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cognacdelights · 5 months

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play wicked games, win wicked prizes [1]

gif by @spacedean.

my supernatural masterlist

summary: she craves male validation. he's the best high she's ever gotten. now they're both stuck in a sick and twisted game of foreplay that neither are willing to lose.

warnings: daddy issues — daddy issues galore. self-esteem issues. i am well aware that this is not a healthy relationship and is for entertainment purposes only. sexual content and themes. swearing. alcohol use. religious undertones. small age gap romance.

author's note: this will be in two parts as it's looking like it's going to be around 15k words in total. second part will be released soon. minors have been warned. do not interact.

It was hard to define her relationship with The Winchester Brothers.

There was Sam; and he was just Sam. He was a year older than her, and the epitome of the dorky, older brother that she never had. He played board games with her and helped her with her Calculus homework. They shared book recommendations and did research together. She forced him to play Princesses with her and hold tea parties against his will.

But most importantly he was a friend. She’d never had a friend before. Not until the day that rusted, old Impala pulled up outside Bobby’s shop and John Winchester had all but begged Bobby to take his boys in for just a couple of nights. She remembered it like it was just yesterday — hiding behind the over stacked bookshelf, listening as the two older men argued back and forth. Bobby eventually gave in, as Bobby always did, and waved John off with a stern look and a handful of colourful curse words.

Up until that day, it had always been just her. And Bobby. Bobby did the best that he could, but he wasn’t her father, and he never got a break from the job. There was always a phone going off here, then a bloodied and injured hunter turning up at the door there, or the local Sherrif Department snooping around here, there, and everywhere.

Sam was shy at first. Quiet and introverted. He always had his head stuck in a book. She quickly learned that wasn’t entirely the case, he just took a little while to warm up to you. But once that match was lit, there was no stopping the fully-fledged campfire that burned. They were friends. Best friends, even, at times. They understood each other and found solace in knowing that they weren’t alone anymore. They were two peas in a pod.

Her relationship with Dean was far more complex.

He was older; five years older than her to be precise.

Dean didn’t pay her any attention at first. In fact, he barely even acknowledged her presence. He was hyper focused on Sam; always making sure that he ate his breakfast and brushed his teeth before bed. He was more of a parental figure to Sam than Bobby was. Between looking after Sam and helping Bobby research cases, he didn’t seem to have much time for her at all.

It wasn’t until the day of her eighth birthday that she really seemed to turn a corner with Dean. She spent the day sat on the windowsill, peering longingly out and waiting for her father to arrive. She was dressed head to toe in her best outfit; a white, frilly dress with a matching silk ribbon, tied around her plaited ponytail. Her perfectly polished shoes swung back and forth in anticipation as her chestnut eyes lit up with a hopeful glint at every swoosh of the trees and roar of an engine. She was so damned sure that he would come. Why wouldn’t he? He was her father. It was her birthday.

Dean knew that he wasn’t coming. He’d been around the block enough times to know how this played out, and it was never a happy ending. When the sky began to darken, he eventually sat beside her on the old, flattened cushions — a slice of cherry pie, topped with a singular lit candle, in his hand. He caught the saddened look that dimmed her eyes as the realisation began to set in.

Her father didn’t come that day, or the next day, or even the day after that. There wasn’t even so much as a phone call. He pulled up six weeks later with a broken arm and unrecognisable letters etched into a torn and bloodied piece of paper. The only reason Andrew Lawson had returned was to seek out Bobby’s help in translating the words. There was no big, shiny make-up gift, no birthday card, no apology. Just yet another rejection; he shooed her away so the adults could talk.

Dean, once again, saw the flash of hurt that glazed over her eyes. It pained him, because he saw so much of himself in her. He too had forgotten birthdays, and excitedly watched out of windows for his father to never arrive and had been banished from rooms so that the adults could talk. He too had been shoved to the very bottom of the priority list, and the knew the weight of the anguish that came along with that. He knew what that did to a child’s self-esteem.

As they grew older, they became closer.

Dean was a big part of her life. He taught her how to play soccer, including all the dirty plays to win the ball without the referee noticing. He taught her how to fight, and how to shoot a gun. He taught her how to drive — albeit illegally in a stolen, clapped-out banger that they joy rode around the backroads of Souix Falls. He gave the Lawson girl her first cigarette when she was just fifteen, much to Bobby’s dismay. He smoked up her first joint with her on the hood of The Impala. He bought her a four-pack of beer to take to her first high school party and drove her home, so she was safe. He took her to her first bar. He took her on her first hunt. He patched up her wounds. He bailed her out of jail after her first arrest.

They fought like cat and dog, and as only they could. Over anything and everything; the TV remote, supernatural lore, the rules of Monopoly. Whether she was ready for The Hunt. They used to drive Bobby insane with their bickering — with all the door slamming, and flipping off, and the countless “Son of a Bitch” curses that would echo through the house.

As she’d reached her twenties, they’d become the epitome of comfortable with each other. Perhaps too comfortable at times. They’d shared beds together and slept beside each other in the backseat of The Impala. She’d wear his clothes — his flannel shirts as jackets to keep herself warm, or his old, logo-printed t-shirts to bed. She was open about her sex life, as he was too. She’d brush her teeth whilst he was in the shower, and vice versa. She’d flitter through their motel rooms in nothing but a skimpy towel. She’d sit in his lap if there wasn’t a seat, or sometimes even if there was, and lay her head on his shoulder when she needed some soft, human contact. He’d run his fingers through her hair. He’d tug her jeans up by the belt loops, over the strings of her thong, and pull the hem of her skirt down as she drifted past him.

Somewhere — somehow — along the line, they had found themselves locked in this sick and twisted game of foreplay. Teasing. Taunting. Toying. It never went further than some light touching, but their mouths were nasty, and their thoughts were downright vulgar. They got a perverse kick out of it, especially her. In all the rejection from her father, she had turned to seeking out male validation to fill the void and Dean Winchester was the ultimate high; the random, slick-jawed man at a bar would give her a five-minute high at most before the shame would set in, but Dean would have her orbital for days. One look, one touch, one quick-witted comment would have her floating amongst the constellations.

And then, he died. Well, so she had assumed. Sam had explained that he was gone. Just gone. Nobody knew where, or how. He was just: gone.

Her world turned upside down. There were no more Orion-level highs, just five-minute boosts to her ego before the guilt-ridden shame would drag her back down into a pit of self-loathing. She swept her way through The South — hitting bar after bar, bedding man after man, destroying monster after monster. She drank and she smoked until she didn’t even recognise herself in the mirror anymore.

Until her phone rang — a number that had once been disconnected flashing across the screen. Sam Winchester.

“Good morning, you’ve reached Maggie May’s Flower Shop. How may we help you today?” she put on her best Southern Belle accent. Even though she knew damned well who was on the other end of the phone, she still turned out her spiel. She would be damned to the darkest corners of Hell if she didn’t put him through the ringer after almost a year of no contact.

“Maggie—” a timid voice sounded throughout the speaker, “—it’s Sam.” He waited anxiously for her to respond but when she remained silent, he was forced to continue. “We need your help.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I know a Sam. Have you placed an order with us?” Maggie shot back with a sickly sweetness to her tone.

There was a heavy breath on the opposite end of the phone. “Come on, Mags. We’re working a case, and we could really use your help… It’s rough out here.”

“May I suggest our apology bouquets,” she continued, standing her ground, “they’re just divine. Will smooth over almost any of your wrongdoings.”

“Apology bouquets—” a deeper, gruffer voice chuckled, “—what did you do?”

Maggie instantly dropped the Southern Belle façade. “Dean?” she questioned, voice dripping with surprise.

An uncouth melody of noises permeated from the phone. A whack. A loud groan. A grumble of curse words. “You didn’t tell her, Dumbass?”. Followed by rustling and shuffling. Then mumbling. They were arguing. Maggie couldn’t comprehend exactly what they were arguing over — the line was too crackly, and she was too hungover to concentrate — but they were most certainly at each other’s throats.

“Hello?” she huffed impatiently.

“Maggie May,” Dean’s husky voice filled her ears, “how you been?”

“Uh—” she didn’t know how to answer that question. The honest answer was far too much more than she was willing to give away to anyone, but to say that she had been just peachy would have been a downright lie. Both Dean and Sam would have seen right through it. “I’ve been more Sober in my life—” she bit her lip, despite the two brothers being unable to see, “—and I don’t remember getting back to my motel room. But I’m alone, so I think that counts for something.”

“How quickly can you get to Stillwater, Oklahoma? We’re working a job and could use you right about now.”

She rolled herself over under the quilted comforter until she teetered on the very edge of the bed, her dark locks falling into her face. “I don’t think I should be driving right now,” she admitted, vision blurry as she peeled herself out of the warmth and stumbled her way towards the bathroom. She pulled on the string for the light and was immediately met with harsh, white lighting. Her head throbbed as she let out an involuntary groan.

“Jesus, girl, how much did you drink?” he asked — his face scrunching up at the lethargic pads of her feet and the uncomfortable groans that echoed through the speaker.

“Enough to drown a fish,” Maggie mumbled back.

She stared at herself in the mirror; her eyes were bloodshot, and a dark, mauve bruise painted her cheek an unsightly manner. She hissed quietly as she ever so gently reached her fingers up to touch it. Bad idea. It pulsed with pain. On further inspection, she had a busted lip — dried blood coating the thin cut.

“Atta girl, I suppose.”

“I can be in Oklahoma in a day—” she answered, running the tap, “—but you’re gonna have to give me a few hours before the single vision kicks back in.” She splashed the cool water over her face and instantly regretted it. “What’s the case?” she asked.

“Two deaths at an all-girls Catholic boarding school,” Sam cut in.

“We can’t get close enough to figure out what’s going on,” Dean added.

“I guess I’ll start practicing my Hail Marys then.” Swiping the towel over her freckled features, she left the phone balancing on the edge of the porcelain sink.

“No amount of Hail Marys are gonna save you.”

She spat a response, “bite me, Winchester.”

“I’m sure you’d love that, sweetheart—” Dean chuckled, “—but we’ve got a couple of civvy deaths to deal with first.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

It had been a long twelve hours on the road, and by the time Maggie’s old, beat-up pick-up truck pulled into the motel parking lot it was pushing midnight. The red, neon light of the sign cast down onto the black asphalt, dimly lighting up a path to the several motel room doors, and the few wall lamps flickered every couple of seconds. The walls were peeling their beige paint — as if shedding all their unspoken sins away — and rusted, metal chairs lined the tiled walkway. It couldn’t have looked any shadier if it had tried.

Maggie killed the engine, watching as the warm lamps of her headlights faded into the darkness. She stepped out, the thick soles of her boots hitting solid ground for the first time in what felt like forever. The midnight air ran bitter, but it was a welcomed reprieve from the humid temperatures of New Orleans. A chill crept along her spine like two gentle fingertips — however, not a patch on Dean’s. She tugged the sleeves of her over-sized flannel over her fingers and proceeded down the walkway, leather duffle bag in hand.

If she hadn’t had it drilled into her that you always pick the motel room closest to the exit — in case the need for a quick getaway ever arose — the sleek, black Chevrolet Impala parked outside would have given which room they were staying in away. Well, that and the gruff sounds of their arguing. The curtains were pushed closed, but there was a light on in the room; two tall silhouettes appeared in front of the window as what she could only assume was the TV flashed advertisement after advertisement in the background.

“I’m not a child anymore, Dean—” Sam’s husky tone echoed through the courtyard, “—you don’t get to make decisions for me. If I say I’m good, then I’m good.”

Maggie stuffed a hand into the pocket of her flannel and retrieved a credit card; it was and old one in an alias that she no longer went by — most likely maxed out and with a red flag marked against it on the system.

“No, you don’t get to make these kinds of decisions when you take a year out,” Dean shot back. His voice was deep and gravelly, a sure sign that he’d been drinking. “You’re out of practice.”

She slid the credit card between the mouldy, wooden door and its frame and pressed her weight against it.

“This isn’t about me being ‘out of practice’,” Sam deduced — his words turning more accusatory than defensive, “why don’t you tell me what this is really about? Get it all out in the damn open.”

It was a tough lock, which was surprising for such a run-down, old motel; they were usually a lot easier than this to crack open. Maggie persevered, forcing the credit card into the gap with a masterful wiggle.

Dean argued back, “you’re slow, and you’re weak, and you’re not thinking ten steps ahead. You’re a freaking liability right now and I don’t have the time to be playing search and rescue every time something goes down.”

She found the sweet spot, and with a glorious click, the motel room door opened. She stepped inside, a satisfied grin curling the corners of her full lips upwards. Who needed a key card?

Within a matter of milliseconds, Maggie was staring down the barrels of two handguns — locked and loaded with two ring-cladded fingers hovering over the triggers. Two mean glares stared her down. Sam and Dean. She merely cocked her head to the side as a lopsided smirk swept across her fair features. She teased, “don’t you boys know it’s rude to point your gun at a lady?”

“Yeah?” Dean shot back with a surly attitude, “let me know when you find one.” He stood down, easily slipping the gun back into the waistband of his scuffed-up jeans.

She pouted playfully in response.

“Maggie,” Sam addressed her. His voice was significantly softer, almost breath-like, as he raked over her with guilt-ridden eyes. He followed suit and stood down. He nonchalantly threw his loaded weapon onto the half-made bed before looking back at the petite brunette before him. Sam wasn’t sure what else to say; in fact, he wasn’t sure that there was anything he could say to make the tension dissipate. Maggie May was going to hold a grudge for as long as Maggie May pleased.

“Sam.” Her chestnut eyes scoured over him in return. They started at the very top — taking in his long, mahogany locks. They were longer, but more kempt. He was wearing a new flannel shirt; she’d never seen him in a flannel of that colour. He still wore the worn, leather watch that his dad had given him, but it was set ever so slightly fast. The jeans were new too. There were no scuffs or rips, but the boots were worn in and old. She returned her gaze upwards and met his eyes for a brief second.

Then, she looked away. Her eyes caught the elder Winchester brother and immediately illuminated with a spark of relief. She let go of the leather handles and let her duffle bag drop to the floor with a soft thud. She took a step towards him, and then another, before wrapping her arms around his neck. Maggie held him tight, nuzzling her nose into the crook of his neck as she stood on the tips of her toes.

“Dean.” His name was quiet and mumbled, almost as if she didn’t quite believe that he was there. She took a long breath, inhaling the familiar scent of his deep amber cologne. God, she had missed that smell.

A reticent laugh slipped from between his chapped lips. He placed a gentle kiss into her messy wisps and mumbled — the words quiet, as if they were ever only meant for her to hear, “Maggie Mayhem.” His burly arms wrapped around her slender figure and held her into his body just as tight. The palm of his hand laid flat against the bottom of her back, slipped beneath the hem of her leather jacket, and the pad of his thumb carefully stroked back and forth.

Realising the vulnerability that had clouded her voice, she steeled herself and mocked, “when are you finally going to stay dead? This is what— the third time now? Obituaries are expensive, you know.”

“I’ll write you a cheque for your losses,” another husky chuckle rumbled through his chest, unphased by her teasing.

Maggie felt Dean’s grip loosen around her and him begin to pull away. She wasn’t quite ready to let him go just yet, and instinctively held him tighter. She’d missed him — she’d missed that orbital high that came with his attention, his touch; and her damaged soul most definitely needed the recharge. It had been a long, emotional rollercoaster of a year without him. A few more seconds wouldn’t hurt. “Not yet,” she told him.

Dean simply relaxed — resting his chin atop her head and allowing her to melt into the warmth of their embrace. His hand dropped to her hip and leisurely hooked itself into the beltloop of her fitted jeans. He gave it a tender tug, covering the black string of her thong. He felt the tickling brushes of her eyelashes against his neck as she rolled her eyes in typical Maggie May fashion.

Sam merely watched on awkwardly. Him and Maggie were as close as two best friends could be, but they never quite reached the level that Maggie and Dean had; they were something different. What, he had no idea. It wasn’t his business, and neither of them were vulnerable enough to divulge anything like that to him. He’d never expected to receive the same greeting as Dean, but the frost-like look and the forced out of the weird uncomfortableness that hung over their friendship half-smiles made him feel a thousand miles away. He felt defeated, and tired.

Eventually, she retreated from his embrace feeling suitably secure. She left a small gap between their bodies and peered up at him, taking him in. His features were ever so slightly more weathered — framed by a dark but well-kept stubble. His lips were still full but dehydrated and his eyebrows untamed.

Dean frowned as he finally noticed the bruise that painted her cheek an unsightly shade of plum. “What happened to your face?” he questioned — his finger propping her chin upwards for him to gage a better look, and his thumb securing her in place.

Maggie rolled her eyes once more at the protective undertones, pulling out of his grip and turning her back to him. “It was just some stupid girl whose boyfriend couldn’t control his wandering eye, that’s all,” she shrugged her shoulders at the half-truth and retrieved her duffle bag from the floor, “she caught me off guard.”

“Hmm,” he hummed in response — not entirely believing her; Maggie May had a knack for finding trouble.

“So, uh—” Sam shoved a hand into the depths of his jean pockets, “—the case?”

Maggie stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, her chestnut eyes settling on her bare features. Her eyes were tired and heavy after the long drive to Oklahoma, and surrounded by two cushions of dark circles. Her skin was dull and fair, more than likely from the lack of natural sunlight that she had seen in the last God-knows-how-many months of crawling through bars and spending her days sleeping off hangovers in shady motel rooms. The mauve bruise that tarnished her cheek looked angry and painful — deepening as the blood settled and the tissue began to repair. Her busted lip was sore, aggravated by every slight movement she made. She looked like a ghost — physically and metaphorically; her vessel was very much present but there was no light behind her eyes, and no spark in her soul.

She continued to stare into her own reflection, meeting her own gaze in an intense battle under the harsh bathroom light; she was a mess, in every sense of the word. If she were to stand before her younger self, she wouldn’t have the slightest indication of who she was. Hell, she wouldn’t even recognise herself if she bumped into her from a year ago. All the years of being on the road, all the losses that she had felt, and all the rejection that she had faced had finally caught up to her — and it wasn’t a pretty sight, to say the least.

There came the ever-familiar waves of no self-worth again, hitting the solitude rocks of her self-esteem at full force.

She pulled a tube of antiseptic cream from the makeshift first aid kit. Squeezing a small dot onto her finger, she then dabbed it against the crusty cut on her lip, careful and tender with her touches. A quiet hiss involuntarily slipped between her lips as her dark eyebrows furrowed into a frown. The ointment burned as it seeped deeper into the cut.

Maggie turned her head and peered out of the open bathroom door. Dean was sat in the leather armchair — jean-clad legs manspread, a police report in one hand and a freshly-cracked bottle of beer in the other. There was a pensive aura that surrounded him. His fingers gripped the beer bottle with a tightened grasp, and his jaw had locked, almost as if it was holding back a barrage of thoughts. He stared intently at the words printed on the page, yet never turned to the next. There was something on his mind.

She saw it as an in. A reason. An excuse.

Letting the half-used tube of ointment fall into the sink, Maggie wandered back into the bedroom space. She was quiet and soft in her movements — almost timid — until she reached Dean. His eyes remained fixed on the police report, and a pang of upset coursed through her; Maggie was used to commanding his attention — his heavy-lidded eyes falling naturally on her and feeling the heat of his stare.

Her bare knees fell either side of his body as she straddled his lap, the hem of the over-sized t-shirt exposing the glorious lengths of her thighs. With one swift motion, she’d stolen the freshly cracked bottle of beer from his grasp. Her lips twitched upwards into a smug, but angelic, smile as Dean raised his eyebrows at her questioningly. The bottle ghosted her full lips — the very tip of her tongue tracing the rim in an enticing circle as her chestnut eyes locked with his, before taking a long swing.

Dean watched attentively as Maggie had her fun, his eyes glued to her. She was so effortlessly seductive; everything about her — from the way her delectable thighs spread open in his lap, to the way her tongue ever so slowly traced around the bottle rim, and the way the thin fabric settled over her taut nipples and the piercing bars — exuded lust. Piercings? That was new.

His tongue dragged along his bottom lip in an effort to quench the thirst that had been awakened in him. Although, it barely scratched the surface. It had been a hell of a long time since his engines had been roaring, nevertheless had been taken for a test drive; he’d spent the last year wandering purgatory in survival mode, where he rarely ever found a second to breathe. Maggie May was well and truly testing his patience in that moment. And boy, did she know it…

He reached for the bottle, but it was promptly moved from his grasp.

Maggie stretched upwards, holding the half-empty bottle above her head, and peered down at him with a taunting glint in her eye. He reached once more — shifting himself into the most compromising position. He reached upwards once more, unintentionally pushing his crotch further against Maggie. Big mistake. She rolled her hips in a flirtatious retaliation, arching her back and pressing her clothed pussy against his lap.

It took every ounce of strength not to give in to her, but he did it. Dean remained steeled — the deep, husky groans that begged to be released begrudgingly shoved down into the very pit of his stomach, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He was semi-hard beneath her, pressing against the zipper of his jeans, as he placed his firm hand on her thigh. It was a gentle but commanding hold as his ring-cladded fingers slipped beneath the over-sized t-shirt and gripped the skin, his thumb rubbing tender back and forth patterns against the inside of her thigh.

“Maggie May,” he warned.

“Yes?” she cocked her head to the side innocently.

“Don’t start something we can’t finish.”

“Aw, cute—” she taunted with another leisurely roll of her hips, “—you don’t think you can make me cum.”

A fervent groan slipped from between his lips as his dick grew harder against the constraints of his jeans. His jaw tightened as his fingernails pressed crescent shapes into her skin, forcing her to be still. Choosing to ignore her teasing, he sent her a deathly glare — one that dared her to try that move again; it appeared to have worked as she relaxed her posture, sitting herself innocently on his erection and keeping still.

Placing the police report down on the wooden table, he gestured with his finger for her to return his beer.

Reluctantly, she handed it back, but not before she took another large gulp.

Dean took a swig of the now half-empty beer and allowed his fingertips to wander. His hand moved further up her thigh, his fingers catching and tangling themselves in the string of her thong. His thumb dragged ever so tenderly over the crease in her hips where legs bent, tracing back and forth motions. It was so instinctual, as though his hand gravitated towards there — like the soft dips in her skin were made for the palms of his hands.

Maggie stared down at him with sensual, umber eyes. Heavy-lidded and burning with a heat fuelled by the dopamine that coursed through her veins. This was it. This was Maggie in her element; enriched by the power of holding every last drop of his attention, alive and awakened by the electricity of his touch, and riding a high so orbital that her soul was one with the solar flares of the sun. She felt like herself again — full of confidence, and full of life.

“You finally got ‘em pierced then?” Dean mused with a questioning raise of his eyebrows and his gaze trained on her taut nipples. They pressed against the thin fabric of her over-sized t-shirt, practically on show for the whole world to see.

For a brief second, her eyes dropped to her breasts — following his. Then, she responded with an audacious smirk. “I sure did,” a low laugh slipped from between her lips, “wanna see?”

Dean tilted his head backwards as he repositioned himself in the chair. His hips shifted forwards and his shoulders slouched into the cushioned back of his chair. He tipped the bottle downwards and emptied it’s remaining contents in a slow and tactical swig. Of course he wanted to see. He was steeling himself; it truly had been a long time since he’d had any sexual gratification and the immediate flashes of her naked body above him — pierced tits bouncing playfully as she rode him under the warm, orange glows of the motel sconces — had sent him into an oblivion. Maggie May was becoming harder and harder to resist.

He somehow managed to remain calm, dowsing the fire in the pit of his stomach with his beer and plastering an unfaltering poker face across his features. That was until he felt his dick harden and strain against his zipper, giving him away.

Maggie felt it too and responded with another leisurely roll of her hips. A devilish glint occupied her eyes as her smirk grew wider. Damn, that girl would be the death of him one way or another.

“Those daddy issues got you well and good, haven’t they?” Dean retorted. He placed the empty beer bottle on the table.

“Uh huh—” she agreed with a sardonic grit to her words, “—my daddy didn’t love me enough so now I need men twice my age to tell me how good my tits look to get me through the day.” She leant forwards, back arched, and pouted her full lips. “Either tell me how good my tits look or take it up with Andrew. If you can find him.”

Hooking his finger beneath the hem of her shirt, his beer-soaked breath fanned against her face. “You’re every therapist’s wet dream.”

“Glass houses, Winchester.” She paused for a second as the pad of her finger traced his jawline. The coarse hairs of his stubble sent a shiver running down her spine. “I’ll book a couples session—” she dropped her hand, “—and we can both hash out our Daddy demons. Maybe then we’ll finally stop playing this silly, little game with each other and fuck for real.”

She wasn’t far wrong. In fact, she’d hit the nail flat on its head. Whilst Maggie’s father was an absentee who had rejected her in every possible way that he could find, Dean’s father had placed unrealistic expectations and responsibilities on him from a young age. Both carried the burdens of their father’s parenting styles, or lack thereof; both would very much benefit from a professional listening ear and some advice on how to form healthy adult relationships. But, alas, they were here.

“Now, hold up—” Dean’s tone was thick and gravelly as he began lifting the hem of her shirt with his finger, “—let’s not fix what ain’t broke. Show me them pretty, pierced titties.”

Maggie pulled her t-shirt up, holding it in place and revealing her bare breasts. Her nipples were a delicious rose colour and tightened into little buds as the silver bars pierced between them.

He dragged his tongue along the length of his bottom lip again, admiring the sight before him. And what a sight she was. His finger ran slowly underneath the waistband of her baby pink thong. Yes, baby pink thong with a sweet, satin bow in the very middle of the waistband. That had surprised him; Dean had never pinned her down as being a pink and frilly bows type of woman. He’d always thought of her as red and black lace. Nevertheless, the way the fabric fit her body so perfectly still made his skin burn and his mouth run dry.

With a gentle tug, he pulled the string up over her hipbone and let it sit. He then traced her skin upwards — lackadaisical with his movements. The calloused pad of his finger brushed over a scar that tainted her stomach. An old, healed over stab wound. His touch was tender as he sketched the outline of her silhouette, until eventually landing on her breasts. He cupped her boob with his warm palm and allowed his thumb to ghost over her poised nipple.

She let out a jagged breath at the contact.

Dean found his rhythm, circling his thumb over her sensitive bud and rolling it between his fingers.

“Ohhhh.” Maggie let out a breathy moan as she rolled her head backwards. It was an involuntary reaction that she couldn’t stop even when channelling every ounce of might that she had; it was carnal and deep-rooted within her. As was rocking her hips back and forth in a slow and salacious cadence. She was acting on pure instinct and throwing absolute caution to the wind — acutely aware that neither had dared to venture this far with one another.

Dean sat forwards, his now moist lips almost instantly finding her other nipple. His tongue traced a slow circuit around her sensitive bud before his teeth nibbled ever so gently. He sucked, and licked, and nipped to his heart’s content — spurred on by the lustful whines and breathy moans that spilled, one after the other, from between her lips.

She reached her hands between them, her voluptuous hips coming to a gradual stop, and fiddled with the button of his jeans. It was hard to undo them one-handed — the angle was awkward and the old, metal button was stiff — but she managed. Her dainty fingers slipped inside, palming his erection through his boxers until his rugged breaths didn’t send shivers jolting down her spine. She wanted more; she wanted to hear the strangled, husky moans that crawled from the very depths of his throat as they made skin on skin contact.

Maggie pulled his hardened dick from the constraints of his boxers and curled her fingers around his length. She pumped him up and down, revelling in his grunts and groans. They vibrated against her delicate skin and sent shockwaves of electricity through her body — right down to the very tips of her fingers and toes. This was it. This was Maggie at the very peak of her orbital high; she was sat atop the world, spinning aimlessly with the constellations and soaking in the vibrant solar flares of the sun. She was as high as she had ever been, and she wasn’t sure she was ever going to come down from this point. She was lost to the cosmos.

She peeled back the fabric of her damp thong and positioned herself above him. The tip of his dick leaked with pre-cum as it ghosted over her folds — coating himself in her slick.

Then, as he found her entrance, the unmistakable roar of his 1967 Chevy Impala engine sounded throughout the motel room. Maggie whipped her head towards the window — the blaring headlights blinding her, even through the old, dust-covered curtains. It was Sam. With almighty impeccable timing.

She swiftly turned back to face Dean, who had begrudgingly detached himself from her breasts, and looked down at him. A pained expression contorted her blush-tinged features as she let her panties go and stood from the chair. She took a step backwards, then another, and another, until she found the cheap quilt of the bed. She sat down and clamped her thighs together — eyes dazed and her core utterly aching for the man before her.

Dean stood from the chair and tucked himself back into his boxers. His jeans remained unbuttoned and loose around his hips. He dragged a hand through his dishevelled hair as his chest heaved up and down. “I’m gonna…” he nodded towards the bathroom as his words fizzled out, his sentence incomplete.

All Maggie could do was nod in understanding and watch as he disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing swiftly behind him. Her breaths remained heavy as she struggled to calm herself down — her cheeks still stained vermillion and her temperature almost feverous. The sound of the water running flooded the motel room.

Shit. There came that rapid descent back down to Earth.

#supernatural #spn #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester fic #dean winchester smut #dean x y/n #dean x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #jensen ackles

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emo-batboy · 2 years

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I’m 1000% certain there’s a file of test videos (for research purposes ofc) of Battinson trying all of his fancy gadgets. These include but are not limited to:

Flying right into walls with his grappling hook

Jumping and falling like dead weight in his gliding suit prototypes

Just staring at himself in the mirror with his new contact lens and muttering, “I swear I can still see it”

Bruce watching over Alfred’s shoulder and scribbling frantically as Alfred tests out the bullet-proofness of the suit and cape

Crashing the Batmobile with his various turbo engine prototypes

Tossing differently-shaped batarangs at a target to see how it affects their trajectory

(Getting yelled at by Alfred because he decided to put the target right next to the elevator and almost killed him)

Submerged in a big tub of water for ten minutes to see if the rebreathing apparatus he made works then realizing he forgot to bring down towels then looking like a drowned rat as he waits for Alfred to come down

Raising his eyebrows several times under the cowl before deciding that he needs to make it bigger because it’s still obviously him

Injecting himself with different doses of his adrenaline shot (Alfred rips him a new one for trying it without supervision)

A random video of Bruce spinning in his chair and mumbling along to Mitski while he thinks of his latest case (how did that get in there)

Eating shit every time he makes another attempt at handheld rocket boosters

Eating shit every time he makes another attempt at rocket boots

Cutting off power to the entire building after using an early model of his EMP gun

Pouring over footage on the bat computer, grease paint and all, while a little baby bat just nestles in his hair (how did that get in there)

Smacking himself in the face with a nunchuck while trying out a new technique (he was incredibly sleep-deprived, like 62-hours-without-sleep-deprived, Alfred confiscates the nunchucks)

Coughing up a lung while testing out his new smoke pellets and immediately regretting it because this is literally a sub-level basement, what was he thinking

Dick complaining about how annoying and heavy his first Robin suit is “How can I do cool flips off a building if I can’t even touch my toes?” “You are not flipping off of buildings.”

Testing over 200 prototypes of flexible bulletproof fabric for the new Robin suit. (Dick spends this time practicing flips off of high places. Just for fun.)

Breaking his new night vision lens by turning off the lights, realizing he forgot to turn the lens on first, and immediately walking into a chair

Trying out an audio frequency jammer, but when he turns it on, all of the bats in the cave swarm him and he freaks the fuck out (Dick starts calling it the Bat Beacon, Bruce refuses to acknowledge its existence)

Pouring over footage on the bat computer, grease paint and all, while Dick cuddles himself into the back of Bruce’s sweatshirt, fast asleep (how did that get in there)

Doing donuts with the Batmobile using its new remote controller while Dick cheers him on from a safe distance

Landing on his ass after shooting his net launcher without planting his feet first

Dick doing various flips and other skills in his new Robin suit while Bruce takes notes

Testing different skin-safe adhesives for Dick’s domino mask

Slipping on ice after using their new freeze grenades

Adding a parental lock onto the computer because Dick keeps playing Roblox on it when Bruce is gone

Installing a new entrance to the bat cave because Jason said he totally missed the opportunity to have a secret entrance behind a bookcase and now they’re all in agreement because it is much cooler than a boring service elevator

Cutting through random materials with their new set his collapsible knives and swords, including his table which he did not mean to break

Dick and Jason screaming bloody murder when they walk in on him testing a cloaking device prototype and appearing out of literally nowhere

Jason messing with the taser Bruce gave him and immediately getting it confiscated

Pacing in circles to perfect the tracking devices he installed in Dick and Jason’s utility belts

Pouring over footage on the bat computer, grease paint and all, while Jason is in his lap, rambling about what he did in school today (how did that get in there)

Bruce, Dick, and Jason in a puppy pile on Bruce’s office chair, despite there being two perfectly functional chairs right beside that one. They’re all fast asleep

#battinson #bruce wayne #batman #the batman 2022 #the batman #batman 2022 #dc universe #gotham #soft bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #give battinson a child 2k23 #battinson needs a hug #look at him #being a parent #alfred pennyworth #batmobile #funky little guy

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nessamist · 1 year

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DATING MISTY QUIGLEY

warning: mentions of nsfw and yandere behavior

A/N: first time writing headcanons and i love misty so i’m doing her

BEFORE DATING

🌸 before you guys get together she definitely researched (stalked) you. probably has a folder in her home with information about you, it’s scary how much she found really

🌸 definitely plays hard to get but giggles the entire time

🌸 cannot flirt to save her LIFE i swear shes so awkward, she’ll be messing with her glasses and chugging her wine while you sit in a restaurant

🌸 brings up the craziest shit ever on the first date as a conversation starter, talking like “did you know i have my clit pierced” while seductively swirling her finger on her wine glass

🌸 cut your battery line so she could drive you home, or more likely to her house, where she’d act all seductive and try to get you to have your way with her

🌸 called you her partner to the Yellowjackets before you even started dating

GENERAL DATING HCS

🌸 TRUST ISSUES!! likely yelled at you for “using her for information about the yellowjackets” meanwhile you were just asking her what her favorite food was

🌸 really touch starved, you give her a hug and she’ll want you to stay there for atleast 5 minutes

🌸 she’s a very busy woman, between being a nurse and helping her friends hide bodies it’s real hard to get free time, but she will spend every minute of it with you

🌸 spent her entire life not wanted so she’s definitely going to show you off, the yellowjackets have to deal with her bragging about you 24/7, especially natalie

🌸 speaking of showing off, loves pda around her friends specifically, maybe not the “let’s make out in public” type (she totally is) but holding hands and sitting in your lap while talking to nat or lottie

🌸 still doesn’t have the hang of healthy relationships, definitely gave you a decoration with a camera in it and was confused when you are beyond pissed, “I wanted to make sure you were okay!!!” “misty.” “what if SOMEONE BROKE IN?!” “misty.”

🌸 ALWAYS taking care of you when you’re sick, she hears a cough and is in the kitchen making chicken noodle soup and getting benadryl

🌸 really petty when you get into arguments, making snide comments and rolling her eyes around you with her arms crossed and when she’s over being angry she’ll pout and whine until you forgive her

🌸 stalked your friends to make sure they were good enough for you 💀

🌸 a bottom, even when she’s mad at you she wants you to punish her

🌸 the bedroom is THE place to reassure her about your feelings for her, whisper into her ear about how beautiful she is and how much you need her and she’s already cumming

🌸 kinky as fuck, willing to try anything once

🌸 you’re the only one she trusts to petsit caligula!! and that’s a good thing because he loves you

🌸 likes when you wear her clothes, will purposely leave her sweaters out while you shower so you’ll change into one after you’re done

🌸 LOVES head massages, probably one of her turn ons to be honest

🌸 PULL HER IN BY THE BELT LOOPS TO KISS HER!!! SHE WILL MELT IMMEDIATELY.

🌸 will kill for you, has thought about it a few times too

A/N: ok thats it, sorry if these were dumb 🚶🚶

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets headcanons #misty quigley #misty quigley x reader #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets season 2 #yellowjackets misty #yellowjackets showtime

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ukulelevillainwrites · 2 months

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Heist time

One shot

Warnings: swearing, spoilers for the empty grave sort of

Content: I used the characters from the show, but it’s set after the events of the empty grave tho it’s a tiny bit canon divergent. B99 Halloween heist for our favourite agents.

Summary: Lockwood and Kipps engage in another bet, only this one involves a heist.

Word count: 7.3k

This fic was inspired and triggered by this post

Quill Kipps believed that the longest, most excruciating moment of his life had been when he almost bled out from a stab wound caused by a relic man’s sickeningly rusted blade. But now that he thought of it, he sort of missed the cold and comforting embrace of the Other Side. If it were up to him, he’d cross over again in an instant. Anything to get out of lifting yet another heavy piece of furniture up the never-ending stairs of this damned house. Lockwood might have been satisfied with the new look he was giving his home, but Kipps’s back certainly disapproved of his decoration choices. His former rival and current part-time employer had taken the easy side of course and led the way up to his bedroom, the last piece to complete the Portland Row puzzle. How had his life come to this? He had asked himself this question countless times since he had more or less joined the agency. One day he was a highly esteemed Fittes agent, the next he was playing mover for his much younger boss, which was certainly not part of his job description. He almost tripped over the carpet on the landing but at least they had reached the final floor. Lockwood could find a way to fix the headboard of his new bed on his own, Kipps had already done enough.

“Quill?” Lockwood started, obviously about to ask him another favor.

“Nope. I’m going to get some tea, ask someone else.”

The boy didn’t insist. Well, he was eighteen now, but he was still a boy to him. He probably always will be. What happened next certainly confirmed his intuition. As he headed down the stairs to go put the kettle on, he caught sight of the worst prank he had ever seen.

“Are you serious with this?” He asked, detaching a frame off the wall.

“Oh, nice look out, Quill! This is obviously in the wrong place! I usually hang it along the first flight of stairs, where more people can see it.”

Lockwood took hold of the framed article. He didn’t look ashamed, not even a little bit. Instead, he smiled. A wide and proud grin that Kipps really wanted to punch off his face.

“This isn’t funny. You know how badly written that article is! It made me look like a total fool.”

“My point exactly.” Lockwood winked before passing him in the stairs.

“Here! This is much better!” He said as he hung the frame on the first landing of the house. Kipps wondered if he had done it on purpose to hang the article in the one spot where sun shone brightly to reflect in the glass and make it even more apparent than it needed to be. Knowing Lockwood, he probably did. But for a moment he considered if even divine forces were against him in this fight.

“Take it down. I thought we’d grown past this.”

“Well, obviously you haven’t.”

Kipps stayed silent for a moment. However childish Lockwood was, that pesky boy had still managed to get him right where he wanted. Fine. If he wanted childish, he’d give him childish.

“Take it down or I’ll do it myself.”

His light but somehow threatening tone had gathered a crowd around the landing. Lucy was intently listening to their bickering, apparently very entertained. Holly and George were standing by, not sure where this conversation was headed.

“I won’t let you.” Lockwood responded with a grin.

“It’ll be when you least expect it.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Wanna bet?”

George audibly sighed at the offer. Kipps didn’t look away from Lockwood’s defying stare, but he could sense the researcher rolling his eyes behind him.

“What are the stakes?” Lockwood asked back, seemingly eager to humiliate him one more time.

“If I manage to steal that article before 6pm today, I get to burn it.”

“Interesting. I’m willing to agree to your terms,” he kept the attention of the room, voluntarily lingering before certainly overbidding, “but if I win, you have to call me the best agent/genius and wear a shirt with this very article printed on it for a day.”

“Are you really this childish?”

“You’re the one getting mad over a piece of paper.”

Kipps paused to consider the offer. How hard could it be to out-think his pompous and overconfident rival? Lockwood held out his hand for him to shake and without hesitating much longer, Kipps agreed to his terms.

As soon as he shook his rival’s hand, Lockwood could feel the cogs turning in his brain. Besting Kipps should be easy enough, but he wanted his plan to be extravagant. After all, when was he not? With a proud grin, he looked back at his audience. George seemed exasperated.

“What? This one doesn’t involve the future of the agency!”

It did nothing to relax him. Instead, he cleaned his glasses with a concerned frown on his face, like a disapproving parent disappointed in his son’s poor life choices.

“So, how are you gonna do it?” Lucy asked with much more enthusiasm.

“Well, you could always help me out, Luce.” He winked at her and enjoyed seeing her blush slightly.

“Hold on,” Kipps interrupted from behind him, “if you’re getting outside help, I should too!”

“I’m out!” George exclaimed, “I have work to do for that case coming up in two days. A case we should all get acquainted with, by the way.”

“I’ll help you out!” Holly volunteered, “Let the responsible adults win for once.”

“I will allow no such courtesy.” He declared. “Now, time to strategize.” He grabbed Lucy’s hand and lead her towards his bedroom to discuss his plan behind closed doors.

He didn’t register the inherent intimacy of such a gesture until he saw Lucy lingering near the door, unsure where to sit. The desk was still lying in pieces on the floor, his office chair was downstairs, the headboard was resting sideways against the dresser and the only available seat was the bare mattress resting on the bed frame, the one piece of furniture he actually got around to building. Awkwardly, he signed her to join him behind his dresser that was acting as a protective sound barrier. Hopefully, the chest of drawers would keep Kipps and Holly from hearing anything in case they were trying to eavesdrop.

“Is this really necessary?” Lucy asked out loud.

He brought her near and whispered, “You can never be too careful.”

Besides, he would be lying if he said it wasn’t a good opportunity to stand closer to her. His hand didn’t leave her arm while he explained his plan.

“I need you,” he locked eyes with her and closed his hand around her forearm, “to take care of Holly while I distract Kipps.”

“That should be easy enough, how do you want me to proceed?”

“How good are you at making a mess?”

She smirked. “Good enough to drive Holly insane. What about Kipps?”

“Oh, don’t worry… I’ll get him to leave the house.”

He sent her a knowing smile and she looked back at him with a warning stare. He knew she would object to part of his plan, but she wouldn’t get mad over something so insignificant. Besides, she looked adorable when she gave him that look.

During her years at the agency, Lucy had become more than familiar with Lockwood’s tricks. She knew them so well that she could guess which ones he would use before he said it out loud. She even called some of them her own now. This experience also gave her enough hindsight to know that she shouldn’t get her hopes up. Every attempt Lockwood had made at costumes and disguises had failed horribly. The future of the company wasn’t at stake here, which was a relief. But she had already taken to the game, even though it had barely begun, and her competitive side was showing.

“Please, don’t do an accent.”

“Come on Luce! Don’t you have a little faith in me?”

“Only a little…” She mumbled teasingly. She was lying of course. She knew that he would find a way to make it work somehow. He still hadn’t let go of her arm and brought her closer. She felt flustered. She wasn’t used to this proximity yet. His eyes dropped down to the necklace that never left her neck and he smiled softly.

Suddenly, a thud knocked against the door, revealing the anticipated eavesdropping of their competitor. With a grin, Lockwood offered her his arm before heading towards the door and opening it in a dramatic swing. Kipps did his best to discreetly stand up straight and look like he was casually checking out one of the books on the nearby shelf.

“How about some tea to set the start of our bet, Kipps?”

Lucy felt bad for him. Sort of. He was clearly running out of excuses. He mumbled under his breath and led the way down the stairs with a defeated gait.

“I’ll prepare the mugs.” Holly declared, following closely behind him.

Lockwood and Lucy grinned at each other before joining them, ready for the first part of their plan.

They were sipping in silence. Each of them eyed the other over the freshly poured mug she had handed them. Lucy and Lockwood kept throwing side glances in the other’s direction and Holly couldn’t tell if it was just them being them or if she should be on high alert for heist-related shenanigans. She knew the point was to have fun. She knew the rivalry between Kipps and Lockwood wasn’t really relevant anymore. But it did little to prevent her from keeping a professional and watchful attitude. Old habits die hard. After another stare-filled silence, Lockwood put back his mug on the Thinking Cloth with more noise than necessary. He announced that he had some work to do and winked at Lucy in a very unsubtle way before exiting the room. Something was up, that much was clear. But what was he planning? Before she or Kipps could object, Lucy spilled the content of the honey bottle both on Kipps and the floor.

“Oh no Kipps I’m so sorry!” Lucy apologized. She talked loudly and there was an edge to her voice. This was a distraction and Holly knew better than to get caught up in it. She stared at the basement door, sure that Lockwood would try to sneak back upstairs in the commotion. She tried to stay focused but out the corner of her eye she saw Lucy approaching Kipps’s stained sweater with a tissue. She could already picture the bits of white paper sticking to his ruined clothes and the frustration in his brow. He did care a lot about his black turtleneck.

“Lucy, no! Stop! Start by scraping the excess honey then use dish soap.”

The girl took her jam-covered knife, loosely scraped it on the side of her plate and was about to make matters worse.

“No! Forget it, I’ll do it.”

She got up, and before she could attend to the sticky stains George came in with a call for Kipps. The room fell silent when he answered.

“Wait, who is this?”

He seemed perplexed. George went back to the library undisturbed, and Lucy jumped up to reach for the dish soap. Oh no. She wasn’t going to… Before Holly could react, Lucy covered Kipps in dish soap, making him jump up and walk into the pool of honey formed on the floor by the spill. He shrieked as he almost slipped and Holly couldn’t help her high pitched scream at the mess.

“You told me to use dish soap!” Lucy justified.

“Not like this! Is this your first day being alive?”

Kipps gestured them to shush but apparently the caller had hung up. He set the phone on a spared corner of the table, looking down at the mess.

“What did I do to you, Carlyle?”

“I’m… sorry?”

“A very touching apology, thank you! Well, apparently there’s an emergency staff meeting at the restaurant I work at… whatever that means. I guess I should go.”

“Please, don’t make a trail of honey around the house, it’ll take forever to clean up!” Holly said, already dreading the hours of cleaning ahead.

Kipps nodded and exited the room with his shoes in his hand. He gave her a weird look before leaving. “What about the heist?” she thought. She looked back at Lucy’s fake sorry look and before she could scold her, Lockwood came back up.

“What’s all this noise about? Oh, Holly, you’re doing that thing with your face again.” And then he smiled, his usual wide charming smile like he was a perfect angel who had never done anything wrong. Whenever she got stressed out, Holly had this unconscious habit of furrowing only one eyebrow, giving her face an asymmetrical tension that made the two idiots next to her laugh occasionally. A giant, impossible to clean, sticky puddle of honey was more than enough to stress her out. She did not laugh at his remark and he toned down his gigawatt smile.

“I’ll be with George working on our next case, if you need any help.”

No. He wasn’t getting away that easily.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Working?”

“Who do you think I am, Lockwood? The fact that you thought this would work is seriously offending.”

“You can come watch me work if you want.” He asked with the same grin.

“Yes, Holly, you can go. I’ll clean, it’s my mess after all.”

At least, she was acknowledging it. She turned around to follow Lockwood into the library when a glass hit the floor, breaking into a thousand little shards most likely wedged in honey or hidden in unattainable corners. She shut her eyes tight, annoyed but also impressed at how easily they had played her.

When Kipps arrived back at the house, he already knew what he was going to find. A stressed-out Holly, a proud Lockwood and a missing frame. At least he wasn’t covered in honey anymore. His rival hadn’t been too discreet about his ploy. He had recognized the boy’s voice through his horrible accent when he had picked up the phone. His sudden disappearance and Lucy’s exaggerated efforts to mess with his favorite turtleneck only confirmed his suspicions. He wasn’t too offended by the simple and frankly idiotic way they had used to get rid of him. At least they felt threatened enough to need him gone before attempting anything.

When he crossed the door, he didn’t even go upstairs to look if Lockwood had bothered to replace the frame with a fake. He headed straight for the kitchen to relieve Holly from the work she was certainly still attending to. Lucy and Lockwood were nowhere to be found, probably too busy celebrating to keep an eye on their prized possession.

He found his partner in crime trying to get the honey out of the multiple sponges she had used. The floor was spotless, but now the mess had been moved to the sink. He came to stand next to her and looked out the kitchen window to surveil the garden at the back of the house. She turned and apologized for having been so easily distracted. She was ashamed of how simple it had been to sidetrack her. Kipps said nothing. After a minute or two of pensive silence, Holly asked if he was upset, worried she had messed up his plans for good.

“You did a wonderful job.” He simply offered, the shadow of a smile forming on his stern face. She looked back at him with a frown.

“What do you mean?”

“I knew it was Lockwood’s plan from the start.”

“And you let him get away with it?”

“Are you familiar with the Hungarian fencing term ‘husszú görcs’?”

She sent him a look to let him know how pedantic he was being. He knew that already, he just couldn’t resist.

“It’s a strategy-”

“Of letting your opponent win points early to give them a sense of overconfidence thus exposing a much easier target for you later.” Holly finished.

He stared at her in stunned silence.

“I was an agent at Rotwell remember? And our fencing coach was Hungarian.”

He had trouble hiding the thin smile slowly twisting his lips. Even though she took away his moment, he was incredibly grateful to have her on his team.

“Now the real question is: how do you know where he hid the frame?”

He lifted an eyebrow and looked back at her with a smirk.

“Oh. Right. Lucy.”

They looked back at the garden in unison. There were two things that even a stranger could figure out about Lockwood by just looking at him: he had too much confidence and he was head over heels in love with Lucy Carlyle. This specific girl happened to have done a lot of gardening in the last few weeks, planting flowers in the back garden, which made for a perfect hiding spot in the turned soil.

“How do you know for sure he hid it there?”

“I have eyes everywhere.”

They stepped outside and a small shadow emerged from the apple tree at the end of the garden. Bobby Vernon had stayed loyal to Kipps even after his humiliating demotion by Penelope Fittes. Or should he refer to her as Marissa now? He was grateful for the boy’s admiration and even more grateful for his help.

“Is that where he hid it?”

Bobby nodded. “Just like you said he would.”

The three of them stayed out of view from the windows and approached the new patch of purple and yellow pansies freshly planted last week. Kipps took the lead, crouched down and looked around in the dirt, trying not to disturb Lucy’s recent work. Lockwood wouldn’t have been so careless as to mess up her gardening for the sake of a bet. He must have hidden it somewhere he could disturb without risk. The three of them crawled out of sight to the next empty lot where the soil had been turned recently.

“That’s where I saw him.” Bobby confirmed.

It didn’t take much digging to reach the white plastic bag sticking out of the dirt. Inside sat the frame and its perfect example of bad journalism.

“Thank you for your time, Bobby. That’ll be all.”

He dismissed the boy, hid the frame underneath his sweater and asked Holly if she wanted to keep the bag. It was covered in soil but she had the habit of keeping every plastic bag they used since it could ‘be useful still.’

They were surprised to see George back at the Thinking Cloth, scribbling away something probably regarding the upcoming case.

“I thought you were working in the library?” Holly asked innocently.

Her tone was far too conspicuous to Kipps’s taste. It was obvious they were hiding something. Karim would figure it out instantly. He nonchalantly bent slightly over, hunched over the frame to try to hide its shape under his clothes. A sudden pain in his lower back reminded him of his labor earlier that day. It also made him realize that he must look ridiculous. The bet was messing with his head. But he’d need to stash the article somewhere safe before letting his guard down.

George asked Holly further details on the clients’ rendition of the events, what they had described precisely on the phone to get a better idea of what they should be expecting in the coming days. Her professionalism took over, she sat down at the table and took out a notebook he didn’t realize she had with her this whole time. Kipps used the distraction to slip out as discreetly as possible. He checked on Lockwood through the library door ajar. He could see why Karim had preferred to move back to the kitchen. They were lying down on the couch, sharing one magazine, tangled together under a blanket. Lockwood seemed to be reading the article out loud, Lucy staring at him starry-eyed. He had to admit that it was rather sweet, a bit nauseating if you stayed with them too long perhaps. He didn’t mind though. It provided him the perfect distraction to complete his plan.

He started up the stairs slowly and carefully. They may have redone a lot of the house in the recent months, but the foundations were still old. Those stairs can reveal any attempt at sneaking around. Luckily for Kipps, he had worked on those very steps when fixing the damages. He knew them like the back of his hand by now. Every single one that creaked and where to step to remain invisible. This part would be a piece of cake. He made his way up the first set of stairs without trouble. He smiled to himself. He couldn’t wait to see Lockwood’s face when he would pull out the frame from its cache at 6pm. Right under his nose from under his bed. He began his way up the second flight of stairs confidently. Despite his boots, he could feel where he had worked, where the wood was solid and silent. He was three steps short to the landing when suddenly a loud reverberating creak alerted everyone of his whereabouts. Betrayal. He had worked so long on those stairs, listening, learning their pattern, but most importantly renewing them. He gave them his time and patience to rebuild them and for what? He wondered how it was even possible for him to have missed a stair in such bad shape. He heard shuffling downstairs. The love birds had probably been alerted by the wooden backstabber. He didn’t have time to dwell on treachery, he needed a place to hide. Fast.

He made no effort to conceal his footsteps anymore. He rushed to the landing and into Lockwood’s room but the others were already catching up to him. He didn’t have time to lift the mattress and secure the frame there. Panicked, he looked around for a new hiding place. There were still some cardboard boxes lying around the landing. They would have to do. He picked the one filled to the brim with random items and buried the frame among them. When his rivals reached the floor, they found Kipps leaning in that same falsely casual stance he had when they caught him eavesdropping earlier.

Creak. Something wasn’t right. Lockwood could hear Holly in the kitchen. It must have been Kipps. He had to check what he was up to. But doing so meant getting up. Getting up and giving up on having Lucy in his arms. It was a tough choice. So tough that he considered letting Kipps win the bet for a moment.

“Did you hear that?” Lucy suddenly said, listening intently.

Before he could answer she rose to her feet, determined to see who was making a move on the frame. It didn’t matter much since he had replaced it with a fake. However, it did little to stop her. She would hinder the plan of anyone who dared try to take victory from him. Lockwood couldn’t help but stare for a moment, watching her fondly while she resolvedly climbed the steps to investigate the noise they heard. His heart was beating fast when he caught up to her. He reached for her hand and tangled his fingers with hers.

They arrived on the landing hand in hand to find Kipps looking at the same bookshelf he had earlier. He was visibly panting, his chest rising fast despite his best efforts to seem casual.

“Still can’t find that book, Quill?”

“Erm… I was just uh…”

“Maybe you’ll have more luck in the library. There’s plenty more there. I can help you look for it if you’d like?”

“No need for that.”

“No, please, I insist.” He offered him a gracious smile, internally proud they managed to disrupt his plan.

Lockwood took pleasure in watching his opponent’s defeated face as he slowly turned back towards the stairs. He squeezed Lucy’s hand before letting go and escorted Kipps back downstairs.

While the two of them were busy squabbling on their way to the library, Lucy used the distraction to check on the decoy and on their hiding spot. The fake frame was still hung on the stairs which was a good sign. What worried her was what she might find in the garden. It would be bad if Kipps’s team got the frame, but she would be lying if she said it was her only source of worry. Lockwood had been mindful of the freshly planted flowers but she feared his rival had not made the same effort. She quickly followed downstairs and waited for them to enter the library. Out of the corner of his eye, Lockwood slightly smirked at her to signal her to go check their hiding spot. She made sure Holly wasn’t spying from the living room. The coast was clear. She silently reached for the handle on the kitchen door she overheard George mumbling, probably about that case he had been talking about. It wouldn’t be the first time she heard him talk to himself out loud. She could always ask him to stay quiet. Maybe bribe him by giving him her next biscuit in the rotation. She turned the handle and before she could step into the room, Holly’s familiar voice answered George’s. Lucy froze in place. This was perfect, Holly wouldn’t be watching her every move. But she had to release the handle unnoticed, and more importantly a much more acrobatic mission awaited her. As delicately as she could, she released the handle and stepped back from the door, silently aiming for the entrance. Walking backwards, she passed Lockwood again, who made Kipps carry as many books as he could before the poor man had enough of his nonsense. When he saw her going towards the front door, he dropped yet another book onto the pile Kipps was already carrying, making him drop everything. In the commotion, Lucy quickly opened and shut the door, slipping outside without anyone knowing.

The next part would be harder than anticipated. Without taking the time to think too much about it, she jumped to reach the top of the garden wall and pushed on her arms to pull herself up. It was easier to do when she didn’t have an eleven-pound silver-glass skull on her back commenting on her form and mocking her graceless performance. She let herself drop in the garden and remained low as she made her way to the flower beds. She was relieved to find them untouched. Kipps and Holly had had the good sense of digging into the empty patch of dirt next to it. It was good news for her gardening, but the turned soil also meant that their rivals had the frame in their possession. Luckily for them, they had a grouchy reluctant ally to keep track of the frame’s location.

Getting back upstairs hadn’t been easy. Lucy tried her best to sneak around the landing as silently as she could. Coming through the front door, she hadn’t had the chance to check if Holly was still busy with George. She counted on the researcher’s inability to keep his explanations short to keep her cover safe. She retrieved the ghost-jar from its hiding spot and made her way into Lockwood’s room, their rendezvous point. It still made her queasy to go into that room like it was her own. He had said to make herself at home, even in the middle of half-finished furniture. She hesitated, unsure where to settle the skull before getting answers.

“Just put me anywhere but the bed. Lord knows what you did there.”

She put it down on the floor with a crash, no longer caring about being discreet.

“Looks like I hit a nerve,” the annoying ghost said, “Will lover boy be joining us?”

As if summoned by the nickname, Lockwood entered his room and sat on the bed with giddy anticipation.

“So? What did you find out?”

“Kipps has the frame. He dug it up from the garden.”

“Damn it. Did the skull see where he hid it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Skull answered with a crooked smile.

“Yes, we would. Now tell us!” Lucy asked not so nicely.

“I’m not sure I was paying attention.”

Oh, how that ghost could push her buttons.

“You were the one begging to participate in the first place! But fine if you won’t tell us maybe I’ll leave you in the oven again so George can get back to his experiments…”

“I was not begging! It’s just nice to be included for once. Fine. I saw the ginger head run upstairs and he hid the frame in a cardboard box on the landing.”

“Perfect!”

She ran back outside.

“What did he say?” Lockwood asked, his eyes following her to the landing.

She came back in disappointed.

“It’s supposed to be hidden in a cardboard box there but I’ve looked through all of them… it’s not here. Looks like Kipps was faster.”

“Damn! That son of a bitch is good…”

Kipps joined her and George after a loud bang was heard from the library. It sounded like books being dropped, another task for her later. Probably seeing the exhaustion on her face, he told her that he had taken care of it.

“Another meagre distraction of Lockwood’s.”

She laughed at his comment before asking George if he still needed her help.

“No worries, Holly. I can finish this by myself, thanks.”

“So, what is our next move?” She asked her partner.

He threw a sideway glance at George who was back to reading his casefile intently. He nodded towards the door and she followed him without a word. She thought he might be taking this whole thing a little too seriously. George said he was too busy with the case to participate, he wasn’t a threat. Still, she followed him in a corner of the library and listened intently as he whispered his misadventure with the steps. She tried as hard as she could not to laugh when he rambled about the steps of the house betraying him. It got especially tricky when he went on about dishonor and treachery.

“Now, I need you to go back upstairs and get the frame from that box I hid it in.”

“On it.”

“I’ll keep an eye on George.”

She refrained from rolling her eyes and went upstairs. When she got on the landing, she heard Lockwood’s muffled voice coming from his room. He must have been elaborating a new plan to steal back the frame with Lucy’s help. Hopefully, that would distract him enough while she looked through the boxes. They really needed to unpack them soon, it clogged the stairs and the access to their rooms. She opened the first one she could find. Inside were items that certainly belonged to Lockwood’s parents. She felt uncomfortable rummaging through them like this, especially for a silly bet. She opened the rest of them and looked but tried not to disturb anything. Her search was not successful. Instead of disrupting the items, she tried to call Kipps discreetly.

“Do you remember which box you put it in?”

“I think it was that one…”

He opened the box and looked delicately through it, just like she had done. One box after the other, his face went from relaxed, to worried, to panicked.

“Where is it, where is it?!”

“Lockwood must have taken it back.”

“Damn! That son of a bitch is good…”

He barely had time to think of a plan when the door to Lockwood’s room opened, letting his rival on the landing with them.

“Kipps! What a surprise…” He said in that smug tone of his. “It’s almost 6.”

“It looks that way yes.”

They stood face to face, each glaring daggers in the other’s eyes. Lockwood might have come back before he could get the frame from where he had hid it, but Bobby was still watching his every move, standing by behind the apple tree. Kipps was still sure of himself and he knew he would best his rival at that game.

“I’m gonna get that frame back!” They both declared at the same time.

Kipps’s faith in his plan and in himself evaporated before his very eyes. His conviction was shaken. Was Lockwood imitating him poorly? Was he making fun of him? Or was he genuinely convinced that he had the frame in his possession? His rival’s mask slipped too. So Lockwood did not have it. And he didn’t have it. Then who did?

“I’m gonna get that frame back!”

As Kipps exclaimed the same sentence, Lockwood took a step back in surprise. What game was he playing? He stared at him for a few seconds, trying to read whatever ruse he was attempting. The longer he stared and the more obvious his confusion was. How could he look so sincere? Kipps had really worked on his poker face, he thought. Unless he wasn’t acting and the frame was actually out there, out of both their reach when time was running out. Lucy might have an idea. But before he could turn to her to try to read her expression, she bolted down the stairs.

“I’m gonna get that frame back!”

The fact that both boys exclaimed that sentence at the same time threw a gust of cold air through the landing. Everyone stood silently, staring, observing, waiting for someone to stop pretending. The moment never came. One voice broke the silence.

“How strange. It’s almost like that box just disappeared, isn’t it?” Skull asked in that smug know-it-all tone Lucy was so used to. “Didn’t Karim take care of the boxes? No that must have been another day. Unless…?”

Without thinking, Lucy rushed to find George. She didn’t know whether it was the adrenaline, her feelings for Lockwood or her sense of competition, but she had never climbed down the stairs so fast. She called for Lockwood to follow her and heard the hurried footsteps of three eager agents rushing to meet her first. She made a mental note to stick that bloody ghost-jar in the oven for a good forty-eight hours for being so unreliable.

They found George still hunched over his research in the kitchen, so focused that he didn’t seem to register their arrival, no matter how loudly they opened the door.

“Please don’t bother me because of your bet.” He said without looking up from his notes.

Lucy took a tentative step forward.

“Actually… We were just wondering what you might have done with one of those boxes that

are on the landing.”

“You mean the ones I asked you to sort out about a week ago?”

“Better late than never?” she tried to justify.

“I put most of them in the basement.” He answered after a long sigh.

The four of them rushed through the cupboard-like basement door. Lockwood and Kipps tripped each other the whole way down, resulting in loud banging noises against the iron spiral stairs leading the way to their office. Kipps threw himself on the first box he could find, hurriedly but somehow delicately pulling everything out of it and laying all the items on the floor next to him. Lockwood and Holly did the same, and she joined the party a few seconds later without results. Both rivals looked up from their respective boxes visibly panting with matching defeated looks. Apparently neither had prevailed from their thorough search. Where could that frame be?

“Look there’s another one in the storage room!” Holly exclaimed.

With one last race, they all scurried into the room. Before they could turn around, the door slammed behind them, effectively trapping them among magnesium flares and iron chains.

Kipps spun around first to see the iron door sliding shut. He put all his weight to try holding it back but it was no use. Panicked, he tried to go for the back door, rattling the handle vigorously like it would make a difference.

“It won’t budge, Kipps. I made sure of that.” Came a mocking voice from outside.

“Is this your idea of a joke, Karim?”

The gap in the storage door slid open, and mischievous eyes peaked inside.

“Indeed, it is.”

Only his eyes were visible, but it was obvious from his tone that he was smiling in that self-sufficient way of his.

“Cut it out, I’m claustrophobic.”

“You weren’t that claustrophobic when you slept in that broom closet to avoid bunking with me. I think you’ll be fine.”

The humiliation slowly dawned on him. The four of them looked around the room, unsure of their fate. Kipps looked at his feet, defeated. When he looked back up, he saw the three others at different stages of confusion. They didn’t seem to know what was happening either. However, he noticed that Lucy had a small smile on her face, almost satisfied. Did she betray Lockwood to win the bet? Or worse, was Lockwood up to this?

“What is this about, George?” Lockwood asked before Kipps could.

“This,” he paused dramatically, “is how you lose.”

Slightly squinting through the hatch, George reveled in seeing his friends squirm. He wondered if that made him some sort of evil villain, but he liked seeing Lockwood stare at him with that fly-catching gape way too much to care. Even more so when it was joined by Kipps’s despair-filled eyes. He took the general tensed silence as a sign that they had not in fact anticipated this turn of events.

“So you were playing all along?” Lucy asked.

“No. I just saw an opportunity and took it.”

Kipps rolled his eyes and George couldn’t help smiling wider.

“I knew I had to be weary of you Karim.”

“I appreciate the compliment, Kipps. Though, obviously, you weren’t cautious enough.”

“So how did you double-cross us all?” Lockwood asked. If he didn’t know any better, George could almost hear a certain pride in his friend’s voice.

“Well… Since you’re dead set on turning anything into unnecessary races, I had to find a way to teach you a lesson.”

He heard Lockwood scoff.

“I’m with him on that one.” Lucy added in a lower tone.

“So, when you asked me to make you that fake article to use as decoy, I saw an opening.”

“Hold on. Karim was helping you too? How is that fair?”

“I know Bobby’s pocket-sized, Kipps, but since you had him surveil the house I’d still say your teams were pretty equal.” George retorted.

“You knew about this?”

“You had Bobby watching us?” Lockwood asked his rival.

“I mean, we planted Skull too.” Lucy tried to reason him.

“The skull was in on it too?!” Holly exclaimed.

“When Lockwood asked for my help,” George started again, effectively shutting up any other protest emerging from the small room, “he asked me to replace some parts of the article with more modest words like ‘Lockwood is the best agent/genius.’ Instead, I added my own version, almost certain that Lockwood wouldn’t even bother to check. Turns out I was right.”

“Lockwood! You couldn’t even look through it?” Lucy said.

Kipps let out a self-sufficient laugh.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t check either!”

Before any other fight could erupt, George carried on with his explanations.

“Even though Lockwood kept his hideout secret, it wasn’t hard to figure out that it had something to do with Lucy. I mean… even Kipps thought of it.” Through the hatch, he saw Kipps’s eyes throwing daggers his way. “Which left either the attic or the garden and given the number of times I caught you all coming back inside, it was obvious it was the latter. I didn’t need to bother getting it myself though, Kipps did an excellent job retrieving it, as I knew he would. What I needed was to mess up his plans instead.”

Silence had returned inside the storage room. They all had their eyes focused on his, waiting to hear more about their defeat.

“While Kipps and Holly were outside, and Lucy and Lockwood weren’t paying attention to anything besides themselves, I slipped into the hall to mess with the stairs. I made sure enough of them creaked to make sure Kipps would panic-hide the article. I have to say, you avoided a lot more creaky steps than I thought you would, I was impressed.”

Kipps stared back expectantly, clearly curious to know how he had managed the rest of his plan.

“When you hid it on the landing, I had a much easier target to disrupt all future strategies. Now the last part was harder. I had to move the box one step at a time very quickly to make sure you wouldn’t see me. First, while Lockwood and Kipps were in the library, I kept Holly busy with the case, pretended to go to the bathroom, saw Lucy sneaking out the front door and I ran to put the box in my room. Then, Kipps’s paranoia dragged his team in the library while Lockwood and Lucy where in his bedroom, so I took the box back into the kitchen. Finally, while you were realizing the box was missing, I was busy placing it inside the storage room, like a piece of cheese on a mouse trap. A trap in which you all fell being none the wiser.”

He paused for a minute to savor their reactions. Lucy accepted defeat and laughed at the situation. Holly looked stunned. But the most priceless reactions were the two rivals going through different stages of grief. He wished he could record this moment to look back at it a hundred more times.

“I bet with this whole getting-locked-in-the-storage-room thing you didn’t even see the frame I placed inside the box, right?”

Lockwood and Kipps exchanged a glance and jumped on the box. They battled to get hold of the frame first. Lockwood prevailed, holding the prize up high before looking at it more intently. He scoffed and looked back at him through the hatch.

“Well, what does it say?”

“George Casper Karim is a genius hidden two, no three times-”

“It’s actually four times.” George said with a smile.

“Lockwood is a loser” he continued, “Kipps must incline in front of George and so does Lockwood, Kipps still managed to lose spectacularly to George Karim.” He concluded.

They all looked back at him, Kipps’s murderous eyes contrasting with Lucy’s barely contained laughter.

“Are you proud of this?”

“Very yes, thank you for asking.”

“But where is the actual article?” Lockwood asked, almost too certain he found a chink in his armor.

“Oh, you mean this?” He said as he pulled the piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it through the hatch.

There was another stunned silence. Lockwood shook his head, slowly admitting defeat.

“So, what now?” Lockwood asked.

“I believe you both need to say something.”

They exchanged a look, Lockwood now amused.

“George Karim is the best agent/genius.” They said in unison.

General relief flooded the storage room now that the bet was over. George certainly hoped it would deter them both from making more bets any time soon.

“Well, maybe we can celebrate with a cup of tea?” Holly offered.

“That’s a sweet sentiment Holly but I’m not opening this door.”

“What?!” They all exclaimed, louder than necessary.

“You see, I’ve worked all day on our next case and you’re all way behind. I’m gonna need you to catch up. You’ll find the materials on the shelf next to Holly.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t worry, I left some water and a box of doughnuts for you, I’m not a monster.”

Lockwood tried to force the door, like Kipps had earlier. They all shouted a mix of indignation and insults his way. It all sounded like incomprehensible gibberish.

“You can keep screaming if there’s more, but I’ve got a date with Flo!” And with that he left them there, the protests and the clattering of the metal door fading as he went up the stairs.

Note: I’m guessing that, just like Lockwood, you didn’t check the article hanged at the top of this post. You might want to check it out. *wink* (you have to zoom in because it blends in)

#lockwood and co #lockwood and co fic #heist time #brooklyn 99 #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #george karim #quill kipps #holly munro #lockwood & co

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whimsicalpoet44 · 2 years

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Observations about 12th House Stelliums (From a 12th House Stellium that knows a lot of 12th House Stellliums)

I swear, us 12th house stelliums flock to one another. I think it's because of the unique perspective on life we have.

The 12th house rules the unseen, the subconscious, dreams, secrets, fears, our psyche, intuition, healing, and more. Many think it's the house of self-undoing and hidden enemies, which it can be. But I find there are also a lot of benefits to being a 12th houser.

**This is solely my observations and personal experiences from reading charts and interacting with others. If this doesn't fit you, that's totally okay!**

They make excellent artists/poets/writers/musicians/creatives.

CONSTANT struggle trying to figure out if your emotions are your own. They can get confused with the person who is immediately around you, the collectives, family or friends, or any other spiritual attachments you might have with others. You're like a energetic sponge, always absorbing energy. Energetic protections can help. Your mood can shift at the snap of a finger and it's always very very confusing. (This can cause identity crises in some)

You just know things. You have no explanation for it. You just know stuff before it happens, before your told, or even if someone is lying. It may freak others out at times.

You struggle to show others who you truly are. Wherever your 12th house placements are, you may safeguard that area of your life. (i.e. Venus=private love life, Mars=internalized anger that no one else can pick up on, Jupiter=your beliefs, etc). There may be fear of letting others into that part of your life because it's yours. Sharing it with others may make you feel like it'll be taken away from you. For example, if you're a writer, you may be fantastic at it and have tons of completed manuscripts. But you struggle to submit them to publishers or literary agents, because then the world you created is no longer "yours." The characters become everyones.

You learn to love being by yourself. In fact, alone time is necessary. You could feel like you're the only one who knows you, and you don't have to put on an act for anyone. Others can take offense to this, but it truly has nothing to do with anyone but yourself. You NEED it to recharge. Besides, being alone gives you time to research all of the random or eccentric hyper-fixations you have without comment or judgement from others.

You're comfortable with emotional pain. It may have been a struggle earlier in life, but there's beauty to pain. You may value each and every emotion and believe they all serve their purpose. You could even purposefully make yourself sad to tap into the poetic and artistic side of yourself (think enneagram number 4). Don't worry, you are also probably good at pulling yourself out of it once it has served its purpose.

You're probably really good at self analyzing and can self analyze others. You may even know how they feel before they know, which can cause some resentment if you vocalize this to them if they're in a place where they aren't ready to receive it. People don't like knowing that others can see straight through them.

Secret talents galore. You may be naturally good at things, but you don't share this often. You're the type of person to sit at a piano at a friend's house and play the most bafflingly beautiful piece and your friends are left flabbergasted.

12th house synastry is frowned upon, but I find that 12th house individuals get a long great with other 12th housers. I think it can become catastrophic if one of the people hasn't done any healing work. Otherwise, I find these relationships to be mutually beneficial and helpful.

You may have a life long struggle with mental illness (not always, but it's common). This can be due to the likely childhood trauma one endures with heavy 12th house placements, or it can be due to a tendency to overthink. Either way, intervention from a psychotherapist or trusted healer may be necessary in order to work through these issues. It could also be related to generational trauma.

Maladaptive daydreaming is common. It can be a useful coping skill, but if you find that you're disassociating all of the time, mental health intervention may be necessary.

12th house suns probably had an absent father figure due to death or detachment.

Like those in the 8th house, the occult and spirituality is a point of fascination for you. You may even lean heavily onto your beliefs to manage stress. Many go through periods of deconstruction of old belief systems to find the one that fits. This is because the 12th house rules the things unseen. You could even have psychic gifts that showed themselves in childhood. Out of fear you could've suppressed them, but come back to them in adulthood.

Natural astral travelers. You probably have prophetic dreams. You may not intend to astral travel, but you do. A lot of dream work may be beneficial for you.

Your life could be described by the term "duality." Like Persephone, you may find that you're the ruler of spring/flowers and hell all at once. You probably have more than one aesthetic and your mood/season of your life determines which one you choose for the moment.

Past life energies/lessons/gifts can carry over into this life.

You're full of fantastic ideas, but others can be slow to catch up. They often judge you for your ideas, but a year later, will be endorsing it when it gains popularity.

Oddly specific, but just about every 12th houser I know has had an experience with some sort of spiritual symbology. For example, my friend was often given a statue/picture/figurines of a particular saint to protect her, even though her family wasn't religious. My parents used to say I was their "angel baby" and I was often given angel figurines out of no where that would disappear and reappear from my room. (Same thing would happen to my friend with the saint statue). Others I know have a similar experience, whether it be saints, angels, doves, yin/yang symbols, crosses, gods or goddesses, a particular type of crystal or stone, flowers, trees, etc. And it usually aligned with whatever religion their family practiced, but was somehow still applicable if they deconstructed (not all did, but for those that took that path) from that religion. (i.e. archangels or saints are still prevalent in other religious practices and beliefs)

You have a way with words and know just what to say. You're also a great listener. You could have hyper-fixated on words, because a lot of the times, 12th housers struggle to express themselves verbally. It is possible you read the dictionary as a child to attempt to find the words to convey how you were feeling to an authority figure. Almost every 12th houser I know went through a phase like this. And we all laughed when we figured it out because we attempted to hide it (of course).

12th housers also are really particular about aesthetics because they may be prone to sensory overload. Soft lighting is everything.

They can lack boundaries. Please, for the love of all that is sacred, remember that you don't have to heal everyone. That is not your job. Not everyone is your responsibility.

I'll probably do the signs/planets in the 12th in a future post!

#astrology observations #astro observations #12th house stellium #12th house synastry #12th house #astrology #pisces #dreaming

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chiriwritesstuff · 8 months

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I’m a big childless but with a cat person and I only have one request for the rest of TGIIT and its sequel….. can we please get a cute scene of Joel with Sir Bubbles!

I feel like he would think he’s a dog person but then he’s also the kinda guy that would try anything and everything to get the cat to like him and he would definitely have in depth conversations with Sir Bubbles. Like, just imagine Joel fixing the sink and sir bubbles is sitting next to him and he’s just explaining to the cat what he’s doing 😭😭🥺

Oh Nonnie, I could totally do that. Joel in my series does have a dog, a Shiba Inu that Ellie begged him to have after seeing him at the shelter one day (because she desperately wants to have one and also something she does on her day off!) named Paddington because he too (like Javi G) loves that movie so much!

Imagine the weekend before Sugars birthday: Ellie approaches Joel to help her make a cat tree for Sir Bubbles. They come up with a plan to take Sir Bubbles for a day for research purposes. Joel calls Sugar, lying about Ellie being sick and wanting to cuddle up to him to make her feel better.

“But if she has a cold, wouldn’t his fur make her symptoms worse?”

Joel tells her that it’s fine and that she doesn’t have allergies when it comes to cats, so Sugar relents.

“Make sure that you bring her carrier too, can’t be too careful when transporting your cat in your car, baby.”

Sugar arrives at casa miller with Sir Bubbles, carrier in tow. She asks if she could hang out but he’s being weirdly shifty.

“Ellie’s pretty bad, baby. I wouldn’t want you to get what she has, okay?”

Sugar frowns but agrees, kissing Joel before she heads back to her car. Ellie peers from the kitchen, nodding. They both take Joel’s truck to the Home Depot, Sir Bubbles in tow, looking for wood and materials, taking note of his measurements for everything to be a perfect fit.

Once back at casa Miller, Ellie takes him out of his carrier and begins to play with him. Joel frowns and tries to pet him, only for Sir Bubbles to ignore him and purr at Ellie. He runs to the store to get the best most expensive treats that he could find, placing them in a trail to lead to his workshop, only to find Ellie picking them up and feeding them to him herself.

“I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“It’s because you smell too much like Paddington!”

“You smell like Paddington and he likes you!”

“I think he likes Paddington more than he likes you!”

Joel snorts as he goes back to his workshop, working on the cat tree. Later, as he’s nailing pieces of wood together, Sir Bubbles finally makes his way to perch on his work desk. Joel raises a curious eyebrow at the cat, a small smirk at the corner of his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m making this for you, buddy. Do you think your momma is gonna like it?”

Sir Bubbles stares him down for a beat.

“This wood is $100 a piece. Surely this tempts you.”

Silence.

“And this right here?” He points to a circular spot. This is your feeding area, you know, for your food and treats and whatever you fancy.”

Sir Bubbles simply purrs, licking its paw as he continues to look at Joel with (in his cat way) a disinterested look on his face.

Joel sighs, grabbing another treat from his pocket. “What about this? It’s fresh, little kitty.”

He swears he hears Ellie snicker off in the distance.

“One of these days ima get you to fold, Bubbles. Just you wait.”

#chiris inbox #the girl in IT #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel tlou #joel the last of us

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roostersmustache · 9 months

Text

Songs of Silence, One

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Author's Note: Hello guys! This is totally different, as most of you are used to my Rooster fics! But, I've gotta be honest. I've been a Loki fan far longer than I've been a Bradley Bradshaw fan, and with season two of Loki out and about (I've watched it three times), I'm hyper fixating on the God of Mischief right now! So, I hope you guys enjoy, and I hope I can reach some more Loki fans out there!

Synopsis: Ingrid was born the goddess of song. Her voice was unmatched in talent. When using her voice one evening, her voice suddenly leaves her, leaving her completely mute. Seeking out help in finding her voice, she's led to a fortune teller, who offers her more than she initially bargained for.

Warnings: None of this is accurate, Swearing, adult themes, angst, possible MCU spoilers, possible Loki spoilers.

Word Count: 5.4k

Masterlist

Being born a goddess in Asgard came with lots of fabulous parties, countless gowns and jewels, and lots of mingling with the other Gods and Goddesses Asgard housed. Ingrid had been born the goddess of song, her musicality bringing peace and prosperity to Asgardians. She could heal broken hearts with her songs, put one to sleep with her songs, and compel those to her will with her songs.

She was a kind and beautiful goddess, her name even meaning "beautiful woman." Because of her kindness, she never used her compelling voice to lure those to their deaths, or have them do as she pleased. She only used her voice for good, and it brought so much harmony to Asgard.

Her talent was unmatched on every level, and Asgardians were willing to pay her thousands to teach their offspring even a sliver of what it meant to sing like her.

But she never shared the secrets of her voice.

There weren't any secrets to be shared. She was born with her gift, and never had to work to make it better. It was the epitome of a perfect voice.

So perfect that many wanted it for themselves.

Ingrid had to be cautious of who she trusted enough to get close to her. The wrong person with the right spell could take her voice from her. While no such spell was easy, magic was a well practiced craft in Asgard, and someone highly skilled in magic could, with the right research, take her voice from her.

Her talent was mystical, and she most often used it for healing purposes. For example, when a family member passed away, people would come to her and ask for a song to ease their pain. She had a way of letting the spirits sing through her, and her songs were able to make grief easier.

Ingrid was the youngest of the Gods. She was only nineteen in Midgardian years, the sons of Odin beating her by a miniscule two years.

Ingrid lived in the castle, and she saw the royals as her second family. When she was a young girl, her parents, also Gods, were killed by the Dark Elves, so she was left orphaned. Odin and Frigga took her in, and she grew up alongside Thor and Loki.

She grew up knowing her and Thor were to be married once she reached the age of twenty. Her and Thor had grew up close, but she knew, deep down, she'd never be able to love him like she was supposed to. They say everyone has their person, and she knew Thor wasn't hers. She did love him, just in a friendly way. But she knew she'd have to bear his children, so she tried to be attracted to him, but it never worked the way it was supposed to.

"You look beautiful today, my darling," Thor said as Ingrid grabbed his arm.

They were headed to a feast to celebrate their marriage, as the wedding was set to be a month away.

"Thank you, Thor," she replied, smiling at him.

When the couple entered the grand dining room, they were greeted by cheers from all the Asgardian people in attendance. Ingrid smiled, waving at her friends, and following Thor before the two took a seat at the head of the table.

"Thank you, to all my lovely people," Thor boomed, the room going quiet. "And thank you," he started, gazing over to his fiance. "To my beautiful bride-to-be for everything. I'm the luckiest man in the nine realms to get to marry you."

Everyone at the table swooned, Ingrid looking over and giving Thor a smile. He raised his glass and everyone followed suit, a toast in order.

"To love!" Thor cheered.

"To love!" Everyone else cheered.

Ingrid just raised her glass, she didn't say anything else. A part of her mourned the fact that she'd never be able to find her true love. She only hoped that one day her heart would come to love Thor the way that a lover should.

She took leisurely sips of her wine, laughing at someones joke every once and awhile. She loved the people of Asgard, and she knew it was the highest honor to become their queen, but her heart longed to love. It longed to be loved by an all consuming love, one that challenged her and thrilled her, excited her in ways she never even knew possible.

But she'd never get the chance to find it.

"What about a song from the lady?" A man said, standing up and motioning his glass towards Ingrid.

"Oh," she stuttered, caught off guard by the request.

"Yes," another man piped up. "A song from the goddess to bless her marriage!"

"I mean," she blushed. "I don't have anything prepared."

"What could the goddess of song not have prepared? Sing us something!" Another man boomed.

"I don't know, I mean, I don't really think I have it in me to sing right now," she sheepishly replied.

"Oh come on, darling," Thor smiled. "Sing us something."

"I don't really want to," she said to Thor, giving him a tight smile.

Ingrid never liked to be put on the spot, and Thor knew that. But she also couldn't deal with disappointing people, so saying no wasn't something she was good at. Thor also knew this.

"Aw how come?" Thor boomed, obviously a bit drunk, as he smiled down at her. "Bless us and our marriage with a song!"

"I don't- Thor, I didn't prepare to sing anything," she said, silently pleading with him to let it go.

"You're the goddess of song," he emphasized. "You don't need to prepare anything," he smiled.

Ingrid often had anxiety around being put on the spot, as she liked to have a sort of mental preparation. Ingrid suffered from a severe case of PTSD, which contributed to her severe anxiety.

When she lost her parents, she was ten years old. She watched as the dark elves stormed into her home and brutally murdered both of her parents in front of her. They only missed her because she hid in her parents closet.

The images of her parents being killed stayed with her, haunting her.

It's safe to say her anxiety was prominent in her life.

"Thor," she started whispering. "Everyone is looking at me, I don't think I should sing right now."

"C'mon darling, everyone loves your voice! I mean look at them," Thor said, gesturing to the group of people in the dining room, looking excitedly at their goddess of song.

"I don't want to," she said.

"Ingrid, you're the goddess of song, I don't understand-"

"The lady said she didn't want to sing, therefore she won't," a voice said from the back of the dining hall.

The voice in question came from none other than Thor's brother, Loki. Ingrid and Loki had always gotten along. He understood her traumas, since he had found out he was adopted a couple years back.

Her and Loki had grown up never too close, but never distant either. They would often just sit with each other and read in the library. He always kept to himself, but he always tried to be out of his brothers shadow as well. Ingrid had always found Loki fascinating, his magic so strong yet himself so quiet. But when he did have something to say, it was always well worded and intelligent.

When Loki spoke up, the entire dining hall went silent, and all eyes gazed to him. He was dressed in his more casual Asgardian leather, yet nevertheless eye catching. His hair was slicked back as it always was, his black curls resting on his shoulders.

"Ah, brother!" Thor announced. "How wonderful of you to join us!"

"How could I ever miss such an occasion?" He sarcastically remarked, his hand landing over his heart.

As he walked to the table to take a seat, he made eye contact with Ingrid, who mouthed a 'thank you' to him. He just nodded and smiled back at her.

The rest of the party went on as they all do; they ate, Thor and his friends had too many beers to count, and the others mingled together. Ingrid felt overwhelmed by the noise and commotion in the room, so she wandered out to the garden. The gardens were her favorite place in the castle, the flowers and plants always having a way of soothing her. Freyr always did wonders for the gardens.

Her favorite was the Dreamshade plant, an Asgard specialty. It was beautiful when it bloomed. Next to the Dreamshade plot of the garden was a beautiful wooden, white swing next to it, hung by a tree. Ingrid would often find herself out there reading.

She sat down on the swing and started to rock back and forth. She sipped on the wine she had carried with her, the liquid making her warm with each sip she took. The breeze encapsulated her, sending a chill down her spine.

She heard the boom of Thor's laughter from inside and took another swig of her wine. She was supposed to be Asgard's blushing bride, they're grateful queen to be. But instead, she's sitting in the garden, away from her own party for her own marriage, fighting back tears. She was orphaned at ten, and months after she had been taken in by the king and queen, she was betrothed to Thor. Her future had been written for her before she was old enough to fully harness the concept of true love and marriage.

And she did, she did love Thor. They had grown up together. Just as she loved Loki. But Thor never made her feel the way her friends' partners made them feel. They'd all talk about butterflies, feeling giddy. All she felt was a longing for something she didn't have.

She wished her voice could cure her own sadness.

"Ingrid?" Came the voice of Loki. He had found his way out to her at the gardens, slowly walking up to her as to not wake her.

"Loki," she gasped, breaking out of her trance. She then noticed the tears that had fallen down her face, quickly wiping them away.

"Why are you crying?" He asked, coming to sit next to her.

"I don't know," she said. "I didn't even realize I was."

"Is everything alright?"

"Nothings alright," she whispered. "I just, I feel hopeless and, I don't know. I'm sorry, I've had too much wine," she hiccuped.

"It's okay, we've all had too much wine," he grinned.

"It's good wine."

"It is indeed."

Her and Loki sat in silence. They let the breeze wash over them, and they let the smell of the flowers consume them. Ingrid was drunk, and she knew this because she felt like she could go up to Thor and tell him she didn't want to get married to him. At the end of the day, she'd never do such a thing, but the fact that it was even a thought she had confirmed the wine had done it's job.

The wine was also making her think things she shouldn't be thinking at all.

Looking over to Loki, she let her eyes wander over his smooth features, and the sharp curve of his jaw. He was sculpted perfectly, and on Midgard, they liked to say handsome men looked like "Greek Gods." Loki wasn't a Greek God, but he was a God.

Ingrid had always had a crush on Loki. He was charismatic yet smart. Funny yet serious, and mischievous at the same time. He always excited her, made her stomach knot when he teased her. He made a blush arise to her cheeks that never appeared for anyone else.

But she never let this crush get the best of her or distract her from what she was supposed to be focused on.

The wine allowed these thoughts to push through, though.

"I don't think," she started. "I don't think I wish to marry Thor."

"What?" Loki asked, his head snapping to her.

"I don't love him like that."

"I don't understand," Loki said, his brow furrowing. "You two have always been in love."

"It's been fake," she said, taking another gulp of her wine. "For me, at least."

"Ingrid-"

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be telling you all of this. I should," she hiccups. "I should get to bed."

As she tries to stand, Ingrid's wine glass falls out of her hands, smashing on the ground. Her legs start to wobble, and before she knows it, she too is falling to the ground. Loki is at her side in an instant, catching her before her head hits the grass.

"Ingrid, darling," he gasped at her. "You've got to be more careful."

"I'm sleepy," is all that she mumbles, her eyes rolling shut.

"Okay," Loki says, hoisting her into his arms. "Lets get you to bed then."

Loki proceeded to carry her out of the garden and around the side of the castle to a side entrance, wanting to keep people from seeing them in this state together to prevent gossip. Through the corridors and up the stairs leading to her room, Ingrid was giggling at random things that she saw.

Once Loki got upstairs to her room, he carried her inside and gently placed her on the bed. She sighed contentedly when she felt her plush covers beneath her, melting into her mattress. She slowly blinked her eyes open, grinning when she noticed Loki looking down at her.

"Comfortable?" He asked.

"Yes," she sighed. "Thank you for bringing me up here."

"Of course."

"Loki?" She piped up, sitting up on her elbows. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course," he replied, taking a seat on her bed.

"Will everyone despise me if I don't say yes to Thor at the altar?"

She watched as Loki's expression softened, his head tilting to the side. She didn't want to cause a fuss, but she couldn't see herself living a long and prosperous life with Thor.

"Ingrid," he started. "Where is this coming from? Everyone thinks the two of you are in love."

"I've never gotten to explore any romantic interests of any kind because i've always been promised to him. But I don't love him like that. I've tried, Loki. He's not the one for me."

"I don't know if you have much of a choice, darling," Loki says, his lips flattening into a disappointed straight line. "What Odin wants, Odin gets."

"He's not the one that I want," she whispered, staring at Loki intently.

His brows furrowed and then relaxed again. Ingrid knew that her remark was suggestive, and would definitely be something she regretted saying the following afternoon. But as per the wine, it felt very appropriate to say.

"I suppose if your suitor of choice is as high of rank as a God to be king, Odin might not have as many complaints."

"He's something like that," she sighed.

Loki began to respond to her, but he was stopped by two sharp knocks on her door. She gave Loki a puzzled look, and he gave her a puzzled look back, neither one of them knowing who could be at the door.

Loki stood and went to the door to open it, and when he did, it was revealed to be Thor on the other side. Loki moved aside to let his brother in, and Thor's eyes immediately went to Ingrid.

"There you are, darling. Are you alright?"

"Yes, just sleepy," she replied, her eyes blinking slowly.

"Why did you escort my lady to her bed chambers without letting me know?" Thor asked, turning to his brother who stood silently in the corner.

"Because she was passing out in the gardens and I didn't want anyone seeing her in such a vulnerable state," Loki replied.

"Passing out in the gardens?" Thor said, whipping around to look at his bride lying on the bed, still in her evening gown.

"I've had a bit too much wine," she said, pinching her fingers in the air as an example of how much wine she's had.

"Why did you even leave to the gardens in the first place?" Thor asks.

"It was loud," she sighs.

"I'm sorry, darling. I know me and my friends can be loud at times."

"Very loud," she annunciated.

Ingrid pushed herself up off of her bed and stumbled into her closet and grabbed one of her silk nightgowns, walking back out and throwing it down on her bed. She started undoing the pins in her hair, feeling immediate relief at the release of tension in her head. The two brothers stood there watching her, and she stopped her motions to give them both a quizzical look.

"What?" She asked. "Have neither of you seen a lady get ready for bed?"

They both stuttered out sorries as they started to exit the room. Thor crossed over to Ingrid and kissed her cheek, whispering a goodnight to her. She caught Loki's eye by her door, and she gave him a small smile. He nodded back to her. The two brothers exited her room, and once she heard the door click she brushed her dress off of her shoulders.

Once she was ready, Ingrid slipped under her covers. She could still feel the alcohol coursing through her veins.

Before her parents passed away, her mother would sing her a song before bed every night. It stuck with her, and sometimes the goddess would sing it to herself before bed, just to imagine her mother there with her. Tonight was one of those nights.

Ingrid felt helpless, her marriage to Thor was rapidly approaching, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She needed her mothers advice more than anything. So Ingrid sang her song.

Nuku, nuku nurmilintu, Väsy, väsy, västäräkki Nuku nurmelle hyvälle Vaivu maalle valkialle. Lintu tuopi liinahapaijan Haapana hyvän hamehen Kaskeloinen korvatyynyn Pääskynen peäalusen Nuku, nuku nurmilintu Väsy, väsy, västäräkki Nuku nurmelle hyvälle Vaivu maalle valkialle.

Ingrid sang her song louder than she's ever sang it before. Usually she would sing it as a whisper, only to keep for herself. But she felt (probably because of the wine) that everyone needed to hear it. And everyone did hear it. Everyone in Asgard heard their goddesses song, and they heard the pain and longing in her voice as she sang. It was vulnerable, and it was beautiful.

And it lulled her and the entire kingdom to sleep.

Ingrid woke the next morning to being shook by her shoulders.

As she opened her eyes, she saw Thor, Frigga, Loki, and a few castle healers surrounding her on her bed. Thor was shaking her awake, concern written all over his face. Everyone looked worried, and Ingrid looked quizzically back at them.

"What?" She asked, worried as to why everyone was so concerned about her.

"Ingrid," Thor said. "Ingrid, are you alright? We've been trying to wake you for an hour. It's one in the afternoon."

Ingrid shot up at that, looking to her clock to confirm the time. She had never slept that long. Wine wouldn't do that to her either, as she's had her fair share of drunken nights far worse than the one she had last night.

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure why I did that," she said, but the people surrounding her just looked more confused.

"Ingrid, darling, what are you saying?" Frigga asked, taking a step closer to her."

"I'm asking-," She started, but she realized that not a single sound was coming out. "Can you not hear me?"

"Darling, we can't hear you," Thor said. "You're just moving your mouth."

All of the blood drained from Ingrid's face as it hit her all at once.

Her song.

She sang her lullaby last night in a very drunk and vulnerable state, making her an easy target. And she was loud. Everyone in the kingdom heard her sing. And someone had done the one thing she had feared.

They had taken her voice.

As soon as it clicked in her mind, her eyes locked to Loki's, and she could tell that he had made the same observation.

"Someone took her voice," he stated, his eyes never leaving hers.

"That's impossible," Thor said, standing up.

"Oh no, it's quite possible, brother," Loki stated, his hands clasped behind his back. "A strong sorcerer heard her song last night, and the vulnerability behind it, and used the right spell. Her voice is gone."

"That cannot be!" Thor boomed, pacing around the room. "Who dare strip my bride of her Godly power?"

"Thor," Frigga said, walking over and comforting her son. "Whoever did this to dear Ingrid will be punished. We will find them."

"What are we supposed to do, mother? She's a goddess, and she's lost her ability. People need her," Thor said.

"She is more than just her gift, my son. She will help her people in incredible ways without her voice."

"Mother, she is the goddess of song. Not the goddess of kindness. She is not a goddess without her voice," Thor stated, blankly.

To hear Thor say this about her, in her bedroom, made her mouth run dry. It was as if she wasn't in the room to him. It was hurtful, and she had never heard Thor speak of her in this way.

"Thor," Frigga scolded. "You know better than that."

"She is not worthy of Asgard's throne if she cannot serve her people like she so promised!" He yelled.

The room fell silent, and Ingrid drew her knees up to her chest to hug them, tears freely falling from her eyes. The only thing that could be heard throughout the room were Ingrid's quiet sniffles, and everyones eyes turned to her when they started.

Thor's eyes immediately softened when he met her teary ones, guilt racing across his face.

"Ingrid, my darling," he started, walking up to her. "I didn't mean it, I'm so sorry-"

But he was cut off by Ingrid's hand shooting up to stop him. He bounced back, hurt flashing across his eyes.

"Ingrid," he pleaded.

She shook her head in response, as no sound would leave her vocals.

"You should go," Frigga said.

"Mother," he said, looking over to Frigga.

"No, Thor. You've done enough damage, it's best for you to go."

With a sigh, and one last regretful look at Ingrid, Thor walked out of her room. Once he left, Ingrid's shoulders started to heave, sobs wracking through her body. She had just woken up, and it was so much to process. She hadn't even gotten the chance to full realize her voice had been stolen from her before the man she considered one of her best friends and was supposed to marry started hurling insults about her in her own bedroom.

Frigga sat down on her bed and pulled her into her. She combed through her hair and whispered sweet words to her to calm her down. Frigga was the closest thing Ingrid had to a mother, and she made her feel better when she needed a mom.

"We will overcome this, my darling," Frigga said. "We'll find whoever took your voice from you. You are no less of a goddess this morning than you were last night. I'm truly sorry for my sons words."

"It's okay," Ingrid said, or tried to say. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks, and just nodded back at Frigga instead.

"Loki," Frigga said, motioning for her other son. "Why don't you entertain our girl with some of your magic? Or perhaps a card game? You two used to love to play together."

Loki gave his mother a small smile and nodded his head at her.

"Of course, mother," he replied.

"Thank you, my boy. She is in need of a friend."

Frigga exited the room, along with the healers, leaving Ingrid alone with Loki. She sighed before looking at him, his eyes swiftly meeting hers. The silence was uncomfortable. There were so many things she wanted to say to him. She wanted to apologize for her actions and words last night, she wanted to confide in him about her tumultuous love life, and she wanted to tell him he was the one that she wanted. But everything would have to be left unsaid.

When they were children, Loki would often put on 'magic shows' for Ingrid. Once, Odin asked for one, and Loki told his father that they were 'only for Ingrid.' His magic entertained her, and he knew this, so each time he'd put on a show for her, he made sure he was showing his favorite tricks.

"So," Loki started, carefully taking a seat next to her on the bed. "I've been working on a new trick."

Ingrid sat up a bit at that, her interest showing. Loki took this as her go ahead.

He raised his hand in the air, palm face up, and mini fireworks started coming out of thin air in the palm of his hand. Ingrid let a smile grace her features, a laugh wanting to escape her so badly.

"It's nothing huge," the God said. "But it's pretty."

Ingrid nodded her head at him, her smile widening. He let out an airy laugh, smiling back at her. He closed his hand, making the fireworks disappear. Ingrid let her smile settle, and his did too. She felt his hand creep to hers, grabbing it in his large hand and giving it a squeeze. Loki's hands were soft. Silky smooth. Just like his voice. Ingrid looked down at their hands, and then looked back to him, her gaze questioning.

"I'm sorry for what my brother said," he started, his gaze soft upon her. "And I'm sorry for the predicament you're in."

Her gaze hardened, a blush forming on her cheeks. She had hoped she had dreamt about telling Loki about her true desires regarding her marriage, but it was evident she had confided in him.

"I've not forgotten our little talk last night," he confirmed, making the girl look away from him. "And I want to help you. I know how it feels to be burdened with something you don't want."

"How can you help?" Ingrid so badly wanted to ask. She wasn't used to not having her voice, and she didn't like it.

"And I'm sorry that you lost your voice," he continued. "You're still a goddess, Ingrid. You always will be. No one can strip you of that."

She gave him a faint smile in return, squeezing his hand back. His hands were ice cold, yet she didn't shiver away from his touch. In fact, she wanted more of his touch. Loki had always brought her comfort, but her hand in his gave her a sense of being grounded no touch had ever given her before.

Everyone knew Loki and Ingrid had a connection deeper than they understood. Loki had never been one to open up, but he had always told Ingrid everything. She too, told him her deepest secrets. They had both seen each other in their most vulnerable states, therefore creating a bond no one could understand.

She had always had feelings for the prince, but she felt naughty when she thought of acting on them. After all, she was engaged to his brother, the future king. She should be fawning over Thor, the future king of Asgard. But instead, Ingrid often found herself lusting over Loki in the shadows.

"Ingrid," Loki's voice said, but this time in her head, his silky voice sending chills down her spine. She gave him a startled look, his telepathic abilities something she wasn't used to. "You can speak back," he continued.

"This is oddly frightening," she said back, not really sure if he could hear her say that or not.

"But now you have someone to speak to," Loki's voice said, confirming he had heard her.

"I can't believe that worked," she said, looking at him wide eyed. They had never communicated telepathically to one another. She knew that he could, but she couldn't. He had obviously made it to where she could communicate back with him. She hoped he couldn't read her mind.

"I can," he said. When she looked at him, mortified, he had a small smirk playing on his lips. "I can hear everything you're thinking."

"Loki stop," she threatened. "I'm more than happy to speak with you because I need it, but I can't have you reading my mind."

"Why? Something naughty you don't want me to know?" He smirked.

Her face heated up, and at the mention of naughty thoughts, images of Loki popped into her head. She quickly willed those thoughts away, her face turning bright red out of fear he saw her thoughts of him.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, grinning at her.

"Loki, get out of my head," she warned.

"But I'm curious as to why you think of me so much," he replied.

If her face wasn't red before, it was cherry red now. She looked at him mortified, and put her head in her hands, shaking it. She was hoping that her actions were enough to get the God out of her head. His laughter rumbled throughout the room as he watched the girl in front of him, clearly in distress.

He moved to sit closer to her on the bed, and her breath hitched. She peeked an eye at him, and she saw him smirking down at her. She was feeling hot, her hands clammy and her forehead sweaty. Loki being this close to her in this state was making her feel fuzzy, and she couldn't tell if she wanted away from him or if she wanted closer to him.

"Who do you desire, my dear?" His voice still in her head, making goosebumps break out all over her body. "Who were you speaking of last night when you said you wanted someone other than Thor?"

"Loki," she said sternly, a warning. If he kept on, she didn't know how long she'd be able to hold her resolve.

"Tell me," he growled, his hand finding purchase on her thigh.

She lightly jumped at the contact, her mouth parting, the air leaving her lungs. She didn't think he felt the same about her, and the realization that he did was both thrilling and terrifying. It excited her because she had always had feelings for him, and it terrified her because of Thor.

"Of course I feel the same, Ingrid," he said, and she took in a sharp breath of air. "How could I not?"

"Because I'm marrying Thor," she said.

"I don't care. You clearly don't want to marry him."

She was at a loss for words, literally and figuratively. Loki was her greatest friend, and she worried what this would do to their relationship. She didn't know how they would go forward. She was to be married in a month and that terrified her.

"This is not how I expected my day to go," she said to him.

"Mine either," Loki chuckled, this time out loud. "I should let you rest, dear. I'm going to assist Odin in finding who stole your voice."

She just nodded at him as he stood up off the bed. She bent back down, however, caging Ingrid in between his arms, causing her to lean back onto her elbows. Her heart was thumping in her chest, and he smirked back at her. One of his hands came up and settled under her jaw, cupping her cheek. She instinctively leaned into his touch, her cheeks bright red again. He leaned forward and took his thumb across her lips, huffing out a laugh as her lips parted.

"Don't think I'll forget this talk," he drawled, his voice deep and smooth like chocolate.

She nodded back at him, swallowing the lump in her throat. He pulled her forward by the neck, and she stopped breathing as she expected his lips upon hers, her eyes fluttering shut. But instead of his lips finding hers, she felt them firmly press on her forehead.

"See you later, darling," he smirked, pulling away from her and laughing as she sat on the bed dazed and wide eyed.

She watched as he sauntered out of her room, and she let out the breath she had been holding. Her hand found her chest, and she placed it there as she slowed her rapid heartbeat. She flopped back on her bed, a small smile forming on her lips.

Maybe this month wouldn't be so bad after all.

A/N: Yaaas! It's done! Lemme know what you think! Definitely more parts to come! As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series!

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angstymdzsthoughts · 2 years

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I don't think it's very angsty but Modern AU where Yanli is in her 20's but the boys are middle schoolers. Newly married Jiang Yanli sues her parents for custody of Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying. She has the money and the means now (part of the reason she agreed to marry Jin Zixuan even if he was a total brat) and is more than willing to fight her parents.

She had wanted to do it when she turned eighteen. She had spent months leading up to her birthday researching how to get custody of her little brothers. She called lawyers unassociated with her parents for legal advice. She had even thought of dropping out of school to get a job, get an apartment, and kidnapping her little brothers. She's near desperate to get her sweet brothers away from her abusive mother and her willfully ignorant and neglectful father.

None of it would have worked considering how much money and connections her parents had.

So she continued to play the dutiful daughter and went to college, swearing to build a solid safety net and home for her brothers to run to the second they turned eighteen. Until then she kindly insisted that her parents let her brothers spend the night at her off campus apartment every night that they could.

And then Jin Zixuan started making puppy eyes at her every time they saw each other. She had figured that them going to the same university was an act of meddling from their mothers, but Jin Zixuan later confessed to her (very publicly) that he had chosen to attend the same college as her on purpose. She wasn't sure when or why Jin Zixuan had convinced himself he was in love with her, but she saw the golden opportunity for what it was.

The Jin family were stupid rich. Old money wealth with a new money taste for luxury, her father said. It was rumored that the families current head was rotten to the core and had his pick of judges and politicians in his pocket to get him out of any trouble he gets himself into. It wasn't ideal, but it was exactly what she needed.

"I will marry you, A'Xuan," she promises one night. The way his face lights up is endearing. "But only under one condition."

"Anything," Jin Zixuan says eagerly.

She kisses him softly, lovingly as a little reward for his easy obedience and he melts.

#mdzs #Jiang Yanli #Jin Zixuan

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rheareadsss · 2 months

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Mistake 3

A few weeks go by, Lucien accepted the explanation Elain gave him but made it very clear he was leaving to the mortal lands and not returning for some time. He wasn’t going to be asking for a dual, he respected her decision and left quickly after talking to Rhys and Feyre.

Gwyn on the other hand is the one whom has to endure more, she has to see the happy couple everytime they go to the house of wind. She already sees Azriel daily at training but ignores him, she hates seeing them together as it hurts her deeply.

She no longer trains with Azriel, she stopped going to the late night trainings even though sometimes she hears him training alone.

His shadow always finds her and wraps itself around her neck, she became so used to it that she doesn’t think much of it now.

Gwyn knows from Nesta that Feyre wasn’t so pleased about the way Elain handled everything with Lucien, Lucien is after all her good friend.

“What’s going on Gwyn?” Nesta asks her once they sit alone in the living room “you seem a bit off lately”

Gwyn sighs and leans back in to the couch “I’m just swamped with research for Rhys” she admits but it’s more than that.

“Well pretty soon we will all have some time off, the ceremony is going to be in a week”

“It’s taken so long” Gwyn admits

Nesta shrugs “they wanted to wait I guess”

“At least it will be over soon, if it was a mating bond it wouldn’t have taken them this long”

Nesta smirks “true and I think she just wants a proper almost human ceremony”

“I can see that, if it were me I would just have taken the male to bed already and made him swear his vows then” Gwyn says smirking

“Too many Selline Drake novels for you” Nesta jokes

Azriel clears his throat to make himself known, he has overheard the conversation.

“Az, I thought you were at the river house” Nesta says taking him in, it looks like he has been training for some time, hair in disarray and sweating.

His eyes land on the teal innocent ones that he misses lately, then on the shadow nestled on her neck “training, Elain is busy with ceremony things” his eyes lost in her

“Care to sit and indulge us with details?”

He walks and sits ready to talk

Gwyn stands up as he’s sitting, she smiles at Nesta “I actually have to get going, need my sleep for tomorrow” she says while finding his eyes tracking her every move

Nesta wasn’t dumb, she could see she was avoiding him while he looked like he yearned to talk to her. His eyes saying what they both weren’t saying, he missed her, she hadn’t seen them together in weeks like they used to before.

“Alright” Nesta lets it go, maybe the friendship line had blurred but it was too late already?

“Goodnight” Gwyn says while walking away, Azriel called his shadow back but it didn’t listen, he watched as it left with her.

•

Gwyn did totally drown herself in her research, she liked working as a Valkyrie and a researcher. It gave her purpose, Rhys had told her that with Azriel leaving soon he would have a temporary replacement. He wanted to run it by her first and see if the other acolytes would be fine with it.

She walked into his office “Hello High Lord” she said while curtsying

He looks at her with a disapproving look “Rhys”

Gwyn rolls her eyes playfully “Rhys, what’s so important?” She asks while sitting down

“Well.. with Azriel leaving in a few days for his moon with Elain, I was thinking of employing Balthazar for training with the Valkyries, Mor is leaving for the court of nightmares for business”

“Ah I see, you’re wondering if the girls will be okay with that?”

“Yes”

“I think so, why don’t you invite him to tomorrow’s training? That way there’s 3 Illyrians and the girls get used to him”

“Wonderful idea”

“I- uh- I actually wanted to run something by you too” she adds in a bit of a whisper

“What’s up?”

“Azriel and Elain will be married soon and I know they’re bound to stay in the house of wind sometime” she starts “I’m thinking of moving out” she adds

Rhys was taken aback “really?”

“Yeah, I know they might get a place of their own but I also know Azriel works here a lot and I really rather not bump into them a lot and I don’t want to move back in to the library” she confesses “I actually want my own place and see how I can deal as an independent Valkyrie” she says playfully

He smiles “Have you told Nesta?”

“Not yet, she might just kick out Azriel if she knew” she jokes

“She definitely would”

“I don’t want to place her in that position, I’ll talk to her tonight”

“If that’s you’re decision then I respect it, I can help you find a new place but first things first, good luck with Nesta”

“Thanks, I’ll need it for sure”

•

Gwyn was lounging in the library with her girls when she finally worked up the courage and in the spur of the moment she blurted out “I’m thinking of moving out”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Nesta turns to her and asks “is it because Cassian and I-“

Gwyn laughs and stops her “no no, you know I don’t care”

Nesta narrows her eyes “then why?”

Gwyn sighs, she’s so relief she asked nesta to meet in the library. Emerie was looking for a book but she wanted to tell them both at the same time “maybe we can wait for Emerie?”

“Wait for me for what?” Emerie says holding a book and walking towards them

“Sit, I have something to tell you guys”

Emerie sits while Nesta looks impatient and concerned, Emerie just looks confused.

“The bond snapped for me-“

“Oh my-“

“I’m so hap-“

Gwyn shakes her head and looks serious and the girls let her finish “it’s Azriel and he has chosen Elain” she says now looking at Nesta.

Nestas eyes widen “I- does he knows?”

“Wait- what?” Emerie was surprised

“He knows, I told him when they came back from day but his decision to marry Elain at that point was already made” Gwyn explained

“Wait-“ Emerie was cut off

“Azriel has always wanted a mating bond, he rejected it?” Nesta asks “that’s so unlike him”

“He told me he had made a decision as had Elain and he couldn’t reject her after her decision” Gwyn explains

“I can see why you want to move” Nesta whispers “I can kick him out!” She exclaimed

Gwyn laughs “as tempting as that is, she’s your sister, I can’t ask that of you”

Nesta rolls her eyes “well..”

“No Nesta”

“Fine but I’m not happy at all, where will you move?”

“Not far I hope, I’ll start looking and Rhys is helping”

“What if we’re roommates?” Emerie asks excited

“NO! Now I’ll want to move” Nesta exclaims

•

The next day was bound to be eventful, Gwyn told the acolytes to be prepared as they would have a new trainer only if they were okay with him.

When training came about Rhys presented Balthazar and the girls seemed to be okay with him. He’s very much just like Cassian, respectful, goofy and good natured but serious when it comes to training and his goals.

Gwyn was getting water when she felt someone stand next to her.

“So how am I doing so far?” Balthazar stood next to Gwyn after training

“Not bad, the girls didn’t run scared at the sight of you as I feared” she smirks

He chuckles “that’s a start”

Gwyn smiles “how are you?”

“Not bad, I’ve been working with the high lord on a few things” he admits “and now I’m to be training with the Valkyries”

“I’m glad you’re doing good”

“I said not bad, never mentioned good” he jokes

She smirk “cheeky”

“He told me about your research” Balthazar admits

“Ah yes, I’m working on that and some river nymph research” she admits, she felt a certain bond thread shine, it didn’t pull but it definitely did something and she looked up.

Hazel eyes, furrowed eyebrows and cold eyes stared back at her. He looked puzzled, he looked at her then his eyes moved to Balthazar, she could have sworn his jaw clenched but she knows better.

“Ever take a break?” Balthazar asks her

“I do but just for training or hanging out with the girls” she admits now looking at him

“So you won’t mind if I visit you some time?” He asks

She smiles up at him, her eyes meeting his “not at all, it can get pretty boring with my research” her eyes shift to Azriel, he looked angry and he had his hand on the hilt of truth teller.

Cassian grabbed his shoulder “you okay?” Gwyn could hear him asking, Balthazar turned to look as well.

Azriel didn’t say anything, he just shoved Cassian’s hand away and walked away from the training area.

“What’s wrong with Azriel?”

Balthazar asks now concerned

“I’m sure it’s pre wedding anxiety kicking in” she jokes

•

It was pretty late, Gwyn was reading a book and she couldn’t put it down despite the hour, she heard some commotion on the hallway so she set her book down and went to investigate.

She opened her door then regret it almost immediately

“Say it” she heard Azriel say in a whisper

Elain was pressed against his door down the hallway, she was wearing fighting leathers, his lips were on her neck.

“Shadow singer” Elain whispered as her hands got lost in his already messy hair

“Again” he said desperately

“Why shadow singer?” She said it with more bite to it then the first time

Azriel let out a pleased chuckle and Gwyn heard a rip, probably her leathers “you’re only mine, get it? Now say it again”

“Only yours shadow singer”

Azriel did a low growl and pushed her in to his room finally.

Gwyn knew they didn’t notice her but she was now stuck in the door, her heart breaking and the bond definitely roaring in pain and jealousy.

She asked the house to block all sound but not before she heard more moaning from the room down the hallway. She placed her hands on her ears to block out the noise that wasn’t there anymore but it replayed in her head, she fell asleep like that.

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carpehistoryandthepens · 5 months

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Legacy (what is a legacy?) Part 12

It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see I wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me

Hamilton, the world was wide enough. LMM.

one, two, three, four, Five, six seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven

Summary: Mike is 13. Born May 2009. Sid didn’t know he had a son. All Mike had was hope and a prayer for his and his half-sister’s safety.

(Sid is a dad of a teen he didn’t know about AU) Sidgeno.

Warnings: (for the total story) post-child abuse (all off-screen but it affects things and is spoken about often), learning how to parent, panic attacks, anxiety, based on last season, OCs?, realization about sexuality. Post breakups. Desperate lack of in-depth research for CPS in both PA/CA, melodrama?, kidfic, angst, slowburn, playing fast and loose with the law for drama/storytelling purposes.

Kris was swearing as he leaned on the boards near the benches of the practice rink. Not even under his breath. That was a thing. The swearing. That was. Definitely happing.

It was something Zhenya should have been preventing because Marisol was on the bench, watching her brother intently, but Zhenya couldn't stop Tanger. Mostly because Zhenya happened to agree with the swears. The curses might be all in French, but Zhenya had been in the league long enough to know Quebecois profanity when he heard them, and Kris was swearing. It was not as if Zhenya could blame him. If it weren't for the stick Zhenya was leading on, he may have fallen over at the revelation before him.

Mike could fucking skate.

There was no fucking way this kid wasn't on a prep team. He was too good. His edge work was something that Zhenya had seen with defencemen two or three years older than Mike was.

Sid had asked if Tanger and Zhenya could stay to skate with Mike and him after practice. It was well after the press left to write their end-of-camp articles, so the rink was nearly empty. It was the first time since Mike and Marisol arrived that there was a free moment just to skate.

The skates Mike had brought with him still fit, Sid had told them, and the equipment guys had found a few pieces of gear that could be adapted for Mike's size. The skates were not the top of the line, but they were well cared for.

One thing was for sure, though, Zhenya thought as he watched Mike and Sid chase after a puck; Mike did not skate like a mini-Sidney Crosby.

The boy was a defenseman through and through, but his edges and speed were very impressive for barely being a teenager. Mike had an excellent sense of his place on the ice and was trying to steal the puck from Sid with a vigor that said he had nearly forgotten that he hadn't skated in over six months.

A few rusty spots in Mike's game made the gap in time he spent off the ice clear, but there was also something natural in his movement. Zhenya would put money on Mike being just like him rather than just like Sid. Talented but determined enough to ensure dedication and hard work would develop skills.

Mike stole the puck from Sid and took off toward the other goal. Sid outpaced him and got the puck back.

"Of course, he won't go easy on the kid," Kris muttered as he watched the puck battle.

"Our Sid?" Zhenya said, arching an eyebrow the best he could in his helmet. Sid was one of the most completive men Zhenya had ever met, which was saying something considering their world.

They settled down to watch the game of keep-away going on.

"He's good," Kris said, leaning on his stick. "Like. He's as good as some of the kids in juniors right now. How wasn't he scouted?"

Zhenya shrugged. Tanger knew the answer. Mike's family wasn't too well off. He might not have had the chance to develop the same way some of his age group would have. Hockey was expensive. That was a universal truth they all knew too well.

"Has Sid figured out who his coach was?" Tanger asked.

Zhenya nodded. "Brisson's office reaching out. Get more details sometime soon."

Mike stole the puck and streaked up ice in a breakaway, Sid a second behind him. The brutal practice that marked the end of the camp was catching up to Sid. Mike flung the puck to the empty net, making the shot just below the top bar.

Mike's celly transformed his whole attitude. He pumped his arm twice as he skated around the goal. Some of the embedded sadness that Mike carried from in his frame was gone. He looked like the thirteen-year-old he was rather than a world-weary man.

Marisol cheered and jumped up and down on the bench, nearly knocking over Mike's always-present shaker bottle. Zhenya reached over and ensured she didn't fall over as she overbalanced slightly.

Zhenya was glad to see the boy in him rather than just the man he could become. Mike deserved to have some of his childhood protected.

Sid had slowed down to watch as Mike called, a faint smile on his face. He looked proud, so proud. Mike grinned up at Sid. To be honest, there wasn't much of a height difference. Based on the few photos Zhenya had seen, Mike's mother was just a little shorter than Sid.

Tanger sighed. "He's just as obsessed as Sid is, isn't he?"

"Isn't yours?" Zhenya snorted. "I've seen Alex's workouts. He try to copy you."

Alex wasn't doing Tanger's workouts – mainly because Tanger put his foot down, explaining that Alex's frame wasn't big enough for it to be safe. Still, the kid insisted they work out together sometimes, so Tanger had gotten a trainer to put together a workout that would be best for Alex.

"And I've seen Nikita on the ice." Tanger shot back with a smirk, "He's got the one-legged goal celly down pat."

Zhenya shrugged, his voice deliberately light. "He's into football more right now." Nikita was on both a hockey team and a football team, although the school where he was on the team insisted on calling it "soccer." Nikita's interest was definitely in football more than hockey at the moment.

Maybe that would be a good thing in the long run, Zhenya thought. It's hard to live up to a parent's legacy. He had seen many teammates and other players struggle under that burden. Kappy was one of them. If Nikita chose not to deal with Zhenya's legacy, how could he blame him? And Nikita was happy playing "soccer." It was cute. If that was his future then that's what Zhenay would support him in. No matter how much he would have to learn.

Once Mike had recovered the puck and sent it past where he and Zhenya had been standing, Tanger took off like a shot, easily controlling the puck. Mike was fast, but Tanger, as a far more experienced defenseman, was faster.

Zhenya raced into the play. Mike was grinning hard. So was Sid.

They played back and forth for a while, all the adults keeping an eye on the time. The opening game was soon; they couldn't be too exhausted. But Mike was having such a grand time, and Geno was incredibly reluctant to bring the session to an end.

Eventually, one of the trainers stepped out of the office and next to Marisol on the bench, signaling that it was time for them to get off the ice.

Mike's smile didn't dim as they got off the ice, with Marisol trailing behind. Mike carried the bucket of pucks; Tanger had called him a rookie and said it was his turn. Mike had laughed.

Geno hoped it was because he knew he would be skating again soon. Once they figured out his former team, Sid could get him into a team. Nikita's hockey practice doesn't start for another three weeks. Maybe they would be able to skate out of the same rink.

Well maybe. Nikita wasn't as excited to skate as he was to go to soccer practice, which started at the end of February. Anna assured him that Nikita really did like hockey. He just liked soccer more for now.

As they got changed and ready for the showers, Tanger showed Mike where to dump his gear so it could be cleaned; Zhenya turned to Sid. "He is your kid."

"There is no way he isn't," Sid said, satisfied with the workout and seeing Mike on the ice. Mike and Tanger had changed out of their gear quickly. Tanger had a photo shoot and interview he had to be ready for, and Mike had made faces about staying in the sweat-soaked pads and under armor. Apparently, he and Sid did not share the same superstitions.

"Have you figured out if he wants to skate with a team?" Zhenya asked, and he watched Tanger show Mike into the changing room and where the showers were.

"He really wants to," Sid said. "I'm just waiting for Pat to tell me the info for his old coach."

"Is he having trouble finding the guy?" Zhenya asked, turning to face Sid in surprise. It was unusual for Brisson to have that type of trouble. Most coaches who worked in U16 teams would fall over themselves if an agency like Brisson's called.

"The guy apparently retired and moved just after Mike stopped skating," Sid said in English, shrugging. Zhenya read between the lines; the coach didn't see the bruises that weren't from hockey. "Mike's team was just slightly more than a rec team. To be honest, we have to figure some stuff out. Even if we don't talk to the coach, Mike is good enough to be in most of the U13 and U16 teams around here would take him."

"Pat will find him," Geno said before being interrupted by a stifled wet gasp, directing their attention to the corner of the locker room. The sound was of a panicked child, and Zhneya hated that noise.

Marisol had been there in the corner of the locker room, messing with the bucket of pucks they had just taken off the ice. She had been occupied by taking the pucks out of the bucket, stacking them, and creating a pyramid with the pucks. Zhenya thought she wasn't paying attention to anyone in the room.

She had been excited when Mike stepped on the ice, a delight that made Sid smile so wide it would split his face. Zhenya was positive that Sid would buy her a pair of skates when he could, just by the way he smiled.

Marisol wasn't smiling anymore. She was now looking around the room, back and forth, searching for something, or Zhenya realized as she hyperventilated, someone. The panic that crossed her face wasn't faked, and Geno was up and moving toward her the moment he processed the expression. Sid wasn't far behind.

In Zhenay's experience, this wasn't a moment to let a kid calm themselves; instead, she needed help. Marisol was trying to say something, but it was such a garbled mix of Spanish and English that Zhenya had no hope of translating.

She looked around, panicked.

Zhenya couldn't figure out why she was so frantic. Maybe it was a tantrum? Was that different in girls? Nikita didn't have meltdowns like this. But Zhenya didn't know if there was a different temperament for girls.

Sid looked as panicked as Zhenya had ever seen him. However, he didn't hesitate when Marisol looked at him, eyes wide in panic and red with tears.

"Marisol. Marisol." Sid said consolingly, his voice tight with emotion and worry. Marisol struggled to breathe correctly, still looking around. "Can you tell me what's going on?" he asked, kneeling down. He reached out to her, and Marisol went with a bit of hesitation. She ended up sitting on his lap while Sid sat on the floor.

Zhenya didn't know if Marisol would be able to respond. She was breathing hard, and most of what she said was Spanish –as Geno could tell.

Thankfully, the proof that Sid would be a good father was already present; he waited her out and didn't rush her or panic outwardly. Zhenya saw in his eyes that Sid was afraid, but none of that showed on his face.

She stuttered out, in between gasps of breath, "¿Dónde está Mike? Quiero Mike. Dónde está. Prometió no dejarme!!" Tears started to fall down her face, and Sid took one of the corners of his jersey because they hadn't even started pulling off their layers of pads and gear yet, and wiped her cheeks. Marisol leaned into the touch. "Mike?" She said louder.

Mike's name was the only thing Zhenya understood from her words. At Sid's panicked glance at him, Geno was up and moving towards the showers.

Mike beat him, racing out of the shower area and appearing at the doorway, half-undressed. His face, pale and upset, entirely changed from the happy look before. Tanger was half a pace behind him. Mike scooped Marisol into his arms and cradled her close to his chest.

Mike stayed close to Sid, and Zhenya watched as Sid put a tentative hand on Marisol's back. Marisol hiccupped and sobbed, but the sheer panic in her movements and voice faded. She didn't flinch away from Sid's touch.

Mike was muttering softly in Spanish as Marisol calmed down and eventually fell into an exhausted sleep. They stayed like that for a long while.

Zhenya usually hated missing the post-practice shower, but now he didn't want to leave the three of them alone. Tanger dipped off to take a quick shower. When Tanger returns, he and Tanger eventually change into their street clothes.

Tanger pulled Zhenya aside when he was done getting changed, keeping an eye on the little family sitting on the floor of the practice rink's locker room. "G, I got an interview. Are you busy this afternoon? I don't want them to be alone completely." His worried eyes met with Zhenya's. He didn't want to leave Sid and the kids, but they both knew they didn't have a choice.

Zhenya nodded, going over his schedule in his head. Just Nikita. Anna is out. There were no interviews or meetings today. "I'm free all afternoon. Just pick up Nikita from school. I'm be with them after all day, if they want."

Tanger nodded again, saying that would work, and gave Zhenya a bro hug before leaving. Sid and the kids hadn't even noticed either of them moving.

"You change, Sid," Zhenya muttered quietly when it was clear that Marisol had gone down for the count. "She'll sleep for a while."

Sid glanced down at the siblings, concern written all over his face. He gave Marisol one last gentle head pat before standing, and she snuggled further into Mike's chest.

Sid got changed rather quickly and didn't even seem to take his eyes off the kids. When he was done, he handed Mike some clean clothes.

Mike stared blankly at the pants for so long that Zhenya thought he wouldn't take them before transferring Marisol to Sid's grasp. Sid took half a step back to give him space, Mike's face tightened, but he didn't stop Sid. He just changed faster.

When Mike had stripped out of the sweat-covered gear and was dressed in clean clothing, he held out his arms to take Marisol back. Zhenya was only a little surprised to see Sid hand Marisol back to Mike.

Apparently, they can't be separated, and Sid wouldn't try.

#'sid has a teen he didn't know about' au #sidgeno #8771 #i write?#this will take a while to write #working title: Legacy (what is a legacy?)

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