, I fought my way out of the Upside Down, came back from the dead, and entertained you both for two hours, and I still don’t get shotgun? This is frankly unfair, Stevie, and I deserve better.”

Steve snorts, pulling out of the parking lot. “Nice try, Munson, but I doubt even God could get Rob out of her rightfully earned best friend seat.”

Want me to find out? Eddie almost says, but clamps his mouth shut. Dammit, all this secret keeping is ruining his witty one-liners!

A heavy metal beat begins to pound through the speakers, and Eddie sits up. “Steve, I didn’t know you had actual taste in music!” 

“Hardy har har, this is Mike’s.” Steve says, swiftly ejecting the tape. “Rob, put that in the glove compartment, please.”

“Yeah, I fought Dustin for this seat, by the way.” Robin tells Eddie, taking the tape from Steve, and Eddie forgets to be upset about the tape in favor of being impressed. 

“You fought Dustin for the passenger seat? And won? ” he says. “Holy shit, Buckley.” Robin preens. “And Steve, does that mean I have a chance at Dusty-buns’ favor?”

“Not a chance in hell, Munson.” Steve smoothly avoids a giant pothole (sinkhole?) in the road and drives up his driveway. “Brace yourself, by the way, because if you’ve got any lingering injuries, they’re about to get very aggravated.”

As he hops out, Eddie surreptitiously pats his side where the bats gutted him like a fish. “All clear. I’m ready to face the armies.”

“This might honestly be scarier than the bats.” Robin says, following Steve up to the door. 

“Hey, at least the kids don’t have rabies,” Eddie jokes. 

Steve shrugs. “Eh, jury’s still out on Mike.” He unlocks the door and shoves it open. “Shitheads, we’re home!”

“We’ve got a guest!” Robin adds. 

No response, except for a scattered grumble of acknowledgement coming from down the hall - the living room, if Eddie’s hazy memories of Harrington parties are to be trusted. Steve makes to storm in that direction, but Eddie catches his arm, stopping him. 

He cups his hands over his mouth. “HEY HELLFIRE!”

A moment of heart-stopping, agonizing silence. 

Eddie grins. 

Predictably, the first one to reach them is Dustin. He stops and stares, then flings himself at Eddie, sobbing. Eddie catches him, smoothly lowering them both to the ground. 

Lucas follows just after, and then Mike, the two of them collapsing into the growing pile of Hellfire members. Dustin’s crying, Mike’s silently just staring at him, and Lucas is excitedly babbling, asking four million questions a minute. Eddie can see two more kids in the back, looking sort of awkward. One of them he recognizes as Will Byers, but he doesn’t know the other one, a brown-haired girl. 

Eddie lets the Hellfire kids sit there for a little bit, trying to hold back his own tears. 

He struggles to his feet (Dustin is absolutely refusing to let go), and makes his way to the two he doesn’t know as well. 

“Hey, I’m Eddie.” he says, wrenching his arm out from where it’s sandwiched between him and Dustin so he can offer it to the two to shake. “Heard you like D&D.” he directs at Little Byers, who nods. “Love to play with you sometime.”

A wide grin spreads across the kid’s face, and he shakes Eddie’s hand, but not before casting an apprehensive glance at Dustin, who’s clinging like a barnacle to his side. 

“And you are…?” He wouldn’t be very surprised if she says she’s another Byers. She looks just like Will. 

She shakes his hand with a very firm grip. “I am El. You are the long-haired man I saw.”

“You…saw?” Eddie starts to say, before remembering the stories Dustin had told him. “Oh, so you’re Supergirl. Nice to meet you, then.” 

Dustin finally loosens his grip, and Eddie’s able to pry the little octopus off of him. “Hey, I’m alright. You hear me?” He’s talking to Dustin, mostly, but he looks at Lucas and Mike as he talks too. “Not a scratch on me.”

In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t have phrased it that way. Dustin’s tears dry practically instantly as his Science Brain takes over. “What, no way. Look at your shirt!”

Eddie backpedals fast. “What I mean is, not any injuries that you don’t already know about.” he says, a crooked smile crossing his face. Coward, his mind hisses at him. You can’t even tell them the truth . 

“Do you need your bandages changed, Munson?” Steve butts in, all business. “We’ve all got practice, if you need help. Matter of fact, do you even have bandages on?”

Eddie’s always been halfway decent at lying through his teeth. “Yeah, I have some. Wayne fixed me up. I’ll change ‘em later.” 

“Wayne?” Dustin speaks up again. “You found him?”

“Sure did.” Eddie tugs down the collar of his shirt, revealing the guitar pick necklace nestled into his collarbones. “Thanks for getting this to him. Much as I don’t appreciate your grave robbing, I know this meant a lot to him.”

Dustin’s tears are threatening to spill over again, and he nods. 

“Speaking of…” Eddie looks back to Steve. “Mind showing me where the phone is? Should probably tell Wayne I’m staying here.” 

Mike tries to hide it, but Eddie sees the smile and surprise cross his face. “You’re staying?” 

“Sure am! Jesus, this place is probably the safest in Hawkins at the moment.” Eddie says.

The kids all disperse, but not before the Hellfire kids crowd in to give Eddie one last hug. Then they all run upstairs, sharing excited looks. 

“Wreak havoc, sheepies!” Eddie calls after them, ignoring the chuckle from Robin and the dirty look from Steve.

He brings Eddie into the kitchen. “Phone’s there. Listen for clicks, Dustin has a habit of using the other lines to listen in.” 

“Thanks, Harrington.” Eddie picks up the phone, dialing for the operator. 

After a couple redirects, he gets the extension for the hotel room Wayne’s in.  

“Hey, Wayne.” he says into the phone. “I think I’m gonna stay in Hawkins, if that’s alright?”

“Where?” Wayne grunts over the line. “Not gonna stay in that husk of a trailer, right?”

“No, I’m - uh - I’m at the Harrington place.”

“Why? ‘S there a party goin’ on or something?”

Outside the kitchen, Steve tosses Dustin bodily onto the couch, both of them shrieking with laughter. Steve walks into the kitchen and goes quiet at the sight of Eddie on the phone. 

“No, no, the Hellfire kids are all here. Steve’s bringing them to school, and the house is intact.”

Wayne sighs. “I just don’t know how comfortable I am with you staying there, son. I’ve heard your stories about that boy, and if you need me to pick you up, just let me know.”

“No, Wayne, I’m serious. Steve’s a good guy. Well, now, at least.” he laughs. Steve, across the kitchen, blushes, fumbling with the cup of tap water he was filling. Eddie stifles a laugh, then a devilish grin spreads across his face. “You can talk to him if you’d like.” he says, and crosses the room, letting the curlique cord trail behind him. 

“No, no, no-“ Steve mouths, right up until Eddie presses the receiver against his ear. “Hello, Mr. Munson,” he says politely, changing tones so fast Eddie gets whiplash. “Yes, I’m Steve Harrington.”

There’s a pause. “Yes, sir, I’ll make sure.” Another pause. “Of course, si- Wayne, sorry.” He chuckles politely. “Yes.”

He hands the receiver back to Eddie, and takes a sip of water from his glass. Eddie would tease him for drinking lukewarm water if there weren’t so many other things to tease him about just from that one conversation. 

“Okay, you’re right. Nice kid,” Wayne says when Eddie holds the phone back up to his ear. “I'll try to look for some place to live out here, and you just focus on school, alright? I’ll be back for your ceremony.” He laughs. “Eighty-six, right, kid?” 

Eddie chuckles. “Yeah, Wayne. Eighty-six.”

He says goodbye and sets the phone on the holder. 

“I like your uncle.” Steve says conversationally. 

Eddie raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah? What was that? Do you always turn into a weird little robot boy whenever you talk to an adult?” He makes his eyes big and watery and fixes his hair into a sad imitation of Steve’s signature swoop. “Yes, of course, sir .” He fake gags. “I can’t believe you willingly called an adult ‘sir’. And that it was my uncle !”

Steve laughs. “I had to get rid of my King Steve reputation really quick whenever Dustin or any of the kids wanted to stay over. Word of advice: best way to do that is buttering up their moms.”

Eddie looks exaggeratedly down at himself, then back up at Steve. “Think it’s a bit late for that at this point, Stevie.”

Steve puts his hand on his hip and cocks his head, considering. “No, not really.” He holds both hands in front of him, framing him with his pointer and thumb. “Pin back that hair, get you out of that jacket, maybe put you in one of my polos-“

“Absolutely not!” Eddie dodges around Steve and escapes the kitchen, ignoring the roar of laughter from behind him. “Buckley! Henderson! Help me!”

He skids into the sitting room (yikes, the Harringtons have a sitting room and a living room?), panting. 

Robin and Dustin look up from their game of War. Dustin is losing, badly. “What’s wrong, Eddie?” he asks.

“Steve wants to put me in,“ he shudders. “- polo shirts .”

Dustin looks appropriately appalled. “No!”

Robin sets down her pile of cards. “I can see it.” she hums, pursing her lips and tapping a finger against them. 

Eddie gapes at her, scandalized. “I cannot believe you, Buckley. I thought our senior class connection was special .” 

“That’s right.” someone says from the doorway, and Eddie whips around to find Steve leaning against the doorframe casually. “Rob’s always got my back.”

Robin blows a kiss to Steve, and Steve rolls his eyes, but fake-catches it and shoves it into his jeans pocket. 

Dustin makes a disgusted sound. “You two need to get together already.”

“We’re-“ they start to say together, and Dustin joins in. 

“Platonic with a capital P, I know.” he groans, and Eddie gets the sense this is a well-used argument. “But you guys are actually perfect for each other, why don’t you see it??”

Steve and Robin just sorta look at each other. Eddie isn’t privy to their best friend telepathy, but if he had to guess, he’d say Steve might be lacking in the, we’ll say, chest department when it comes to things Robin likes. 

They break eye contact after a couple seconds, and Steve says, “Anyway, I was mostly teasing, Munson. I think if I tried to put you in a color other than blood red or black you’d pass out.”

“Anything for the aesthetic.” Eddie agrees amicably. “However, you’re gonna have to test that theory. I was hoping you’d have something I could borrow to sleep in. Really don’t need to sleep in the clothes I almost died in.” he jokes. 

Dustin full-body flinches , and the few cards he has remaining in his hand scatter everywhere. “Sorry, sorry.” he says quickly, scooping them back up. 

Eddie locks eyes with Steve and quickly makes a mental note: no death jokes in front of Dustin. 

“I think I should have something.” Steve says. “Come on, let’s go check.”

Eddie follows Steve out of the room and up the stairs. “Am I gonna get to see your private quarters, King Steve?” he says, leaning into Steve’s space. 

Steve shoves him away. “Cool it. Robin laughed for a solid fifteen minutes when she first saw it, so I bet your reaction’s gonna be worse, since Robin actually likes me.”

Eddie’s a little hurt - what makes Steve think he doesn’t like him? - but he supposes that’s fair. They did basically meet last week, after all, and it has been a really crazy week, but still only a week. 

Eddie cannot wait to see what this fabled room looks like. 

Steve stops in front of a plain white door. “Please remember I didn’t decorate this myself.”

He opens the door. 

The wallpaper is plaid. 

There are other things in the room, of course, but Eddie can’t stop staring at the fucking plaid wallpaper. 

He starts to chuckle. 

“Here we go,” Steve mutters next to him, crossing the room to his closet and opening the doors. “Hey, Giggles, come grab stuff you need.” He starts tossing clothes onto the bed, and Eddie sits down heavily next to the growing pile, still staring in a mixture of awe and agony at the plaid wallpaper. 

“Sorry about the small selection, Rob insists that her parents took most of her clothes with them so she just steals mine.” Steve turns back to see Eddie still staring at the wall. “Come on, snap out of it!” He waves his hand in front of Eddie’s face. 

“How the fuck did you get laid in here?” Eddie cackles, finally tearing his eyes away from Steve’s horrific wallpaper and looking through the clothes sitting next to him, still laughing under his breath. 

“It was the hair, probably.” Steve says, running a hand through it. 

“Well, I know that’s not true.” Eddie says, grabbing a Hawkins High Basketball Team shirt he deems marginally acceptable. 

Steve actually looks hurt. “Wait, why?”

“‘Cause you’d still be getting dates, that’s why. Unless you’re secretly going steady with Buckley and forgot to mention it?”

“No, absolutely not. We’re-”

“Yeah, platonic with a capital P, I heard downstairs. So something else caused the King’s fall from grace.”

Steve gives him a strange look. “Let’s see here. My friends consist of six middle-schoolers, an elementary schooler, a band geek, my ex-girlfriend, the guy she cheated on me with, and-“ he waves a hand at Eddie. “-a drug dealer that’s now presumed dead. I’d say if King Steve could see me now, he’d try to deck me.”

“And I have no doubt you’d hit back twice as hard with your ax.” 

Steve coughs. “Bat, actually.”

“Come again?”

“I accidentally left her in my car before we went out to the lake- you haven’t met her. Hold on!”

He’s out the door and down the stairs before Eddie can get the chance to ask who “her” is. 

“Where are you going, dingus??” he hears Robin scream. He can’t hear Steve’s muffled response, but Robin yells “ He hasn’t?” and Dustin yells “ What??” 

What is Steve doing? 

“Munson!” Steve barks from downstairs, and Eddie stands up and leaves the room. Will, Mike, and Lucas’s heads poke out curiously from a random room down the hall, and Eddie gives them a little wave, descending the stairs. 

“This was the bat I used when I first fought the demogorgons,” Steve says proudly, holding out a bat with, no lie, motherfuckin’ nails hammered into it. And listen, okay, Eddie’s used to Steve looking like a proud parent, but this is a little excessive. He looks like he birthed that thing. 

On second thought, that would probably hurt. 

…He’s going to stop thinking about this now. 

“Metal, dude.” Eddie whispers, looking closely at it. He feels like he’s in the presence of an heirloom, something important. If this was in a D&D game, he’d ask his players to roll a perception check, to find anything strange or magic about it. 

It seems to be a normal bat, no magic required, but Eddie can see where the grip of Steve’s fingers have worn grooves into the handle, and how comfortable he is holding it, like it’s an extension of him. 

If Eddie thought Steve was deadly before, with only his bare hands or a stolen ax, he would have loved to see Steve with this thing. 

“It’s Steve’s baby .” Dustin coos from the corner, and Eddie’s snapped out of his reverent thoughts. “He keeps it in his car.”

“I never speed anymore,” Steve informs them all, cradling it like a child. “If an officer of the law opened my trunk, they’d find her and like three guns, not to mention the products of that time Max went crazy and stole all her mom’s alcohol to make Molotovs.” 

Robin laughs. “To be fair, a cop would probably think they’re just alcohol bottles.”

“Still, I’m nineteen.” Steve says. “I’m not supposed to have either Molotovs or beer in my car.” He moves back towards the door. “I’ll go put her away. Go look for more stuff.” he tells Eddie. 

Eddie obliges, wincing when he has to see the plaid wallpaper in Steve’s room again. “Jesus, I need to wash my eyes out after this,” he mumbles.

“I don’t have to give you clean clothes.” Steve says, shutting the door behind him as he walks in, now nail bat-free. 

Eddie immediately begins rummaging through the pile on Steve’s bed. “Message received, loud and clear.” 

His fingers brush against something.

“Ooh, what’s this, Harrington?” Eddie coos, pulling a blue shirt from the pile. 

Steve turns around, and his face goes pale. “Nothing, give me that.” He makes a lunge for it, but Eddie pulls it out of reach. 

“Is this a uniform from our very own, formerly beloved ice cream parlor Scoops Ahoy?” Eddie says, reverently running a hand over the collar. “Steve, did you work there?” 

Steve, still trying to snatch it from Eddie, says, “Yeah, it’s where I met Robin. Gimme!”

Eddie holds it up in front of him, trying to picture Steve in the starched white collar and little blue shorts. It’s…an interesting picture, to say the least. “This needs to be cherished, Harrington. I’m discovering new things about you.”

His thumb runs over a suspiciously rust-red stain, like a mini version of the one coating his own Hellfire shirt. “Uh, Steve, please tell me this is ice cream.” 

Steve almost manages to catch the tail of the shirt. “No, it's my blood from when Rob and I were drugged and interrogated by the secret Russian base under Starcourt Mall.” 

Eddie’s so stunned by that comment that Steve seizes the shirt and pulls it away, hanging it back up in his closet. “Wait, seriously?” he says, because Steve has to be joking, right? 

Then again, Eddie almost died in a parallel hell dimension on Friday, so it’s not the craziest thing that’s happened recently. 

“Yeah, man.” Steve says, sorting through the pile to find the offending Scoops shorts and hanging those up as well. “Starcourt blew up for a reason. Me, Rob, Dustin, and Erica deciphered a secret Russian transmission and found a base under the mall, they thought we were spies or something, they drugged us to make us tell the truth, hit us a couple times, you know the drill.”

Eddie stares at him in horror. “I thought I was the fucked up one of the group.”

Steve laughs, passing Eddie a T-shirt. “You got attacked by monsters you had never heard of until last Tuesday, you were the subject of a manhunt, you almost died, and now you’re back through some miracle I refuse to question. We’re all fucked up, Munson.” He spreads his arms. “Welcome to the dysfunctional family!”

Eddie cringes at a bright blue polo, pushing it back into the pile. “Can you guys like, disown me or something? I don’t know if I want to be part of this.” 

“Too late. Trust me, Dustin basically kidnapped me into it.” 

Eddie pulls the ten items of clothing he had deemed non-offensive to his style into his arms. “And you kidnapped Robin into it?”

“Nope, she bullied her way in.” Steve says, folding and returning the rest of his clothes to his closet. “She kinda does what she wants.” 

“I can see that.” Eddie squints at something in the back of Steve’s dim closet. “Wait, hold on-” 

He drops the pile of clothes on Steve’s desk chair and squeezes around Steve to get at the familiar object of clothing. “This is mine!” He tugs his very own battle vest out of the back of Steve’s closet. 

Steve turns fire-engine red. “You left it on the floor of the RV,” he says. “I didn’t know what to do with it, so I kept it.”

Eddie adds it back to his own pile of clothes. “I’m glad it survived,” he admits. “ By the way, where am I sleeping?” 

“Let’s see.” Steve taps his finger to his chin. “Rob’s sharing with El and Erica, the boys insisted on being put together, there’s my room-”

“I don’t mind sharing with you, big boy,” Eddie smirks, feeling a vindictive pleasure as a pretty pink blush covers Steve’s face. 

“Alright, then?” Steve says, and Eddie pulls back, raising his eyebrows. He had not expected that to go anywhere. “As long as you don’t mind, I could set something up on the floor for you.” 

“That sounds fine, as long as this wallpaper doesn’t give me nightmares.” Eddie says, laughing when Steve rolls his eyes. “Thanks, man.” He follows him out of the room.

“Dingbats, come help with dinner!” Steve yells, walking towards the stairs. 

There’s an affirmative response from Robin and Dustin downstairs, but complete silence from the other four Eddie knows are up here. 

Steve gives him a look. “Shitheads, where are you?” he yells again. 

There’s a muffled commotion from down the hall. Eddie and Steve look at each other, and Eddie jerks a thumb at the room he saw the kids in earlier. 

Steve says, in a low tone, “That’s the bathroom. The hell are they doing in there?”

Eddie knows at least Mike and Lucas are little nerds, and probably aren’t getting up to the shit he got up to behind closed doors when he was their age, but he still follows softly behind Steve. 

“Guys?” Steve knocks on the door. “Are you in there?”

There’s a splash of water, and an aborted yelp Eddie recognizes as Lucas. 

Steve taps again. “I’m coming in if none of you respond to me.” he warns, and Jesus Christ, Eddie’s sure he’s heard those exact words exit Wayne’s mouth before. 

Dustin and Robin are obviously wondering what’s taking so long, and Eddie half-turns as he hears them come up the stairs. He notices a quickly-hidden expression of panic cross Dustin’s face. 

Steve tries the knob. “I cannot believe you. Unlock the door.”

There’s a muted click, and Steve swings the door open. 

Four kids shuffle out. Mike’s got a sneer affixed on his face, Will has his head bowed, Lucas looks sheepish (and has water down his front), and El is absolutely soaked. She’s in a t-shirt that looks like a dress on her, and there’s a bandana tied around her head. 

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Explain. Lucas, go.”

“We were trying to wake up Max.” Lucas says sheepishly. “We had El in the bathtub so she could do her sensory deprivation thing.”

Steve purses his lips. “I know Hopper told you guys - especially you, El - not to do that. It could really hurt her.” 

They all nod. Mike speaks up. “But if Eddie came back, maybe Max did too!” he protests.

Steve holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it, okay? Mike, Will, you guys get to set the table. El, Lucas, go change, you’re helping me cook. We’ll be talking about this later.” He sighs. “Dustin, I was gonna put you on dishes duty, but as you’re the only kid who didn’t go behind my back, you don’t have to. I can do them myself.”

Four heads snap up in quick succession to glare at Dustin, and he winces. “I was…the distraction. For you, Eddie, and Robin.” 

Steve throws up his hands. “Unbelievable. Okay, you’re back on dishes. Go. Get moving.” 

Mike and Dustin grumble as they head downstairs, and Will scurries past them with an apologetic look. Lucas and El head into separate rooms to get changed. 

Dinner is spaghetti, and it’s really good, because not only is Steve a badass bat-killing machine, nail bat wielder, and a damn good babysitter, he’s also a cook? 

Dustin clears, washing dishes and grumbling under his breath. Steve manages to wrangle them all to agree to at least stay in their rooms for the rest of the night, though, judging by the various creaks Eddie hears as soon as he and Steve walk into Steve’s room, it doesn’t work. 

Steve sets up a little nest of blankets and pillows on the floor for Eddie. “Here, man. Sorry about the mess.”

Eddie shrugs off his jacket. “It’s fine. I’ve slept in worse.” He toes off his boots and slings the borrowed clothes over his arm. 

“Yeah, I’ve seen your mattress.” Steve turns his back and begins to shuck his shirt. Eddie hastily spins around. Damn jocks and their locker room tendencies. 

He feels slightly awkward changing in a room with King Steve (no, not King Steve anymore, the bat made that very clear), but he does it as fast as possible, collapsing back into the little pile of blankets. 

Steve flicks off the light. “Night, Munson.”

Eddie tugs a blanket up from near his feet. “Night, Harrington.” 

☆Monday, March 31st, 1986☆

The ride to school Monday morning is crowded. Steve’s driving, Robin’s doing her makeup in the front seat, and Eddie’s shoved in the back with El. Will, Dustin, Mike, and Lucas opted to ride their bikes to school that morning, and Steve’s got one hand on his walkie-talkie, waiting for the “Arrived safely,” message from Dustin.

Steve pulls up to the school and hops out. “Alright, I’ll see you guys later.” he says. “Have fun, El!”

El grins at him and climbs out, going to wait by the front doors for the boys to arrive. “We need to get her a bike too.” Steve mumbles, watching her run off.

“Steve Harrington?” someone calls from across the parking lot, and they all turn. A couple of adults are walking towards them, toting overnight bags. 

“Mr. Sinclair, Mrs. Sinclair!” Steve says. “I’m glad to see you’re both safe!” He takes the bags from them and pushes them into his backseat. 

Mr. Sinclair takes his hand and shakes it. “Thank you so much, son. Means a lot that you’re willing to take Lucas and Erica in while we look for a new place.” 

“It’s my pleasure, sir,” Steve says. “I’m glad I’m able to offer somewhere safe.” 

Eddie’s piecing things together. The Sinclairs must have had Erica for the remainder of spring break, and now Steve’s taking her in so she can still go to school here. 

“And who are you?” Mrs. Sinclair says, turning to Eddie and Robin. “Is this your girlfriend, Steve?”

Steve smiles politely. “No, ma’am. Robin and Eddie are two of my best friends. They’re both staying at mine as well to stay safe and finish out their senior year.” 

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Mr. Sinclair says.

Mrs. Sinclair looks closer at him. “Eddie…Have I seen you somewhere before?” 

Eddie shrugs. “I’m not sure.” He doesn’t want to bring up the Wanted posters, since who knows if Lucas and Erica would be able to stay at Steve’s if the Sinclairs recognize him from there. 

Mr. Sinclair’s face lights up. “Oh, honey, he’s from-” The three of them inhale, and Steve takes a subtle step towards Eddie. “-that club Lucas is part of! I’m not sure of the name, but the boys were all part of it and Erica joined last week.” 

Eddie exhales, and smiles genuinely. “Yeah, that’s the Dungeons and Dragons club. I help run it. Lucas is a great kid, and Erica’s a little young to be anything more than a substitute player, but we’ll be honored to have her when she’s older.”

“Good to meet you, Eddie.” Mr. Sinclair says, shaking his hand.

“Again, this is a great help to all of us.” Mrs. Sinclair says. “Steve, if there’s anything, anything at all you need, let us know, okay, hon? We’re driving up to Indy today, but we’ll be back if you need us.” 

“Sure thing!” Steve says, all American apple pie and innocence. Eddie would have never believed this was the same guy who hosted parties every weekend in high school, or the guy who fought off a bat with his bare hands last week.

The Sinclairs say goodbye, and Steve spins around to face Eddie and Robin with his hands planted on his hips. “You are both going to be late for first period.” he says, and oh, would you look at that, Momma Bird Steve is back. “Inside.” 

Robin slings her backpack over her shoulder. “Bye, Steve. C’mon, Eddie. I wanna see the looks on everyone’s faces when you walk back in.” 

Eddie grabs his backpack and his lunchbox. It feels lighter than usual, since he doesn’t have his normal “supplies” in there. He probably won’t be able to get any more, either, since Rick’s boathouse was in the line of destruction caused by Vecna’s portals. 

He can’t count how many double takes he gets as he follows Robin through the doors. Eddie’s not sure how fast the news had spread that he died, but he assumes it must not’ve taken very long, because he’s getting weird looks from everyone . 

Dustin had told him that his name had been cleared posthumously, but it took everyone basically leaving him alone all morning for him to believe it. 

He shuffles his way through the morning, keeping his head down and away from the jocks.

Gareth screams when Eddie walks into the lunchroom. Suddenly, for the second time in twenty-four hours, Eddie’s being tackled under a pile of Hellfire members.

“Guys, guys, I missed you too!” he says into Grant’s chest. “You should’ve known nothing could keep me down for very long.” 

Gareth, Jeff, and Grant have their arms around him. “We couldn’t believe it when we heard the news.” Grant says. “We were sure you were gonna pop back up right after, but you didn’t.”

“Yes I did,” Eddie scoffs. “I’m fine!”

They all detangle themselves, Gareth flipping off the people watching and laughing behind their hands. 

Over Jeff’s shoulder, Eddie spots a familiar set of faces walk into the lunchroom. 

“Sheepies!” he shouts, slinging a leg over his seat at the lunch table and welcoming them all to sit down. Besides the typical crew of Mike, Dustin, and Lucas, Will and El are accompanying them, looking a bit nervous. Will more than El, of course. 

“Hey!” Dustin says, high-fiving Eddie. They all crowd into the table. 

Jeff looks at them all weird. “You’re not even surprised he’s back?” he says. 

Dustin shrugs. “He’s staying with us at Steve’s place.”

Wrong thing to say. Gareth’s face goes steely. “ Harrington ?”

Eddie holds up his hands. “He offered, and his house is out of the way of the destruction, and he’s got all of them!” He waves a hand at the kids. El waves back at him. 

“What about the Munson Doctrine, Eddie?” Gareth asks, and Eddie sighs. 

“Listen, Steve Harrington is…actually a cool dude. I can’t tell you why - like, legally, I'm pretty sure-“ A quick look at all the kids nodding confirms it. “But I'm not in danger, and I’m not staying there against my will.”

Gareth crosses his arms. “If you say so.” 

Eddie looks him directly in the eyes. “I do.”

And it’s probably because Eddie has never been so sincere in his life that Gareth believes him. 

They finish out the day and load into Steve’s car to go visit Max at the hospital, stopping at the elementary school to pick up Erica. 

“I want you all to listen to me.” Steve tells them all, right before they go inside. “We’re going in, two at a time, and we’re gonna say hi and talk to her a bit. I talked to Max’s mom, and she…well, she’s not in Hawkins anymore.”

Eddie doesn’t know Max’s mom, but given the unsurprised expressions on most of the kids’ faces, he can gather that she wasn’t the nicest of people. He also had been on the receiving end of some of Billy’s…everything, and can figure that maybe the environment Max was raised in wasn’t the happiest. 

“So she put Hopper and Joyce in charge of Max, and they told me some stuff. First, El, no powers, remember? She’s delicate. Try to talk quietly, Dustin, Erica. The doctors don’t know if she can hear us, and they don’t know how sensitive her ears are. Pick a buddy, guys, we’ll go in together.” 

Will and El link arms like they’ve got twin telepathy, not even needing to think about it. Robin leans against Steve, who hooks an arm around her shoulder. 

Eddie looks down to find Dustin next to him. He ruffles the kid’s hair and drags him closer. 

Mike and Erica both head in Lucas’s direction, but Eddie notices the tear streaks on his face and heads off Mike, making eye contact with Steve, who’s shepherding Erica gently away too. They push the two of them together, which neither of them look too happy about. Lucas ends up alone, which is probably better for him anyway. 

Steve bends down and whispers something to Lucas, and he nods. A nurse shows up to lead them to her room. 

Eddie and Dustin enter first.

Eddie doesn’t like it in here. It feels like he’s being watched. 

Then the nurse pokes her head back around the corner, edges of her shape now slightly blurred. Her eyes are reflecting eerily like an animal’s, and Eddie realizes he is being watched. 

He waves subtly at Hawkins, who waves back. 

“Hey, Mad Max,” Dustin says quietly. “I hope you wake up soon. Steve says he’ll take us to the arcade and pay for the whole trip if you wake up.” Judging from the look Dustin shoots at him, Eddie thinks Steve probably didn’t say that, but he has no doubt that he absolutely would if Max does wake up. 

“I miss you.” Dustin says. “Don’t tell Mike, but you were always the coolest one of all of us.”

Eddie didn’t know Max well enough, but he can imagine her rolling her eyes, saying Of course I am. 

He thinks he’d really like to truly get to know her.  

Her hand lays motionless on the bedsheets. 

Dustin steps back, letting Eddie walk forward. 

“Hey, Little Red.” he says. His mouth is dry. “Not fair, what happened.”

Not fair , he means, that he made the sacrifice play and yet is walking around fine. Not fair, that Max is a kid who was targeted by a monster. Not fair, that there’s a god outside the door who can’t help her. 

“I think you should get up soon, though,” he says. “Makin’ the party very worried. And you should see Steve!” he whistles incredulously under his breath. “His momma bear mode is overactivated, since you’re not where he can keep an eye on you. Better get home quick, kid.”

They step back, Dustin patting her hand gently one last time, and walk back to the waiting room. 

Will and El go next, and Eddie and Dustin take their seats in the waiting room. Steve’s leg is bouncing, and his hand is in Robin’s, and he’s next to Lucas, eyeing him like he’s afraid the kid is gonna snap. 

After a couple minutes, the Wonder Twins reappear, El now sporting tear tracks on her face. Mike and Erica go in, but take half the time to talk to Max as everyone else did. 

Steve motions Eddie over to his chair and swaps spots with him, leaving with Robin to visit Max. Eddie takes Steve���s seat next to Lucas, resting his arm on the armrest in between them as a silent invitation to talk if he needs it. 

Lucas doesn’t take him up on it, but he relaxes a fraction, still wiping at his face. 

Steve and Robin come back out, supporting each other, and it’s finally Lucas’s turn. 

He goes solo into her room. 

Steve and Robin sit down on either side of him, Steve taking Lucas’s seat. He blows out air, resting his face in his hands. 

“Max’s mom offered me custody of her.” he murmurs, too low for anyone but Eddie to hear. 

Eddie doesn’t think he heard him right. “What?”

He nods. “I came to visit yesterday morning. I wanted to apologize to Max, and see if there was anything Susan - Mrs. Hargrove - needed.” He places the heels of his palms over his eyes. “Turns out, what she needed was for someone to take her daughter off her hands.”

“Holy shit.” Eddie doesn’t even know what to say. “What did you do?”

“Called Joyce - Mrs. Byers.” He balls his fists into his perfect hair, and Eddie’s struck by how tired Steve looks. “I would’ve, but…I’m nineteen. Babysitting Max, or having her stay in my house with everyone else to stay safe, those are fine, but full custody? No judge would’ve sprung for that, not even with every Party parent backing me up.” 

“So…what’s gonna happen now?”

Steve shrugs. “Joyce and Hopper have emergency custody, because she would have become a ward of the state otherwise, but that doesn’t matter much since Max is in the hospital. And…I want Max to live with me. I want her to feel safe.” He chuckles sadly. “I could definitely be a better big brother than Billy.”

“Pretty sure the bar for that one is low.” Eddie offers. 

“Yeah, it’s practically in hell.” He sighs again, looking up at the door leading to Max. “I should go get Lucas.”

Robin lunges across Eddie to grab Steve’s arm. “Don’t you dare.”

Eddie blanches - was she listening to them? - then remembers there’s not a damn thing in this world that Steve would tell him that he wouldn’t tell Robin first. 

“He needs time,” Robin hisses. “You interrupting him will make him pull more stunts like last night, behind your back.” 

“But-“ 

Robin, still draped across Eddie, clutches Steve’s wrist so hard her knuckles turn white. “Steve Harrington, you’re going to sit here and wait until Lucas is done, or so help me-“

Steve glares at Robin, but she glares right back. 

He finally slumps back against the scratchy hospital waiting room chair, and Robin releases him, with a quick apology to Eddie. 

It takes twenty minutes for Lucas to come back out. 

But he does, and his tears are drying on his face, and he holds himself differently. Stronger. 

Eddie is so damn proud of him. 

[altschmerzes]

any clue as to when chapter two of the torture fic might release? Id kill a man for some of that gorgeously written angsty comfort. (in the snippets youve given how itd affecting jack is absolutely tearing at my heart its so good)

it should be pretty soon!! it's getting up there in wordcount, i'm predicting it'll be about the same as part 1. i'm in the finals stretch so my time is extremely strained at the mo but i also tend to work in bursts around essays and exams this time of hear so that doesn't necessarily mean anything XD and regardless, i'm almost done with the term, so my time is my own soon!! regardless: shouldn't be too much longer and then it'll be an. enormous 35k+ or so chapter that is. entirely angsty comfort and traumatic medical evaluation/treatment.

in the meantime, here's a clip from part 2, under the cut along with warnings bc. well. this is the torture fic after all lmao. and bc it's..... a Very Long Clip, it's like, 1k-ish, enjoy :)

(warnings: references/sorta flashbacks to sexual assault a la the hickey thing in part 1, mac is just generally not in a. good state. rn. the trauma is extremely fresh, he's in a lot of pain, and he's just been helped out of the supply closet he was hiding in, and realized jack's seen the injuries that make it a little more obvious he's been sexually assaulted - the bite mark, the hickeys.)

“It’s freezing in here,” Jack mutters.

The sound of his voice makes Mac twitch. It’s not quite a flinch but it’s halfway there at least, and he tries to quell the rattled shivers coursing through his body like spiderweb cracks through ice. He takes a step to the side and leans against the admissions desk, needing support but unwilling to lean against the wall. Glancing down, Mac gathers the ends of his shirt closed as best as he can, trying to shield his torso from the cold and from view.

Movement in Mac’s peripheral vision catches his eye and he looks over. Jack’s found a blanket somewhere, shaking it out and examining it.

“It’s not much, but it’s clean,” he says, walking over with it and stopping a few feet away. “I think Sam left it here for us. Nice of her.”

Mac tries to reach for the blanket but his shoulders won’t let him get that far. He purses his lips to muffle the pained sound he makes, hoping Jack hadn’t heard it.

“Hey, easy, I got it. You just let me do all the work.”

It takes all of Mac’s focused willpower to keep himself from moving, staying still and letting Jack finish crossing the distance separating them with the blanket. Jack lifts it slowly, draping it around Mac’s shoulders. The effect is immediate, blocking the faint draft that seems to have been drifting through the office this whole time and bringing some amount of warmth back to Mac’s chilled body. As his partner continues to adjust it, the folded edge of the blanket touches Mac’s neck and sends an immediate tidal wave of panic through him. He shudders, inhaling sharply and saying, “No, don’t.”

The words are barely comprehensible, a shredded collection of syllables, but somehow Jack understands the problem immediately. He fixes the blanket, rearranging it so that it hangs in a loose drape that doesn’t come into contact with the bruises on Mac’s neck at all. “There you go, that should help some.” For a final touch, Jack tucks the edges together in the front where Mac can hold them himself and be covered, at least from the collarbones down.

The relief at being shielded again, the battered and bleeding skin of Mac’s torso out of sight for the first time since Murdoc started cutting his clothes off, is a heady rush. It’s good as well to finally have some kind of real barrier against the cold that’s surely going to get worse as soon as they head out through the propped-open door. Even so, there are still things that have Mac on edge.

A breeze from the open door shivers through Mac’s hair and across his neck, chilling his skin where the blanket being adjusted low away from his bruised throat has left him vulnerable to the frigid temperatures. He’s acutely aware of the hickey high up almost at his jaw and he pictures it involuntarily. The sight of it in the mirror is seared into his mind, and he wonders how much more livid it looks now. It’s going to be a bad one. The forcible intrusion of the image in the mirror is replaced with the sensation of Murdoc’s head grinding against Mac’s as his teeth scraped skin. He can remember too the hot, insistent pressure of Murdoc sucking at his neck and the slick, wet sounds that accompanied it. Mac cringes and shudders, rolling his head to get the feeling to go away. He needs to dislodge that moment from his mind, but the movement hurts enough to make his breath catch.

“Mac, what’s going on?” Jack’s question is immediate and attentive. The way he watches Mac and doesn’t miss anything is almost a physical weight. “Something feeling worse? Something we need to take care of right now?”

All that Mac can do in response to the questions is shake his head. He can’t speak and it’s not even because of the damage to his wounded throat. It’s because of the way every ounce of Mac’s energy is already caught up in fighting against a memory he can’t break out of, because he can still feel Murdoc’s cheek against his and the wet smear of tears in the friction between their skin. His breath hitches again and the bruises ringing his neck ache.

“Mac, talk to me.”

Another shake of the head. He can’t, he can’t.

“Okay. Okay.” Jack’s voice is a distressed, talking-to-himself mutter, and then it rises back into a directive register, the slightly-too-loud, slightly-too-slow tone of talking to a disoriented and traumatized person. Mac knows that tone. He’s heard it two dozen times over, and it never gets less embarrassing to have it directed at him. “Finding it hard to talk?”

When Mac nods it hurts, but he does it again anyway, nodding harder, needing to convey how very much he can’t speak right now.

“Okay. That’s okay. Do you need anything?”

The question sticks in Mac’s mind like a particularly tricky bit of a physics problem. He can’t do anything to answer it, not really - he shakes his head, then nods, then shakes it again. It’s too complicated to think about, too impossible to answer in his fractured, pathetic state.

“Alright, that’s on me,” Jack says quickly, and his ‘traumatized victim’ voice has slipped sideways a bit into something else, something softer, sadder. It’s a strange thing to hear while he’s supposed to be acting as Agent Dalton - it’s too raw. Too personal. “That was the wrong sorta thing to ask, that’s alright. I’m not mad. Nobody’s mad at you.” The reassurance, despite the way Mac hadn’t even said anything, makes him want to break down all over again. “You don’t gotta think any harder on it. Let’s just get you out to the car, okay?”

Mac is so grateful - for the patience, the care, the fact that he’s been rescued at all and he’s going to get to go home - that his eyes burn and he feels a tear slip down his cheek, followed quickly by another. His face feels wet and tacky, chilled by the periodic rush of winter wind, and the feeling just brings the sense memory of Murdoc’s mouth on his neck back to the forefront of his mind all over again. He cringes, remembering the way he had cried then too, and reaches for his face to wipe the sensation away. Except that Mac’s hands can’t get up far enough, not with the pain in his shoulders and how he’d have to let go of the blanket to reach. A quiet almost-sob catches in his aching throat and he shudders, twitching with the aborted inability to even wipe off his own face.

“Can I?”

When Mac looks up and sees that Jack is right there, closer than he remembered, he leans back at first on instinct. But there’s nothing behind his back, nothing trapping him there, and the hand held up towards his face isn’t grabbing or forcing. It isn’t moving at all, actually. It’s just staying there between them, waiting for Mac’s response to the question.

Just a tiny fraction of a movement, Mac nods. Permission granted, Jack slowly, carefully wipes his cheeks dry with the pad of his thumb and the second knuckle of his index finger - small, tender touches that paradoxically make Mac want to cry even harder. It works, though. It dries his face and is enough to bring him firmly out of the memory, too. The feeling of Jack’s cautious touch, present and real and gentle in the here and now, has displaced the phantom of Murdoc’s invasive assault, bringing Mac back to the current moment and keeping him there.

“You ready to go?”

It takes a moment of blinking at him, suspicion and anxiety stringing a high violin note through Mac’s lungs, but scrutiny of Jack’s face and voice doesn’t turn up any kind of trick. It’s just a question, and all he seems to want is an answer.

“Yeah,” Mac rasps, and then it’s his turn to be studied until Jack nods, having evidently not found anything objectionable in his searching either.

[astranite]

Funny story: today I rescued a chicken.

This got kinda long but it is fairly funny and has a happy ending. Also there is Thunder and Birds involved, but not in the usual way. And I have no one to give the blow-by-blow account of the saga to, and I Need to Tell Story. So dear friends, *drags you to sit around my figurative fireplace* enjoy my tale!

(Minor warning of reference to past animal death.)

Because the universe really does have a sense of humour, this all started when I was sitting outside, because it was a nice sunny day, while reading @gaviiadastra's 'Chicken Dad' series. (its great, Im only 5 chapters in, go read it!)

And then I hear loud chicken clucking noises. Which I am understandably very surprised to hear. There is some *looks at laptop* *looks up again* "What the fuck???"

So I go out to investigate. I find a chicken. A very cute, fairly large black hen with the slightest green sheen to her feathers. In all likelihood a Black Australorp.

Outside my yard, just chilling. And still bok-bok-boking loudly.

And I'm like, "huh." And wow, that was not just my imagination.

Now backstory time: My family used to keep chickens, a small flock of them living happily in our yard. I loved them very much, and I kinda still miss them even though it was years ago now. They also had ridiculous triple-barrel names.

Tragic backstory time: One of our chickens got eaten by a fox. (it was extremely upsetting, the chicken was our friend.)

There are also a whole bunch of outdoor cats around the neighbourhood, and a highway nearby, and generally a lot of dangers to escapee chickens. So I'm understandably pretty worried about this chook, because its also lateish afternoon and will get dark. And just leaving it there really doesn't fly with me.

Time for the rescue plan: I'm going to catch that chicken, then figure out where it lives and return it. Because I vaguely remembered some neighbours keeping chickens, and a door knock around should point me in the right direction. (Or if not, I get to keep chickens again, y'know, if it still needs a good home.)

I put shoes on, because stomping around in my slippers is likely ill advised, grab a crust of bread because it the best chicken attracting thing i can quickly find, and yell to a family member where i'm going, getting the underwhelming response of, "Uh huh, sure."

Plan A: Lure chicken close to me with bread and catch it once it is in arms reach.

There is some throwing of pieces of bread, me making inviting clucking noises (actually one of my talents, I have fooled people with it before,) me staying very still, the chicken slowly coming closer.

Eventually the chicken is pecking the bread piece from my hand. I take my moment. My fingertips brush feathers. The chicken runs off. Note to self: chickens are fast and I'm very out of practice at chicken nabbing.

Takes two through like eight or something: Lure chicken in, gain its trust, wait until it gets really close, then catch it.

And nope. The chicken is having None Of That. It still gets a fair bit of bread bits, thrown out around me. And its having a merry old time, wandering around, pecking at grass, and being adorable. (I really like chooks, they're cute.)

By this point my butt's gone numb and my shitty knees are Complaining. And I've been at this more than half an hour, like seriously, this chicken has mastered the art of 'close enough for snacks, but not close enough to get got.'

And I am Very Patient (in some circumstances, such as these, though not all), but I can also hear thunder as a storm is coming in. And this clearly isn't working. And the chicken is wandering away. And I'm at least ten times its size and supposedly the cleverer one here.

So onto Plan B: Get me close to the chicken. Catch the darned chicken.

I get up, shove the bit of bread in my pocket, stretch, then calmly walk after the chicken. Because panicky chicken could definitely out-sprint me. And we're gonna avoid that. I'm also hoping the whole 'persistence predator' thing pays off.

Additional context notes: I live right next to a park. Sort of. There's several metres of rocky cliff between the row of houses and the park. And a narrow strip of land between said cliff and houses. Which is where me and the chicken are, of course.

So there is the additional difficulty of 1) dont chase chicken off cliff (the chicken would be fine, its only couple of metres high and it has unclipped wings. Also would be new problem of chicken running loose in big park.) 2) dont fall off cliff because i dont want to explain it to family/curious strangers/paramedics that this was all because of a chicken.

There is a lot of very careful manoeuvring. Some tactical retreats because that chicken really likes that cliff edge. An amount of bush bashing. Some strategic climbing of slopey parts where it's not so cliff steep. I run into sticks and tree branches and spiderwebs. I Follow That Chicken.

There is a stand off. A rout. I direct the chicken towards the houses and manage to corner it with a fence. And then I've got an armful of somewhat flappy chicken until I get the wings under control. Then I've just got a chicken. A very sweet chicken who is now pretty chill with being held.

Return of the Chicken: It's the first house I go to. I ring the bell, no one answers. I wander round the side a bit thinking maybe I ended up at the back door with all the chicken chasing. A dog spots me in the window and starts barking. So I stand there to wait for that to get someone's attention because I'm 90% sure its the right house.

Person appears in window. Me: *waves* *points at chicken*

Epilogue: It was confirmed that the chicken belonged there. The person was very grateful for the return of their chicken. And wasn't too put out by a rando showing up at the door with a chicken in their arms. Me in my red chequered flannel and possibly covered in leaves. The chicken did not have a name, I asked. I suggested Jailbreak as a suitable one.

I gave the chicken one last pat then handed her over (somewhat reluctantly. She was a very soft, fluffy, lovely chook) (and I named her.) (I really miss having chickens, if you can't tell that already.)

I went home and after a while it stormed, seriously like right on top of us with no break between thunder and lightning. Very glad I got the chicken before that. And got inside. I also won't tell you how long it took to find the bread still in my pocket but I'm very glad it didn't go through the wash. Now I blogged on tumblr about it.

And so the chicken rescue saga comes to an end, with all parties safe and dry and no one even fell off a cliff. Also I got to hold a chicken and that was a major win for my day!

*THE END*