#she's full of piss and vinegar

[bloodyweeds]

smol local cat causing an uprise while slaying dragons

[fartcloudfartcloud]

Simon Riley x Maid!Reader

based on this text post

Summary: Simon has a house cleaner come clean once a month. What happens when she goes on vacation, and you're her replacement?

warnings: sfw but theres tension 😋, will make an nsfw part two if you guys want it :), Simon being big and scary and offputting per usual, lots of internal dialogue

a/n: loved this concept, and since I actually worked a door to door cleaning job I thought this fit so well and needed to write it. hope u enjoy :)

You took a deep breath.

These were the steps you were to take in this job. You had no reason to feel unsafe or in danger of any sort. Yet, the thought of walking up and knocking on this door had your heart in your stomach.

Simon Riley Is what the work order had listed as the clients name. Ex Military. Large German Shepard named Riley. Liked his wooden floors cleaned with vinegar instead of the regular cleaning solution. Nothing too out of the ordinary.

Except for the entry instructions. The small box on the piece of paper that would normally hold a few finely printed words, things such as "Homeowner will be not be home, key is under welcome mat"

or "Homeowner will be home and located in office on second floor, door will be unlocked"

had big, bold font to start. Your manager had to go in and manually change that detail, and knowing her, that must mean this is serious.

The box reads-

"DO NOT ATTEMPT TO OPEN DOOR. HOMEOWNER IS EX MILITARY AND EXTREMELY STRICT. RING FRONT DOORBELL ONCE AND WAIT."

Yeah. Very normal and not at all gut-wrenching.

You keep taking deep breaths as you go through your routine. Read the work order thoroughly once more, try not to shit yourself, go and grab your equipment, and follow the instructions.

Easy. Just follow the routine.

Your equipment is as big and clunky as usual. With a vacuum on your back, a bucket full of microfiber towels, a backpack full of chemicals, and knee pads on both knees, you knew for sure you were a sight for sore eyes.

You're not quiet as you walk either, each step making every plastic piece of your puzzle clunk and scrape in a cacophony of reminders of why you were here. You thunk and bang your way up the front porch, eyes everywhere but the front door, still taking deep breaths as you try to just focus on your surroundings, taking note of the nice front garden and walkway as you pass.

You finally settle on the front porch, your arms dropping the bucket and preparing yourself for the big push to start this job.

One ring, you remind yourself. Then wait. Deep breath.

You look up to find the door bell, hand pulling up in a search for the button when you see him.

He must have heard you, you decide as he stands behind the screen door with his arms crossed.

Simon Riley is massive, standing what feels like a clean foot taller than you, big muscled arms bulging from his tight t-shirt. They're as big as your head, his thighs probably twice so. His face was pulled down in a heated gaze, though the bottom half of his face was covered by a black mask. He was scary as he stood there, his aura menacing and doing nothing to sooth your nerves.

Yeah, ex Military makes sense, Jesus christ.

"Ya pissed of my dog, allat noise." You jump, the deep british voice startling you as he begins chastising you. His face frowns down it you, his eyes angry. You're speachless, "Well? Talk."

You stammer as you realize you were just sitting and staring in awe, mind suddenly back on track and then derailing again as you have no idea what to say.

The routine, Jesus christ the routine what's the next step. You scramble for your binder, pulling it open to his work order page and looking up at him as you muster up the courage to speak.

"Um, are you, uh, Simon Riley, sir?" You ask, stuttering and staggering between every word.

He reaches foreword and opens the screen door, getting a good look at you first before he can respond.

"Hm. You the cleaning lady?" He questions, the hand not holding the door open now stuffed in the pocket of his pants.

"Mhm, yeah, im- uh. I'm from Housekeeping Heros, you have an appointment for, um-" you start rustling through more pages of the binder, desperate to find the information, needing to prove to yourself more then him you were in the right place.

"I know i 've an appointment," He holds out his hand and halts your movements. You relax, all the horrible conclusions you were drawing coming to an end. Though, as per usual, they were quickly replaced with new ones, his voice still short and snippy with you.

Deep breaths, girl, we can do this.

He points to your small pile of equipment. "Ya need 'elp?"

You shake your head no, suprised he'd offered. Though he just responds with a head shake, motioning to give it here with his hands. And you do, you don't even second guess it, handing him your bucket and backpack without a second word, something in you submitting to him without a care in the world.

He turns around and walks everything into the kitchen where he gently rests it on the table, softer then you were expecting. You follow him in, feeling like a stray with your legs tucked between your legs as you fet settled. He looks at you expectantly.

Not sure what he's looking for, you start explaining the cleaning process, using your binder as a reference and pointing to each section. He stands behind you, arms crossed again and chin tucked down as he nods along with your words.

He points to the vacuum on your back, "Not round Riley, ya 'ear me?" He scolds. You take note of the large German Shepard snorring lightly on the couch.

"And none o' this shite," He kicks at your knee pads, pointing to a mop he had in the corner. Thank God, cleaning on your knees always sucked, and why your bullshit company made you do it anyways was a marvel.

"Oh, thank you!" You chirped up. He seemed to scowl further when your voice pitched up, so you slink back in on yourself. Understood, point taken, sir.

You still were not feeling great, the pit in your stomach unrelenting as you organize your stuff.

He looms close by. You figured he would, not doubting the "extremely strict" next to "ex military" on your work order at all.

You start with the first step of your process, filling the bucket up in the sink and soaking your towels in the cleaning solution.

"Where's yer boss?" He grumbles from behind you, making you jump.

"Um, Nancy?" Bucket now full, you throw the towels into the warm water with a dash of solution.

"Eh, whatever her name is," He grumbles. How polite.

"Haha, um." You giggle akwardly, "she's with family right now, I think," you stutter, trying to speak loud enough that he could hear you clearly.

He just hmphs in response. As your towels soak in the water, you reach for your extendable feather duster and start wiping the top corners of the room.

"Whats yer name?" He grumbles. It shocks you when he says it. He couldn't seem to care less about the other workers name, but he was interested in yours?

You told him, quiet, "sir," peeping out after. He just hmms again, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed as he watched you work.

It was nerve-wracking, having him over your shoulder. He hadn't said anything yet, but it felt like you could feel the complaints waiting to come. You just kept up the deep breathing, taking the clothes out of the water and dispersing them on the countertops throughout the house.

He had a very large home, no mcmansion that took up half the street, but a pretty place tucked in a nice down town area. Honestly, if the home and neighborhood wasn't so gorgeous, you probably would've turned around and told your supervisor to give the damn house to someone else.

But thankfully, or not, Simon seemed to harbor a certain comfort for his homes presentation. The indoors of his home reflected it as well, the house put together like it was being staged, every inch perfectly in place.

Maybe that's why it's not so surprising when the first complaint does manage to leave his lips in the form of a hiss as you go to open a cabinet door.

"Oi, what do you think yer doing?" He hisses, rushing over to grab your wrist and pull it from the knob. You gasp as he's suddenly in your space and touching you, flinching as he does.

"Um, I just gotta m-make sure the insides don't need to be wiped down, sir," your muscles shake as you speak— him actually coming over and grabbing had you a little shook up.

He waved his hand infront of your face, dismissing whatever you have to say, "None of that. Don't need'a open nothing that ain't yours." you just nod, taking your first breath once he's finally out of your space.

That would've been a very good thing to include in the work order, Nancy.

Well, at least that's a few less things to worry about cleaning, though you may have failed your task of not shitting your pants, because good lord. He's right back to his perch on the wall, observing you carefully now.

You get into your routine, floating room to room and doing each task per the work order. You slowly scrub the slight musky smoke smell that lingers throughout, instead replacing it with the smell of cinnamon and detergent.

He likes watching you work, but he knows he doesn't show it, not a flutter or twitch anywhere to be seen. He growls small, careful, watch it, leave it, keeping you on edge through every movement.

You do move much faster than your college though, much more gracefully. He notices your wandering eyes, lingering on the photos on the wall and the dates on his calender. He let's you get away with it, for now. Figured he'd picked on you enough, should probably just let you finish your work.

That is, until you approach the end of your routine. You'd been scrubbing and whipping and Simon snipping and snyding for almost an hour now, you'd made excellent time and you hope Simon knows that.

It's all you can think about, actually. Him and the way he has you doting on him, some broken part of you combined with the fear his giant stature instills has you easily folding to do whatever he says and respond to his every grunt. It has your mind a little clouded, even more so as you swing through every step of your routine with practiced care.

It was finally time for the last step of the routine, and you shivered out a breath as you unwrapped the vacuum. Simon had sank a little further away, now sitting at the kitchen table with his eyes glued to a newspaper, anxiety settling slightly without his prying eyes.

You get the cord untangled and laid out across the carpet, searching the perimeter of the room for an outlet. You couldn't see any in the open, and not wanting to risk pissing off Simon for moving furniture, you start to round the corner in your search.

Suddenly, you're against the wall, a giant hand against your sternum as the breath is knocked out of your lungs. His face is in yours, eyebrows furrowed and breath hot on your face as he spoke.

"Tha fuck ya think your doin'?" youre confused and breathless, small under him as he leers above.

"I dont- im-" "Been nothing but nice to ya since you clambered yer way up my damn porch, and I gave you one fuckin' rule." His voiced is raised at you now, chastising you in that brazen, gravely tone. "One! and what do you go and try to do?"

You're just confused, what had you done to elicit this response from him? You thought he was complacent and quiet at the table, what of his million little rules could you have broken?

That's when you see it. Her, you should say. Rylie, the big German Shepard he'd warned you to by no means vacuum around, was bundled up on the couch, inches from where you stand.

Fuck. how had you forgotten.

"Sir, i- I didn't realize, I didn't know she was there sir i-" You desperately try to make an excuse for yourself, but he's just shaking his head at you.

"Do ya think flutterin yer eyelashes a little is gonna make everything better?" He mocks you, his big blue eyes locked on you. You shake your head no, half of it to answer him, the other half just you shivering where you stand.

"No sir- I'm sorry sir I didnt- I forgot you told me and-"

He's clicking his tongue at you, a tsk tsk to put you to shame. To your suprise, each click when straight to your core, and suddenly the heat in the room is rising. Your body is flushed and your sure your face matches, if the way his eyes crinkle when he looks up at you says anything.

His hand doesn't leave your sternum, as he speaks, Inches from your face, "too good at this to be forgetting," he shakes his head, the praise a little shocking, and the soft, "too pretty," that follows it hammers the fact.

You breath is caught in your chest again as he leans into your ear, eyes wide and mouth clamped as he murmurs a deep.

"So how do you think I should go bout making sure you remember?"

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Hand So Tight

Past =-= Next

Author's Note: More of Draco in Waters AU. Thank you to @sleepyfan-blog for letting me borrow Cedric. Thank you to @kit-williams for letting me borrow Arnault, Roland. Thank you to @egrets-not-regrets for letting me borrow Erriox and Lenora and your help with editing and other things :)

Summary: Draco and Lana finish their conversation. For now, Draco is allowed to live, and has to abide by the rules and restrictions that she and the Gannet Harpies put into place. It remains to be seen whether or not he'll actually follow his word or not...

Warnings: Panic, Bond Denial, blood, yandere tendencies, unwilling Identity reveal, let me know if I need to add anything.

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams,

Tagged continued: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy @bispecsual @thevoidscreams

Tagged continued: @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

All Astartes had to overcome their own set of challenges during their time as neophytes and aspirants, some worse than others. Some chapters had harsher tests, harsher training than others. All chapters had rigorous testing to ensure only the very best succeeded in becoming full battle brothers. 

But what the Gray Knight had done, had been excessive, since Claude is not of the same Chapter as the Gray Knight. Also, Claude had not asked for training from the Gray Knight, nor had he been chosen to become a Gray Knight.

They know this because they see no new colors forming in Claude’s tail, no silver and gold covering the black and gray of the Raven Guard. Zariel pointed out that fact. Lana and Mara frown at that. 

“With his lineage, it’s easy to hide such things,” The Gray Knight points out, narrowing his eyes at Zariel, “Hydras can change their colors and skin to scales very easily.”

“Not necessarily while distressed.” Lenora chimes in. 

“You say that, as if Claude can shape shift,” Zariel points out with a frown, something flashing across his face.

“How do you know that?” A lot of Space mer-ine voices ask Lenora simultaneously. Curious to see what she means by what she had said.

“I’ve seen Claude’s true form and true colors when he had been in mental distress. He is teal, navy blue, and dark gray and resembles Zariel and his brothers. There is nothing of silver and gold in him.” Lenora much rather have it kept secret as per Claude’s wishes, but the Gray Knight had laid everything out in the open now. 

Erriox is scowling at everyone in general, Lenora had told him about the panic attack that young Claude had, as well as had questions about ‘shape shifting astartes’.

Which had given him a near coronary attack. He understand why she said something, the Gray Knight was trying to pull some fuck-shit move to try and turn them against Claude for some reason or another.

He’d talked to Claude about it- and the youngling had admitted to his chimeric gene-seed including more than just Raven Guard and Night Lord- with Alpha legion as well.

So this doesn’t come as a surprise to him. Erriox has seen Claude’s true form once or twice, Alpha Legion breeds true- he’s got their tentacles, with spots and stripes of Night Lord and Raven Guard in his colorations and physical features.

He’s just really fucking pissed that the Bastard Gray Knight just outed this about his poor shy son to so many people. He’s watching the way Roland and Arnault twitch when they realize that Claude is part Alpha Legion as well as a Psyker.

“If you go after Claude for this,” Erriox warns, glaring at the two Black Templars, Arnault and Roland, “I will skin you both and throw you into acid and vinegar and never, ever let you see any of my sons ever again.”

“We share the boys!” Roland and Arnault protest. Even if… certain revelations about Claude had been rather… shocking.

Arnault is scowling, but his lovely Bonded is fond, very fond of Claude, the other little witch in the group of Primaris Marines. This Uber-witch is trying to twist them against the babies.

Fucker. It might have worked, had Roland and Arnault not met and gotten to know Claude. Seen the measure of his character. No wonder he was a jumpy Scout-ling. 

They really, really, need to talk to Cedric and Ramiel to see what the boys know about their brother-cousins. Also why in the flying fuck they hadn’t been told certain very important details about them.

Still- with how this Gray Knight had harmed Claude- and the way that he’d threatened them… They understood their wariness for First Born Marines, even if they felt a sting in their hearts for the boys.

Lana scowled, angry at the Gray Knight’s attempt at manipulation, “I don’t want to hear your excuses and anything of your twisting words. Do you promise or not!”

“I promise that I won’t be heavy handed in punishment and training for the Fledglings and Scouts. I will abide by this condition, and not be heavily punished in  or after training.” The Gray knight replies smoothly.”However, we will need to discuss what you want as limits for punishment.”

“Words are cheap to you it seems.” Lana scoffed. 

“My word is my bond,” The Gray Knight says with a frown, stung by her comment.

“It’s not an unreasonable request,” Zarius says hesitantly, frowning, hating the fact that he’s play Devil’s Advocate, and hating every word that comes out of his mouth, the taste is bitter and disgusting on his tongue, “To know what you deem as unacceptable for punishment. Him wanting to know how far he can go.”

“I guess.” Lana sighs and leans against Keed’s chest, “I guess. I’m scared that he speaks so smoothly, promising things that I find hard to believe that he would abide by…. I’m so tired.”

“It’s understandable,” Orlys says earnestly, “he’s a scary fae-like fucker.”

The Gray Knight could hear their conversation. His bond calls him to comfort Lana. He should be the one with her resting in his arms. If only he could move… He twitches his hands slightly, but the pressure on him only increases at all angles from the lesser cousins who have him pinned to the ground.

The Alpha legionaries know that the Gray Fucker can hear them, they just don’t care. Their concern is for Lana, he can go dive into an active volcano. If only that wouldn’t hurt their beloved Lana as well.

“Don’t try it,” Erriox warns as he leans more of his weight into the blades that he’s sunk into the bastard’s tail. He can feel the blades sink into the sands beneath the Gray Knight’s tail. Hopefully that will help to keep him more pinned. He had noticed the way the Gray Knight’s muscles were shifting and tensing, he was thinking of doing something.

“Why don’t we take a break?” Mara asks, concerned for the member of her Colony, gently resting a clawed hand on her shoulder, “for a little while, then finish this later?”

“No. I need to finish this now.” Lana replied stubbornly. 

“Very well dear,” Mara says, with a nod.

“My second condition,” Lana states, as she thinks over what it is she wants to place as boundaries and conditions on this unfortunate Bond that snapped into place so rapidly, so strongly. It wasn’t like the Bond that had slowly built stone by stone with the Alpha legionaries, or the potential one that had been broken by that Black Templar. 

It scared her how powerful, how strong, how intense it was, and they didn’t even know each other. “Is that you have to learn to get along with Zariel and his brothers, they are my Bonded, as much as… you are. You have to promise to get along with them. You have to promise that I get to have time with them, they were here first, after all. And I want, no, need to know what your Name is.”

“... I will learn and do my best to get along with the Hydras,” The Gray Knight grumbles reluctantly, feeling rather incensed that he has to get along with the fucking Hydras.

All five of the Hydras glared at him, with scowls on their faces, they didn’t want to get to know him either. But they do like that he will have to share, and not steal all of her time from them.

They had already figured out a sharing time schedule, something they had developed with Lana and between themselves, they will have to renegotiate- to include the giant silver and gold bastard.

They are going to start plotting to see the edges of this asshole’s temperament. See what makes him snap, snarl. They are going to go on a one sided prank war with this fucker and have him fuck off.

Lana is theirs! They don’t want to share her with this Gray Fucker. And sure he is making all of these promises. But they aren’t. Sly, devious expressions flicker across their faces for a moment, before they smoothly go back to scowling at the Gray Knight.

“I wish for only Lana to know my name,” The Gray Knight requests. The Name of a Gray Knight, both the Battle Name, and the secret name are some of the most jealously guarded and protected things for a Gray Knight personally. “My names are kept secret for protection and safety reasons. I don’t want -Chaos filth- to learn of it.”

The Gray Knight glares at the Chaos Space Marines that are still hovering nearby- some of those disgusting creatures daring to touch and keep him pinned down. He does not want all of these beings to know, his Bonded and, ugh, perhaps, the Hydras, provided that they promise not to speak of his name to others without his permission.

“I have several call signs that can be used in public,” The Gray Knight says slowly, “One of my titles is Brother-Captain of the Stormbreakers.” 

“Fine. Brother-Captain Stormbreaker, we will agree to that.” Lana concedes to his request. It felt a little strange on her tongue, but names are important and it is best that his request is at least respected. The Gray Knight had… accepted all her conditions after all. It is the least she could do in return. “If the boys don’t want to train with you, then you must accept that.”

She’ll talk to Lenora and Erriox- if Claude really does need Psyker training… then they can cross that hurdle when they come to it. And not with someone who’d nearly beaten the poor boy to death and tormented and kidnapped him for a week.

“Upon my honor, I will follow your conditions as best I could so that I may prove worthy of you. Will you be willing to accept our bond now?” The Gray Knight asks.

Lana pauses to take a few moments to think, so far he’s spoken well, at times. He’d agreed with only some minor arguments to her Conditions for this Bond between the two of them.

She’ll have to think about what limitations she wants for punishments and overly harsh training methods- talk with her boys, and Erriox as well to see what was considered ‘normal’ and ‘too far’ by their standards and then come up with her own decision on the matter. She likes the idea of someone watching Brother Captain Stormbreaker training the boys. 

“I…” She pauses and sighs, “I will be willing to accept our bond, for now.” Lana says hesitantly. “Erriox, Roland, Arnault and everyone else… Please release him.”

Erriox nods, and pulls his knives out of the Gray Knights tail, backing off and away from the Shiny Fucker. The rest of the space mer-ines who’d been keeping him pinned immediately release him per Lana’s request and backed off. All still watching him with hawk-sharp eyes.

“Thank you,” Captain Brother StormBreaker says, bowing his head a little to Lana, the relief he feels, at her agreeing to their Bond. To be his, to try and follow this Bond through. He wonders if the relief that she feels is just as great. “May I hold you, my Lana?”

The five Alpha Legionaries all growl and snarl at him, backing away from him, all of them carefully, lovingly holding her and scowling fiercely at the Gray Knight. They do not want to let her go, and they do not want this bastard to hold her. 

Lana quietly pleaded with them, “Please, Zariel Zarius, Talos, Orlys, Keed. Let him hold me for a while.”

The reactions she gets from her boys are devastated teal eyes peering down at her with hearts-broken expressions on their faces. They really don’t want to let her go, but do so, slowly, reluctantly, to do so, one by one they let her go. Until Zariel is the last one holding her and he has a stubborn look on his face.

Lana smiles, nuzzling him, “It will be alright. I promise.” She kisses him when he bends his head down. 

He nuzzles her with a soft churring noise, pleased at her attention and affection. “Very well, Lovely Lana.”

Zariel slowly releases her, and the Gray Knight moves swiftly to rise up to where she is, gently holding her in his arms and nuzzling her cheek with his. Purring deeply and loudly when she shyly reciprocates his affections.

The Bond is suddenly warm and quiet, happy and content. No pain, no screeches of discordant agony. Both Lana and the Gray Knight let out a sigh of relief. 

She is the most precious thing he’s ever beheld in his life, and he will do everything in his power to keep her safe and with him. He will follow her conditions, and negotiate what is considered ‘too harsh’ for punishments and training later. 

He’d heard something about the teal Psyker potentially not being trained by him but he internally scoffs at that. He’s a highly trained psyker, and a very powerful one at that, who else would be the one that they have to train the Scout?

None of the Alpha legionaries, besides Claude, has enough psykery for more than the telepathic grox-shit and the shapeshifting abilities. And the winged Son of the Ninth Primarch is too young to train someone his age anyways. Not experienced enough, and really should have more training overseen for him as well.

For now, he will hold onto his bonded harpy for as long as he can, “Thank you, Lana.” He repeats as he kisses her forehead, then her brow, then her cheek, making his way downwards to her mouth. He pressed his lips gently to hers, “Thank you for accepting this bond.” He murmurs. 

“You’re welcome Captain Stormbreaker,” Lana flushes, slightly caught off-guard by his tender treatment. 

He huffs quietly as he remembers his promise to the harpy. He whispers in her ear, “My name is Draco Kai.”

“Draco Kai…” Lana murmurs almost inaudibly. She nuzzles him, “Thank you for telling me.”

Draco purrs loud enough for Lana to feel the vibration through his armored chest. Hearing his name spoken from her lips settles the remaining restlessness in his mind. He can listen to her repeat his name again and again. 

“I think you’ve held her for long enough,” Zarius says sulkily as he swims through the air closer to the pair of them. 

He gives Lana a pleading look and scowls at the Gray Knight Brother Captain Storm-cunt. He reaches out towards her tilting his head to the side, widening his eyes imploringly at her.

While he does that Orlys is sneaking over to where the Gray Knights helmet is and grabs it. Turning away to block other’s view- Erriox glances over and lets out a snort of mean laughter as Oryls fills the shiny fucker’s helmet with beach sand and sharp pebbles.

Mara sighs and claps her claws, “That’s enough. We are done here. Let’s go home, we still have the wounded to tend to. And Orlys, clean out the helmet.”

“Aw… yes Mara,” Orlys says with a pout on his face as he cleans the helmet. He gets a mischievous look on his face as he lightly tosses the Gray Knight’s helmet from hand to hand, planning on accidentally dropping it in the ocean.

The old harpy gave him a hard stare, “Clean and return it now, Orlys.” She says sternly, not in the mood for his mischievous nonsense. She did not need the Alpha Legion brothers to get into a conflict with the Gray Knight so soon after things had been resolved.

Orlys finishes cleaning the helmet and swims through the air up to where the Gray Knight and their beloved Lana are, “I've got your helmet, Gray Knight.”

He has it in his hands, but isn’t holding it out for other mer space marine to grab it, not yet as he waits for the Gray Knight to respond to him. The Gray Knight and Mara gave him a look and he handed it over with a sullen pout on his face.

[leiascully]

@edierone gave me the words "vinegar", "soliloquy", and "ficus". So here's a three-fer.

Scully flicked the hem of her coat as she exited from the lobby of the county sheriff's office, a sartorial middle finger to the lounging locals. Mulder sauntered after her. He moved slowly on purpose, squaring his shoulders. These were the kind of men who saw themselves as predators; any perceived attempt to flee would incite their chase instinct. His dress shoes stuck to the tacky floor. Whatever color the linoleum had originally been, it had an amber tint now from decades of nicotine and neglect, and a delicate adhesive quality. No wonder all the deputies wore big boots with rough soles. It wasn't just overcompensation.

When he was outside in the crisp air, he opened up his stride, trench swirling around him as he caught up to Scully.

"You're full of piss and vinegar today," he observed. "You sure you don't wanna go back in for round two? I'll rub your shoulders."

She whirled on him. He absorbed her fury, feet braced. Somewhere, a seismic shock would register with no known cause. "Did that amuse you, Mulder?"

"No." He put his hands in his pockets. "But it didn't surprise me."

"It didn't surprise me either." She kicked at the ground with one pump. "Son of a bitch."

"Which one?"

"All of them." She tipped her head back, exposing the lily stalk of her throat, but anger still glinted in her eyes.

"You knew that was going to antagonize them," he pointed out.

"Yes, for some reason, telling people the truth about someone they consider one of their own often antagonizes them," she snapped. "I still considered it more effective than your strategy of delivery a soliloquy about the attack patterns of the Missouri apeman to an artificial ficus."

"I knew it was artificial," Mulder said mildly. "I don't think ficuses usually produce used chewing gum."

"My quibble with it was not whether or not the ficus was artificial." She fixed him with a steely glare. "It was the fact that you didn't back me up."

"I was right behind you."

"Pontificating to a potted plant."

"You had everything under control." He tipped his head. "Do you really want me hulking out every time some two-bit deputy gives you the hairy eyeball? Should I rent The Bodyguard this weekend for tips? Make some popcorn, get some beers? There's probably a video store in this one-horse town if you think I need immediate advice."

She softened. She understood as well as he did the way people automatically looked at him as the authority figure in their partnership; it frustrated them both. His absentminded professor act let her competence shine. "I would watch The Bodyguard."

He put his arm around her shoulders, steering her toward the car. "Honestly, I think if anything, you're my bodyguard. You're a better shot, for starters."

"You're lucky I've been going to the gym."

"I know exactly how lucky I am," he said, and handed her the keys.

[sejjiplinth]

my sejanus hc list that i’ve had in my notes for years and years

— he definitely loves all animals but he is a cat person all the way!!!!!!

— his closet is sorted by color

— he wore glasses as a child (and occasionally wears them in his older years)

— he likes to sew with his ma

— his favorite season is winter because he likes to wear scarves, but he loves spring too!

— he has a bird feeder hanging from his windowsill

— would absolutely hate horror films, his favorite kind of movie is anything that falls in the romcom genre

— hates white shoes / suits (yes he was miserable in the peacekeeper uniform)

— ma put notes in his lunchbox when he was little and he still has them in a small box on top of his closet

— he’d be a sandbox game lover. animal crossing, stardew valley, anything like that

— he surprisingly has really good endurance, and it’d piss coriolanus off when they’d have to run for their peacekeeper training because he couldn’t keep up

— double knots his shoe laces because he got tripped so much as a kid

— favorite pie is either peach or apple

— probably has a fish tank

— when he’s reading he makes his own bookmarks

— actually knows how to slow dance properly thanks to ma

— he draws on gum wrappers

— is deathly terrified of any kind of flying bug (but would pick up any spider to take it outside and set it free 😭)

— he had a pet duck in district 2

— his favorite flowers are tulips because they continue to grow even once they’ve been cut

— he loves to help ma cook. whether it’s handing her ingredients, or stirring the pot while she steps outside. anything to make her days a little easier

— his favorite color is orchid purple

— he’s a collector!!!! i think he’d collect rocks, stamps, pennies, flowers and leaves, literally anything he can find because he likes to make scrapbooks for them

— can’t sleep unless he’s cold

— owns tons of graphic tees and other colorful attire as an adult because his father only let him wear formal clothing growing up

— definitely gets motion sickness

— cannot drive for shit and should never be trusted behind the wheel

— his love languages are acts of service and gift giving

— his favorite treat of ma’s is her cupcakes, especially the ones she makes for his birthday

— diary / journal ownerrrrr (the fact that he had one in his box in the movie made my heart happy, okay lionsgate you get a point from me…)

— has a piece of jewelry that he’s worn for half of his life, and it’s either a ring or a necklace (maybe both!)

— the marble heart that was in his box in the book was from marcus

— in a present day au, i can always see him being a tutor in high school, maybe even a student teacher in his early 20’s (i think i’ve actually talked about this before on here LMAO) but i don’t think he’d become a full-on teacher in the end, and would diverge his career path to eventually become an EMT

— it takes him years to get through a bottle of cologne

— since he’s canonically good at science, i think he spent a lot of his childhood conducting fun experiments (DEFINITELY the baking soda-and-vinegar volcano)

— his home would be full of the silliest decor. cat cups and colorful paintings, and he has gnomes in his lawn… he gives them names

that’s all i have for now !!!!

[rebelliousstories]

Take A Bite

Kiss Me You Animal

Relationship: Cooper “The Ghoul” Howard x Zylia “The Freak” Shelley

Fandom: Fallout

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff, Strong Language, Mentions of Death and Killing, Vague Cannibalism

Word Count: 1,027

Main Masterlist: Here

Fallout Masterlist: Here

Previous Chapter// Next Chapter

Kiss Me You Animal Masterlist: Here

Summary: When it comes to his cold, undead, somehow beating heart, Cooper goes back and forth on whether or not to use it on Zylia.

There was something almost comical about the way they walked with each other. Cooper kept Zylia on a tight leash, literally. Her hands were bound, her ankles less so. She struggled the entire way out of town, but The Ghoul just tugged on her rope to get her to settle down.

Zylia had no idea where they were going, but she hated every moment. Everything was going well up until she left with her payment for the bounty. Now she was tied up, hungry, and pissed off. All she could hope for was that he would not drain any of her more liquid assets. That would just be a kick in the teeth.

“You gon’ tell me why you’re bein’ paid in blood, rather than all caps, darlin’?” Cooper called from behind her, maintaining a safe distance. The bound woman did not even bother to turn her face to acknowledge that the man had said anything.

“Alright. Keep your secrets. Lookin’ mighty delicious though.” His off handed comment finally spurred a reaction from the woman before him. She whipped around and got right in his face as soon as his hand touched the pouch on her bag with the blood bags.

“You touch those and I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” Zylia growled. Her words spitting themselves onto Cooper’s face.

“Well,” he drawled while dragging a hand over his face to remove the fluid. “Why’s so goddamn important to you?”

“None of your damn business, ghoul.” She retorted, but the aforementioned ghoul just smirked at her.

“You’re the one that’s tied up with no place to go. And I’m the one with your bag, that has your blood. Now you wouldn’t trade caps for blood unless you truly needed it more. So why the hell you interested in that blood more than your own caps?” He laid it all out there.

“I told you, it’s none of your damn business why I value my blood more than my caps. I’ve got my reasons.” Zylia refused to back down from the man, as she was still standing in his face.

“Now, I’d like to hear those reasons.” Cooper teased, reaching his hand towards the pouch. Zylia responded by diving her head down to snap at his fingers which sent his fingers away in a heartbeat.

“You are just full of piss and vinegar, ain’t cha?” He chuckled as Zylia righted herself to look him in the eyes once more.

“Do not take that blood. I need it.” She pleaded, skin starting to bead with sweat, and her lips being moistened by her tongue.

“I needed those caps that you stole from my bounty. Looks like we’re both in a pickle sweetheart.” Cooper’s hand reached up as fast as lightning to grab the ropes by her neck and hands.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen; Imma keep you with me until I get those two hundred caps that I deserved, then and only then, will I let you go.” His voice was dangerous as he growled in her face. Zylia made her face as neutral as stone, refusing to let him see that she was terrified. Terrified about what was going to happen if she did not have access to those blood bags.

“Keep moving.” He shoved the woman away, and they began to walk once more. The more they moved, the weaker both of them could tell Zylia was getting. But she kept moving anyways. They neared an abandoned house that Cooper seemed to know his way around, and made their way in. Bodies were strewn about, and there seemed to be a kitchen area that Cooper strategically slid into.

Zylia was pulled with him, and that when she saw it. Fresher bodies were right smack dab in the middle. These may have only been about a day or two old, but they were still plenty fresh. Howard made his way around, looting the bodies and their bags all around the room, while the woman kept her eyes on the body.

When Cooper began to take what he needed from the bodies, slicing and filleting, he noticed that she was watching him intently. No, not him; the meat in his hands, but it was not a look of disgust. He held her gaze and ate another bite, while watching her eyes drop. The Ghoul kept going even after he had satiated his urge, but this was for drying to keep with him on the path. His eyes caught her swaying a bit as he continued his task. Poking his head up, Cooper caught her eyes just before the woman collapsed.

Making his way to her at a leisurely pace, his head cocked to the side as he watched the woman on the ground. She was full blown sweating, with her pale skin somehow looking even paler. There was genuinely no color left in her. Zylia kept gasping and trying to wet her lips, but she had no more moisture left in her. As she writhed on the floor, she kept trying to make her way to her bag but was unable to open the pouch she needed.

Out of curiosity, Cooper opened the pouch she was trying to access and found her blood. With a furrowed brow, he took out one of the bags, and held it up above her. He watched her trying desperately to reach it, yet unable to with the ropes around her body, and her energy slowly dropping. The Ghoul wrestled with his thoughts for a minute, crouched down on his knees. If he helped her, he could follow through on his promise. If he did not, however, that was one less person that would steal his bounties, and probably more food for him.

Zylia kept writhing, but it dwindled down from before. Her eyes were unfocused as she mouthed open air. The sweating and the colorlessness of it all freaked Cooper out just a little bit. After all this time, he had never seen anything like this. He watched her for a moment more, holding the bag of blood in one hand.

“What to do about you?” He drawled, watching the woman in front of him. There was something almost comical about the way they walked with each other. Cooper kept Zylia on a tight leash, literally. Her hands were bound, her ankles less so. She struggled the entire way out of town, but The Ghoul just tugged on her rope to get her to settle down.

Zylia had no idea where they were going, but she hated every moment. Everything was going well up until she left with her payment for the bounty. Now she was tied up, hungry, and pissed off. All she could hope for was that he would not drain any of her more liquid assets. That would just be a kick in the teeth.

“You gon’ tell me why you’re bein’ paid in blood, rather than all caps, darlin’?” Cooper called from behind her, maintaining a safe distance. The bound woman did not even bother to turn her face to acknowledge that the man had said anything.

“Alright. Keep your secrets. Lookin’ mighty delicious though.” His off handed comment finally spurred a reaction from the woman before him. She whipped around and got right in his face as soon as his hand touched the pouch on her bag with the blood bags.

“You touch those and I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” Zylia growled. Her words spitting themselves onto Cooper’s face.

“Well,” he drawled while dragging a hand over his face to remove the fluid. “Why’s so goddamn important to you?”

“None of your damn business, ghoul.” She retorted, but the aforementioned ghoul just smirked at her.

“You’re the one that’s tied up with no place to go. And I’m the one with your bag, that has your blood. Now you wouldn’t trade caps for blood unless you truly needed it more. So why the hell you interested in that blood more than your own caps?” He laid it all out there.

“I told you, it’s none of your damn business why I value my blood more than my caps. I’ve got my reasons.” Zylia refused to back down from the man, as she was still standing in his face.

“Now, I’d like to hear those reasons.” Cooper teased, reaching his hand towards the pouch. Zylia responded by diving her head down to snap at his fingers which sent his fingers away in a heartbeat.

“You are just full of piss and vinegar, ain’t cha?” He chuckled as Zylia righted herself to look him in the eyes once more.

“Do not take that blood. I need it.” She pleaded, skin starting to bead with sweat, and her lips being moistened by her tongue.

“I needed those caps that you stole from my bounty. Looks like we’re both in a pickle sweetheart.” Cooper’s hand reached up as fast as lightning to grab the ropes by her neck and hands.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen; Imma keep you with me until I get those two hundred caps that I deserved, then and only then, will I let you go.” His voice was dangerous as he growled in her face. Zylia made her face as neutral as stone, refusing to let him see that she was terrified. Terrified about what was going to happen if she did not have access to those blood bags.

“Keep moving.” He shoved the woman away, and they began to walk once more. The more they moved, the weaker both of them could tell Zylia was getting. But she kept moving anyways. They neared an abandoned house that Cooper seemed to know his way around, and made their way in. Bodies were strewn about, and there seemed to be a kitchen area that Cooper strategically slid into.

Zylia was pulled with him, and that when she saw it. Fresher bodies were right smack dab in the middle. These may have only been about a day or two old, but they were still plenty fresh. Howard made his way around, looting the bodies and their bags all around the room, while the woman kept her eyes on the body.

When Cooper began to take what he needed from the bodies, slicing and filleting, he noticed that she was watching him intently. No, not him; the meat in his hands, but it was not a look of disgust. He held her gaze and ate another bite, while watching her eyes drop. The Ghoul kept going even after he had satiated his urge, but this was for drying to keep with him on the path. His eyes caught her swaying a bit as he continued his task. Poking his head up, Cooper caught her eyes just before the woman collapsed.

Making his way to her at a leisurely pace, his head cocked to the side as he watched the woman on the ground. She was full blown sweating, with her pale skin somehow looking even paler. There was genuinely no color left in her. Zylia kept gasping and trying to wet her lips, but she had no more moisture left in her. As she writhed on the floor, she kept trying to make her way to her bag but was unable to open the pouch she needed.

Out of curiosity, Cooper opened the pouch she was trying to access and found her blood. With a furrowed brow, he took out one of the bags, and held it up above her. He watched her trying desperately to reach it, yet unable to with the ropes around her body, and her energy slowly dropping. The Ghoul wrestled with his thoughts for a minute, crouched down on his knees. If he helped her, he could follow through on his promise. If he did not, however, that was one less person that would steal his bounties, and probably more food for him.

Zylia kept writhing, but it dwindled down from before. Her eyes were unfocused as she mouthed open air. The sweating and the colorlessness of it all freaked Cooper out just a little bit. After all this time, he had never seen anything like this. He watched her for a moment more, holding the bag of blood in one hand.

“What to do about you?” He drawled, watching the woman in front of him.

[browniejeane]

WIP Wednesday - Another Outtake of the Fic that won't quit.

Knocked TF out by a migraine today; which is hard to take care of when the littlest spawn is full of piss and vinegar. Here's another outtake in lieu of a bit of the latest chapter, which is still being written/edited.

Returning to where the Lavellan Clan had settled before sending her off to the Temple, where they had been massacred, only felt right. That she had done it alone and on a whim while actively being hunted down by red Templars and the Venatori and an evil abomination of a man who would be a god…probably not the best idea. But she couldn’t not come say goodbye. And she hadn’t meant to come alone. Originally, she had intended to ask Cullen to come with her, visions of being alone for the first time since their stolen first kiss on the battlements outside his office. But those thoughts dissipated like the melting snow in the courtyard after they’d had a spat. It had started with how she was taking unnecessary risks while out in the Emerald Graves to get the cooperation of the Dalish clan there-which she disagreed with and held firm that she was just doing what needed to be done-and ended with him basically kicking her out of his office saying that they obviously needed a few days apart and recommending that she head off to her next location. Keyanna had only taken his advice. She left for her next location. And yes, her friends would have come along, no questions asked. However, they were needed at Skyhold. Blackwell and Leliana were combing over the latest Warden finds; Varric and Hawke were catching up and plotting their next moves; Cassandra was keeping an eye on Cullen for her in regards to the lyrium addiction recovery; Bull and Dorian had made…plans; Solas was spending all his free time talking to Alexius about the time magic; Sera had stepped out for a few days to deal with Red Jenny business; Vivienne was researching her own spell and conferring with Josie about getting the harder to come by components from some of the nobles in Orlais, and had waved Keyanna away with an uninterested glance before the Inquisitor had even opened her mouth. Which was just as well. The only person she had wanted to come with her was Cullen. Heart aching, she waded into the river just upstream from the ruins of her clan. She didn’t feel strong enough to face the remains of her home just yet. Maybe she should have dragged somebody along with her. Varric would have dropped everything at the very least. But it was too late now, and she could only hope that they weren’t too mad at her when she returned. And maybe Cullen had been on to something and there was a kernel of truth in his argument with her trying too hard to get the Dalish to their cause. The clan in the Emerald Graves wasn’t going to replace the clan she lost, but if she could save one more elf from the Venatori, she was going to do whatever she had to do to ensure that they lived. She sank neck deep in the cold, fast moving water, closing her eyes as she ducked under the surface and stayed there for several moments, letting the current wash away her worries and pull her downstream just a touch before she planted her feet deep in the silt and pushed her head back up above the surface of the water. She wondered what everyone was doing back at home. Strange, how Skyhold was more of a home now than the Free Marches were these days. She’d grown up in these lands, but she felt like a stranger or an intruder in this valley that now held the last of her family. With a heavy sigh, she shook her head, wondering if she had made a mistake in coming out here. But she wanted to say goodbye to her family. She figured that even the leader of the Inquisition deserved that much. Scrubbing roughly at her scalp with some of the soap she had packed from Skyhold, she watched fluffy clouds drift lazily across the sky. Staring up at the sky, a thought filtered through her head, flitting about like a butterfly. If she hadn’t gone to the Temple, would she be dead with her family? Or would they have all been ignored

“Keyanna!” A familiar, worried voice rang out, tearing her from her thoughts. It carried a sharpness it didn’t normally have when he said her name. Her dark brows drew together as her head swiveled about, looking for Cullen. He burst through the underbrush not far from where she’d entered the water, her clothes folded just out of his sight behind a large rock. And to his left, her horse stamped its hooves and snorted, its barrel chest heaving as though it had been running alongside him from where she had tied it up. He was too far away for her to make out the details of his face, but she saw the moment he spotted her floating in the water because his whole body sagged in relief. Then, much to her surprise, he shrugged off his mantle, and armor before he waded into the river in just his linen shirt and breeches, face alternating between stormy and relieved until he stood before her and pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair as he clung to her. She wrapped her arms around his waist, clutching his sodden shirt and letting her eyes fall closed, even though she knew she was in for the scolding of her life.

“When I said for you to go, I didn’t mean alone,” Cullen began roughly, voice shaking as his hands slid over her wet skin and pulled her impossibly close. “I am so very angry with you,” he said, sounding not a bit angry in the least. He moved his head slightly and pressed his lips to her forehead in a gentle kiss before he pulled back slightly and gave her a quick once over as if inspecting her for injuries, hands sliding up to her shoulders where he gripped her hard enough that she would be sporting two hand shaped bruises for a few days. His face slowly became nearly thunderous as he realized she was fine and, okay yes, there was the anger. Keyanna clung to the wet fabric around his hips and met his gaze stubbornly, full lips pursing as she fought not to shrink under his radiating anger and disappointment.

“I needed to see for myself,” she whispered into his chest, eyes on his throat because she couldn’t look him in the eye and watch as his rage morphed into pity. “And I didn’t intend to come out here by myself. Honest.” Her hands slid up to his chest, and she plucked at an invisible piece of lint with one hand as his calloused fingers squeezed her shoulders, then dropped down to her hips as he sighed and pressed his face into her head once more.

“If it hadn’t been for Cole, nobody would have known where you went,” he mumbled into her skin, scruff scraping along the sensitive tip of her ear. “Leliana scattered her scouts as soon as we realized nobody knew where you were and Josie was reaching out to all her nobles to see if anybody had seen you go by.” His throat clicked when he swallowed hard and pulled away slightly in order to try and catch her eye, but Keyanna kept her gaze stubbornly fixed on her fingers. “I was going out of my mind. For days.” Keyanna finally looked him in the eye and saw the exhaustion that sat on his shoulders like his mantle, dark circles set deep under his eyes and the new lines around his mouth that she wanted to wipe away with her fingers. “But Cole-” she began before being cut off by Cullen’s lips. Sighing into the kiss, her eyes slid closed and she swayed further into him, arms sliding up to wrap around his neck and her chest press close to his, wet linen plastering itself to her soaked skin as his hands wrapped around her back.

“He speaks in riddles and it took far to long to understand just what he meant,” he snarled before leaning back in and giving her a series of small pecks on her full lips that felt wonderfully kiss bruised. She pulled back, ready to ask more questions about just how he knew where to find her when Cullen pulled her in closer, holding her tighter. “I don’t want to talk about Cole,” he growled against her lips before diving back in, rougher this time.

[geekysteven]

If Amelia Bedelia says she's full of piss and vinegar, get her to a hospital right away

[learnyouabiology]

Fun fact: Wood Frogs Survive Icy Winters via Frog-sicle status

The wood frog, Rana sylvatica, is scientifically referred to as “iconic” (source: Costanzo 2019). 

The reason they are iconic is because they are famously able to freeze into a literal block of ice in the winter, remain frozen all season long, and then thaw out in the spring without any of the expected dying of cold! Incredible!

(you can recognise a wood frog by they lil mask by its eyes! Naturalists call it a raccoon mask, and honestly, 10/10 excellent raccoon disguise, completely indistinguishable)

I’ve known about this for years, because I spent a not-insignificant part of my childhood OBSESSED with frogs, but even 8-year-old me didn’t know that these frogs live north of the arctic circle. 

That’s right! They live in Alaska! Where winter lasts more than seven months.

Wood frogs are actually the only amphibian in North America to live this far north. (there are a few species in Eurasia but THIS ISN’T ABOUT THEM 😉 source: x). 

(I’m not saying Ohio wood frog are wimpy, but I AM calling them “““““delicate”””””. Image from Costanza 2019)

As winter approaches, wood frogs create little furrows in the forest floor, just big enough for them to wedge themselves into, and cover themselves with fallen leaves and other forest detritus (Costanza 2019). They then settle into their little shelter and begin to go through what I assume is a traumatizing experience.

(she loves a good furrow)

The furrow provides a small amount of insulation from the outside air, but even inside their shelter, it can get pretty cold. 

In fact, wood frogs can survive temperatures as low as -16°C (3°F for the people who use the other system). 

Generally, if you are a water-based organism, being exposed to temperatures so far below the freezing point is... bad. And if the water inside of a water-based organism freezes? That is Extra Bad.

Luckily, wood frogs have a foolproof way to stay safe: they are absolutely FULL of sugar and urine. 

(I would have said “piss and vinegar” but the vinegar part is technically untrue 😔)

Specifically, the frog increases the concentration of urea in their body tissues before winter sets in. Urea, which is what urine is made of in humans, is commonly used by amphibians to protect themselves from losing too much water to the environment (Costanza 2019). However, wood frogs take it to the Extreme. 

Additionally, as the frog begins to freeze, the liver begins to break down the glycogen stores that had been built up in advance, releasing high concentrations of glucose (aka sugar) into the bloodstream of the frog, (Costanza 2019).

By changing the properties of the internal fluid, the urea and glucose protect the frog’s cells from being damaged by ice, protecting various internal structures and even helping to regulate their metabolism (Costanza 2019). 

(there’s also some stuff with nitric oxide and membrane adaptation but it’s A Lot and if you’re interested I recommend Constanza 2019. see bottom of post for references!)

(frog: *is flat and frozen*)

While frozen, the frog doesn’t need to eat, or even to breathe, because their metabolism is comes to a near-standstill. Their heart stops beating, and they can survive having up to 70% of it’s body fluids completely frozen (Costanza 2019).

There’s still a little bit of metabolic activity happening, just to keep the frog alive, but this allows the frog to live for months while frozen (nearly) solid until the spring melt comes! 

The frog will generally stay in its little burrow for a few hours as it thaws, presumably processing the trauma of what just happened (also making a few physiological changes to survive the transition from ice cube to frog, I guess), before heading outside to immediately reproduce with the snowmelt.

(a photo of bliss)

This has been fun fact friday!

Hey y’all! As winter turns to spring, I wanted to do a little series of how animals survive cold, snowy winters when they are unable to migrate. Today was a frozen frog, and next I’ll talk about how turtles survive under the ice all winter long!

Stay tuned!

References under the read more

Smithsonian channel (2015) Frogsicles: Frozen but still alive. https://youtu.be/pLPeehsXAr4

Costanzo, J. P. (2019). Overwintering adaptations and extreme freeze tolerance in a subarctic population of the wood frog, Rana sylvatica. Journal of Comparative Physiology B, 189(1), 1-15. doi: 10.1007/s00360-018-1189-7

Kuzmin, S.L & Tessier, D.F. (2013) Amphibians and reptiles. In: Arctic Biodiversity Assessment 2013  http://www.arcticbiodiversity.is/index.php/the-report/chapters/amphibians-and-reptiles

Layne Jr, J. R., & First, M. C. (1991). Resumption of physiological functions in the wood frog (Rana sylvatica) after freezing. American Journal of Physiology-Regulatory, Integrative and Comparative Physiology, 261(1), R134-R137.

[chadillacboseman]

Inspired by conversations with @bdfightclub re: the episode of Always Sunny where the gang goes through alcohol withdrawals while quarantined for the flu. Featuring: Echo (@roofgeese) Kate, Alex (me). A quick mention of Tigue (@mintspider) and Danny.

--

Outworld is a strange place.

The rules of Earthrealm don't really apply there- not just the laws, but the biology itself. Erron is no stranger to the oddities that come with the travels to other realms, nothing surprises him anymore.

It's why he doesn't notice the way the villagers cover their faces with cloth, faces that are just a little too pale, eyes just a little too bloodshot. He can't be bothered to care when they hurriedly hand him the package and wave him away with distressed expressions.

As long as they pay up.

It isn't until he's back at the base that the puzzle pieces begin to fit together. He does a stint in the fight pit with some dickhead agent Kano wants punished; he's cocky, young and full of piss and vinegar.

Erron beats the shit out of him.

The beating isn't what the doc notices though, what he notices is the virus that seems to have taken root in the agent's body. Something that brings the man to death's door, a mystery illness that saps him of his energy, clogs his lungs, and nearly cooks his brain with a fever.

It's Echo who finally finishes the puzzle.

Her disinfectant wipes aren't enough for this one, no, the base needs to be cleansed in holy fire. Erron is clearly immune, that much she knows- he's lived enough lifetimes to have had anything and everything under the sun of every realm.

She quickly takes notes:

Alex has reactive airway disease. He is the most vulnerable.

She, herself, is only human, and is likely the second most vulnerable.

Kate, Kabal, et all will likely have some resistance, owing to their powers/origins.

Kano should be excluded from any and all safety measures.

Echo sets to work.

"What do you mean, quarantine?" Alex protests, his eyebrows knitted over his bi-colored eyes, "I feel fine!"

"That's the point, Alex, I don't want you to get sick," Echo retorts as she shoos him into the empty meeting room. Her small stature betrays her strength.

"This is bullshit, Echo! What am I supposed to do in here?"

The door swings shut and locks with a loud click. Echo is already on her way down the hall.

Alex is taken care of. Erron has been forbidden from leaving his room. Kate and Kabal are in the bar. Kano....she doesn't care about Kano.

Echo rounds the corner to the bar and lays eyes on Kabal and Kate, both of them knocking back drinks at 1:00pm on a Tuesday. Kano is seated across from them in the booth.

"Kate. Kabal. I need you both to come with me," Echo deadpans.

Kate jumps to her feet immediately, ready to obey without question. Kabal cocks an eyebrow and continues to drink, ignoring her request.

"Kabal," Echo warns.

He knows better than to test her, but he isn't going without a fight.

"What on earth could you possibly need from me?"

"I am instituting quarantine measures on the base," she answers coolly.

"That doesn't explain shit!" Kabal snaps.

"Hang on, this is my fuckin' base," Kano interjects, "What the fuck do you mean 'quarantine measures'?"

"Erron carried a virus back from Outworld. It is extremely contagious."

"And you were gonna leave me outta your little fuckin' plan?" Kano sputters indignantly.

Echo shrugs.

"Where are we quarantining?" Kate asks, her voice tinged with excitement. She won't get sick, she's sure of it- but she won't pass up an opportunity to be locked in with everyone.

"I'll go to my room, thanks-" Kabal begins, but Echo cuts him off.

"No. Too close to Erron. I have prepared the empty meeting room in the South hall."

Kate loops her arm with Kabal's enthusiastically and drags him to his feet. He digs in his heels like a cat being carried to a bathtub, but she overpowers him with ease, pulling him out of the bar and down the hall.

"Am I allowed to go too?" Kano snaps.

Echo blinks and stares him down.

"I'm fuckin' going," he pushes past her and downs his beer before smashing the bottle on the floor.

DAY ONE

"How long is this going to take?" Alex asks from his corner of the room. He feels hot, claustrophobic in the cramped space.

"A few days," Echo responds simply.

"Days?" Kabal asks incredulously, "what are we going to eat?"

Echo gestures to the table, where a pile of assorted MREs are heaped. Kabal eyes them with disgust.

"What about a bathroom?" Kate pipes up and the others murmur in agreement.

"There is an en suite bathroom," Echo points to the nearly-concealed door on the far side of the room.

"Why the hell is there a bathroom in the meeting room?" Kabal looks at Kano half confused, half disgusted.

"Does it look like I built the fuckin' place?" Kano snaps.

"There is bottled water under the table. I will open the door when I have completed my disinfecting," Echo interrupts the argument that threatens to boil over between them.

And with that, her blond head disappears through the doorway and the heavy door swings shut and locks.

"Ten bucks says Ramirez was just hung over and that idiot in the med bay couldn't tell the bottle flu from a virus," Kabal says to no one in particular.

"Is it hot in here?" Alex asks, ignoring Kabal's statement. He's sweating, his forehead prickled with droplets that patter onto his shirt.

"I feel fine!" Kate answers cheerfully, already tearing into a spaghetti and meatball MRE.

"Can you eat that somewhere else?" Kabal snaps, "the smell is making me nauseous."

Kate scoots a few feet to the left and Kabal lets out a sigh of exasperation.

The clock on the wall ticks just a little too loudly, counting down the minutes, hours as they pass by. Kano pulls his knife from its sheath and stabs it rapidly between his fingers on the surface of the table. The rhythmic thudding pounds in Kabal's ears, threatening to drive him to madness.

Kate is onto her second MRE, gleefully shoveling in forkfuls of chicken alfredo, the scent of which makes Alex's stomach churn.

Kano's knife stops abruptly and clatters to the table.

He jumps to his feet with urgency and sprints to the bathroom, nearly tripping over Alex's outstretched legs. The sound of him vomiting nearly makes the others follow suit, it even makes Kate pause her meal.

When he emerges, his face is pale, and his organic eye is haloed with redness.

"Holy shit, he's sick-" Kabal scrambles to his feet and darts to the door, "Hey! Echo! Let us out! Kano is fucking sick!"

He pounds on the door, but to no avail.

"I don't have Erron's fuckin' mystery virus," Kano spits, his voice now hoarse, "probably ate somethin' bad at the bar."

"Oh, sure, you just all of a sudden got food poisoning? Fuck off."

Their petty squabble drones off into a background hum as Alex tries to ignore the way his mouth fills with saliva and sweat continues to drip from his forehead.

"-all I'm saying is you stay on that side of the room!" Kabal's voice comes back into focus as he points violently at the far corner opposite Alex.

"I don't want him over here," Alex says through gritted teeth, trying to keep the nausea at bay.

"Alex...are you sick too?" Kabal glances at him warily, eyeing the beads of sweat and pallor.

"....no."

"He is!" Kabal points with vindication and backs up to the opposite corner of the room, "Kate are you still fine?"

"Yesh," she answers through a mouthful of alfredo.

"Okay. You n' me stay on this half of the room, those two stay over there."

Kate nods enthusiastically and Kabal realizes the fate he's just made for himself with a groan.

DAY TWO

Kabal wakes to the sound of Alex sprinting to the bathroom, his heavy combat boots thundering on the floor. His own mouth is unbearably filled with saliva, and his body feels hot.

Next to him, Kate is passed out on the floor, face down, with her hair splayed in a fashion that makes her resemble Cousin It.

Kabal sits up and immediately, the nausea overwhelms him. Alex is still knelt in front of the toilet. He makes a split second decision and stumbles for the trash can, heaving into it ungracefully.

The noise wakes Kate, who blinks blearily, trying to orient herself. Her head is pounding, and the sound of Kabal vomiting is not doing her own stomach any favors.

When he's finally finished, Kabal falls back on his heels and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

"I can't believe you fucks got me sick," he mumbles, shooting a glare in Kano's direction.

Kano is slumped against the wall, his organic eye now bloodshot and haloed by dark purple, almost sunken into his head. Even his cybernetic eye seems dim.

"I'm not sick, mate," Kano drawls weakly.

"Are you kidding me?" Kabal asks incredulously, "I think you're gonna die."

"Did Ramirez die?" Alex asks from the bathroom in between dry heaves.

"Dunno, he was in bad shape though."

Kate makes a sudden noise next to Kabal before shoving him out of the way and thrusting her own head into the trash can. Two MREs make their second appearance and her eyes water as stomach bile joins the party along with them.

Kate wails miserably and falls to the floor in a dramatic heap, her hair now clinging to her sweat-soaked forehead. She curls into the fetal position and whimpers quietly, her stomach still not settled.

--

Echo adjusts the gas mask on her face, checking the seal to ensure that it's sound, deft fingers running along the rubber lining for at least the hundredth time.

She's already checked on Erron, who was lying contentedly in his bed, whittling with his old buck knife. Tigue had been away on a mission and agreed to stay off base, though she did express disappointment at not being able to see the others subjected to quarantine alongside Kate. Danny, too, was off base gathering intel and required no arm twisting to get him to stay that way.

The other agents she didn't give a second thought to- as Kano said, they were expendable.

Echo thumbs the power switch on the electrostatic sprayer and sets to work coating every inch of the hallways in barbicide. She's not even sure if it will work, but she has to try.

She has to try.

DAY THREE

"I cant do this," Kabal moans. He's hunched over the trash can again, but has nothing left to expel, now just heaving until his ribs ache.

"Alex I need you to kill me."

Alex grunts in response. He's slumped against the wall opposite Kano with his eyes closed. His hair has long since fallen out of the neat bun and is now hanging loosely around his face.

"I'm serious, do you have a grenade? Take us all out at once."

Kate is still curled into a ball beside him. Every few minutes she shivers violently and lets out a small sob. Kano now looks as if he's been drained by a vampire- he is sitting so still that Alex has to tap him with his boot every few hours to ensure he's still alive.

"Do you think Echo has finished disinfecting?" Alex asks weakly.

"Doesn't matter if she did, she's not letting us out of this room when we're like this," Kabal answers bitterly.

Kate finally sits up slowly and cradles her head in her hands, trying to keep the throbbing at bay, "Do you think we're gonna die?"

"Sure feels like it," Alex mutters.

"I wish I had just one more drink," Kate says wistfully, "go out drunk, ya know?"

"You are an alcoholic, Kate," Kabal shoots with a derisive look.

"Hang on," Alex pushes himself up shakily and crawls over to Kano. Carefully, he pats his vest until he finds what he's looking for and pulls a silver flask from the pocket.

"What are you doing with my fuckin' flask?"

Alex ignores him and unscrews the top before taking a long swig. His face twists at the taste, he's never understood Kano's preference in liquor. He recaps the flask and tosses it across the room to Kate.

Kate takes a drink and hands it to Kabal who does so in kind.

"Pass it back here you fuckin' drongos," Kano gestures and Kabal tosses the flask to him.

The circle continues until the flask's contents are depleted. On empty stomachs, the small amount of hard liquor is enough to have them feeling lightheaded.

"This is crazy, but I feel a lot better," Alex pipes up from his corner of the room.

"I'm feeling better too!" Kate beams, "And you all look way better!"

Even Kano has the color back in his face, and his eye is no longer sunken and bloodshot.

"How is that possible?" Kabal asks, "All we did was empty the flask, how did we get better so quick?"

The group is silent for a moment before the realization sets in.

"Oh, shit- we haven't had a drink since we went into quarantine," Kabal breaks the silence first.

"Hang on, were we never sick in the first place?" Alex glances around at the others.

Kate looks from Kabal to Alex to Kano and back again, confused, "Wait...what does that mean?"

"It means we were going through alcohol withdrawals, Kate!" Kabal snaps. She responds with a defeated 'oh' and pulls her mouth into a thin line.

As if on cue, the door unlocks and swings open, revealing Echo. She wrinkles her nose at the smell that greets her in the stifling room, a rancid mix of vomit, sweat, and booze.

"About bloody time!" Kano nearly shoves Alex to the ground to get up before pushing past Echo and into the hallway.

Echo eyes the remaining trio with suspicion, trying to nail down why they look so guilty.

"Well, this has been a real treat, but I'm headed to the bar," Kabal rises to his feet and offers a half-assed salute. Kate jumps up behind him and clings to his arm as he rolls his eyes.

When they are finally out of earshot, Echo zeroes in on Alex.

"Are you going to tell me what happened in here?" she asks.

Alex avoids her steely gaze, instead focusing intently on a frayed section of carpet between his boots. He's already coming to terms with a hard to swallow fact about himself, he does not need Echo there to know it.

"Fine. If you won't tell me, I'll review the cameras."

[bhaalbabebardlock]

~Nature's Gifts~

Nature's Gifts Masterpost

Chapter 4- Party

Tags: voyeurism, inappropriate use of tadpoles, smut with Gale and Astarion, implied/imagined threesome, other tags on AO3!

Summary:

"Are you jealous, Astarion? You aren't the only person in this camp, you know. It isn't like I need you.

Goosebumps broke out on her arms and neck at the growl that sounded in her head. She couldn't help but giggle, looking over her shoulder again and waving her fingers as Gale pulled her away. "

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

Writing Masterpost | AO3 Link

Teaser is below the cut; full chapter is on AO3!

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

“Their wine reeks of piss and vinegar, and that bard is giving me a headache.” She huffed softly, crossing her arms.

“You are such a whiny baby. Truly. Can you not just enjoy this? Good gods, Astarion. Do you know how to enjoy anything?” He froze, staring back at her for a long moment before his expression shifted, a sultry smile dancing across his face.

“Darling, you already know I'm fully capable of enjoying all sorts of things.” Heat flushed her cheeks, and, to her annoyance, between her legs. He stepped closer to her, his arm curling around her waist as he pressed his lips to her ear.

“And I do so adore the little sounds you make right before you cry out my name. Far better than any of these accolades from these pathetic tieflings and druids and all these other… do gooders.” She shivered, clenching her fingers as heat curled in her stomach.

“We could just forget this little party altogether, Tav. Have one of our own. A much more pleasurable one.” Her breath hitched, her irritation and arousal at war with one another as she pressed her legs together. She forced herself to swallow, trying to still the way her heart was slamming into her chest. She opened her mouth to answer him, and was interrupted by someone clearing his throat. She blinked slowly, startled as Astarion stepped back with an irritated expression, looking over her shoulder.

She turned, not entirely surprised to see Gale standing there. She gave him a perplexed look, not offering any words as she crossed her arms, tapping her foot. He gave her a nervous smile, spreading his hands.

“I was, well, hoping you would join me tonight. I wanted to show you something.” Before she could answer, she heard Astarion's voice, her cheeks flushing. 

“She's quite busy, Gale. Can you not see that?” She narrowed her eyes, casting him a look over her shoulder before turning back to Gale, a wide smile breaking out across her face.

“I was getting rather bored with the whiny company I seem to have gotten myself stuck with. I'd simply love to see what you have to show me, Gale.” She held out her hand, Gale's fingers wrapping around hers as she felt that familiar nudge in her head. 

Oh, Tav. Is this really the game you want to play? What are you doing? 

Are you jealous, Astarion? You aren't the only person in this camp, you know. It isn't like I need you.

Goosebumps broke out on her arms and neck at the growl that sounded in her head. She couldn't help but giggle, looking over her shoulder again and waving her fingers as Gale pulled her away. 

She hummed quietly to herself, pleasantly surprised by how soft and warm his hands were. How gently his fingers clasped hers. It was sweet. A little annoying maybe, the way he looked at her sometimes, the way he definitely thought that he knew more about magic than her, but, sweet nonetheless. She followed him into his tent, looking around quietly as he let go of her hand, gesturing loosely for her to sit. 

“As I said, I want to show you something.” He sat down next to her on the bed, reaching for her hands again. She gasped at the small glow of purple light wrapping around their fingers, the tingling and pleasurable warmth making her head feel even fuzzier. 

“I wanted to share the weave with you. I think, Tav, we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. I didn't mean to be quite so… ah, so, what did you call me? Pompous. I didn't mean to be so arrogant. I think your magic is rather lovely, even if it is more… unrefined, and.. wild. So I wanted to share mine with you in hopes that, well, you might do the same.” Oh. That was unexpected. 

She nodded slowly, trying to keep the impish grin off her face at how excited he looked. They sat there quietly for a time, the air balmy and warm, the soft purple glow of his magic dancing along her hands. She startled a bit when he leaned forwards, her eyes coming up to meet his, smiling softly at him. She wasn't entirely sure if it was the wine or the magic or something else altogether, but he seemed… less annoying. At least at this moment. 

“Can I kiss you, Octavia?”

The Rest of this is on AO3!

[zmediaoutlet]

fic: all we want is more

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

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

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

(read on AO3)

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

"So," she says.

Sam shrugs. "So?"

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

Sam rolls his eyes. "No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay," Deanna mutters. "Awkward."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deanna actually focuses, finally. "Noelle?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not yet," Sam says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

Who else would it be, Sam thinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I win," he says, panting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She got good tits?"

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

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

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

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

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

Her thumb stops. "Walt?"

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

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

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

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

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

"In your dreams," Deanna says, immediately.

"What about… let me pick the music?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Where'd you even get it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[cdyssey]

Advocate

Prompt (@kalikoke​):

CW: Alcohol Mentions

AO3 Link

As they’re walking out to their cars, Barbara insists on going out to dinner that night to celebrate the reigning Read-a-Thon champ.

Her treat.

“Oh, so you’re takin’ me out on a date, huh?” Melissa grins widely, full of piss-and-vinegar. She loves to flirt with Barbara Howard—married woman, woman of God—thinks it’s fun to see her nearly bend over backwards trying not to accidentally flirt back. Meanwhile, the second-grade teacher has long made her peace with the fact that after nearly thirty years of friendship, the two of them talk like old lesbians who probably own a cat named Fred Astaire.

It’s just one of the occupational hazards of being work wives.

Somewhere along the way, they started to sound like actual wives too.

She likes that.

A lot.

Much more than she reasonably should.

They stop in front of Barbara’s car, a gray sedan that is meticulously washed every weekend. The windshield is completely white with recent sleet, and both of their breaths gather in pockets next to their faces.

“As a matter of fact,” Barbara only harrumphs, at once pompous and playful, a teasing glint in her eyes, “I am. Wear something befitting your winner status.”

“I got a new thong from Victoria's Secret the other day?” She immediately suggests, arching a positively lecherous brow. “Red. Matches my hair ‘n everything.”

Melissa tells herself that it doesn’t mean anything to her when Barbara visibly swallows at these words, when her dark pupils dilate, when the heavy binder in her arms abruptly slips from her grasp and onto her knee, causing her to cluck at Melissa like a mother hen.

“Lord Almighty! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” The other woman moans, rubbing her leg as Melissa bends down to retrieve the binder, snickering silently.

“Yeah, and everyone else too,” she replies in her most suggestive voice.

“Melissa!”

But the second-grade teacher just laughs and laughs—and she carefully ignores the way Barbara’s cheeks have flushed—and she laughs.

This is all she ever feels comfortable asking for, these infinitesimal moments with Barbara Howard, snatched from the relentless march of time. She cups the nanoseconds in her palms just to hold them, if even for a little bit—which is precisely how long that a moment lasts anyway.

There and then gone, lived and then a fragmentary relic of the past with all the rest.

But, Jesus, how they kiss her fingertips so gently—these moments, these relics, these precious nanoseconds—dusting them, like falling snow.

—

A few hours later, they’re sitting across from each other at a booth in Mamma Mia’s, a relatively new and upscale pizzeria that used to be a laundromat a couple of years ago until the feds finally figured out it was another front for the Philly Mob. (None of Melissa’s idiot cousins were involved this time, thank God. Even they weren’t stupid enough to launder money in a goddamn laundromat.)

All of the washers and dryers and probable bloodstains were removed a few years back, and a yuppie couple has since gutted the rather sizable space, remodeled it, and turned it into the talk of the town. Barbara, completely unaware of its history, has been begging to try it out for lunch sometime. 

She’s heard that their salads are excellent.

And Melissa, entirely aware of its history, has always entertained the proposition with a secretive chuckle at the thought of her very proper friend unwittingly stepping foot into a building where at least two men have definitely died.

Yeah, sure, Barb. Let’s go.

Which is how they end up here for dinner, blissfully sipping on their Merlots as they wait for their waitress to come back and take their order. Melissa is indeed wearing something befitting her victory over Janine—a short, green dress with sleeves that billows out around her wrists—but she thinks Barbara has her beat, so elegant in a teal blouse and black vest. Her fitted slacks—also black—accentuate the shapely curves of her hips.

Melissa appreciates the way her friend looks.

(Again, much more than she decently should.)

“You know,” Barbara begins without looking up. She’s been busy scanning the menu for the past few minutes, her readers delicately perched on the bridge of her nose. Melissa’s own menu is still on the table, unfolded and untouched. “I didn’t get to have one blessed slice of pizza today. My kindergarteners were simply voracious.”

“Mine too,” Melissa chortles, recalling how she’d had to tell at least five kids not to chew so fast. They were gonna get indigestion! “And I gave my leftovers to little Benji.”

Sweet kid, Benji Andrews—the youngest in a family of seven.

There sometimes isn’t enough food to go around at his place, so she and Barbara—(who’d had Benji in her class two years ago, and they'd both had several of Benji's siblings)—worked out an agreement with the lunch ladies to make sure that he gets sent home with extra meals a few times a week. 

“Ah, that’s my Melissa,” Barbara murmurs fondly, her gaze flicking upwards from the glossy foldout.

“Yeah, well, you would have done the same, ya schmaltzy gagootz,” she readily deflects—never one to accept unadulterated praise without a fight—but even still, she can’t help but smile at the quiet intimacy of being called Barbara's own.

Damn her and God bless her, she always knows how to tease the softness right out of Melissa.

“Oh!” The older teacher suddenly gasps, glasses slipping a little down her nose. “Shame on me—I almost forgot. Melissa, would you like me to call out some menu items for you? There’s a spinach-ricotta calzone that might have your name on it.”

And Barbara glances at her perfectly unopened menu then, apology flashing in her eyes, but Melissa only shakes her head. She’d taken one look at the front of the pamphlet, seen its kookily stylized typeface, and quickly placed it down before any of the letters started doin’ any funny business.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says firmly. “I looked at their menu online before we got here, and I'm fine if you just wanna share a pizza."

“Are you sure?” Barbara frets, conscientious about her reading struggles—always—from the very moment she found out about them some two decades ago when she was the first person to ever realize that Melissa only rarely peruses menus at restaurants.

And that’s only if the font is just right or if there are helpful pictures or if there’s not too damn much happening on the page at one time.

Before the Internet really took off, and Melissa didn’t have a reliable way of checking a menu before she went to a restaurant she was unfamiliar with, she’d just ask the waiter for the specials and choose one that sounded the most appetizing to her—far too humiliated to spend the necessary time trying to decipher a block of text that almost looked comprehensible to her. She didn’t have the luxury to chisel the individual words out, unit by unit, as she did at home with her books. The someone sitting across from her was unfailingly impatient. Her siblings. Some of her antsier friends. Her own ma. 

Joe.

He got so freaking annoyed when she took forever to order, even though he knew she had a hard time with menus.

He just swore up and down that she needed better glasses.

But Barbara, from the very moment she found out, approached the matter far differently than her ex-husband, which is to say with the same determination and kindness that governs most of her actions. She suggested that she could read some parts of the menu aloud for Melissa—so as to provide her with options—and for years upon years, she’s done so every time they’ve tried a new restaurant together.

Melissa hated that at first.

Hated that her weakness had been seen and so thoroughly identified by another.

Hated that someone would ever have the guts to call her out on it.

Hated that all of her dozens of coping techniques were stunningly powerless against a goddamn laminated piece of paper.

Hated that it was so obvious if anyone cared to notice.

Which the kindergarten teacher absolutely did.

But then again, Barbara notices a lot of things about Melissa, even the all-too-vulnerable details that she refuses to articulate aloud.

She notices baseball bats firmly taped under desks and irrational fears having to do with ever facing away from a door. She notices new scrapes on her knuckles from bar fights and dark shadows turning circles beneath her eyes after restless nights. She notices when Melissa is having trouble with dinner menus and eighty-paged curriculum updates and legalese from divorce papers that get served to her two days before her fifty-fifth birthday.

And yes, she once hated all of that—Barbara's keen eyes and Barbara's annoying inability not to intervene.

Barbara's hero complex.

And Barbara's pity.

Melissa hated the pity most of all.

But time and trust and her repeated exposure to her friend's particular way of being in the world have ultimately softened her initial understanding of this point, have made her come to terms with the fact that Barbara Howard doesn’t exactly pity her when she reads menus aloud to her, when she sends her emails in big, uncrowded fonts, when she helps her mark up stupid administrative packets with their stupid, tiny text.

She accommodates her.

And this is to say that she loves her.

“I’m positive,” she nods vigorously, well-aware that it takes a lot of verbal and physical gesturing for her friend to ever drop something. She doesn't necessarily want to talk about her insecurities right now—has had to think about them a lot these past few days with Maya, dredging up so many memories—but she damn well won't be responsible for Barbara feeling bad about herself because of them too. “I’m covered tonight.”

As to be expected, though, Barbara, still holding on to her guilt with a frown, sighs deeply.

“You shouldn’t have to be, though,” she insists, vaguely waving her menu around. “It’s absolutely absurd that no one considers how hellacious this font can be on the eyes.”

“Hah!” Melissa snorts, propping her chin up on her fist. “I know you’re angry when you start pullin’ polysyllabic words outta your ass.”

“I’m not angry,” Barbara sniffs (clearly angry). “I’m just disappointed in the lack of accessibility.”

“You should write an op-ed for the Times.”

“Melissa,” she pouts, now finally placing the menu down, crossing her arms over her chest, “I’m being utterly serious.”

And Melissa readily softens, knows that every word is true. Barbara cares so much about making sure that the world is a just place—for her students, for her family, for Melissa herself.

There’s a wheelchair accessible ramp at Willard R. Abbott Elementary School not because some egghead at City Hall gave a rat’s ass.

But because Barbara Howard is a goddamn amazing teacher who fought for it.

There's a reason why she's the best of them all.

“Yeah, I know,” she smiles sadly, impulsively reaching over and offering her upturned palm, an olive branch. But she waits, with remarkable patience, for the inevitable moment when Barbara unbends her arms and takes it, interlinking their fingers together over the checkered tablecloth. She squeezes once and desperately wishes that they could stay like this forever, suspended in time, connected by touch, but the elegant ring on Barbara’s fourth finger shimmers in the light from the tabletop candle.

And so she lets go in the end.

She always does.

(Relics and nanoseconds.)

“I gotta say, I'm... disappointed too,” she goes on with a heavy sigh, pulling her now free hand through her hair. “Had a talk with one of my kiddos today whose parents won’t let her get tested for dyslexia."

“Oh, Melissa,” Barbara murmurs, understanding dawning in her eyes, gentle and profound care. Her best friend knows the very specific way that this situation hits close to home.

It’d been a matter of time for Melissa’s ma. 

Or, well, for the lack of it more accurately.

She had five children all under the age of ten to take care of, and she didn’t have the energy to wonder why her eldest daughter sucked at reading beyond thinking that she just wasn’t trying hard enough. 

How hard, after all, could it be to read Dr. Seuss?

“I taught her one of my tricks—y’know, highlighting the first parts of words,” she adds quickly, as though to blow past the sentimentality of everything, of it all, “but it made me sad for my kid t’think that she doesn’t have an advocate…”

Maya's parents had been afraid—afraid for their child to get a label, afraid for her to be different, afraid for her to be perceived as less than.

She'd kinda wanted to key their car after that disastrous conference, but she also gets it—she really fucking does.

“She has you,” Barbara immediately says, adamant, adoring and so perfectly convinced. “You were her advocate today. You were there for that baby girl in a way that she will never forget.”

Melissa blinks rapidly, unable to stop a lump from rising to her throat as she suddenly recalls Mrs. Myrick, the teacher who had given her that book about a sad child who was also different all those many years ago. 

She’d sat with Melissa in the hallway and taught her how to steady a highlighter against a page without messing things up.

But even if you do mess up, Melissa, the teacher had murmured, brushing a stray curl behind the then six-year old’s ear, that’s perfectly okay too.

You’re enough, Melissa, she finished, soft and so kind. You're always enough.

“I’m so proud of you,” Barbara intones in the exact same cadence some fifty-odd years later, eyes gleaming in the dim lighting of the restaurant, radiant with quiet affection.

Melissa falteringly opens her mouth to say something then, to tell Barbara thank you.

For reading menus aloud to me.

For making sure the school has a wheelchair ramp.

For not pitying me.

For loving me.

For always being in my corner.

For never once betting against me.

Other people have me?

Well, I have you.

You’re my advocate.

And I love you.

But their waitress comes up to them then, a slight, young thing who might be Kit or Kat according to the slightly distorted name tag pinned on her chest, and she’s asking if they know what they’d like to eat. So she closes her mouth again, the words dying away on her tongue.

“A pizza then?” Barbara asks, a smile rising to her plump lips. “To celebrate the fact that you’ve taken the prize home once again, Ms. Schemmenti?”

“Oh, hon,” she smirks, easily shifting back into utter asshole mode. “How can you say that when I haven’t even introduced you to my folks yet?”

“Girlfriend!” Comes another scandalized groan, Barbara pinching the bridge of her nose. “Now is not the time!”

And Melissa laughs with all her belly as Barbara hastily explains to the waitress that they're not dating, they're just very good friends—(which somehow sounds even gayer)—and Melissa is merely being facetious. And she doesn't do anything to refute her, just savors the moment, reveling in the blush that has delicately darkened the skin around Barbara's nose.

[powderblueblood]

ohhhh 18, 9, and 2 for your Steve and Eddie (any verse you'd like

interrogate me about my characters

you are FEEEDING MEEEEE i'm sorry this took me like a couple of days my brain had to power back up after the weekend

2. THEIR EMOTIONAL/MORAL WEAK SPOTS

hellfire & ice/sequel!eddie starts off as your garden variety drug dealer and progressively adds a couple more tools in his criminal belt as the years go on and honestly? doesn't really see that much of a boohoo about it. yes, it's what the world expects from all munsons, yes, it's bad bad work for bad bad men but eddie can't see himself working a straight job. ever. he's not equipped for it. and, he's made peace with the fact that he'll never be a rockstar (jk no the fuck he has not he's so bitter) so he's all, might as well make the wasted years i have on this stupid earth a little more interesting. he's got a little bit of a robin hood complex going on once we meet him in his late 20s.

clear cut!steve is also a criminal albeit the smoother kind, and kind of works off a similar thing of i've never been good at anything else, so this might as well be my career. except for steve, it's banking on how far he can get with that tireless, bottomless, all-consuming harrington charm. working in insurance, or whatever the fuck his father did, never quite scratched the itch of bold faced robbery that... well, robbery did. it's funny, though. steve's never had the aspirations towards grandeur that his fellow thieves have had, because he knows what it's like to grow up in a cushy rich household. steve's just doing it for the thrill of fooling everybody. and he is, by the way. fooling everybody. even you. remember that.

9. HUMILIATING MEMORIES

hellfire and ice!eddie, like.... do you mean his entire life up to this point and actually, beyond. he once got so unbelievably fucking stoned that he thought calling a phone sex line was a good idea but then once the sexy operator lady picked up, he got so freaked out that he could only talk in fozzie bear voice and he couldn't drop the bit for 20 minutes. fun conversation with wayne about that phone bill. he's also written so much bad poetry, so many embarrassing near-self insert stories (one of us, one of us) where he romances many a comely elfin lady. he once slipped one of these stories into chess club captain martha peterson's locker in freshman year as, like, an effort at wooing her but then he got pulled into the fucking guidance counselor's office because she said he was stalking him.

old hollywood!steve... again. regrets. humiliations. he has a few. one could be punching bela lugosi out after a stage production of dracula because he thought he was a real vampire (drunk). another could be punching out an extra on the set of the merry widow in 1925 because he was sniffing around mae murray, who steve was also sniffing around at the time (jilted). steve was replaced by 'that rodent-voiced bastard john gilbert' and the extra he clocked? none other than clark gable. among other embarrassments; not securing a finalized divorce from his first wife before he married his second (drunk), the time he fully pissed his pants when buster keaton played a prank on him during a seance (stoned), getting caught wailing for a second chance outside joan crawford's room at the garden of alla hotel (that woman was inside having lesbian sex).

18. THINGS THEY'LL NEVER ADMIT

old hollywood!eddie knows his entire career is based on fluke, but he's too embarrassed to nurture his real talent, which is writing. to be honest, he does stunts because he kind of has a death wish. not being able to express himself was killing him, but he was always too full of piss and vinegar and cowardice to kill himself. but now people see him, or what the studios have made of him, and it's glorious and horrifying and naked and fake and full of possibility that he's too scared to touch.

hellfire & ice/burning up & burning out!steve (moreso sequel relevant, but) has always thought lacy was a fucking weirdo honestly and blames lacy for nancy pulling away from him during his senior year, not like nancy becoming a person was a factor or anything... until they're older and steve and lacy grow increasingly fond of each other. he wishes he took the job that his dad laid out for him on a silver platter sometimes and married someone stable, like tina or whoever. steve's increasingly more anxious socially as he ages, knowing that most people see him as some kind of joke, but he has to put on the face and be the guy, whatever that means to him in 1994. he's terrified that he's built his life around constructs that are flimsy; being independent from his family, following a path when he's not sure of himself as a person, desperately trying to make the thing with nancy work when she's there because he's familiar and he's there because he's afraid.

[wonderlandleighleigh]

Joel somehow getting punched in the face?

(I am late on Punch Joel April)

"So supposedly," Graham Norton smirks from his spot in his chair. "Supposedly you used to punch people you shouldn't punch."

"Oh, this was a very, very long time ago," Lenny admits with a chuckle, placing a hand over his mouth. "I was young, and very, very stupid."

"But it's a great story, right?" Graham asks.

"Well...one of them is funny, and the other is not so much," Lenny explains as he sits back on the couch. "The funny one is basically some schmo in a bar, mouthing off and hating Jews. I was a little drunk, so I went over to pick a fight. And he...threw me through a plate glass window."

The audience laughs at that, and Graham grins, "So it was a trip to hospital?"

"Eh. I don't remember. Maybe."

"What was the other one?"

Lenny sighs heavily. "So...you know, Midge is my second wife. She's the best. She's great. Her ex-husband is...not great. He's better than he used to be now that we're all old fogies, but back when we were all young and full of piss and vinegar and crap, he was - well for lack of a word i can get past the censors, he was an asshole."

"Lenny, we're past the watershed, you can call him a shithead," Graham assures him.

"Really?" Lenny lights up. "He was a huge shithead!" he crows loudly, making the audience laugh louder.

"So you punched him?" Edris Elba asks from next to him.

"Once," Lenny admits. "Only once in all the years we've known each other. And it was the first time we met."

The audience laughs in surprise at that.

Lenny sighs heavily. "So Joel - his name is Joel - back in the day, owned a nightclub in Chinatown. And when it seemed like Midge and I were getting serious, she took me to meet him during the day at the club. You know, and at first, when we're introduced, he's the nicest guy. Tellin' me how big an honor it is to meet me, how he hopes I'll consider doing sets at his club."

"And then Midge drops the bomb?" Graham guesses.

"Yep," Lenny nods. "She says, 'So Lenny and I have been seeing each other for a little while, and it's getting serious, and I figured you two should formally meet.'"

"How'd that go over?" Dame Maggie Smith asks.

Lenny chuckles, making the audience laugh, and he takes a moment to shake his head.

"Joel looks at me. Turns and stares at Midge. Looks back at me. And then he goes 'so that's how you make it in comedy.'"

The audience gasps and boos.

"That is- that's quite the statement to say to anyone, let alone someone you used to be married to," David Tennant comments from further down the couch, clearly horrified.

"It really was," Lenny agrees. "Joel turns around in that way that do for dramatic affect when they're upset? And I'm standing there, and my mind is fu- it's racing. And I think to myself, 'who the hell does this guy think he is? Midge is the funniest person I know. How dare he?' And my caveman brain just takes over, and suddenly I'm tapping him on the shoulder, and he turns around, and I pop him right in the nose."

"Good," Maggie snaps firmly. "He earned that."

"Did you break his nose?" Idris asks.

"Surprisingly yes," Lenny confirms.

"I don't usually condone violence, m'self," David chimes in again. "But in this case, he really did deserve that."

"Was Midge angry?" Graham asks.

"She probably could have been angrier, all things considered," Lenny smirks behind his hand. "And I shouldn't have done it, but it was such a low blow."

"Truly, what a rotten thing to say," Maggie grouses.

"Yeah, he was a little shit back then," Lenny agrees. "Now he spends most of his time complaining from an armchair."

"And you produced a movie!" Graham cries happily. "That a nice bit of karma."

"And a great plug," Lenny adds with a chuckle.

[fangirleaconmigo]

As I watched Blood Origin I took notes. They are silly and disjointed bullet points and here they are:

(My full review is HERE)

Ep One

Shit, that's intense. My bard is having a bad time.

Hi Minnie Driver!

Wait. Why would Geralt hate that? (were they saying he'd hate an elf being the first witcher? V confused. Why would he hate that?)

So Fjall was too slutty to be a bodyguard.

Glad pretty girl didn’t get punished for helping the little girl.

Hmmm the princess doesn’t want to just be a baby factory. Word. I get it.

Michelle Yeoh!!!!

Wow the princess really flat out murdered her brother.

Girl, you don’t get a nation when you kill their king it’s not that simple.

MICHELLE YEOH I hope we get to see more of that.

Ep 2

Is she talking to her hammer? I love her already.

Fjall and Éile are they tied by destiny? How?

I juuuuuuuuust realized that sellswords don’t sell swords in the literal sense. I don't know why I thought that. This is all making a lot more sense.

I like the failed romance in the beginning. Hey folks, even if you fall in love with a brother murdering evil chick, life goes on. Second chances, etc. etc.

If they kill off Scían this fast I’m gonna be annoyed

Oh Hi Avallac'h. Avallac'h is like ummmmmm I’m regretting this shit (he is just a babby)

Merwyn is determined to survive, I like that. I like that in my evil women.

Eredin has a knife to a hotties throat saying 'you fucked me'(gaygayhomosexualgay?)

Oooooohhhhh

Actual real gay

Nice

Yes. Welcome to the family Eredin.

Brother Death called Fjall Square jaw-all the flirting! (Fjall is very flirt-withable imo)

Holy fuck Éile burning folks. That's hardcore, girl. Good thing that you ran away.

Winterberry and lilac CREEPY but revenge cool. Also, LILAC AND GOOSEBERRIES

Uh oh is Balor giving her those kids. That's rude.

I assume true sacrifice comes from within means Balor has to kill someone he cares about. If I was that girl with him I'd be pretty worried right now.

Eredin done in by the most obvious “spy” who literally ran right into him. He’s dickmatized or something. Himbo?

DONT TOUCH EILE YOU FUCKERS

Ep 3

Yesss love Meldof YET AGAIN

Poison a sheep and feed it to it, yes reference to the books.

Wow, girl (Zacare I looked it up) is throwing that “not really family” in his (Syndril, I looked it up) face fast ain't she. Found family gets lost fast when shit gets real.

Solryth? Is this empress chick talking to the brother she killed??? Girl? Do you think he wants to hear from your ass??? He's in the great beyond cursing your name.

Awww Fjall being protective

Even if you fell into a bucket of tits you’d come up holding a cock (is Meldof calling him gay?)

Ooooo no secret entrance?!?! Damn you Fjall. Just full of piss and vinegar barreling forward with nothing but guts and good cleavage.

Awwwww I love that the mage sees him as he is.

Éile sings

Such pretty voice Fjall is down bad.

As he should be, as am I.

Girl, he is not gonna let you be the first witcher. Not after you sang that. Please be real.

I love an 'end of the world about to die shag and party' episode.

We gettin a witcher, folks.

Ugh I hope Scían doesn’t betray them. I think she’s just getting them a way in tho.

Empress really thinks she’s gonna hit it again with Fjall? THIS CHICK. LMAOOOO She just has no concept of her actions having consequences does she.

She looks hella cool in her fancy armor tho.

She’s actually quite good at this. Making deals. Knowing what people want and offering it to them.

Yeah he’s gonna kill Fenrik I knew that from when he killed the kids

Ep 4

Avalac'h is a sad lil loser boy pobrecito

Eredin thinks he won’t risk Fenrik? You a dummy hunny

I woulda given Avallac'h more time rather than run back to Balor. I mean he's just a babby, he's gonna be badass folks.

Oh no he's hulking out. Look out empress girl.

“You’re a monster”

UH OH BETA RUN GRL BETTA RUN he kills those things now.

Why are his eyes black? Potions make eyes black?

OH YOU DUMMIES YOU THINK SCÍAN CANT TAKE TWO OF YOU?? FOOLS

Damn, lark. Éile really broke down the difference between a feminist and a girlboss to Miss Empress then stuck her. That was a clever way around making her badass but not 100% a murderer.

Balor killed that soldier for zero reason. This is just not a good person.

WOOPS HULK BOY Sun's gettin real low.

Wow Éile is pregnant? I thought that witchers were sterile. Maybe that's a thing the mages did.

I already knew Ciri was her descendant because people on twitter were shitting their pants because the actress is Black. I mean, don't they know how genes work? You can get a blondie in that span of time? Its centuries? And her child's already gonna be half Fjall, so idk, people cannot be normal about Black women I cannot fathom it.

And there's Mr. Joey again, we always love to see him.

The end. That was fun. Might watch again.