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thegeminisage · 3 days ago

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✨🎉IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!🎉✨

for my BIRTHDAY i am posting the first chapter of my rookanis fic (link for excerpts), exclusive to everyone on tunglr dot edu bc i don't like to put fic on ao3 til it's finished but i want people to see it and since it's my BIRTHDAY i get to do what i want 👍

a few things to know:

it is a sequel to the ossuary, but you don't need to read that to read this. i'd be really happy if you did though 👉👈

i don't mind reblogs! that would also make me happy.

this is about 13k

it's a rough draft. when it goes up fr it'll be different don't judge my mistakes 😭

if you need visual aid, here is rook image

warnings are under the cut <3

CONTENT WARNINGS:

flashbacks/references to lucanis and spite's time in the ossuary. nothing graphic but a bit upsetting. includes starvation, torture, lucanis and spite being bonded without their consent, and a suicide attempt by lucanis that spite interrupted.

fake grief re: caterina's fake death, and then whatever the opposite of that is re: varric's real death

non-graphic description of burned bodies

rook is a trans woman and lucanis notices this without having to be told when he sees her adam's apple. however, she kind of allows him to see this on purpose without caring if he will realize she is trans, and she comes out to him herself pretty quickly, but the coming out bit is not in this chapter

without further ado.........

A white light blinds him. Restraints snap closed around his ankles, wrists, and throat. He can't turn his head. His panicked breath is too loud in his ears.

"Liar," hisses his own furious voice, something inside him squeezing his lungs until he struggles for air. His lips shape the words. "Treacherous filth! I hate you! I want out!"

But he can't get out. How many times has he cut his own skin open on these manacles trying?

A shadow moves above him, briefly blocking out the light. Blinking away stars, Lucanis struggles to make out a face.

It's Calivan. He's holding something. An eyedropper. "One way or another," he murmurs, his voice muffled and distorted under the sound of Lucanis's breathing, "you're going to stop giving me that fucking look."

Something's not right. It's not right. Lucanis remembers Calivan's head under his heel. This is—

Calivan reaches for Lucanis's face, and gently spreads open his eyelids. An unfamiliar hand shakes Lucanis's shoulder.

"I want out!" Lucanis hears himself snarl. "Let me out, let me out, let me—"

The caw of a nearby crow startles Lucanis to wakefulness, and he gasps as though drowning.

"...out," Spite finishes, uncertain.

They're on a rowboat. Sitting across from them is the young mage Crow from House Cantori in charge of their getaway, and on the opposite side are Rook and Neve, looking as startled as Lucanis feels. Rook's hands are up in the universal sign of surrender. It was she who shook him just now, he realizes, trying to wake him from his nightmare. "Lucanis?"

"I'm fine," Lucanis tells her automatically, struggling to slow his breathing. He runs a shaking hand back through his filthy hair. "What is it?"

Rook waves her arm, gesturing to their surroundings. "We're here. You're home."

"Home?" Lucanis repeats, frowning—and then he looks up and understands.

It's Treviso: the spires against the moonlit sky, the lights lined up on strings, the fireflies hovering over the canals—and, of course, the crows, perched on ship masts and gondolas. Their rowboat is moored fairly close to the market, wood gently bumping wood with the motion of the waves, and the sounds of people—so, so many people—echo over the water. A snatch of conversation, a shouted bid on a painting, children laughing as they play with the stray cats. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls, freely announcing to everyone what Lucanis would have once given almost anything to know: the time, which is currently nine in the evening. People are getting ready to eat; distantly Lucanis can make out the clink of dinnerware, and a gentle spring breeze greets him with the first aroma of food Lucanis has smelled in an entire year, spiced meats and fried dough.

And—what is that? Lucanis inhales.

"It's understandable you dozed off," Rook is saying, "you've had a pretty fucking big day—"

"Smoke, pendejo," Spite informs him tersely. "Smells like smoke."

It does, and not the cooking kind. Lucanis squints, searching the skyline—there. He points. "That's the Cantori Diamond," he says, interrupting Rook's chatter. "It's on fire!"

"What?"

Rook, Neve, and the Crow jump to their feet. Lucanis follows, feeling unsteady; he used to be fine balancing in boats, but ironically, his sea legs were lost in the year he spent beneath the waves. "Shit," says Neve, stepping out of the boat. She offers Rook a hand out, too, hesitates, and decides not to offer one to Lucanis. "We've got to go—now."

"What?" Lucanis asks. "Why?"

Rook's eyes have found the skyline, that thin thread of smoke splitting Satina, the smaller moon, in two. She turns her face to Lucanis, apologetic. "The Cantori Diamond is where we left from," she explains. "Lucanis—it's where we left your family."

Caterina Dellamorte had the foresight to have the Crow from House Cantori bring along a cloak, presumably to conceal Lucanis's identity, but she needn't have worried: after a year in prison, he's certain he's unrecognizable. His worn prison clothes are thin and full of holes, covering very little of the damage done to his body. Though he did his best to keep clean with nothing but the pump in his cell, the wild overgrown tangle of his hair and beard have matted in places with dried blood and filth. Lucanis dons the cloak anyway so he doesn't scare passerby; if he saw himself coming down a dark alley, he'd turn around and walk in the other direction.

Unfortunately, Caterina did not send boots. On his best day Lucanis wouldn't want to walk through this city in bare feet—and this is not his best day.

"Careful," says Spite sharply, as Lucanis makes to turn down a side street, at the same time that Rook stops him by the elbow and goes, "Not that way."

"What?" Lucanis asks, jerking away from her touch. Maybe it's been a year since he was here last, but he still knows Treviso better than a pair of Vints. His family needs him. "We can get roof access from here, it's the quickest way!" And there will be less broken glass, hopefully.

"Only if you feel like going through the Antaam," Neve replies.

"Antaam?" Lucanis repeats, a little too loudly, and a few people at a nearby fruit stand nervously turn their heads. He lowers his voice and hisses, "There are Antaam in Treviso?"

"In much of Antiva," the Crow says, her expression pained. "You've been gone a long time, Master Dellamorte. Let me lead them away—you should get to the Cantori Diamond as quickly as possible." And, cleverly, she slips down the side street before he can object; had he told her to stop, she would have had to obey.

There's a shout of Qunlat from around the corner, and then the clatter of weapons and boots racing over cobblestone. The Antaam pass by in a flurry of movement just visible at the mouth of the alleyway. Neve takes a cautious look around the corner and reports, "Clear."

Around the corner, behind a loose place in someone's fence, and up a trellis, and they arrive safely on a nearby rooftop. From here it's easy to spot the red banners of the Antaam rolled out over the edges of buildings and ropes strung over the streets, the groups of heavily armed Qunari milling around the markets. "Smells like sweat and metal," Spite observes, as Lucanis leads Rook and Neve through the city, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. It feels good to stretch his legs; it would feel better if he were not racing as fast as he could to find out if his family's still alive. "They want. To hurt."

That sounds right to Lucanis. The Antaam, the Qunari army, have been troubling Tevinter for a few years now. The Qunari, who live in the northernmost lands of Thedas, have been warring with Tevinter for as long as anyone can remember, each trying to conquer the other over...various cultural differences. But the Antaam decided enough was enough, and more extreme methods were required to end the conflict for good. They went rogue and began carving their way through Tevinter in defiance of the orders of their government, starting with the city of Ventus and working their way south. The last Lucanis heard of it before being captured was that they were attacking Vyrantium, but he never learned how the conflict ended.

Because Antiva shared a border with Tevinter, Caterina and the other Talons have been worried about the Antaam showing up on their doorstep for some time. But their countries are separated by the Hundred Pillars mountain range, and though Antiva has no standing army, it's got trade contracts and allies all over Thedas—not to mention the business it's made of rearing assassins. Lucanis always thought it was unlikely they'd ever have to deal with the Antaam personally.

It seems like he was wrong.

Now that he's running over it with a crow's eye view, he can see the ways the occupation has changed Treviso. The markets are open, but no one is congregating in large groups. Armored Qunari stand on street corners with spears. The canals, normally packed with gondolas at this time of night, are all but empty. More people are staying home after dark.

The smoke above the Cantori Diamond has begun to dissipate by the time they get close. Whatever happened has already started and ended, without Lucanis there to do anything about it. Lucanis hesitates before the final ladder leading to the rooftop entrance, looking up at the high arched windows, the large statues of crows with open wings, and says without meaning to, "Don't tell them."

Rook and Never come to a stop behind him. "What?" asks Neve.

"If they're alive," Lucanis says, eyes still on the Diamond, "don't tell them about Spite."

Inside his head, Spite growls. "You. Would keep. Me secret? Lock me in! Hide me! Bury me—!"

"Spite?" Rook repeats, an unknowing interruption. "You mean...the demon?"

"Told them my name!" Spite roars, furious. "Like Calivan! Fool!"

Lucanis shakes his head sharply. He can't even tell Spite to be quiet without reminding everyone else that he's there. "Please," he says instead.

He feels more than sees Rook exchange a glance with Neve. Then she says, "All right," and they go up the ladder.

Closer to the rafters, the smell of burnt wood and flesh is inescapable. "Like burned feet," says Spite, agitated. "Hot fire pokers. Damp files! Made. Into. Ashes." Lucanis gets the distinct impression that with so many sounds and smells, Spite is getting a little overwhelmed. "They're all dead," he hisses. "They're all dead!"

Please, Lucanis thinks, as he takes the last flights of stairs two at a time. Please.

They're not all dead. As he, Rook, and Neve pick their way past burned corpses and overturned furniture, Lucanis spies the shapes of their backs, instantly recognizable even after a year away. On the left, Andarateia Cantori, Seventh Talon and the only person in the world closer to Caterina than her own grandchildren. On the right, Viago de Riva, Fifth Talon and Teia's lover. And in the middle—

He is alive. Illario is alive.

Elven ears catch the creak of the floorboard first. Teia whirls, dagger in hand—and then her dark eyes widen. "Maker," she breathes, stunned.

Viago turns in nearly perfect sync with her, his face going bloodless. "Lucanis?"

In answer, Lucanis throws back his hood. It takes him a long moment to find his voice. "What happened here?"

"A message." Now it's Illario who speaks—the real Illario, not a dream or a memory or blood magic—though his tone is as somber as Lucanis has ever heard it. "From Zara Renata."

Finally, he turns, and steps into the light.

What was Lucanis so worried about? Illario hasn't changed at all. He looks healthy, well-fed and well-rested, clean and clean-shaven. There's not one wrinkle in his clothing, not a single hair out of place. The only difference is that he has never looked at Lucanis this way before: like he is seeing a ghost. "I can't believe it," he whispers. His eyes are bright, voice choked with emotion. "You're home."

Lucanis isn't sure which of them starts moving first. He knows how he looks—Maker, he knows how he must smell—but his fussy, fastidious cousin yanks him into an embrace without hesitation. His arms press on old hurts and new, but Lucanis doesn't care. After the year he's had, there is no one else in the world Lucanis would let touch him without reserve this way. It is only right that he should see Illario first.

After Illario lets go, he presses his forehead to Lucanis's, just for a moment, shaking him hard by the back of his neck. He pulls back and ducks his head a little, searching Lucanis's face. Lucanis, throat too tight to speak, nods.

"Family," Spite sighs, like some new understanding has clicked into place.

And at that, Lucanis must pull away so he can master himself. "Where—" He clears his throat. "Where is Caterina?"

Silence falls. Lucanis looks back and forth between Illario and Teia, but neither of them seem able to speak. Dread rises in his chest like seawater.

Lucanis asks again, "Where is Caterina?"

It's Viago who falls on the knife. "She's dead," he says curtly, quick and clean as a killing cut. "During the fire, a support beam fell, and..."

Lucanis doesn't hear the rest. His pulse is rushing in his ears. Unbidden he remembers Calivan's final words, uttered only a few hours ago: Zara will never stop hunting you...your precious family. Walk out if you like, Lucanis. You'll never be free. Lucanis is used to ignoring the lashing out of dying targets, but now the words have the ring of omens.

Caterina Dellamorte, dead.

"Where?" says Lucanis, cutting through Viago's next sentence.

The corner of Viago mouth twitches in a frown, but he allows the interruption without complaint. "You should know that the body is in poor condition. It was not a good death—"

"Where?" Lucanis presses, so Viago leads him back downstairs to a section of the vine-covered terrace outside where several bodies lay covered with sheets. Lucanis hears the others follow, even Rook and Neve, but he doesn't care enough to stop them. He kneels beside the body Viago stops at, steels himself, and pulls down the sheet.

"I get one of you back," says Illario, "only to lose the other."

Their grandmother's face has been burned almost to be unrecognizable, blisters and char hiding any hope of identifying her by face. But she is wearing all of her rings, her fine clothes. Her skin is even still warm. He takes the body's left arm in hands that he forces not to shake and pushes up the sleeve. Here is the correct birthmark on the back of her elbow. There are the faint thin white lines of old knife cuts on her forearm.

"We've already started burning them," Teia says as he continues his examination. Cremations are always a quick business in Thedas; outside of a few outliers, most people don't like to leave a body laying any longer than they have to, lest it tempt demons looking for a host. "But for this, we wanted to wait for you. Vi says it's impossible, but it's Caterina. I have to be sure."

Lucanis checks the body's right arm, searching for the puckered scar tissue that healed wrong around a rapier wound, courtesy of the Orlesian baron Caterina killed with nothing but a thimble. He finds it.

"Sure?" Neve echoes.

"That the Venatori didn't use blood magic to alter the corpse, as they did for the one they passed off as Lucanis," Viago explains. "It happened so quickly I doubt that's the case, but only Lucanis can be certain."

The correct mole on the left knee. The tiny marks on her right calf where she received stitches after a conflict with House Velardo. That wound is the reason she began using a cane.

"You can sense blood magic?" Neve asks. She sounds impressed.

"It makes the backs of my eyes hurt." Lucanis lets the body go, pulling the sheet up again, and sits back on his heels. "I don't feel anything," he says, addressing the group in general, but staring at the corpse. "There's no scars or birthmarks missing, and there's none there that don't belong. This is—this is Caterina."

It was Caterina's training that helped Lucanis survive the Ossuary. It was Caterina who found him and sent people to his rescue. All her hard work, all the time she spent never giving up on him, and Lucanis missed her by less than an hour. She might have even still been alive when his boat reached Treviso.

Spite, who has been uncharacteristically silent during Lucanis's examination, makes a low sound of pain Lucanis has never heard from him before. "Family," he says again, but this time, it's mournful. He sounds as devastated as Lucanis feels.

Lucanis wishes they had a moment to talk. Spite hasn't sounded quite like himself since they left the Ossuary, and strange as it is, Lucanis worries. What's wrong with him?

"I'm so sorry," Rook says, and lays a hand on Lucanis's shoulder.

Lucanis is on his feet in an instant, all the better to escape her touch. "Don't be," he says briskly. "We had a contract, no? That's good. I need to work."

Rook starts, "Good is not exactly—"

"You just got back, and already you want to leave again?" Illario asks. "You should take some time—"

"I don't need time! I need a target!" His cousin really hasn't changed. Lucanis spent a year and a day rotting in that pit, their grandmother has been assassinated, and still Illario will take nothing seriously. "Someone is making a move against our family. Zara is still out there somewhere. And Caterina gave me a contract," Lucanis says. "I'm not breaking the last deal she ever made!"

"Kill," Spite agrees. He has made an appearance at last, manifesting an image of Lucanis's own self behind Illario, complete with his overgrown beard, his filthy clothes, and borrowed cloak. "Find Zara. Make. Her. Pay!"

All the more reason to go, Lucanis realizes, jerking his eyes away so no one will wonder why he's staring at empty space. How long could he keep a secret like Spite under the watchful eyes of Talons? Under the eyes of Illario, who knows him best?

Illario gazes at him across an insurmountable five feet of space, his mouth a flat unhappy line. Lucanis has always hated fighting with him, but he's been away so long that even this feels achingly nostalgic, so much better than not seeing him at all.

"I owe them," Lucanis says finally. He forces himself to meet Illario's eye; it would be impossible, at this moment, to meet Rook or Neve's. "They helped me escape. If you had any idea what it was like down there..."

He doesn't have to say more. Because Illario does know Lucanis best, he knows it's pointless to argue once Lucanis has made up his mind. The only person who could ever make him change it lies dead at their feet. "And when the job is done?" Illario asks.

Lucanis hears the unspoken end of that question: which of them will succeed Caterina as First Talon? Her wishes and the wishes of her grandsons could not be more different: Illario has always wanted the job, while Lucanis can think of little he wants less. But Lucanis is older, if only by a month, and he has always been Caterina's favorite. He was still trying to think of a way to convince her to make a different choice when he was captured.

But he didn't get the chance, and now—

As much as he doesn't want the job, as dangerous as it would be for him to take it when he's got a demon inside him, he knows what Caterina would want, and more importantly, so does everyone else. Could he really disregard her final wishes so easily?

But Lucanis has finally reached his limit. "When the job is done, I'll come home," Lucanis says, firmly shutting the door on that question. He can't face it now, not yet; the sand from the sea floor is still stuck under his nails.

Illario's not happy with it, but if he has anything else to say, he wisely keeps it to himself. It's a discussion for family.

Their group breaks. Teia and Viago go back to overseeing the damage control of the Cantori Diamond, Illario promises to return shortly and ducks down a flight of stairs, and Rook and Neve show Lucanis how they got to Treviso: a tall thin mirror that's pointed at the top, carefully concealed on an unused corner of the terrace with vines. There's no reflection; instead, the mirror glows, and like peering through a fogged-up window Lucanis can make out a blurry landscape on the other side.

"What. Is. That?" Spite asks. The apparation of him reaches out as if to touch it, but draws back before he makes contact and vanishes. "It's strange! Smells like magic."

"It's called an eluvian," Neve says, almost as though she heard the question. She gives it an approving look. "Ancient elven stuff. You step through one like it's a door, and just like that, you pop out of another one hundred of miles away. It's convenient and stylish."

It makes Lucanis's eyes itch. "Where does this one go?" he asks, wary.

"Somewhere safe," Rook replies. She makes wry eye contact with him. "It's complicated."

That's exactly what Lucanis told her and Neve back in the Ossuary to explain away his situation with Spite. They haven't prodded about it so far, but Rook clearly hasn't forgotten.

Her eyes drift over his shoulder. Lucanis knows without looking that Illario is back. "We'll go on ahead," she decides. "See you in a minute?"

Lucanis gives her a short nod. She and Neve step through the mirror without the slightest hesitation, the surface rippling behind them like water.

"I kept all your things," Illario says from behind him. "Your clothes, your knives. I couldn't bear to throw anything out. I even fed your stupid snake."

Lucanis, still watching the last of the ripples that followed Rook's departure fade away, feels his mouth curl into a reluctant smile. "No you didn't." His cousin would sooner swallow his own tongue than touch a dead mouse.

"No, I didn't," Illario agrees. "I paid someone else to do it. Same difference, right?"

Lucanis finally turns. Illario is carrying Lucanis's well-worn travel bag. It's made from genuine, full-grain leather, carefully waxed on the inside to remain waterproof and full of hidden pockets in the lining. It's just big enough to hold two outfits and an assortment of small weapons, and strong enough to be carried over the shoulder if those weapons are a little heavy; Lucanis's best boots are even clipped to the side. Caterina is not—was not—one for displays of affection, but she had a matching pair of these commissioned for Lucanis and Illario when they turned eighteen. Lucanis never leaves Treviso without his; he had it on him the night he was captured. He never expected to see it again. "Illario, how...?"

"The Crows who recovered your so-called body also brought back your effects," says Illario, and there is a carefully hidden, trembling rage around the word body that would be inaudible to all but Lucanis's ears. "It still has everything you put in it a year ago. When I learned you were alive, I went back home to fetch it. By the time I returned, Caterina..." He trails off.

Lucanis reaches out, hesitates, and then puts his hand on Illario's shoulder anyway. "Don't blame yourself, cousin," he implores. "I don't blame you."

Illario closes his eyes. He lays his hand over Lucanis's and grips it like a lifeline. "Please don't say that."

"This is Zara's doing," Lucanis continues firmly, "not yours. And she's going to pay."

Illario opens his eyes again. "When you find her, Lucanis, I want—I need—to be there."

Lucanis cannot picture them in the same room; his blood turns to ice when he tries. Illario would try to charm Zara, he's certain, but Illario doesn't know what she's capable of. He has not faced her in combat. He has not had his eyes and ears deceived by her. He has not laid under her on that table.

Never. It's never going to happen.

Aloud, Lucanis says, "Of course."

"Liar!" Spite growls at once. "Why. Do you. Always. Lie?"

Lucanis wishes he could explain. How can he do anything else? Zara has already taken so much from him, even his grandmother. Lucanis will be damned if he lets her take Illario too.

Illario drops his hand. "I guess I'll see you around, cousin," he says. He gives Lucanis back his bag. "Good luck on the contract. Try not to get killed again."

Lucanis slips the bag over his shoulder. It's good to have the weight back. "Thanks," he says—for the bag, for everything.

Then he turns and steps into the eluvian, leaving Treviso—and Illario—behind.

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

They call it the Lighthouse.

Stepping through the eluvian is a strange experience. It's not that Lucanis has never been teleported before—in his line of work, it happens—but even then, he always stays on the one side of the Veil. Once he steps through the eluvian, however, he experiences a near-unbearable itch behind his eyes, and—

"The Fade," Spite says, his voice as clear as Lucanis has ever heard it. "The Fade! A piece, a peace—!"

"The Fade?" Lucanis repeats, forgetting himself.

Rook stands nearby, on a wide intricately built mosaic pathway standing over...some dark chasm Lucanis can't make out the bottom of, though he thinks there must be water, given the patterns of light cast on the darkened ceiling. Lucanis recognizes both the mosaic work on the path and the support columns leading to another door at the end of the room as very, very ancient elven architecture; he's been staring at near-identical designs for a year. "Can you feel it?" Rook asks, surprised and curious. "You're not a mage."

"Spite," Lucanis explains shortly.

Rook's expression closes. "Ah."

Spite is oblivious to any awkwardness he might be causing. "Home. But not," he is saying. "Close. Moldable. Shapeable. Bright and burning. A shelter, but a cage. Let me out!"

If Spite thinks they're going to start soaring around the Fade when they've got a job to do, he is deeply mistaken. "Is it safe?" Lucanis asks. "Stories of mortals getting pulled into the Fade rarely end with them coming back in one piece."

"It's sort of...sectioned off from the rest," Rook explains, and begins to walk. Lucanis follows. "Think of it like a pocket of the real Fade, like—"

Lucanis misses the next part because of Spite. "A pocket?" he repeats, outraged. "Too small. Let us out! Lucanis, kill her! Make her! Let me out!"

Fortunately, Rook cannot hear him, so she keeps going. "—and our targets are probably hunting us, but they can't touch us here. This is actually the safest place."

Right—the job. "Who are the targets?" Lucanis asks, as Rook pushes open a heavy wooden door. She takes a set of stairs that eventually split, curved around the edge of some room Lucanis can't yet see, going right at the top. "I didn't get the details yet."

"We have a lot to discuss," Rook agrees, "but first..."

The curved staircases have led into a round room with a stone floor. Bookshelves line the wall touching the stairs, but some bookshelves also float, rotating serenely around the room's edge. In the center of the room is a squat round table, filled with clutter and surrounded by worn, mismatched pieces of furniture. More stairs lead to a higher level of the room, a pathway around its edge, where Lucanis can see quite a few doorways and balconies. On their level, there are a few wide doors that are perfectly circular, leading into darkened hallways.

The room is lit with a white light: floating above it, at the center of the bookcases' orbit, is the same kind of artifact Lucanis and Spite destroyed in the Ossuary only a few hours ago.

Rook turns into one of the dark hallways, and Lucanis jerks himself out of his reverie to follow.

"...I thought I'd let you get cleaned up," Rook finishes. She opens the door at the end of this hallway and steps aside far enough to allow him to enter the room without quite turning his back on her.

"Smells like soap," says Spite, surprised. "Heat. Humidity." He's right. The room looks like a bathouse, nearly identical to some of the invitation-only ones in the wealthier parts of Tevinter. The difference is that this is elven architecture the Vints never got to paper over with their gaudy snake facades and bleed slaves dry in. The mosaic work is still visible, and in better shape than it was in the Ossuary, on the small set of stairs that leads down into the bath. The bath itself, a large square recess in the floor, is filled with steaming water that fogs the windows, and surrounded with arched elven columns, though they're overgrown with vines. At the base of each column is a wash basin and small shelf, and each shelf is packed with thick towels and colorful glass bottles of soaps and oils.

"...use whatever you like," Rook is saying, "because we brought some stuff ourselves but the rest was just here, like the place keeps making more of it, and do you know, the water just stays hot all the time—"

"Thank you," Lucanis interrupts. He's tempted to pinch himself to see if this is real; in the Fade, would it still hurt?

"Yes," says Spite. "Idiot."

"Right," says Rook. "Well. I'll leave the...two of you...to it. You can catch up with us when you're finished; we'll be out the front door and up the stairs." And she vanishes back through the doorway before the moment can get more awkward, a circle of stone rolling it shut behind her.

The instant she's gone, Lucanis sets his bag down on the colorfully tiled floor and heads for the nearest wash basin, stripping off his prison clothes for, what he realizes giddily, is the very last time. He scans the bottles of soap for only a moment before reaching out to take one of the purple ones at random. He doesn't care what it is; after a year of nothing to wash himself with but cold water on a sandy floor, he's happy with anything. He pops out the cork.

"Lavender oil," says Spite at once. "Rook's."

All right, maybe not anything. Lucanis flushes and puts it back, taking the one next to it instead.

"Eucalyptus," says Spite, even though nobody asked.

That will do. Lucanis grabs the first brush he sees—and what a luxury, to not have to use his hands!—and starts scrubbing off a year's worth of grime with efficiency born of a year's worth of practice. Teeth, face, arms, chest, legs, groin: by the time he's started, he'll be halfway finished. In the Ossuary there was often a constant guard outside his cell, which meant no privacy at any time, for anything, and that included his attempts to keep relatively clean. Some Venatori were polite enough, or cowed enough, to keep their heads turned. Most were not, and they found glee in remarking upon everything from the dirt on his feet to the prominence of his ribs to the size of his cock. The only way to stop their taunting was to pin them with his most dead-eyed stare, the one Illario says is so intimidating. Even then, give them long enough to get bored, and they'd start in again. Lucanis perfected the art of a two-minute wash by necessity.

"Let me out," says Spite suddenly. "Lucanis! Let me leave!"

"We haven't gotten clean yet," Lucanis reminds him. He's almost finished at the basin, only interested in getting off enough filth not to ruin the bath water. "Look at the state of us!" It occurs to him that, having lived in the Fade as a formless spirit until the Ossuary, Spite has never had a bath. Maybe he'll love it.

He does not love it. "Burning!" he howls, as Lucanis steps into the water.

"Isn't it?" Lucanis sighs. The water is just this side of too hot, and it hurts a little where it makes contact with the countless small wounds Lucanis sustained during the course of their escape and before, but it feels wonderful against his aching muscles. Everyone likes a hot bath—everyone except Spite, apparently—but after a year of torture at the bottom of the sea, his body feeling good is an entirely novel experience.

Lucanis spies a small bucket on a hook and uses it to dump the hot water directly over his head, then pours a generous amount of the eucalyptus soap on top of it. His hair and beard are both matted, but he gets them clean enough; the beard's not staying, anyway. When he's done, he slips under the water entirely, ignoring Spite's protests, and leans back until he lies flat on the bottom of the bath.

Lucanis opens his eyes underwater, ignoring the sting of the soap to stare at the now-blurred ceiling above him. He exhales slowly, watching the bubbles float to the surface. Everything is warm and clean and quiet and still. This may be the first moment of true peace he has known in a year.

"Drowning," Spite tells him, with genuine urgency. "Drowning! Lucanis, we—"

Unfortunately, he tries to say it with Lucanis's mouth, which leads to Lucanis actually inhaling water after all. Lucanis bursts up through the surface, coughing, and shakes the hair out of his eyes. "We're not drowning!" he complains. "Would I kill us?"

"Yes," says Spite, and tries to tug Lucanis's legs to get him out of the tub.

Lucanis allows it, mostly because if he had to do it on his own he might never leave. Spite walks his naked self right out of the bath, water running in rivulets down his newly-cleaned, heat-pinked skin, and dripping all over the floor. He heads for the exit.

"We're not done yet," Lucanis protests. He stops them by one of the wash basins with a mirror over it.

Lucanis can look down at his body anytime he chooses to, and he's been watching it waste away for a year. His muscles have become harder and more wiry, his stomach has curved inward, and his skin has been broken open and scarred more times than he can count. But his face was something else that was scarce inside the Ossuary's walls. Once he caught sight of it on a polished shield; other times, he'd see it on the edge of a blade or helmet, or as a blurry outline laid overtop the warding that kept the seawater out. And every time Lucanis caught his reflection, the image of Spite changed. Spite never looks exactly the way Lucanis does; he looks the way Lucanis sees himself. It's been months since the last time that happened. Lucanis isn't sure what to expect; he knows only that Spite is about to change again. He braces himself, and wipes away the fog.

It's pretty bad. The first thing Lucanis notices is the dark bruising under his eyes, how they're sunk so deeply into his face he can see the outline of his own eye sockets. His hollowed-out cheeks aren't much better, but at least the beard covers them a little, though it's wild and unkempt. His throat looks like someone has taken a machete to it; Lucanis broke it open against the restraints so many times it's started to scar, like his wrists and ankles. It's a wonder his cousin recognized him at all.

Lucky Illario brought his bag. If it's all as untouched as he said, Lucanis's comb and shaving kit should still be in there. Lucanis goes to fetch it and finds what he's looking for.

Spite tolerates the comb yanked through Lucanis's hair with only minor complaining, but when Lucanis flips out his shaving razor, he loses his mind. "Stop!" he commands, and the image of him—wet and naked, like Lucanis—appears and yank's Lucanis's his arm away from his face.

"Careful with that!" Lucanis scolds.

"You be careful," Spite seethes. Lucanis feels a familiar spasm in the muscles near his elbow; just in time, he squeezes his fist tightly enough that Spite's attempt to chuck the razor away fails.

"I'm just shaving, Spite—"

"Liar!" Spite shrieks, using Lucanis's mouth again to force him to stop speaking. He manages to dig deep and find the very depths of Lucanis's lung capacity. "Deceiver! Weakling!"

Lucanis is so busy trying to wrest back control of his vocal cords that he misses the telltale tugging of the tendons in his left arm. The razor gets thrown after all, hurled into a nearby shelf. Precariously stacked thousand-year-old bottles wobble and then fall, shattering into colorful pieces against the beautiful floor.

"He's killing us!" Spite shouts. "Come get him!"

Blood of the Maker. Lucanis is still trying to figure out how he's going to pick his way over to where his razor lies without cutting his feet open when he hears the stone door slide open a single inch.

"Lucanis?" calls Rook's voice through the gap. "Is everything all right in there?"

"Yes!" says Lucanis.

"No!" wails Spite, still at top volume. "Weak-willed! Pathetic! A prison! Of bone! And flesh! And blood! And fear! And—!"

Lucanis lets Spite occupy himself with the yelling until he can slap a towel around his waist. He throws a second towel over the glass and scoops up his razor, mostly to distract Spite. While Spite tries to throw it again, Lucanis takes advantage of his moment of split attention to call, "Everything's fine!" To Spite he adds in a hiss, "Be quiet!"

"You lying snake," Spite shouts, as loudly as he can. He gives up on the razor, knocking the entire shelf over with his right wing to make more noise.

"Are you sure?" Rook calls. "I can come in if you...need anything...?"

Clothes. He's got to find his clothes. "We just broke a bottle," Lucanis says, hurrying past the remnants of the overturned shelf and a dozen broken bottles to his bag. "Everything is good. We don't need anything." He pauses. "Perhaps a broom."

Rook hesitates. "I'll see what I can do," she says, and mercifully, Lucanis hears the door close.

He tosses the razor—gently—to the floor a few feet away from them. "There!" he says.

Once he gets his way, Spite settles and stops shouting. "Weak!" he spits triumphantly, inside Lucanis's head. He has won.

"Mierda." Lucanis runs a hand back through his wet hair. Think, he reminds himself. Stop and think. Spite may thrive on making life difficult for the people around him, but he stopped making life difficult for Lucanis after the understanding they came to in the Ossuary. They may have trouble understanding one another, but they're still allies. They share a common goal.

Right?

Their common goal was escape. The Ossuary is flooded at the bottom of the sea now, so that goal has been realized. What's left after that? Spite betrayed Lucanis once, the first time they tried to escape together, but the suffering they endured after at Calivan's and Zara's hands taught him the value of working together—didn't it? He'd never betray Lucanis again—would he? What if he got angry? He keeps demanding to be let out. Where does he want out of? Could he want out of Lucanis's body? Maybe this taste of the Fade has made him homesick.

Lucanis is not in the habit of lying to himself. And, strange as it is, the absolute truth is that part of him would miss Spite. Though it's not easy being a possessed man, he's grown used to the angry voice in his head, the wings on his back, the demonic strength coursing through his blood. But Spite doesn't belong here, especially if he doesn't want to be here. Lucanis got to come home, however briefly; after everything they've been through together, how could he deny Spite the opportunity to do the same thing? It would make him no better than their jailers. Besides, it would be safer for everyone if Lucanis was no longer possessed; there's little more important to an assassin than control, and Spite by his very nature defies anything of the sort. But is splitting them up even possible?

If that is Spite's problem, it still doesn't explain his sudden aversion to personal hygiene. Lucanis pulls the towel off to finish drying and then returns to the mirror, squinting at their reflection. "You have to let me shave," he says. He has been dreaming about getting this scruff off his face for so long. "We look like...like...like someone who has been in prison for a year. We'll scare people."

"We. Look. Like a corpse," Spite says.

Harsh, but he's not wrong. Lucanis runs his hand over his beard, trying to decide if the hollows of his cheeks being visible would be worse than looking poorly groomed. In so doing, the pad of his middle finger brushes over a shallow line hidden by his facial hair, just below the center of his lower lip. It's not as though he's never felt it before, but—Lucanis leans forward, narrowing his eyes at his reflection. There's another on the left side of his upper lip. A third on the right side of his lower lip. A few others, fainter, mostly hidden beneath his facial hair.

A sudden suspicion grabs him, and the steamy air of the bathroom turns cold against his bare skin.

Lucanis lifts both hands to his face. He tries to imagine he is wearing gauntlets. He splays his fingers over his mouth as if to prise open his own jaws.

They land perfectly along his scars. Lucanis jerks his hands away as if burned.

That was the last time he was ever alone.

"Let me out," says Spite again.

Lucanis can almost feel him pulsing, a phantom beating at the bottom of his throat. "Not now," he dismisses, badly shaken. Spite is right. Lucanis is never going to be able to shave again; what was done to the two of them will almost literally be written right across his face. Was that what he was so upset about? Lucanis attempts to compromise. "Will you at least let me trim it?"

"Trim?" Spite repeats warily.

"I want to make it shorter. With scissors."

It takes longer than Lucanis would like to both explain to Spite the concept of scissors and actually get around to using them. He's realized that it must be getting late, and they've all had a long day. If Rook or Neve is waiting to brief him or show him where he'll be sleeping, it's poor manners to keep them up long. He pulls out the first set of clothes he lays his hands on.

What a novelty, clothing! For a year Lucanis and Spite wore only a set of over-loose trousers that raggedly cut off two inches above his ankle and a sleeveless shirt with more holes than material that both felt like they were hewn from a burlap sack; they weren't given socks, boots, or even smallclothes. Now Lucanis wraps them up in layer upon layer: smalls and undershirt, soft, thick trousers, a gray overshirt with a high collar, and a dark button-down argyle vest. It takes a heroic amount of self-control not to add a jacket and gloves. Finally—at last—he pulls on a pair of socks and his fine leather boots. No more bare feet.

Once his beard is trimmed (his hair he will have to consider later), his bag is packed, and his clothes are on, Lucanis spares a final moment to take another long hard look at the mirror, memorizing his own appearance. It's not as dramatic of an improvement as he'd like, but it is much better. He hopes, the next time he sees Spite, that Spite will look better too.

Lucanis picks up his bag and, as an afterthought, grabs his prison clothes. There's nothing he can do about the overturned shelf at the moment, but there must be a fire somewhere around here he can throw these rags into—

Something plinks to the floor. Lucanis pauses, crouching to get a better look.

It's the seashell.

Lucanis picks it up in wonder. The Ossuary may be lost beneath the waves, but it appears Lucanis has brought a piece of it with him to the surface. This is the seashell he found on the ocean floor near the pump in his cell. It's the seashell he carefully sharpened for days under the influence of that desperation demon, willing to do anything—anything—that would get him out of that prison. It's the seashell he later held not an inch from his own carotid artery, with only Spite standing between him and his self-made demise.

Suddenly Spite's outburst makes sense. The shaving razor against Lucanis's throat—he thought—

Lucanis lets out a huge breath. Spite isn't going to betray him. He's just doing what he did in the Ossuary: trying to keep Lucanis alive. Lucanis can handle Spite, and keep him pointed in the direction of their enemies, if they can only learn how to communicate better. Not all is lost, not yet.

And in the meantime, if Spite wants out of this body so badly—

Well. Lucanis will have to see what he can do.

Lucanis rises to his feet, slips the seashell in his pocket, and makes for the door.

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

Lucanis emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, and, after a quick look around, locates what he thinks is the front door, opposite of the stairs they came up earlier. This leads to a small entryway, but just as Lucanis opens the second door, at the end—

—he runs directly into Rook, carrying a broom. "Maker," she yelps, and without even really thinking about it Lucanis catches her by the elbows, steadying her enough so that she doesn't fall. He doesn't realize what he's doing until the pads of his fingers make contact with her smooth skin; the instant she's out of danger, he withdraws the touch. "Thanks," Rook gasps, clutching her chest, then does a double-take and adds, "You look...better."

What she means is that he no longer looks like a crazed and possessed madman who spent a year in a dark hole biting off Venatori fingers. "Thanks," Lucanis says in return.

She looks different too. While he was bathing she changed out of her fighting clothes and into something resembling typical Minrathous leisure wear: a dark outfit comprising a sleeveless top, baggy trousers, and sandals. Her hair is tied back loosely. Without sleeves, Lucanis can see she packs more muscle than he realized, especially around her shoulders; there are also lightning-flower scars winding up from her palms to her elbows. And without the high collar she was wearing earlier, it's easier to see the—his mind briefly gropes for the word in Trade before he remembers there isn't one—bump in her throat.

He's gotten sloppy. It's the kind of small detail he's been trained his whole life to notice, and he missed it. It's not as though he's never met anyone like her, either. Lots of women don't realize they're women until later in life. It happens. It's not a big deal to anyone except Vints—who, naturally, have a problem with it because everything they think and do in Tevinter is backwards.

"—careful around here, or you'll go tumbling right off the edge," Rook is saying. She pushes open the door, leading him out the way she came in. "Andraste's ass, what a shit first day on the job that'd be for you. Last day, too, actually."

"The edge?" Lucanis repeats politely, trying to hide the fact that he got distracted. It's poor manners to get caught staring at a woman's throat.

In answer, Rook steps aside.

Cobblestone stretches out in front of them, leading to a double staircase parted around a statue of one of the elven gods—Fen'Harel, if Lucanis is not mistaken, but elven history was never one of his points of study. Beyond that is an outbuilding with a large, arched roof. More like it can be found to the right and left, each ancient, each with their own unique look: one has a green sea glass roof, one is tall and skinny with some floors open to the air, one has a golden device atop it. Pink blossom trees grow out of the crevices between bricks, roots crawling along the wall to gain purchase.

And everything is floating. The stairs leading to each building hang over an infinite void, and the drapery around the lighthouse floats as if weightless; ivy tumbling down the sides of ruins swings gently in a breeze Lucanis cannot feel. Nothing is touching the ground because there is no ground. There is only an endless sky in all directions. And what a sky it is—speckled with the bright pinpricks of stars of constellations Lucanis doesn't know and an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of blues and greens and purples.

"Beautiful," Spite sighs, from inside his head. Lucanis feels his warm satisfaction roll out from his chest and spread into his limbs. It's a new sensation: Lucanis isn't sure he's ever felt Spite experience contentment before. Perhaps he's been homesick for a sky like this.

"It's something, isn't it?" says Rook, almost as if she heard. "I once heard a sailor in Ostwick say that this is what the sky looks like over the Sunless Lands. Thought the fucker was shitting me! But look at this."

"Look at this," Lucanis echoes, eyes on the sky.

A moment passes where they admire the view together—but then it's over, and Rook turns to Lucanis with a serious expression, making eye contact again and not breaking it. "Listen," she says, "whatever goes on between you and your family, that's family business. But I can't lie to my team. They need to know who they're fighting beside. So I told them about Spite."

Spite growls. "Go ahead. Tell everyone. Better than him."

What is that supposed to mean? But Lucanis cannot ask, not in front of Rook; he would like very much for the people around him to forget Spite is there. "I understand," he says reluctantly. He's not looking forward to the inevitable suspicion and wariness he's going to get, but he supposes it's only fair. Before the Ossuary, if he was fighting alongside a possessed man, he'd be wary, too. As long as nobody's trying to kill him or torture him and nobody tells his family, what right has he to complain? He clears his throat and nods at her broom. "Were you bringing that to me? I should go clean up."

Rook waves him away. "It's late, leave it for tomorrow. I've got to drop by the infirmary—" She gestures to her arm, still sporting a small burn from their prison break. "—but Neve and the others can brief you. I bet you're starving, and we made food—or, well," she corrects herself, "something resembling food. It probably beats whatever the Venatori were feeding you, though."

The scars near Lucanis's mouth itch. He tries very hard not to remember the sensation of Spite being forced down his throat. "Probably," he agrees noncommittally.

"Want my advice?" asks Rook, and continues without waiting for an answer: "Avoid the potatoes. Harding tries, but it takes a brave soul." And with that, she vanishes back inside, leaving Lucanis standing under the colorful sky alone.

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

The largest outbuilding is silhouetted against a ribbon of purple-blue light. From here Lucanis can see high windows glowing warmly with firelight, a stark contrast to the sky. And even though Spite has never eaten anything but Venatori mush before, he still starts naming the foods being served before they even reach the door. "Smells like...pork—reheated twice," he says. He's talking faster than usual; maybe that means he's excited. "Bread, baked at noon. Beans, badly burned." He hesitates. "Potatoes...?"

Lucanis pushes open the door. The aroma of warm food rolls over him; the following pang of emptiness in his midsection is nigh-unbearable. But he can bear it—he has been hungry for a year, and this is what he trained for. Twice a year he and Illario would be denied food for seven days, and were still expected to go about their usual business: exercises, education, and all the other kinds of Crow training, which in Lucanis's case included a weekly lesson with the kitchen staff. When Caterina was feeling merciful that would fall on the first day. When she was not, it would fall on the seventh day, and Lucanis would prepare food that he would not be allowed to eat with shaking hands.

Inside what Lucanis realizes now is the dining hall, three women, situated in armchairs around a small table in the corner, all cease talking at the same time and get to their feet to face the door.

The first, of course, is Neve; she's let her hair out of its bun, discarded her hat, and undone the top three buttons of her blouse. Lucanis has yet to be introduced to the other two, a tall elf with the traditional elven vallaslin tattooed on her face and a great deal of silky black hair pulled back into a bun, and a dwarf with braided hair and freckles.

Neve makes the introductions. "Lucanis, this is Bellara Lutare and Lace Harding. Bel, Harding, this is Lucanis Dellamorte."

"And company," says the dwarf—Harding. Her arms are crossed, her expression distrustful.

"Smells like jam," Spite says, pleased to be acknowledged, and the image of him, clean and dressed, appears next to Harding to look her over. Lucanis only just swallows Spite's words back in time; for now, his voice remains one only Lucanis can hear. "Campfire smoke. Deep stone. Dreams."

"Harding," Bellara scolds. "I'm so sorry, she's Ferelden. Come sit down, help yourself! We can tell you about your target, and you can tell us about...uh, you know. If you want."

"Smells like pine sap," Spite observes, as Lucanis follows her to the table. Lucanis clenches his jaw. "Halla hair. Blossoms. Old things."

Lucanis keeps his mouth clamped tightly shut until he's certain Spite is finished, then says as diplomatically as he can, "I would like to know more about the job." For now he ignores both Spite's remarks and Harding's hostility; he's not going to make his life any easier by snapping at the people he'll be working with, or snapping at his demon in front of them. He hates social situations like this. What would Illario do? Crack a joke, probably. "Thanks for dinner. I didn't have time to swing by the café on my way out of prison." He's not surprised to get a smile out of Bellara; he is surprised to get a snort out of Neve. It wasn't a very good joke.

They all sit around a long, rectangular dining table in front of the fire and under an ancient metal chandelier. To the left of this is a staircase, under which the actual kitchen is nestled—stove, a small countertop, and a smaller shelf—and to the right, aside from the armchairs, is a door that must lead into the pantry. The ceiling is very high, but somehow, there are no cobwebs. Lucanis takes the only place that still has a plate; everyone else has eaten without him. It puts his back to the fireplace. He forgot a person could be so warm.

Lucanis, as instructed, helps himself while the others brief him. The target is a pair of ancient blighted mages, ones calling themselves elven gods. "They're only kind of gods," says Bellara, "They are Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, from our history, but they're just people. Or they were once. They were imprisoned in the Fade for thousands of years by Fen'Harel—or Solas, if you prefer. He's spent the last ten years trying to tear down the Veil that separates the real world from the Fade. Rook and the others stopped him just in time, but interrupting the ritual in the middle let the gods out of their prison—and got him stuck inside instead."

It sounds a little familiar. "I heard the guards talking, down in that hole," Lucanis offers. "Now and then the subject of their old gods would come up. The Ventaori seemed certain they had returned. I dismissed it as the ravings of mad cultists. But it cannot be a coincidence."

They make polite, work-related conversation like this while Lucanis eats. Spite was right about the food. The pork is dry and far too chewy; it's a bad cut of the meat, and poorly reheated besides. The beans are overcooked to the point of being mushy except the crunchy places where they are burned. Lucanis isn't even sure how the potatoes could have gone so wrong. Only the bread is passable. It's a mediocre dinner prepared with inadequate ingredients by inexpert hands. But there was an effort made here. It's not stale bread crusts and cold vegetables and spoiled undercooked fish tossed into a cell as meat scraps are tossed to dogs. Lucanis isn't sure he's ever been so grateful to eat anything in his life. Even Spite, who usually despised the whole ordeal of eating in the Ossuary, has little to complain about now.

Lucanis knows from hard experience he must eat slowly after a period of starvation, but even his hunger training didn't prepare him for how ravenous he'd be after a year and a day of going without. He's going to have to work on finding good food, he realizes, and lots of it, to build back his muscle and strength. If they are fighting gods, he can't afford to be in anything less than perfect condition. But it's nothing he hasn't done before; only the severity is new. Even now that he's safe, he falls back on Caterina's training. She's still helping him get through this, even though she's gone.

He does wish he was not the only one eating. It makes it all the more crucial not to act like he's starving; to not let the fork shake in his hand when he hasn't had cause to touch one for a year. He counts his chews out and works counterclockwise around his plate, so that nothing seems to disappear too quickly. Harding and Bellara don't notice him struggling, but Neve is too keen not to see it. He doesn't like anyone knowing that he needs something, especially something as simple as food. It's a massive vulnerability that is far too easy to exploit. He's glad Rook isn't here.

And speaking of— "Rook's been gone forever," Neve notes after a while, leaning over to see past Lucanis and out of the window. "I wonder what's keeping her."

"She told me she was dropping by the infirmary," Lucanis replies, and gets identical groans from Neve and Harding. "What? The burn was a minor injury, was it not?"

"It's not that," Neve says. "Have you ever heard of Varric Tethras?"

It takes Lucanis a moment. "That dwarven novelist?" When he has the time Lucanis usually picks up romances, and Tethras writes absolutely terrible romance, so Lucanis isn't overly familiar with his work. But Tale of the Champion was so popular, even in northern Thedas, that Lucanis eventually caved and picked up his own copy to see what all the fuss was about. He didn't think he'd like it; he read it cover-to-cover twice.

"That's the one," says Neve. "This hunt for Solas, the job to stop him from tearing down the Veil, it was Varric's fight. He and Solas were old friends—they even served in the Inquisition together. When he found out what Solas planned to do, he recruited Rook and Harding and me. But he didn't want to just stop Solas. He wanted to talk him down, get him to change his mind. He wanted to save him."

Lucanis has finally finished eating; he sets his fork down on his empty plate. "What happened?" he asks, even though he already knows.

"Solas killed him," says Harding, surprising Lucanis. She's been the most reluctant to speak so far. If she is Ferelden, that means she's from southern Thedas, which explains her wariness perfectly; they're scared to death of anything resembling magic down there.

"Rook's been taking it hard," says Neve. She debates with herself a moment, then informs Lucanis, "I've known her for years and I've never seen her like this. She never talks about him. Didn't say a word during the cremation. It's been weeks now and she just keeps pretending everything's fine. At first I thought she just didn't want to face it—but turn around twice, and she's back in the infirmary again. It's where we put his things."

So she's grieving? Lucanis, unfortunately, knows the feeling. But they're right: Rook hides it well. Whatever she's going through is shoved down so deeply he could not read it on her face. Lucanis knows that feeling, too. If he thinks about the unfairness of Caterina's death for longer than a moment he will finally go mad.

"I overheard her talking to him the other day," Bellara says glumly. "I never got to meet him, but I know he must have been special because of how much she misses him."

"He was," sighs Harding. She gives the window a sad look. "I think I'll go check on her. Lucanis, why don't...you two...find some place to sleep? The Lighthouse makes as many rooms as we need, so you can just wander around until it gets the idea."

What unsettling instructions. "Thanks," says Lucanis. He stands, but stops before he picks up his bag. "...I have to ask. Do any of you know how to get rid of a demon?"

A surprised pause follows his question. In the interim before anyone answers, Spite bristles. "Get rid of?" he hisses. "No! Won't! I chose you!"

Lucanis grinds his teeth making sure Spite can't say it aloud. He sounds just like he did during those early days of the Ossuary. What is he so angry about? Isn't that what he keeps asking for?

"I have people in Minrathous I could ask," Neve says finally. "But I really wouldn't get your hopes up."

"But demons are just spirits who've been corrupted, right?" asks Bellara. "Maybe if you could turn Spite back into whatever it used to be, and ask it to leave..."

"No!" says Spite again. The force of his frustration is enormous, and Lucanis is starting to get a headache that has nothing to do with blood magic. His skin feels hot and tight, like there's not enough room in this body for him and Spite both.

"That won't work," Lucanis says shortly. He does not explain why.

"I once heard of an abomination being cured by killing the demon in the Fade," Harding offers. "That's not a sure bet, though."

There's a sudden cold feeling in his chest; Spite falls silent. "No, I—" Lucanis presses a protective hand to his sternum, where he feels Spite puffed up like an angry cat beneath his breastbone. "I don't want to hurt him."

There is another silence. All three women are giving him strange looks. Too late, Lucanis realizes he has betrayed himself.

"Hurt who?" asks Rook, and Lucanis jerks his eyes to the dining hall doors. She's back, sporting a fresh bandage on her left arm and not looking at all like she just spent half an hour sitting with her dead friend's possessions.

"His demon," answers Neve. "Lucanis was asking about ways to get rid of it."

"Ah," says Rook. She walks in and closes the doors behind her, studying Lucanis's face carefully. He is so used to people being unable to hold eye contact with him that it unnerves him every time she does not look away. At last she says, "There's only one sure way I know of."

Lucanis knows too. "You'd have to kill me."

"And we're not doing that," says Rook firmly. She pauses, and then with visible reluctance adds, "To you or to Spite."

Spite uncoils himself at once. "I want to talk to her," he says, appearing beside Lucanis.

It's all Lucanis can do not to gape at him. Spite's not great at talking; everything he says means ten other things, and it all comes out in a few angry words at a time. Not only is this one of the clearest requests he's ever made, he didn't even growl while making it. And Spite never wants to talk to anyone. He didn't talk to Calivan or Zara no matter what they did to try and force him, and everything they did was terrible. Even when Zara was pretending to be someone she was not, Spite only wanted to talk to her because of how much Lucanis wanted him not to. And now, Spite wants to talk to Rook. Rook, who they only just met. Rook, who Spite has wanted dead multiple times today alone.

Maybe, maybe, if it were just the two of them. Maybe if it was not his first day on a new contract. Maybe if he was not having so much trouble understanding Spite since escaping the Ossuary. Maybe if Spite had not terrified Rook once already. Maybe if he had not threatened to kill her.

Lucanis cannot possibly allow it.

"Lucanis," Spite protests, stepping into his field of vision. Lucanis turns his face away, trying not to wince, and Spite adds, "Why. Are you. Doing this? We had a deal! Don't ignore me!"

"Lucanis?" Rook asks. "Everything all right?"

"Of course," Lucanis answers. "I—"

"—want to talk!" Spite says, trying to take control of Lucanis's voice, and Lucanis only just stops the words from being spoken aloud. Spite is so furious he would crawl right out of Lucanis's mouth if he could, like a moth from a cocoon; to prevent his trying, Lucanis swallows him down, down, down as he continues to shout. Each word sends pain lancing through Lucanis's head, as though Spite's rage is becoming so large it could shatter his skull. "Let me talk! Let me talk! Let me talk! I want! To talk! To Rook!"

The pressure peaks; so does the pain. Lucanis, for all his experience keeping his composure under both, flinches. Warm blood drips from one nostril.

The women all jump to their feet. "Lucanis!"

"No—" Lucanis holds a hand out to stymie the inevitable alarm, jaw set; he can feel already how viciously pleased Spite is to have gotten all their attention at the same time, and the last thing he needs is for Spite to learn that behavior like this gets him what he wants. Spite might have been Determination once, but Lucanis is determined too. It's his mouth. He should get to decide what it's used for at least some of the time.

"It's fine," he says, schooling his expression and voice into careful neutrality. A gentleman always carries a handkerchief; now that Lucanis has access to his own things again, it's a simple matter to pull out a square of white silk and press it against his face. In hardly a moment, the evidence of Spite's rage has vanished. "I'm fine."

It doesn't calm them as well as he'd like. "You're bleeding," says Rook. "Maybe that's not fine."

"She understands," Spite says, appearing next to her. He delights in her anxiety. "Let me talk."

"I thought he was helping you," Rook says, her tone accusatory. "What did he do that for?"

"He gets frustrated when he doesn't get what he wants," Lucanis explains lightly, refusing to look at or acknowledge Spite.

"Which is?"

"To talk," says Spite.

"Some quiet," says Lucanis, ignoring Spite's wordless growling. Neve, Bellara, and Harding are watching this exchange with eyebrows raised, but Lucanis has the distinct impression that Neve, ever-perceptive, knows he's lying. "He'll settle down once everyone leaves."

Rook frowns, studying his face. Lucanis tries very hard not to break eye contact, but it doesn't matter; she knows he's lying, too. "I don't like leaving you alone with a demon," she says uncertainly. "I..."

Oh. Lucanis flicks his gaze between the four of them. They all seem distressed, but it hadn't occurred to him until now that though they might be frightened of him, they may also be frightened for him. That's...a lot more generous than he was expecting. Before the Ossuary, if Lucanis had found himself in the same room as an abomination, he'd have run them through on the spot. It's what nearly anyone in Thedas would do, save some of the more open-minded Rivaini. You can't save an abomination; it's like trying to cure a rabid dog. Kinder to put it out of its misery. And yet Lucanis is clean and fed, and something so insignificant as a nosebleed has garnered concern. It eases some of the terrible tension in his shoulders.

"I've been alone with him for a year," Lucanis reminds Rook. "I can handle Spite. You don't have to worry about me."

Rook's mouth twists with unhappiness, but she relents. "All right," she says. "Let's give him just a minute."

She truly is in charge here; though it's not without concerned glances, the others follow her out—and at last, Lucanis and Spite are alone.

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

Lucanis wastes no time in grabbing his bag and trying the first door he sees—which does, in fact, turn out to be the pantry. It's a long, narrow room, made narrower by shelves, baskets, and barrels. There are braided onions and clay pots hanging from the ceiling, and bedrolls propped in the corner.

Well, it's a damn sight better than sleeping on the sand. Lucanis takes one of the bedrolls and spreads it out at the very end of the pantry. He would like to believe that he plans to find something more comfortable in the morning, but he's not in the habit of lying to himself.

It's just—so much. The sight of the sky after a year underwater. An embrace from his cousin after a year of torture. A hot bath after Lucanis had grown used to filth. A full meal after starvation. Concern after cruelty. Lucanis has been sleeping on the ground for a year. If he had to lie down on a soft and comfortable bed right now, he might lose his mind.

Besides, this room has good chokepoints. Easy to defend, and easy to—easy to trap someone inside, should a certain demon decide Rook or one of the others needs killing after all.

"Trap me?" Spite repeats incredulously. He can follow along with Lucanis's thoughts in a way that does not work in reverse. "I want out! Let me out!"

Lucanis opens his bag and begins to unpack, sighing deeply. "You keep saying that, but when I asked about it you were furious! Can't you make up your mind?"

"No!"

"You're going to scare them!" Lucanis protests, kneeling so he can sweep a few cobwebs away from the corner where his head will lie. "Do you realize how lucky we are? Most mortals aren't so eager to make friends with abominations." The word sits bitter on his tongue. "These people aren't Venatori. You can't just do whatever you want to them. You've got to behave."

"Won't!"

Two steps forward, one step back. Lucanis pinches the bridge of his nose. Is it always going to be like this with Spite? "We're not in the Ossuary anymore," he says softly. "We—"

There's a knock on the pantry door. Lucanis jumps to his feet. "Come in."

It's Rook. She comes all the way in, though she leaves the door open behind her. "Were the two of you talking again? I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't." Lucanis smooths down the wrinkles in his shirt. She doesn't say anything, and it takes him a moment to realize why she's here. "You came to ask about Spite."

"I have to," says Rook, though not unapologetically. "I've got the others to think about. I need to know what kind of risk level we're working with here."

That's fair. "That's fair," Lucanis says aloud, both to her and to calm Spite, who has begun seething and threatening to kill her again. Partially to remind Spite, and partially because he wants to know why, Lucanis points out, "And yet, without knowing that risk, you were unwilling to kill him earlier."

"Well." Rook shifts her weight, uncomfortable. "I heard what you said. You're protecting him, and you're a master assassin. I don't think I'd have an easy time killing anybody if I had to go through you. And, you know. He did help you, back in the Ossuary. Even if he's not helping you anymore. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes..."

Spite quiets.

"Look," says Rook, "there's obviously a lot going on that I don't understand. But I was in Kirkwall when the mage rebellion started. I've seen up close the damage an angry demon can do, I know how it can erase the person inside until there's nothing left. Whatever Spite promised you, whatever deal you made with him—"

"I. Need. To. Talk," Spite growls.

Lucanis cuts them both off with a raised hand. "It's not like that."

Rook takes another step inside. "What is it like?"

What a difficult question. There is a heat like fever always close to his skin, a chill that settles in his bones when he is not paying attention. A pressure that leaves his body full to bursting, a foreign pain that comes and goes like a sickness. He feels Spite in his body: coiled at the bottom of his throat when he wants to speak, tugging at his limbs when he wants to move and fight and kill. Spite hates him, hurts him, protects him. Spite is every terrible thought he's ever had and a single fixed point to ground himself with. Spite has broken every bone in his body and then turned around and killed Venatori for touching him. Spite condemned him to Calivan's table and pulled him out of the depths of his own despair. Spite will not let him rest. Spite will not let him give up. Spite has been nestled close to Lucanis's bleeding heart for a year now and Lucanis thinks he may be teaching Spite to care. Spite keeps him on his toes, but Spite also keeps him safe. Keeps him alive. Makes him strong. Spite shares his body with Lucanis too, in a way; how many people can say that they know what it is like to have wings?

From everything Lucanis has heard, Kirkwall was a pretty bad place to be when the Mage-Templar War started, and it started because of an abomination gone rogue. But Spite isn't like that. He doesn't care about politics or the greater good. Sure, he's goal-oriented, a vestige from his time as Determination, but from what Lucanis can tell all he really wants is a direction to be pointed in, a warm body to tear apart, plans to ruin. He and Lucanis have wanted the same thing from the beginning: to be free.

"He was a prisoner too," Lucanis confesses. "No one was in the Ossuary by choice—not even the demons. Neither of us agreed to this. He cannot leave. Maker knows he's tried."

Rook, Lucanis thinks, is a person who is very used to receiving terrible information. She doesn't seem shocked so much as exhausted, suddenly aged a decade. She closes her eyes a moment, then opens them and says, "They just...forced you? How is that even possible?"

"They fed me something." Lucanis realizes he's touching one of the scars on his mouth and drops his hand at once. "My deal with Spite did not involve the use of my body. I only bargained with him after we were already bound. And all I promised him was freedom."

"Failed. To deliver," Spite hisses.

"But he's still not happy?" Rook asks archly

Having known them for only half a day, Lucanis can tell Rook and Neve are close, and he's beginning to see why: like Neve, she is also very perceptive. These fucking Vints. It's going to be a rough contract; Lucanis is used to being the most perceptive person in the room. "He is simply adjusting," Lucanis says, trying to give away as little information as possible. Unlike Neve, Rook is quite spooked by Spite—not surprising, if she spent any time at all in Kirkwall, but especially if she was there when that abomination blew up the Chantry—and he doesn't want to give her any further reason for concern.

Rook crosses her arms, considering. "And you—both of you—are all right to work? I know you didn't ask for this, and what you've been through today alone would break most people."

Lucanis feels a hard smile pulling at the corners of his mouth that is not entirely his own. "We would not have given Zara the satisfaction," says his voice, but he and Spite are in such agreement that he's not certain which of them truly spoke the words. He shakes himself a little, hoping in vain Rook didn't notice: she takes a polite step back. Lucanis is quick to add, "You can leave Spite to me. He is no danger to anyone else."

"No danger?" Spite repeats, annoyed. "Don't. Be. Too. Sure."

"All right," Rook says quietly. "Then I suppose we'll see you tomorrow." She hesitates, visibly wrestling with herself, and then adds in a rush, "You know you don't have to sleep in here on the floor."

"I know," replies Lucanis evenly. He gives Rook a nod. "Goodnight."

Rook takes the hint. "Goodnight," she says. She backs away, then slips out of the pantry entirely, closing the door behind her.

Lucanis lets out a huge breath and leans back, sliding down the wall until he's sitting on the bedroll on the floor.

Today, he and Spite escaped from the Ossuary. They cut off Calivan's head, completed Lucanis's contract, and drowned that wretched pit until there was nothing left but fish and ruins. Lucanis's family came for him, and he reunited with Illario, but he missed seeing his grandmother again by minutes. He accepted her final contract, probably the toughest one he'll ever have.

Today was a very big day.

Tomorrow, everything is going to be different.

"And now," Lucanis murmurs, to the empty air, to Spite, "comes the rest of our lives."

He pulls his feet up into the bedroll, boots still on, and rests his chin on his knees. He hooks his hands around his ankles, so that they lie close to the place where he used to keep a hidden blade in his boot. He lost it in the fight the day the Venatori captured him, but he'll replace it soon. It wouldn't do for a man in his position to be caught unarmed.

He sits like that for a very long time. He keeps his eyes open until he can't anymore. When he finally falls asleep, he falls asleep still sitting up, with only Spite keeping watch on the door.

AND SO ENDS CHAPTER 1.

i don't know when the entire fic will be finished...right now i have about 55k and i am nearing the end of Act 1 (i like to divide them into acts, like a real dragon age game!), but i'm hoping i will pick up speed once i get to acts 2 & 3. in the meantime you can always check the fic tag for excerpts and if you already read them all i don't mind being (politely) pestered for more!

thank you to everyone who got to the bottom for indulging my BIRTHDAY self-indulgence <3

#dragon age #lucanis dellamorte #rook mercar #rookanis #rookcanis #spite dragon age #spite dellamorte #liz loves writing #rough drafts #the after

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my-castles-crumbling · 2 days ago

Note

Hey cas! So I saw your post about publishing and such, and I wanted to say something, not to only you but people who write fanfics and too scared to write original work here. I hope it's okay to give advice to young writers or fanfic writers who want to be published authors from here, it's okay if you don't want to post this.

So, I am a published author. Not too famous, just in my country. And I just want to tell, it's not as scary as I thought. Like, fanfics turn into books all the time. I saw lots of works written for drarry etc and they changed the names, made actual books. Hell, I don't like it at all, but 50 shades of grey was a twilight fanfic. So yes, it's not so different.

When writing an original work you tend to over explain characters. And all you have to do, is write it like a fanfiction. Assume readers already know the characters and the world. Write it like a fanfiction. After that, read it (or better, make someone read it) and find the things that's need to be told, and write them after.

Also, if you are gonna info dump, do it with characters, not narrative.

Also, getting it published sucks. It's hard. Find Publishing organizations if your country have those. Try to get popular on a social platform. It can be Instagram or anything, even Tumblr. It's more likely they will publish your work if they believe there are already some readers who will buy it. As much as I don't like Wattpad, it helps getting published. You can show your fanfics and how much reads it gets too, they will recognize it.

Ask local published authors for help. Via Instagram or Twitter, doesn't matter. If they are not world wide famous, they tend to answer and help.

And if you want to do it as a job you have to treat it as a job. Most people expect to turn their hobby writing to be published, and sadly, it's not that easy. After a point you have to treat it seriously, like an actual job. Think of it as a part time job if you want? I used to work two jobs, and then dropped being a barista. And I still went out and visit the cafe, write there. I acted like my job there never ended and just switched from making coffee to writing, If that makes sense. I mean, it worked for me at least?

And I know this is over told but don't give up. Really. My first published book was a changed and improved version of a draft I wrote when I was 16. (I ended up changing it a lot but still.)

Lots of love to everyone 💞 I am sorry if that come out rude? I just wanted to share my thoughts!!

Hi!

No, this isn't ride at all and is also super helpful!! Honestly, with my job and grad school idk if I could ever turn writing into a full-time job, but I'm thinking of staring something original this summer and self-publishing. More to say I did it than anything else...writing about trans characters has become a passion of mine and I think I want to do more with it, even if it's not a main job.

#asks #ask #ask cas

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crazy4eky · 2 days ago

Text

Needy boy

⋆˚࿔ Warnings: Switch!Gabe, oral sex m!/f!receiving, overstimulation m!receiving, degradation(if you squint), praise, fingering, p in v(unprotected), cum eating, a lot of calling him a good boy, usage of mommy, spanking, not proofread (i think that’s it??)

⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Gabe Perreault x fem!reader

⋆˚࿔ WC: 3.0k

a/n: this has been in my drafts for like two months now idk why I never posted it 😭

—————

Gabe was completely ignoring you, well maybe not intentionally, but still. You had been watching him play video games for the past hour and not once did he check up or look back at you. Technically you couldn’t be upset because you were the one who told him it was fine if he played for a bit since he’d had a long day.

The whole time you were watching you’d notice small things. Like his hands, the way his fingers were moving on the controller, every vein trailing down his hands and up to his forearms bulging.

Also it was the way he’d groan when he’d get killed, it was a slightly breathy kind of groan. One that sounded like pure heaven.

His side profile was absolutely everything to you, his sharp jawline, big nose, pink lips, perfect eyelashes. He was driving you absolutely nuts and he didn’t even know it.

You slowly began rubbing your thighs together to try to stimulate something without Gabe noticing. But even that wasn’t enough. You needed to hear your sweet boy's cute whimpers, hear him beg for your touch, beg to cum. You needed him now.

You didn’t care that he was in the middle of something, you slowly dropped to your knees in front of him.

Immediately his eyes widened but he put the controller down when you started unbuttoning his pants. Once they were undone you pulled them off with the help of him lifting his hips up a little. His boxers were very clearly starting to tent just at the sight of you on your knees.

You rubbed him through his boxers to try to get him a little stimulated for a small lesson to not ignore you like that again.

“B-baby.” He whimpered out softly, needy for something more than just a little touch through his boxers.

”Shhh, you’re gonna be good for me, right?” You said in a tone that made him groan in an instant.

“Yes ma’am. I’ll be so good for you. I promise. So good.” His voice was desperate but you paid no mind to it. You weren’t gonna give him what he wants until he’s in tears and he’s okay with that.

You stripped him free of his boxers, his cock slapping against his stomach, his tip a pretty pink that made you salivate.

Quickly you stripped out of your clothes, tugging his shirt off his head after, so you were both completely nude.

You kissed his thighs up to his v-line, where you left a few small bite marks, licking the skin to soothe it after. You could hear his small whines after every bite you left. You ghosted a hand over the tip of his cock but didn’t touch it.

“Baby, please give me something, anything. Just-” He whimpered “Just at least suck the tip.” He begged pathetically, his curls sticking to his forehead.

“You’re this worked up after barely getting touched?” You teased “How fucking pathetic is that.” You spat out.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m being pathetic. B-but I need you to touch me so bad. It hurts.” His voice cracked slightly as his hips bucked into the air, looking for any type of friction.

“I don’t remember saying you could beg. Do you?” Your voice was clearly a warning in itself to him because he shook his head quickly.

Gabe bit his lip, trying to maintain his cool but failing miserably “No ma’am, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Good boy.” You smiled softly even though you knew you were torturing him slowly. Your hair kept falling into your face, keeping Gabe from being able to see your face which he didn’t want.

He gently pulled up your hair with his hand grabbing any loose strands with his free hand “There you go baby. All better?” He was looking down at you with hungry but patient eyes.

“Thank you Gabe,” Your voice was appreciative but you knew he was only being sweet because he wanted some sort of contact “But that’s but gonna work if you want head.”

His lip quivered but he nodded “Okay, that’s okay. I’ll be patient.” His legs spread more. His cock was so hard it was almost painful, the tip leaking a steady stream of precome.

You kissed up his abs while his cock rested against your tits, leaking more precome all over them. “Baby you’re being mean.” He whined again “It hurts so bad. Please.” He was leaking like a faucet now, the tip of his cock shiny and wet. He spread his legs slightly wider without your command, trying to ease the pressure slightly.

You got up, patting his thigh gently before walking over to your closet to pull out a box full of your guys’ sex toys. You pulled out the vibrator and immediately heard his protests.

“No please, please. I’ll be good. Please just not the vibrator. Please.” He begged, his hands clutching the sheets, his chest heaving.

You ignored his protests and placed yourself in between his legs once again. You rubbed the precome around with your thumb before finally stroking him a few times. His small whines filled your ears and went straight to your stomach. You could feel the wetness pooling between your thighs, needing him badly but you held yourself back. You needed him to learn his lesson before he was rewarded.

You turned the vibrator on and placed it on the tip of his cock. As soon as he felt it he screamed out in pleasure. He always acted as if he hated when you pulled it out but in reality he only hated it because you loved overstimulating him with it. You were gonna have some fun with this. I mean after all, he ignored you. He deserves it.

“Ah! Please, oh god, please.” His hips bucked up into the delicious vibrations “Fuck yes! Oh mommy.”

“You’re doing so good. Being so good for me aren’t you?” Your hand slowly stroked him as the vibrator continued to buzz on the head of his cock.

“Oh, oh, fuck I’m gonna-” His eyes squeezed shut and his voice became high pitched as the knot in his stomach began to build but as quickly as it happened, the feeling stopped.

His eyes snapped open immediately, looking down at you with desperate eyes. You’d pulled the vibrator off of him and released his cock from your hand. Seeing him like this was so fucking hot, flushed cheeks, heaving chest, swollen lips, leaking cock, curls stuck to his forehead, hickeys plastered on his v-line.

“Oops, did I pull away too fast?” Your voice was mocking and smooth despite the fact that you were about to make him cry.

You could see the tears welling in his eyes by this point and you smiled.

You fucking smiled.

That made Gabe feel angry and weak under your touch but he knew better than to say something about it, he knew he’d get punished further if he even tried.

His head flopped back onto the pillows with a groan, his eyes closed again, trying to push away the tears that were still formed in his eyes. You too that as your opportunity to lick a strip up from the base of his cock to the tip, gently sucking the head. His moans filling the room as soon as you did. You spat on it and used your free hand to rub it around.

You took him further into your mouth, making you gag slightly before going back up.

You took him into your mouth fully, earning another gag out of yourself yet you continued anyway. You stroked the remaining inches that wouldn’t fit in your mouth.

His legs shook as he whimpered loudly but he continued to hold your hair for you. He wanted to be good, to show he was gonna listen and obey everything you’d asked.

He lifted his head to look down at the beautiful sight between his legs. And beautiful sight it was, drool mixed with precome dripping down his girlfriend's chin, seeing your lips swollen when you pulled back for a second to spit on his cock, cheeks were flushed red, and eyes were lidded.

As he got closer to the edge his moans became louder. You could feel his cock twitching in your mouth, his hips rutting up to go deeper in your throat. His abs clenched and his moans got louder.

You decided you were gonna let him cum this time for being a good boy. You slid your hand underneath his base and down to his balls, cupping them gently before squeezing.

“Ah! Oh fuck!” Sticky spurts of cum landed on your tongue as you sucked profusely. You continued sucking gently, prolonging his orgasm.

Once he was done emptying into your mouth you pulled back with a pop sound. Standing up with his cum still sitting in your mouth, leaning his head back, opening his mouth, and spitting his own cum in his mouth.

His eyes widened as he processed everything but went along with it, wanting to be as good as he can for you.

“Swallow it, baby. Don’t you wanna be a good boy for me?” You asked with a mock tone in your voice and a fake pout.

Quickly the cum was swallowed and he stuck his tongue out to show you it was completely gone. He was incredibly turned on by this point and had no intentions of stopping anytime soon and thankfully for his case, neither did you.

“Such a good boy,” You leaned up and kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth “You look so handsome like this.” You mumbled against his forehead.

“Mommy?” He looked up from under you “Can I… Can I eat you out? Please I need to taste you. I’ve been so good haven’t I?” He begged softly.

You gave a small nod and laid out on the bed for him.

He was quick to dive between your thighs, pressing gentle kisses to your thighs, like you had with him. He ran his rough, calloused fingers over your stomach, savoring the soft feeling of your skin.

He could run his hands over you for hours and not get bored. He was utterly obsessed with every part of your body. He worshipped it on the daily, needing you to know how much he appreciated you. He truly never understood why you chose him but he’d never complain about it.

He kissed and sucked his way up to your tits, suckling your nipple messily, getting his chin wet with spit, licking in circles around your nipple, enjoying the sound of your soft breathy moans.

He moved to your other nipple, giving it just as much attention as the other. He held onto your hips as he kept groaning into your tits.

Eventually he pulled back, satisfied with himself. Kissing back down your stomach down to your pussy, kissing your clit gently, loving the feeling of you squirming beneath him.

“I’ve got you. I’m gonna make you feel so good. I promise.” He whispered against your pussy, making you hot and bothered.

He licked a strip from your hole to the top of your clit, circling it and moaning at the taste. He completely buried his face in between your thighs, ravishing you as if you’re his last meal.

“So fuckin’ good.” He moaned into your pussy, creating vibrations that made you scream out.

One of his hands released the grip on your waist and slid down to your opening, prodding at your hole. You were wet enough to easily slide two fingers in at once which quickly earned a moan from you. The stimulation and previous teasing had you over edge quickly, thighs threatening to squeeze shut but he managed to keep them from closing even with one arm available.

“Oh fuck- oh please- please!” You cried out, one hand gripping the sheets and the other tangling in his curls, tugging on them to push him further into your pussy. He let out a satisfied hum at the tugging. “Gabe fuck!”

He buried his face deeper if that was even possible, not wanting to be pulled away by the tugging of his hair. His tongue moved faster, wanting to feel the clench of your pussy around his fingers.

You were panting heavily as the stimulation on your clit was becoming all too much, pushing you closer and closer to your high.

He felt your walls clenching around his fingers as you got closer and closer to your release. Needing friction himself, he slowly started to rut against the mattress, soaking the sheets below him.

“Cum for me.” He mumbled into your pussy.

You moaned loudly, your whole body tensing as you continued to tug at his curls, coming all over his long fingers, coating them in your cum. Your legs trembled as you came down from your high.

Once you rode out your orgasm, he pulled back, face soaked in your juices which would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t so turned on. He sucked his fingers off before wiping the juices from his chin with the back of his hand, climbing on top of you to press a kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

The kiss quickly turned heated again despite your previous drowsiness. You felt his cock pressing against your thigh, showing you he was fully hard again, and needed more than just some head this time.

He started trailing kisses down your jaw “Need,” kiss “To be,” kiss “Inside you. Please, can I mommy?”

“Yes, fuck yes.” You agreed without a doubt, needing him just as bad.

He lined his cock up at your entrance, teasing a little by rubbing his tip in between your folds, wanting to hear your small whimpers. After a moment of teasing he pushed in slowly, giving you time to adjust to his length.

He wasn’t huge to the point it hurt but he was big enough that you still needed a second to adjust to his size every time before he was able to move.

You gave him a small nod, signaling that it was okay for him to move now.

He started slow but vigorously increased in pace. Basically fucking you into the bed, holding your legs open so they couldn’t close even if you tried. He was so much stronger than you. He could manhandle you and toss you around like a rag doll if he wanted.

You could hear the squelch between the two of your bodies, the slapping of skin. It was one of your favorite sounds to hear, it reminded you that he was yours and you were his.

Your nails raked down his back, leaving long red marks on his back that his teammates would for sure see in the locker room. He claimed those marks made him proud, accomplished even. Ever since there’s not a time that you didn’t leave marks on his back. If anything it egged you on even more.

“Please- need to go harder. Can I go harder mommy? Please I’ll be a good boy. Please.” He begged, burying his face into your neck as he cried out.

“Y-yes.” Is all you could squeak out before his hips started hammering into you, fast but not sloppy.

You both moaned loudly as he pounded into you relentlessly.

“You feel s-so good,” He whined, not wanting to stop. Your gummy walls pulling him in as you clenched perfectly around his cock. It was pure heaven. “So good.”

You babbled out incoherent words, completely cockdrunk, and not able to articulate a single coherent sentence.

He flipped you over so you were on your stomach, face shoved down into the pillows. Now slamming into you from behind, watching the way your ass jiggled every time he thrusted forward.

Your ass looked too good not to spank, so he did. He planted a hard smack to your ass as he continued the harsh thrusts.

He watched as the red handprint started appearing before he repeatedly spanked you. He loved the way your ass turned a pretty pink and the way his hand tingled after every smack.

“So fuckin’ pretty like this aren’t you?” He said through gritted teeth “So pretty underneath me.”

It was like a switch had turned completely in his mind. His dominance coming out of nowhere. Another slap to your ass that shot straight to your stomach that started to feel funny.

He could tell you were getting close by the way your body started to tremble in his arms leaving you helpless beneath him.

And you could tell he was close based on his thrusts getting sloppy, his breathing beginning to fasten.

“Gonna cum in this pussy baby. Gonna fill you up.” He grunted out.

His cock twitched inside of you before your walls were coated white with his cum, milking him for all he had. But he didn’t stop, no, he needed to make you cum. His fingers found your clit, rubbing them as he continued to thrust his softening cock into you.

The feeling on your clit sent you over edge, clenching him beautifully as you came. You screamed out into the pillow, hands clutching the sheets so hard it felt like they were gonna rip.

He thrusted until you collapsed onto the bed, satisfied with everything. He pulled out, taking a second to admire his cum dripping perfectly out of you.

After a second of watching he laid on the bed next to you.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” He spoke softly, turning you around to lay on your back. He kissed your forehead gently, “You did so good.” He held you against his chest, stroking your hair.

“Such a good girl,” He whispered into your hair, planting kisses there as well. “Let’s go take a bath, I’ll wash your hair after.” He picked you up, taking you to the bathroom to prepare the bath. He sat you on the counter gently while starting the water.

Once it was ready he picked you up again, climbing into the bathtub together, sitting with you pressed against his chest, whispering loving words in your ear. Switching right back to the sweet, caring boy you knew and loved.

#gabe perreault x reader #gabe perreault #gabe perreault smut #gp34 #gp94 #boston college hockey #boston college #bc eagles #bc hockey #bc #new york rangers #nyr #ny rangers #𓍼kay writes𓍼

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strxn-2 · 18 hours ago

Text

Fame or family? sturniolo triplets x younger sister

summary : a collab gone wrong

tw:angst , unresolved angst , suggestive anxiety , exclusion , loneliness , established name "madison" for younger sister , characters povs (1st person) and genreal povs! (3rd person) lmk if ive missed any

slightly proofread

word count: 2.5k

general

The kitchen was a disaster. That was the general vibe, anyway—flour dusted the air like it snowed sideways, and someone had taped googly eyes to the blender.

Nick stood in front of the camera tripod, adjusting the focus. “Okay. Blind, deaf, mute but with a twist as we’ve got two blind idiots. We ready to start filming?”

Chris waved a spatula like a sword. “Ready to humiliate myself.”

Madison was already wearing the blindfold, giggling. “I can’t even find the mixing bowl. This is not going to end well.”

Nick

Sometimes I wondered if our fans truly grasped how much joy was tucked into these moments. The mess, the noise, the utter unpredictability. I panned the camera to Matt, who was desperately trying to put the eggs in Madison’s reach so she could grab them.

“Matt, no helping!” I called, grinning.

Matt shot a look. “She was about to touch the kettle, dude. Do you want this to become a hospital vlog?”

Matt

I handed her a bowl instead and leaned slightly out of frame to check the time on the oven. I’d triple-checked the filming schedule that morning. Something about having a plan helped me breathe easier. This video, though—it felt like a reset. Just us, laughing, no pressure to be perfect.

I glanced at Nick, who gave me a nod. I let out a deep breathe i didn’t know i was holding. Yeah, we were good. This was going to be okay.

Chris

I’d snuck a second camera onto the counter, angled low to get the best outtakes. I knew our fans lived for the bloopers. Especially the unfiltered stuff—like the moment I accidentally flung flour everywhere trying to open the bag. I groan internally – please tell me i didn’t get it all over my brand-new hoodie.

Madison

I hadn’t thought about the numbers today. Not my own vlog stats, not any messages. Just the way my brothers laughed, the way the kitchen smelled like vanilla and energy, the way there wasn’t a single thought about anything else in the world – the way we were one little perfect family, sure we had our differences but we were perfect in our own way.

This was the moments I enjoyed the most.

I'm snapped out of thought when i finally remember.

“Did anyone preheat the oven?” I asked, suddenly.

Dead silence.

Matt groaned. “We are so bad at this.”

general

A couple of days later, they’d posted the video and were scrolling through the comments.

Chris was the first one to notice.

“Uh… guys?” he called out from the beanbag throne in the living room, phone held slightly aloft like it had just caught fire. “Anyone wanna tell me why half our comment section thinks we’re collabing with pepsi?”

Matt looked up from the sofa, where he was scrolling through his socials “What?”

“Look.” Chris turned his phone so the others could see. Post after post scrolled by:

Wait… are y’all teaming up with PEPSI?? 👀 That can’t be real omg”

“Bro if the Sturniolo chaos is getting a Pepsi collab I’m LIVING for it ”

“Okay but if Madison gets her own flavour I will literally cry”

“Matt trying to stay calm while Madison talks about Pepsi… 10/10 acting 😭”

“Nick blinked at the camera like he was dropping Easter eggs. I see you.”

“CHRIS FINALLY MANIFESTED THIS. Man drinks Pepsi like it's oxygen—if he doesn’t get his face on a can, what are we even doing?”

Nick, peering over Chris’s shoulder, squinted. “What are they even talking about?”

Madison flopped onto the couch beside him, eyes wide. “Oh my god. They think we’re getting a deal? Like with Pepsi?”

“I hope so” Chris muttered before adding “But this is the first I’m hearing about it.”

Nick pulled out his phone, already drafting a group text to their manager- Laura-. “Okay… either this is a weird rumour, or someone forgot to loop us in.”

Matt didn’t say anything, just switched off his phone slowly and rubbed his palms together like something was about to shatter. “Why are people saying I looked ‘suspiciously nervous’ in the last video? I always look nervous.”

Nick gave his shoulder a squeeze. “It’s a talent. Don’t worry.”

“I’m worried.”

Chris grinned. “Well, at least if we are getting a collab with pepsi, maybe we can finally get more pepsi.”

“You literally drink 4 cans a day,” Nick pointed out.

“Exactly.”

They all stared at each other for a moment, before laughing loudly – a comfortable, familiar laugh, after a couple of moments they calm down and nick turns his attention back to the text he was sending to their manager.

Then Nick exhaled and tapped send. “Right. Let’s find out what the internet knows that we don’t.”

Laura (10 mins ago): omg can’t believe the fans figured it out before you guys 😂 yes—it’s TRUE. Pepsi’s in. They've been planning it for months lol just finalizing details now. can we hop on a quick call in 5?

Nick

Laura's name lit up my screen and I answered on speaker, already standing with my hands on my hips like I was prepping for a mission.

“Hey, Laura—you’ve got the whole squad here.”

Laura’s voice buzzed through. “Well, good, because I’ve got huge news. Pepsi is greenlit. Full campaign. Multi-platform. Merch potential. You’re officially brand darlings.”

I let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s… big.”

I met Matt’s eyes across the room, both of us grinning now, wild energy building. I had worked for years to get them here. The long edits. The midnight emails. It was real.

Matt

I felt the nervous tension in my chest melt into excitement like someone had flipped a switch.

“This is insane,” I said, laughing under my breath. “Pepsi? Like—actual Pepsi?”

“Yup,” Laura confirmed. “You’ll be the face of their youth summer series. Think road trip vibes, vlogs, short-form spots… all your strengths.”

I let out a stunned little laugh. I pictured the storyboard already—neon lights, chaos footage, bloopers and beach shots. It felt surreal. For once, the fame me and my siblings had didn’t feel like a source of stress. It felt like a gateway.

Chris

I was half-listening, half-already designing fake thumbnail ideas in my head. "Pepsi but we drink it wrong for 24 hours" was going to be iconic.

“This is literally the peak,” I whispered to Madison. “Imagine the fridge. Fully stocked.”

She giggled, covering her mouth. I turned my attention back to the call just in time to hear Laura say, “And there’s a launch party—yes, with an open soda bar, before you ask.”

“Laura,” I said, deadly serious, “I’ve never loved you more.”

Madison

I could barely hear the rest of the call over the sound of my own heartbeat. I hadn’t stopped smiling since Laura said the words “full campaign.”

This… this was it. The moment that felt like validation, like all the work I’d done to open up online actually meant something. I imagined herself standing at a launch party, my own vlog camera in hand, my brothers beaming beside me. The younger sister not just in the background.

I glanced at them all—Nick doing that calm-nervous pacing, Matt beaming excitedly, Chris practically bouncing in his seat. My heart felt full.

No one saw the storm coming

general

The studio lobby buzzed with cool air and brighter lights than any of them expected.

Nick stepped in first, holding the door for his brothers as the glass swung shut behind them. A massive digital screen near reception played a looping reel of youth-brand campaigns—surfboards, neon lighting, glitter-splashed sneakers—and in the corner, a slick mockup: a soda can with their channel name stamped across it.

Matt let out an audible “Whoa,” before catching himself and trying to play it cool.

Chris didn’t bother pretending. “That’s us. That is literally us. On a Pepsi can.”

“Technically it’s a placeholder,” Nick said, but he was grinning too hard to convince anyone.

Their footsteps echoed against the polished floor, sneakers squeaking faintly as they approached the front desk, glancing at each other with the kind of giddy disbelief you can’t fake. It was happening. This was real. The combination of late-night edits and impulsive video ideas, of vulnerable uploads and viral chaos.

A moment that felt like arriving.

Nothing could ruin this moment, right?

Madison

I should’ve known something was off the second the receptionist blinked and tilted her head.

“Could you repeat your name, sweetheart?”

I already had. Twice.

“Madison Sturniolo,” I said again, a little slower this time, like maybe it was my voice that didn’t sound real.

The receptionist smiled that uncomfortable smile people do when they don’t know how to say you’re not invited. She tapped a few more keys. “I have Nicolas, Matthew, and Christopher. No Madison on the list. Sorry.”

I laughed. Just a little. Just enough to give my brothers a way out.

Chris shot me a look from beside the sign-in iPad. “Wait, what?”

Nick leaned toward the desk. “She’s with us. This is a family campaign.”

The receptionist offered another tight smile. “I’m just going by what’s been submitted. I’m afraid I can’t let her through.”

It felt like someone had slipped a cold coin down the back of my hoodie. I glanced at my brothers. Chris already looked confused. Matt’s eyes darted like he was doing mental math. Nick stared at his phone, probably ready to text Laura.

But none of them argued. Not really. Not the way they would’ve if they hadn’t been so full of excitement. So wrapped up in what was waiting behind that door.

“You sure you’re okay?” Matt asked, barely meeting my eyes. “We can, like... figure this out after.”

I nodded, because that’s what I always do when I don’t want to make things worse.

“I’m good,” I said. “Go. You’ll be late.”

And they did.

To wrapped up in excitement to let their guilt take over.

The glass doors clicked shut behind them, and I was left standing outside with the filtered sun hitting my shoes, wondering if this was the part they’d edit out later.

I sat down on the cold stone planter by the entrance, flipping my phone in my hands. I opened Instagram. Closed it. Opened my messages. Nothing. Group chat was quiet too.

I wasn’t supposed to be this bothered, right?

I mean, it’s not like I was ever in the title of the channel. I was adjacent to the fame. A featured artist on their album of chaos. I always said I liked it that way.

But now that I was literally outside the building, with my name not even on a clipboard?

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I tapped a draft vlog caption -“the day my brothers forgot me (again lol)”—then deleted it.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared up at the building. Pepsi-blue banners flapped against the glass. Somewhere in there, they were laughing. Joking. Posing with cans I hadn’t been handed.

I hugged my knees and told myself it was fine. That it didn’t mean anything.

But god, it felt like everything.

A couple of days pass and by the third night, I stopped waiting to hear one of them knock on my door.

They weren’t being cruel. That was the worst part. They were being happy.

Dinner conversations were louder now. The boys started saying things like “our team” or “the PR schedule” and laughing about which of them would look most awkward in the brand shoot. My name was never mentioned.

The first night, I told myself they just forgot. The second night, I told myself they didn’t want to upset me. But by the third... I just stopped telling myself anything.

Late that evening, I lay curled on my side, scrolling through my own comment section. A fan had written: “So hyped to see you in the Pepsi campaign!! Your chaotic energy is gonna be iconic 😭”

I stared at it for a long time. Not angry. Not sad. Just... hollow.

I typed back:

“guess we’ll see <3”

And then muted the conversation.

My brothers were still downstairs—probably planning outfits, arguing about color schemes, pretending they weren’t nervous. I could hear Nick pacing while Matt explained something from his planner. Chris let out a laugh that rattled the floorboards.

No one noticed I hadn't come down for hours.

I got up and crossed to my desk. My vlog camera sat untouched. I turned it on anyway. Maybe out of habit. Maybe out of spite.

The red light blinked into the dark.

“Hey,” I said, voice quiet and tight. “Just wanted to film something. I don’t know what yet.”

I paused. Biting the inside of my cheek. Took a breath.

“Today I learned I can be a part of everything… and still not be included.”

My throat caught. I turned off the camera.

Over the next couple of weeks , my life felt blank , i wasn’t in as many videos any more and half the time they forgot i even existed, one day i come downstairs – we were gonna go film a video together for the first time in weeks when i notice them already filming , already doing OUR thing without me. Without another word, i go to the kitchen and grab some cereal, silently eating it whilst watching them film – they didn’t even notice i was there, so i just stay numb and carry on, i wasn’t going to ruin this for them.

That night i walk into nicks room to see him editing at his computer – he notices me for the first time

“Hey, you okay mads? You didn’t film the video with us earlier, we ended up doing it ourselves, you know if you were too busy you could’ve just said” Nick says , sounding normal but the last sentence tinged with annoyance and sarcasm.

“mhm sorry” i reply “just was too busy” i say knowing damn well i was ten feet away eating cereal, i wasn’t going to say that though, didn’t need an argument.

The text comes a couple of days later, in the group it was just seven words, nothing else

“You can’t be in videos anymore madison”

I stare at the text blankly, first they leave me alone whilst they go to a meeting, then they ignore me for weeks, they film the one video we we’re supposed to film together by themselves and now this? They didn’t even call me mads or maddie no they called me madison and they didn't even have the decency to say it to my face – did they even care about me anymore?

I know they probably didn't mean it like that, they probably didn’t even realise how much it hurt me

But god, did it hurt.

A/N - this took me so long but it was lowkey worth it

taglist : @bernardsbendystraws @eyesonmattyb @mattsturnsfavcrime @jacsismattswife @slut4christopherr @lvrsturniolo @grace-sturnz @abbystromboli @stvrnsslvts @chrxsprettygirl @matts-girlfriend @sturniolo-szn2 @sturnsflirt @mattsmoth @silverspringsstare

lmk if you wanna be on the taglist / if you wanna get removed from the taglist

feedback is appreciated and encouraged

#fluff #matt sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets #nick sturniolo #chris sturiolo fanfic #sturniolo edit #sturniolo imagine #angst #matthew sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #pepsi #collaboration #youtube #new writers on tumblr #Spotify

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imsosoheee · 3 days ago

Text

lose my cool, (3)

wc: 3.2k | pairing: artstudent!eunseok x fem!reader (art student) | content warnings: crying (a mental breakdown), lots of angst, soft smut, emotional sex, fluff !, love

pt. 1 pt. 2

you weren’t used to silence from him. even when you ignored him, even when you pushed him away, eunseok always found a way back. a text. a stare. a hoodie he left behind.

but this time, nothing. no messages. no glances. no name blinking on your screen in the middle of the night.

you couldn’t stop thinking about the girl you saw him with. you kept replaying it in your head—her laugh, the way she held onto his sleeve like she had the right to. you told yourself it didn’t matter. but you found yourself checking who he followed. checking his art page. rereading the last message he ever sent you.

see you in class

you hadn’t seen him since.

your friends invited you out. again. you said yes. again. you dressed like you wanted to be seen—hair curled, tiny skirt, lined lips, nothing casual about it. someone flirted with you within five minutes of arriving. he looked good. said the right things. called you beautiful.

you kissed him outside, just to prove you could. but when his hand gripped your waist, you pulled away.

“what?” he asked.

“nothing,” you lied. “i’m just... tired.”

you weren’t—you were hollow.

you went home and sat on the edge of your bed for fifteen minutes before you moved. pulled on one of eunseok’s old hoodies without thinking about it, then you laid down in the dark and stared at your phone. your thumb hovered over his name.

you typed.

are you awake?

you erased it and typed again.

i miss you

erased that too.

you threw your phone across the bed and covered your face with both hands. what the hell were you doing? you had what you wanted: no strings, no complications, just sex and space and silence. but now the silence was unbearable. you curled up under your sheets and hated how cold it felt.

he used to stay after—not always and never for long, but sometimes he’d lie there and trace circles into your back until you fell asleep. you hadn’t let anyone else do that—not once. you didn’t text him that night, but you didn’t delete the drafts either. you just let them sit there—unsent, unfinished, like everything else between you.

you stayed in for the weekend. no texts sent. no stories posted. you didn’t do your makeup. didn’t wash your hair. you wore the same hoodie for three days straight—the one that still smelled like something warm and safe. like him.

your room looked like a before picture. empty cans on your desk, laundry you didn’t fold, notes scattered across the floor like pieces of someone else’s life. you told yourself you just needed rest. but you weren’t tired. you were aching.

you tried to sketch for the first time in a while. the page stayed mostly blank. every time you picked up the pencil, your hand froze. you didn’t know how to draw anything that didn’t feel like him.

his eyes, his hands, his voice. the way he said your name when you were half-asleep. the way he looked at you like he wanted to know what was under all your armor and didn’t mind how long it would take. you put the pencil down, rubbed your eyes and pretended you weren’t about to cry.

you started remembering all the little things: the way he always waited for you to speak first. the way he never touched you unless you touched him first. the way he kissed you slowly—like he was trying to memorize every version of your mouth.

you remembered how he laughed when you teased him. how his voice always dropped a little when he said your name. how he looked at you like maybe—just maybe—he could’ve loved you if you let him. you didn’t let him—you knew that now.

you’d spent so long running from the idea of love that you didn’t realize it had been standing still beside you this whole time. and now you’d lost it. you pushed him away with your hands and your mouth and all the words you didn’t mean. you told him you didn’t care, and he believed you.

you curled up under your blanket, phone clutched in your hand, screen dim. you wanted to text him. you wanted to tell him you were wrong. that you lied. that it did mean something. that maybe it meant everything. but your fingers wouldn’t move.

not yet. not like this.

this was supposed to be easy: you didn’t do love, you didn’t do feelings, you didn’t let people in. but he had walked into your life so quietly you didn’t realize you’d left the door open. and now it was empty again. and you had no one to blame but yourself.

when you saw him again, you didn’t mean to be there. you’d forgotten your headphones in the studio two days ago—left in the corner during a late-night sketch session you barely remember starting. you didn’t want to go back. not because of the walk, not because of the mess. but because it used to be your place. his place. your place with him, and now it wasn’t anything.

you told yourself you’d go early and that no one would be there—in and out.

the door creaked open with that familiar hum—the hinge that always needed fixing, the faint smell of paint and old paper and coffee. you stepped inside, the hallway cool against your skin. your hoodie hung off one shoulder, hair tied back in the laziest way, your face bare.

you looked like you felt: tired, quiet, emptied out. you found your headphones on the far table, right where you left them. beside a few abandoned sketches. one of them looked half-finished. messy cross-hatching. unfinished hands.

you picked it up before you realized it wasn’t yours. it was his. your heart jolted. and then you heard the door open again. footsteps. you didn’t turn around. you didn’t need to. you knew that sound better than your own voice. “yn.”

his voice hit you square in the chest. you turned. he looked—worse than you remembered.

his eyes were darker, ringed with exhaustion. his hair was longer, a little unkempt. he was wearing the same gray hoodie you once slept in, the sleeves still fraying at the edges. but it was his face that wrecked you—because the moment he saw you, something in it cracked open.

“i didn’t think anyone would be here,” he said, voice low.

“me neither.”

silence stretched between you. not awkward, just heavy. you held up the headphones. “i left these.”

he nodded. your eyes flicked to the sketch on the table—the one you were still holding.

“is this—”

“you,” he said quietly. you swallowed.

“it’s not done.”

you looked at it again. soft lines. too much detail around the mouth. like he’d drawn it a hundred times.

“it’s good,” you said.

he shook his head. “it’s not real.”

you looked at him. really looked at him. and you saw it—all the weight in his eyes, the silence in his shoulders, the way he wouldn’t meet your gaze for too long. he missed you. maybe as much as you missed him.

you didn’t know what to say, but you couldn’t stop yourself from speaking. “all of your jackets are still at my place.”

his eyes flicked to yours.

you shrugged, trying to play it off. “i never washed them.”

his expression didn’t change, but his voice did, soft and breaking. “why are you telling me that?”

you stepped forward. “i don’t know,” you said. “i just... haven’t been able to move them.”

the studio was too quiet. his hands were curled into fists at his sides. like he was holding himself back.

“you look like shit,” you said before you could stop yourself.

he laughed—sharp and dry and surprised. he looked like he might cry. “so do you,” he said.

you smiled. it didn’t reach your eyes.

neither of you moved. but for the first time in weeks, the space between you felt alive again. not fixed or healed, but open. and that was enough—for now.

a week later, you broke. it started as a normal day. gray skies, unfinished assignments, silence where his voice used to be. a professor brushed off your work in critique. your group forgot you were supposed to meet. a guy you used to talk to saw you on campus and didn’t say hi and just kept walking.

you told yourself it didn’t matter. you weren’t close to any of them. you didn’t need anyone. but by the time you got home, your hands were shaking. and when you closed the door behind you, your eyes were already wet.

when the rain started outside, you were already grabbing your keys and running out into it—hood down, feet slipping, no umbrella, no plan. just him.

you didn’t knock right away.

you stood in front of his door, soaked through, breathing hard, water clinging to your lashes. it was stupid—you knew that. maybe he wasn’t even home. maybe he didn’t want to see you, but your fingers moved before your mind caught up.

one knock.

pause.

another.

a shuffle from inside. then—his voice. muffled, then closer. “who—?” the door opened, and there he was—soft tee. damp hair. surprise and worry blooming in his expression simultaneously.

“yn?”

you didn’t speak. you just looked at him, and then everything spilled out of you all at once. your chest caved. your hands trembled. your eyes blurred. you tried to say something, anything, but no words came.

he stepped forward instinctively. “hey—wait, what—”

your voice cracked. “i miss you,” and then you were crying—full-body, shaking, soaked-through kind of crying.

he didn’t hesitate. he pulled you in, arms wrapping around you like it was muscle memory. like his body had been waiting to hold you again. “it’s okay,” he said, again and again, into your hair. “you’re okay. you’re okay.”

you weren’t, but with his arms around you, you almost felt like you could be. he sat you down on the couch and handed you a towel. you didn’t stop crying right away. he didn’t ask why. he just sat there with you, letting the silence fill the room, his fingers brushing yours every so often. not pushing. not demanding. just there.

and when your breathing finally slowed, when the worst of it had passed, you turned to him and whispered, “i’m sorry.” his eyes flicked to yours, unreadable and quiet. “i should’ve said it a long time ago,” you added. he didn’t say anything, so you kept going.

“i was scared of feeling too much and losing control. of needing someone.” you looked down at your hands. “but the worst part?” your voice cracked again. “i still lost you anyway.”

he inhaled—deep, shaky. you turned your head and met his eyes.

“it wasn’t just fun. it wasn’t casual. maybe… it was love. i don’t know what it was, but i know it hurt more than anything when you stopped showing up.”

his jaw clenched. “i never stopped,” he said. “you just stopped letting me in.”

you nodded. tears welling again. “i know.”

he looked at you for a long time. then, softly: “so why are you here now?”

you didn’t answer right away. then, slowly, honestly: “because this hurts more. i need you, eunseok.”

he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the day you pushed him away. and then he reached for your hand—not pulling you in. just holding it. and you let him.

for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

you just sat there—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, the air between you warm and heavy, like something alive. like something begging to be felt. then, quietly, like a breath you’d been holding too long: “can i stay?”

he didn’t hesitate. “yeah.”

you turned toward him. his thumb brushed a strand of hair from your face, slow, careful, like he was afraid you'd disappear again if he moved too fast.

your eyes met, and in the space between you lived every night you touched without talking, every morning you left without looking back, every version of love you didn’t know how to name. “i meant what i said,” you whispered.

his voice came quiet, nearly breaking. “i know.”

you leaned in first, mouth brushing his with a kind of desperation you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel until now. it wasn’t a kiss—it was a question. an apology. a confession.

his hands found your waist like he’d been aching for it, holding tight, dragging you closer, closer still. and when he kissed you back, it wasn’t soft—not this time. it was unsteady and starved. years of tension, of denial, of longing, crashing open all at once. he kissed you like he was angry at himself for still loving you. you kissed him like it might fix everything you broke.

you climbed into his lap, your soaked hoodie clinging between you, your legs bracketing his hips as if your body remembered this better than your heart did. your hands gripped his shirt like you were drowning—like he was the only thing anchoring you to the world.

he gasped when your hips rolled down once, sharp and aching. his head tipped forward, forehead pressed to your shoulder, trying to breathe through it.

“i missed you,” he rasped, voice wrecked against your skin.

you breathed his name, whispered into the shell of his ear like prayer, like punishment. his hands slid up beneath your hoodie, warm and reverent, tracing the curve of your back, the softness of your sides. you dragged his shirt off in one motion, letting your hands roam over his chest like you needed to memorize it again.

when his mouth found yours again, it was slower—hungrier. he stood up with you in his arms, lips never leaving yours, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. he carried you to the bed like it was something sacred. like you were.

he peeled your clothes off one by one, kissing the skin he uncovered like every part of you deserved to be remembered. you touched him like you were afraid this was the last time. he touched you like he was afraid it wasn’t.

“you’re shaking,” he said, voice hoarse.

“i’m scared,” you admitted, bare beneath him, heart wide open. his hand curled around your cheek, his thumb brushing a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“i am too.” you let him kiss you through it—through the fear, through the grief, through everything you’d buried beneath sharp words and colder silences. his body settled against yours, every inch of him pressed to you like a vow. you didn’t look away. you didn’t hide.

when he finally pushed inside you, it was slow, devastating—like he wanted you to feel every inch, every second. you gasped his name, fingers digging into his shoulders, hips tilting to meet him.

“you’re okay,” he whispered, “i’ve got you.” and he did—hands steady on your waist, his breath stuttering in time with yours.

he moved like he wanted to map you from the inside out, like he was trying to write the words he never got to say across your skin. your mouths met again and again, tangled in sighs and apologies and the kind of longing that didn’t need language. you told him you were sorry without saying it. he forgave you with his hands.

you wrapped your legs tighter around him, let yourself fall completely. he kissed your chest, your throat, the underside of your jaw, whispering things you couldn’t catch, but felt all the same.

when it ended, you didn’t move.

his chest was flush against yours, heart hammering in tandem. your fingers were tangled in his hair. your breath caught. he looked at you like you were the only person he’d ever wanted to see after the storm, and for once, you didn’t feel like running. you didn’t feel broken. you felt known.

you felt home.

the morning light was soft and gray, pressing faint patterns onto the ceiling. you woke up first.

his arm was around your waist, steady and warm. your cheek rested against his bare chest. his breathing was even—calm in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks.

for a moment, you just stayed like that. you memorized the feeling of his skin beneath your fingers. the curve of his collarbone. the way his hand tightened slightly in his sleep when you shifted. he didn’t leave. he could’ve, but he didn’t. and neither did you.

he stirred when you sat up, blinking slowly , still half-asleep, hair falling into his eyes. “hey,” he said, voice thick and raspy.

you looked down at him. “hi.”

a beat passed. “you stayed.”

you nodded.

he reached up—gently—and brushed his fingers down your spine. it sent a shiver through you.

“how do you feel?” he asked, softer now.

you searched his face for a sign of regret. but there was none—just warmth, and something else. something cautious, like he was afraid to say too much too fast.

“like everything hurts,” you said honestly. “but... lighter.”

his eyes flicked to yours. “lighter?”

you smiled a little. “like maybe i don’t have to pretend anymore.”

he looked at you like that meant more than you’d said. maybe it did.

he made tea. you sat on his couch in his hoodie—your hair still wet from a quick shower, legs pulled beneath you, watching the way his hands moved. familiar, careful. he handed you a mug without speaking. you wrapped both hands around it. “i still have your lighter,” you said quietly. he glanced at you.

“from that night. i almost gave it back a hundred times. but i didn’t.”

he nodded, eyes on the rim of his cup.

“i kept it on purpose,” you added, like it mattered. “i think... i wanted to hold onto something.”

his voice was low. “me too.”

the silence that followed didn’t feel like tension anymore. it felt like possibility. you turned to face him fully. “what happens now?” he let out a slow breath. “i don’t know,” he admitted.

you laughed—tired, but real. “you’re supposed to have all the answers.”

he smiled. “i’m just figuring it out too.”

you reached for his hand. this time, he didn’t hesitate. you linked your fingers with his and squeezed. “can we start over?” you asked. he didn’t speak right away. but the way he looked at you—quiet, soft, sure—said enough.

“yeah,” he said. “we can.”

being with him felt different now—not louder or bigger, just quieter. like a room you hadn’t stepped into before. familiar and unfamiliar all at once. soft morning light, unmade beds, half-drawn sketches on the floor.

you didn’t sleep over that often. not yet, but you stayed longer now. you stayed for coffee. for late-night ramen. for the way he pulled you in absentmindedly, his hand brushing your hip when he passed, like he couldn’t help it anymore. you caught him staring at you in class once. he didn’t look away this time, and neither did you.

it was raining again the night it happened. not heavy. just the soft kind that tapped on windows and made the whole world feel a little slower. you were curled up on his couch, your legs draped across his lap, your face pressed to his shoulder. his fingers traced idle shapes along your thigh. not suggestive. not even intentional—just habit.

you broke the silence first. “do your friends know?”

he glanced at you. “about us?”

you nodded. he gave a half-smile. “some.”

“what do you tell them?”

“that it’s complicated.”

you swallowed. “is it?”

he didn’t answer right away. then: “not to me.” you sat up a little, the room suddenly too quiet.

“what are we, then?”

eunseok looked at you. not flinching. not retreating—just waiting.

so you asked, softer this time: “what do you want?”

he reached for your hand and held it gently, like it might disappear.

“i want something real,” he said. “with you.”

you stared at him.

“i don’t know how to do that.”

he nodded. “i know.”

“what if i mess it up?”

“you will.”

you blinked.

he smiled. “so will i.”

your breath caught.

“but i’d rather mess it up with you than not try at all.”

you looked down at your joined hands. his thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles. no pressure. no push. just an answer.

“okay,” you said. “then i want that too.”

he leaned in and kissed you like it meant something. this time, you didn’t pull away.

you didn’t plan to spend the whole day with him. you’d brought your laptop over that morning, said you’d stay for coffee and maybe sketch beside him while he worked. but one hour became two. then three. and by the time the sun dipped behind the buildings, your charger was stretched across the floor, his hoodie was hanging off your shoulder, and your sketchbook was untouched. you didn’t care. he looked at you like you were the only thing worth paying attention to anyway.

he made lunch while you scrolled through your phone on the couch. nothing fancy—just leftover rice, an egg, and the kind of seasoning packets only college students kept stocked.

you offered to help, but he said you’d burn something. you flipped him off and he kissed your forehead in return. the eggs turned out a little too soft. you told him they were perfect anyway. he caught you smiling between bites and asked, “what?”

you shrugged. “this,” you said. “feels nice.”

he smiled. “yeah. it does.”

after lunch, you sat on the floor with your back against the couch, and he sat behind you, legs stretched out on either side, chin resting lightly on your shoulder. your fingers toyed with the frayed hem of your shorts while he skimmed a reading for class.

you didn’t talk much. you didn’t need to.

he shifted once, just to kiss the top of your shoulder. quick. like breathing. you leaned back into him without thinking.

around six, you both wandered down the street for a sweet treat. you held his hand this time.

it felt strange at first—public. loud in a way you weren’t used to. but he didn’t hesitate, and that made it easier. people didn’t stare. no one said anything.

and when you caught your reflection in the shop window—his hand in yours, your head tilted toward his shoulder—you didn’t look away.

he let you pick out whatever flavor ice cream you wanted, holding it while you took the first bite. you smeared ice cream on the corner of his mouth on purpose. he rolled his eyes and kissed you anyway.

you ended up back on his couch, curled up together under a blanket that didn’t cover either of you properly. the drama you half-watched played reruns, your phone battery blinked red, but neither of you moved.

his fingers traced lazy circles on the inside of your wrist. your voice broke the quiet. “do you remember what that girl at the festival said?”

he blinked. “which one?”

“during the balloon game.”

he smirked. “the one who asked if we were dating?”

“yeah.”

“and said people like us always end up together?”

you looked at him. “do you think she was right?”

he paused, then reached for your hand again—slower this time, deliberate.

“yeah,” he said. “i think she was.”

and you let yourself believe it.

it had been a long day—group work, class critiques, your backpack too heavy with things you didn’t need. he met you after your last class, tea in hand, fingers brushing yours as he passed you the cup. you let him hold your bag while you complained the whole walk to his apartment. he didn’t say much—just smiled, listening like he always did, like it mattered.

maybe that’s what did it. maybe it was the way he let you be tired. the way he made room for you without asking. the way he didn’t try to fix it. you kissed him as soon as the door closed. it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t about relief or want. it was quiet and certain.

his hands found your waist slowly. your mouth moved against his like you’d done it a thousand times—but this time, it felt like arriving. he pulled you closer, his touch more assured now, less hesitant. like he finally believed you were his. you guided him back to the bed without breaking the kiss.

he let you take your time.

your shirt hit the floor first. his fingers ghosted over your ribs, your spine, your neck—like he was learning you again, piece by piece. when his lips met the skin just below your collarbone, you exhaled sharply.

“you okay?” he murmured, breath warm.

you nodded. “don’t stop.”

so he didn’t. you moved together, familiar with the other. his touch was reverent, his kisses slow and searching. he held you like he wanted to honor you, because this was never about proving anything. you whispered his name more than once, and he said yours like a promise.

when you finally collapsed beside him, your chest rising and falling in sync, you realized you weren’t afraid anymore. you were safe. you were seen. for the first time, you didn’t want to run from that.

later, while he dozed beside you, you slipped from the bed—still wrapped in one of his hoodies, legs bare, hair messy from his fingers. you picked up your sketchbook and sat on the floor in the quiet hum of early evening. you started to draw.

you didn’t overthink it this time—no erasing or sketching over or hesitating. you just let your hand move: his jawline. his lashes. the faint curve of his smile when he looked at you like you were something he couldn’t believe was real.

this time, you didn’t hold back. you finished the piece in one sitting, titling it at the bottom of the page:

lose my cool.

you didn’t show him yet, but you would. because now you knew what it was: not love at first sight. not a perfect story. just something real—messy, quiet, honest.

yours.

a/n: thank you all for reading and finishing my first fic!! this was also my first smut :000 lmk how it was!! i thought it was pretty beautiful... soft and emotional and angsty. i love eunseok... stay tuned for more :)

🔖: @hrtfelt4u @karebearyu @jaellymint @thevirginsuicidenotes

#imsosohee : eunseok #riize #riize x reader #kpop #riize scenarios #riize fluff #eunseok #eunseok x reader #eunseok fic #song eunseok #eunseok scenarios #eunseok smut #riize smut #riize eunseok #eunseok fluff

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angelxsturns · 2 days ago

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IS THIS FAKE? (pt. 7) - M.S.

IN WHICH... matt and reader start fake dating. no feelings attached.... right?

SERIES CONTENTS... fake relationship. cursing. kissing. angst. fluff. probably more idk!

you stop faking. no dramatic ending. no fight. just… silence. one day you stop holding hands in the hallway, and the next, you’re walking past each other like strangers.

he doesn’t text. neither do you.

he doesn’t call. neither do you.

the world doesn’t notice, but you do. the hallways feel different now. emptier, somehow. like they echo more. like your footsteps are louder without his beside you.

you hear him laughing at his locker a few days later, same laugh, same smirk, but it sounds far away, like it’s coming from another room, another version of him you don’t know anymore.

you miss it. not just the fake relationship, but him. the way he used to tilt his head when you said something dumb. the way he always saved you the red sour patch kids. the way his eyes would flick to you in a crowded room like you were the only person who made sense.

but now you’re not friends. not dating. just… nothing.

and it hurts worse than you expected.

you catch him after school one day, more out of instinct than courage. he’s at his locker, headphones around his neck, fingers tapping the beat of some song against the metal.

you clear your throat. “hey,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

he looks up, eyes widening a little. surprised. “hey.”

that’s it. one word. no smile. no teasing.

you force one anyway. “so, we’re just ignoring each other now?”

he hesitates. shifts his weight. “i thought that’s what you wanted.”

your throat tightens. “i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t say anything at all.”

that stings, because he’s right. you both let it fade without a single word. like if no one said it out loud, it didn’t count.

“i didn’t think it would feel like this,” you admit. “like we don’t even know each other anymore.”

he closes his locker slowly. “yeah. me too.”

you both stand there, awkward and quiet, the space between you heavy.

he looks at you, really looks this time. “so what now?”

you wish you had an answer. you wish you could just grab his hand like before, rewind to the part where everything was blurry but warm. but now? you shrug. “i don’t know.”

and maybe that’s the worst part of all. because for once, it’s real. and neither of you knows what to do with that.

a/n: hi guys i keep letting these rot in my drafts and i forget to click post so oops

tags!: @h8aaz @auttysturnz @katiebae333 @ladyatwalmart @izzylovesmatt @stonermattsgf @ineedchrissturniolo @deathst6r @zniyadgaf @whore4chris @matts-hersheys-kisses @courta13 @sturnslux3 @kenah-sturniolo @aaliyah-sturns @whereralltheavacados @riggysworld @d0llworld

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forgottenspring · 2 days ago

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HOLY- MY THEORY?!?! This latest episode may have confirmed it?!??!?! LIKE?!?! My hair-brained theory was Ragatha and Jax are siblings and???? I may have been right???

First of all shout out to past me saying in this post of my sibling theory of that one scene reminded me of "paper flowers and candy hearts" and the first thing we hear in the new episode is that reference making me do a spit take and choke.

Back in said post I mentioned how I thought Jax and Ragatha could be siblings or step siblings as I feel the show is actively alluding to it with the references of Raggedy Ann and Andy.

With the fact Jax's voice is based off of Andy's and Ragatha's design is off of Ann. Along with the Fudge, multiple quotes in the fast food episode, and now starting this latest suggestion box episode with "Paper flowers and candy hearts" Multiple references to Raggedy Ann and Andy's Musical Adventure overall. Making the Ann and Andy influence not just a thing they left in the drafts of influences for the show but an active part of the show.

OKAY! Onto the actual point! It's the scene that Ragatha's explaining her abusive mom. It pans to Jax who looks away and upset. A lot of ppl think it's bc he also has an abusive parent but I want to take it a step further. She's both their mom.

Bc as she finishes up her speech of her love of horses, the farm, chickens, etc. she ends it with "farm girl". Only to immediately follow up with Jax having a fear of corn and then at the softball game showing his cat like fear reaction to corn. This isn't just a one off gag as Gooseworx revealed Jax is afraid of corn previously.

As a kid who grew up in the country around a bunch of farmers the amount of kids afraid of cornfields from one too many bad experiences of either getting lost, injured, spooky night encounter, or shucking one too many of them and cutting your hands on the husk it feels like it would make too much sense for him to also be a farm boy and thanks to his past on the farm he has a fear of corn or at least it reminds him of something that happened.

Either way I may be riding high on the episode but it clicked together so well in my brain I felt I needed to share.

#tadc #the amazing digital circus #tadc spoilers #tadc episode 5 #tadc ep 5 #raggedy ann & andy a musical adventure #raggedy ann and andy #jax #ragatha #tadc jax #tadc ragatha #osbe

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bigspinachpuff · 2 days ago

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Hello everyone! ❤

I wanted to remind everyone that I am not ignoring anyone. If I am subscribed to you, then I am interested in interacting. If we have any threads, you have tagged me in the starters or sent me asks in the inbox, then do not worry, I remember everything (it is all in my drafts). I have over 100 drafts, so I try to write as best I can. It does not turn out very quickly.

Although at the moment I have finished almost all the drafts, and many of them are already queued. They will be published until June 30, and perhaps in July, so that my blog is not empty.

I really appreciate all my mutuals and want to write with you. By the way, if we have not written together, then the best way to start a conversation is to send me something from my prompts (the link is in the pinned post) or like my permanent starter call (the link is also in the pinned post). :3

I love you all! ❤

#⚠ OUT OF THE KITCHEN ⚠ {OOC}

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trekscribbles · 3 days ago

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Failsafe: Chapter Thirteen

...I came across the John Rogers line "Eliot's job is to be the failsafe that never fails". And I couldn't help thinking... What happens if the failsafe does fail?

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve

Note: I made a few adjustments to chapter 12, but I'm not posting them here--I'll just post the corrected chapter on AO3 when it gets to that point. The details I added are: Rosner has been sending hitmen after Eliot over the last 4 months, and Eliot has been using them to keep Rosner's attention on him in the hopes that he'll leave the team alone.

(Disclaimer: This is a relatively rough draft and subject to change when I post to AO3.)

Now on ao3

Hardison found Nate in the main office, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Sophie. They looked up when he entered the room, but didn’t move apart, and the sight of them together eased something in Hardison’s chest. Things had been tense between them, but their respective close calls seemed to have given them some perspective.

“I got a name,” he said simply, forcing a sense of enthusiasm he didn’t feel into his voice.

Nate’s eyebrows went up. He waited for Hardison to elaborate, so he did, explaining everything he’d seen on his screen: the name, the title, the location. “He’s here in Portland,” he finished. “I’ll keep looking to dig up more connections between him and Becker and Wilcox, but this is him for sure.”

“Good work,” Nate said, in the tired, distractedly sincere voice he’d been using over the last few months. Hardison had never thought he’d miss Nate’s abrasiveness, but that gentle tone grated on his nerves. He hated feeling like Nate was being careful with him.

He hated feeling fragile.

“So, uh...” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m gonna keep looking.”

Sophie tilted her head. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Hardison flashed her a smile, making sure it reached his eyes. “We’re getting closer, right? All good news.”

“Right,” Sophie said slowly.

“I’ll let you know when I have more,” he promised.

He turned before she could call him back and retreated to the hallway, where he paused to lean against the wall. The ache in his eyes had spread to his forehead, where it dug in and made itself at home inside his skull. It was probably from the screens—he’d been staring at them for hours—but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. He had to keep looking. It was the only useful thing he could do.

You want Eliot to come back, don’t you?

Hardison leaned his shoulder into the wall and let his head rest against the cool surface. Parker’s question had surprised him. Hurt him, if he was honest. How could she doubt that he wanted Eliot back? Did she think he could blame Eliot for what happened? That he wouldn’t understand? Sure, he had nightmares sometimes—waking up with a scream lodged in his throat, cut off by the arms he’d always trusted to defend him, but that—that was to be expected. That was a normal reaction to being choked out in the middle of a pitch black basement outside a morgue. Throughout this whole damned nightmare, Hardison was the only one reacting like a sane person.

And he was getting a little tired of it.

He’d always been able to channel his emotions into creating, into solving problems with his keyboard and his brain, but this... it wasn’t enough. He wanted to be out searching. He wanted to lie to a mark and punch bad guys in a warehouse parking lot. He wanted to punch Eliot for leaving in the first place.

But he couldn’t do any of that, because he was just the guy with the computer, and he had to keep up a front for the others. He had to be the one to smile so Nate and Sophie felt guilty about fighting. He had to be strong for Parker.

Sighing, Hardison straightened and went back to his screens. “I told Nate,” he said, rubbing his eyes as he entered his office. “But I still have to...”

The room was empty. That was fine—at least then he didn’t have to pretend. Parker may have gone to get something to eat, or to stretch her legs, or base jump off a skyscraper or something, who knew. She wasn’t the most communicative under normal circumstances, and the last few months hadn’t helped. It was fine. Fewer distractions, that was all.

He moved toward his desk, but then kept going and went to the window instead. A gray sky stretched over the city, and judging by the coats and hats and scarves wrapped around the people on the street, it must be a cold, damp day. Hardison wasn’t a believer in the benefits of fresh air, generally, but the tension in his head made him reconsider. Maybe opening the window would help. Just for a few minutes.

He reached for the window latch, but a screech of tires below pulled his attention back to the street. A car had slammed on its breaks, and a body—a body—rolled across the hood and tumbled off the other side onto the pavement.

Parker.

Hardison ran for the stairs. He was down into the brewpub and through the dining area before he thought to call Nate, but it didn’t matter—no one was wearing their comms, not when they were all together at the office. He’d have to go back up to explain what he’d just seen, and he couldn’t—not until he knew she was okay.

He pushed through the crowd of diners gathered at the door, and then he was out on the sidewalk, running for the street, for the car still stopped and the driver standing with his head in his hands by the hood. Hardison slowed, panting, frowning at the empty spot on the street where Parker had been standing.

He angled for the driver. “Hey, you okay?”

The man lifted his head and fixed Hardison with a confused, anguished look. “I don’t know what happened. I saw her on the sidewalk, but she didn’t look like she wanted to cross, so I kept going. Then all of a sudden she steps out in front of me. I didn’t have time to stop, I swear—”

“Where’d she go?” Hardison interrupted.

“I don’t know,” the man said miserably. “I don’t know. She just took off. I swear, I didn’t mean to hit her.”

Hardison put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “This is gonna sound crazy, but she does that. She got up, right? She’s fine. Go ahead and go, man, it’s all right.”

Probably. It was probably all right. Parker took a car hit like a stubbed toe most of the time, but she normally didn’t do it just to freak out civilians. He turned again, searching the street, a sick feeling rising in his throat. His earbud was in his pocket, and he slipped it free and put it in, hoping one of the others had forgotten to take theirs out.

“Parker?” he tried. No answer… but he hadn’t really hoped for one. “Nate? Sophie?”

Nothing. He turned back to the driver. “Did you see which direction she went?”

The man pointed down the street, and Hardison patted his arm once more before hurrying away. He’d been willing to let Parker process things on her own terms before, but he drew the line at causing car accidents. He had to find her and get her to talk through whatever she hadn’t told them about that night. There was something, Hardison knew, because she’d started to tell him a dozen times before changing her mind, like she was afraid of what he might say.

First Eliot, now Parker. Did nobody trust him to handle anything harder than a tricky line of code?

Hardison shook his throbbing head, focusing back on the task at hand. Where would Parker go? If she was looking for heavier traffic, she could have taken any number of streets toward a busier part of the city, and he’d never be able to guess which. Maybe he should go back in and track her phone? That would probably be faster. He turned back toward the brewpub.

A woman up the block shrieked. Hardison spun, following her pointing finger—not toward another accident, but up—up the side of a building, to the roof, where—

His body went cold. A figure stood on the top of an office building. Not stood… walked. It stepped up onto the little wall running along the edge, and—it—she—

She went over the edge, and another woman screamed, and Hardison couldn’t move. He couldn’t see. Something was wrong with his eyes—black spots filled his vision, just like that night, when the arm went across his throat, and he sucked in a breath and tried to see where she’d gone—where she’d fallen—but there was nothing. No body hurtling through the air, no broken figure on the pavement. He took another shuddering breath, but the sidewalk stayed the same. She wasn’t there.

He ran for the building.

“Nate,” he said, but there was still no answer, so he fumbled for his phone as hurtled through the automatic doors and ran for the stairs. A receptionist shouted something after him, but he didn’t stop—he dialed Nate’s number and ripped open the staircase door with a shaking hand.

He answered on the third ring. “Hardison? Where are you?”

“Parker got hit by a car.” A tremor ran through his words, and his voice was strained as he leaped up the stairs. “She walked into traffic, and then got up and went—she went to the top of a building, the offices down the street—up on the roof, and she—she walked off, but—”

“Hardison, slow down,” Nate said. “What happened?”

“Parker jumped off a building.” It came out as a sob, but his eyes were dry. He thought they were dry. He couldn’t take a full breath. “She jumped, but she didn’t fall. I was standing right there, but I didn’t see her fall, so she must have gone back, but I saw her, man, she went off the side—”

“Sophie,” Nate said, his voice distant. “Okay, Hardison, where are you? We’re coming.”

“I’m in the building, going up the stairs. I’m—”

“Hardison?”

Hardison froze, his breath ragged. “Parker?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice clear and calm over the comms. “You’re coming up the stairs?”

“Parker,” Hardison echoed. “You’re—you’re okay? You’re not—you didn’t—?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

Hardison’s legs gave out. He dropped against the wall, his head pounding in time with his heart, his phone loose in his hand. Nate’s voice kept coming through the speaker, but Hardison couldn’t make sense of the words.

“Hardison?” Parker said.

Nate spoke through the earbud now. “Parker? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Parker said. “Everything is fine.”

“Hardison said you got hit by a car?”

“Barely.”

“And you jumped off a building?”

“No,” Parker said. “I walked off. But it’s fine, I didn’t—”

“Parker,” Nate snapped. “Get back to the brewpub, now. I know what you’re doing, and it’s stupid and reckless and—what do you think, Eliot’s just going to swoop out of the sky because you put yourself in a dangerous situation? We don’t even know for sure that it was him helping us. He’s not going to—”

“It worked,” Parker said.

Everything went quiet. Hardison looked up the empty stairs, his heart twisting into horrible new contortions that made him feel like there wasn’t enough space in his chest for his lungs.

It worked. The car, the building… she did it to draw Eliot out of the shadows, and it worked.

“Where are you?” Nate asked.

There was no emotion in his voice, but that wasn’t surprising. Hardison didn’t know what he was feeling, either. He got unsteadily to his feet, shoving his phone into his pocket, holding onto the railing for support.

“Coming down the stairs,” Parker said.

Hardison started upwards, still clinging to the rail, fighting for control over his breath. Nate was quiet again, but Hardison thought he could hear doors closing in the background. He and Sophie were on their way.

Hardison turned a corner for the next flight, and there they were—Parker, flushed with excitement the way she always was after a brush with adrenaline, and behind her…

Eliot.

He looked the same, and something about that felt wrong. Like nothing had changed, like they hadn’t spent the last four months wondering if he was still alive, and if he was, why he hadn’t come back.

Why hadn’t he come back?

Parker jogged down the last few stairs, and Hardison stopped on the landing and swept her into a hug that lifted her off her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her lips on his ear. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Hardison held her, closing his eyes and sinking into the feeling of her arms around his shoulders, her breath on his skin. She was okay. More than okay—she’d figured out what to do to bring Eliot back, even if it put her in danger, and he was both terrified and proud of that. And now…

Hardison opened his eyes. Eliot stood two steps up, his gaze averted, his expression blank. Now that he was closer, Hardison could see that he looked a little pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Parker pulled away and stepped past him onto the landing, and he could feel her watching him. Watching them.

“Eliot,” Hardison said.

If Hardison didn’t know him better, he would have said Eliot flinched. There wasn’t quite a movement, but the skin around his eyes tightened, like he was keeping himself from looking away. Hardison stepped toward him.

“Well?” he said.

Eliot didn’t answer. His hands were shoved into his pockets, giving his shoulders a hunched, hurt look. At this angle, Hardison had to peer up into his face, and Eliot did his best to avoid eye contact. Then he swallowed, gathering himself with a long breath, and looked up.

“You look tired,” he said.

Whispered, really. His voice sounded like he hadn’t used it in months, like it hurt to speak. Maybe it did. Maybe he’d spent their time apart holed up in a basement somewhere, when he wasn’t following them around and saving their butts from behind the scenes. Hardison lifted his hand, and Eliot held his gaze with a flat, resigned look.

Waiting.

Hardison looked at his hand, and found it had tightened into a fist. He hadn’t meant to do that—had he?

You want Eliot to come back, don’t you? Parker had asked.

You aren’t angry with him?

“You’re not even going to defend yourself?” Hardison said.

Eliot didn’t answer, and that was answer enough, and before Hardison had decided how he was going to act, he was moving again, and Eliot stood still and waited for the blow to land.

Hardison grabbed him behind the shoulder instead, dragging him down a step and into a rough hug. He reached around Eliot’s back with his other hand, holding him close when he stiffened. He stood unmoving inside Hardison’s embrace, his hands in his pockets, his head on Hardison’s shoulder. He didn’t return the hug, and he didn’t pull away—and it didn’t feel like Eliot, which made the tears finally sting in Hardison’s eyes.

“You didn’t think I could take it?” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “You didn’t even let me decide for myself whether I wanted you around?”

Eliot’s muscles tensed, and Hardison tightened his grip, digging his fingers into Eliot’s jacket and squeezing until his hands ached.

You’re not even going to defend yourself?

“We’re outside the building,” Nate said through the comms. “Where are you?”

For one more moment, Hardison kept his arms around Eliot’s shoulders, trying to think of something to say to break his silence. If he would say something, then Hardison could argue, but he was just standing there like none of it mattered, like he hadn’t wanted to come back, and the twisting feeling in Hardison’s chest was growing hotter and sharper and darker, until it felt like it would break through his ribcage and tear him apart.

“You’re tougher than that,” Eliot said, and the torrent in Hardison's chest went still. He put one hand on Hardison’s arm, clasping so hard it hurt. “Tougher than me.”

Then he stepped out of Hardison’s grasp and lead the way down the stairs without looking back.

#leverage #leverage fanfic #leverage fanfiction #my fic #failsafe #sorry this chapter took so long #real life has been... discouraging #but that's a good mindset for this chapter so i guess there's that #i think we have 3 chapters left if i can figure out how to wrap up the job #and then i'm probably going to take a break for a little while.

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