#(and i know that because i measure it at our fence every night from the ground to 15ft up in the air)

[classicintp]

All my newbies at work cowering like "I don't want to argue with you but" NAH SON, ARGUE WITH ME. How the fuck else am I gonna know what's going on out there?? Be my eyes and ears out there so I can continue using them in here, tell me why what I directed you to do isn't making sense. What did I miss? How can I help??

[buckysqueen80]

Warning: angst, smut and the end to the slow burn

AN;

Thank you for your patience while I uploaded this final part.

It was one hell of a ride writing it.. Ha! See what I did there 🤣

Anyways I hope you enjoy this.

So without further ado

Save a Horse, Ride a Bucky Pt 3

It had been a couple of weeks since the episode in my kitchen with Bucky.

Seeing as how we implemented the new work and training schedule, the days slowly blurred into long days, and short nights, and therefore didn’t leave a lot of time for me to think on things too much with Bucky.

To say that my interaction with Bucky was anything less sexually charged was an understatement.

If anything, the underlying tension that was between the two of us, was overcharged and seemed ready to blow.

It was a week before the Qualifiers were to take place, and we had ramped up the training more, in order to make sure that everyone was going to be ready, and can do this safely.

I really needed to make sure that above anything else, the people I cared about were safe doing this, as anything could go wrong.

Thinking back on the training the last few weeks, my mind wandered back to one particular night in question.

~~~~

Flash back:

I had come back from the feed market one day, after securing an order of cattle feed, when I got out of my truck and saw a bunch of people crowded around the paddock.

Curious as to what the commotion was, I made my way to the edge of the paddock, and my heart leapt into my throat.

There Bucky was, astride a bucking Brimstone.

To say that this horse was pissed was an understatement.

Knowing what Bucky was trying to do, it made chills run down my spine.

I immediately stood on the rungs of the paddock and started yelling to get Bucky’s attention.

There was no way Brimstone was a horse to use for a rodeo when he wasn’t completely broken in.

When Brimstone threw Bucky off, and he landed practically in front of me on the ground, I called his name once more and he looked up and moved quickly when he saw the look of panic on my face.

Brimstone charged towards Bucky, clearly intent on showing him who was boss.

Bucky managed to move at the last second, avoiding getting trampled by the charging stallion.

Once Brimstone trotted away to the other end of the paddock, Bucky reached down and grabbed his hat, dusting it off.

“Are you crazy? Like certifiably crazy?!” I yelled at him.

He turned to look at me, with a look of feigned innocence.

“What do you mean?” he asked me, nonchalantly.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” I screeched.

“You were trying to use Brimstone for Saddle Bronc Riding and he’s not even fully saddle trained. That’s why I’m asking if you are crazy!!” I seethed.

“I can handle the horse Y/N!” he said, hopping over the paddock fence.

“He almost trampled you!!” I rounded on him, shaking but it wasn’t just with anger.

Seeing how Brimstone charged at Bucky, how if Bucky hadn’t moved right when he did, he could have been seriously hurt.

“All I am saying..” I start, taking a deep breath as I do, “Is to be careful with that horse. I don’t want you getting hurt because your pride and ego got in the way!” I finish, turning to walk away.

Before I could get any further to the house, I felt a hand grip my wrist and spun me around to face a bewildered Bucky.

His chest was heaving, probably due to the combination of the adrenaline from the training, and with anger.

“My pride? My ego? Is that what you really think? You really think that I would put myself in a situation to train a horse because I couldn’t see past my pride and ego?” he ground out, his jaw clenching at every word.

“No, what I’m saying is that, you’re too stubborn to make sure that the proper measures are taken so you don’t hurt yourself!! Your pride and ego just get in the way of you admitting you might have been wrong in choosing that particular horse!” I fired back at him.

I don’t know when it happened, but I was acutely aware that our faces had become inches away from each other.

“I am quite capable of knowing what horse I want to work with! So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to undermine my abilities!” he grits out, his breath fanning across your face as he turns on his heels, and saunters away leaving me standing there exasperated.

Things had been going along that path ever since.

~~~~~

Present;

I was sitting in the office, when there was a light knock on the door frame.

I looked up from the pile of legal paperwork and saw Clint standing at the door.

“S’up Clint?” I ask him, nodding for him to come in and sit down.

As he casually folds himself in the chair, he lets out a sigh.

“So you know how Barnes’ is a stubborn jackass at times?” he starts off.

I couldn’t help but let out a long breathy chuckle.

“Tell me something I didn’t know?!” I get out.

“Well you also know, according to all the paperwork that we filed, which horses are going to be brought with us to the Qualifiers, right?” he questions.

I raised an eyebrow at him, indicating for him to continue.

“I’m sure you saw the horse that he put down?” he asks.

At this I start rifling through the stack of papers, pulling out the one Bucky had submitted.

I let out a sigh when I see the horse’s name.

At my expression, Clint continues.

“I’m not sure Brimstone is ready for this…. “ he draws out.

“And Barnes sure as hell isn’t backing down from this horse no matter how many times any of us tell him it’s not a good idea.” Clint finishes.

I drop the paper down on top of the pile and pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache forming behind my eyes.

I picked up the paper again and double checked all the events he was listed to try for.

“Cutting, Barrel Racing, Steer Wrestling… “ my eyes trailed over the list.

As I continued with the list it was the last four that worried me the most.

“Reining, Bareback, Saddle Bronc and Bull riding!” I blew out a breath at that.

That was a lot. The fact that a lot of the events listed pertained to a horse, he could and probably would be using a different horse for the first three events.

It was the last three and the bull riding that worried me the most.

“I can’t fight him on this Clint. He wants to prove he’s capable, well this is his chance. If the idiot breaks his neck, you can step in as Buckaroo!” I said, trying to make light of the situation, but seeing by the nervous expression on his face, it didn’t work.

“Look, all I can do is pray and hope for the best. Brimstone has gotten a lot better with him, and seems to be responding better at the commands. So who knows, this could be a miracle.” I tell him, not sure if I was trying to convince myself in the process.

All Clint could do was nod, as he started to get up and walk out the door. He stopped and turned around looking at me.

“I hope that whatever is going on between you two, it doesn’t get into his head, because then who knows what can happen.” he says, before turning and walking out the door.

I sat at my desk, letting his last words sink into my head.

I completely forgot that a rider needed to have a clear mental state in order to be able to focus on the task.

I hope to God, Clint was right and that the tension didn’t get to Bucky’s head.

~~~~~~

The following week, all the horses were being loaded up into their box stalls, once they got one final check up before boarding.

Those that weren’t coming with us, were staying behind to watch the livestock and mind the ranch.

As I stood up from checking over one of the mares that were going, I saw Bucky coming towards me, a swagger in his step.

I nodded at him as he approached. “Barnes!”

“Hey Y/N,” he started, the bravado that he had in his walk over quickly seemed to falter.

“Look, I know we’ve been butting heads a lot the last couple of months, between the regular job duties, and then training, I know I haven’t made it as easy on you as possible. I just wanted to apologize, and to thank you for letting me do this, with Brimstone!” he says, nodding back towards the horse, as he was being loaded into the stall.

“I can’t fight you when it comes to doing what you want to do, and how you feel with your capabilities as a rancher. You know your own worth, and I needed to learn to trust you on that. I needed to put aside what was going on between us, and let you prove that worth.” I finished, but made sure to emphasize the past tense of the situation between us.

It didn’t go unnoticed by Bucky in the slightest, as his jaw tensed the moment I said the word was.

Straightening up so his back was ramrod straight, a steely look flashed in his electric blue eyes.

I put my hand on his shoulder, looking from its placement, then back up to him.

“I know you’ll do great, Bucky, please just be careful. I’d hate for anything to happen and you get hurt. Your safety in all of this is the only thing I’ve ever cared about. I just need you to know that.” I tell him, and then turn to walk away, leaving him standing there, his mouth slightly open.

“Ok everyone!! Let’s get this show on the road!” I yell at everyone, earning an enthusiastic whoop from everyone.

~~~

We arrived at the rodeo grounds for the first day of qualifiers.

As the day progressed, I was quite impressed with my team, as everyone qualified in all the events except for three.

Bucky qualified in all of his events.

I was quite surprised at how well Brimstone was handling this. How well he responded to Bucky’s movements and commands.

Maybe there was hope.

Over the course of the next few days, we watched the competition unfold and took notes of how certain riders moved, and what their strengths and weaknesses were, hoping for the best.

As the competition progressed on, the rest of the team had done their events, Clint placing second in Cattle roping, and first in Team roping.

Bucky placed first in Cutting, second in Barrel Racing, and third in Steer Wrestling.

Today were some of the harder events. Bull riding and Reining.

I stood at the stall gates, looking up at Bucky as he got on Brimstone.

I didn’t know what to say to him, as he sat astride the horse, and clearly he didn’t either as he looked down at me.

Something about the way Brimstone fidgeted in the stall drew my attention.

All of a sudden I had a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach, but before I could say anything to Bucky, he was out of the gate.

Things started off ok.

Brimstone was responding to Bucky’s movements as he had many times before, but then something happened, and in a split second Brimstone started bucking wildly.

It’s like the horse's sole purpose was to throw off its rider.

I could see that Bucky was hanging on for dear life, but no matter how much he held on the reins, Brimstone bucked one final time throwing Bucky high into the air and kicked back with his hind legs, making contact with Bucky’s side, sending him flying across the grounds.

I watched in horror as the groundskeepers rushed out trying to get control of Brimstone, and brought him back to the stalls, while the medics rushed out to where Bucky laid unmoving.

I felt Clint’s arm around my shoulder as he held me, while we waited.

Finally I saw Bucky start to stir, and gradually he was able to stand up after he was quickly checked over.

Once he got to his feet, the crowd erupted in cheers as he was escorted off the grounds, coming in my direction.

Once he got through the gates, I rushed over to him.

Before I could say anything, all he said was “Don’t!” and pushed past me to the stalls.

“Just give him some time Y/N.” Clint tells me, rubbing his hands up and down my arms, creating a warmth I didn’t know I needed.

After what happened, Bucky opted out of that event and the Bull riding event.

The event coordinators announced that the events for the day were done, and would resume the following day, first thing in the morning.

I rushed out of the grounds to try and find Bucky.

When I got away from the crowd, I saw him over by Brimstone’s stall, petting the horse’s flank.

“If you’ve come here to gloat, I’d rather you save it. I don’t want to hear it.” Bucky says, not even looking at my direction.

“Actually, I came to check to see if you were ok?” I said, my voice soft, barely above a whisper.

It was then that he finally looked up and over at me.

I must have looked a mess because his expression softened and I couldn’t read the emotions that crossed over his face at that moment.

As I finally made my way to stand beside him, I put my hand on his arm.

We stayed like that for a few minutes. No words being said, until we hear a voice from behind us.

“A bunch of us are going to the bar for a drink. I’m not sure if you two want to come with or not, but we’re headed there now.” Clint tells us.

I look over at Bucky, and he nods.

“Sure! We’ll meet you guys there!” I tell him, as he nods and turns to walk towards the other towards the bar.

“Come on, let's go!” I said, grabbing his hand.

When we got to the bar, it was pretty busy, and the music was loud.

As I looked over the crowd for our friends, I saw Clint on the dance floor, keeping step with a very fast line dance.

I nudged Bucky and pointed to the floor.

He started laughing, but then suddenly turned to look at me.

“Wanna dance?” he asks me, yelling over the music.

“Sure!!” I reply back, as he grabs my hand just as the one song finishes, and another one comes on, slower.

“Oh!” I breathed, as he pulled me close, his hand pressed against my back as we start to sway.

“I’m sorry I was rude earlier and snapped at you. My ego took a huge hit with being thrown off. And I didn’t want to hear anyone say I told you so.” he said.

“I would never have said that, Bucky.” I tell him, and honestly it was the truth.

“I know that now, it was a matter of my pride.” he says, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

There was nothing else I could say after that, so I just put my head on his shoulder while we danced.

Part of me was starting to regret the way I handled our interaction in the kitchen a couple of months ago.

I had been fighting the want to be with Bucky, so I was torn between making sure it didn’t affect the ranch, and wanting him.

As we were dancing, I could feel his hand pull me closer, and my arms went up around his shoulders.

It felt like an eternity, but eventually the song ended, and it took us a moment to pull apart, while the next song started.

We walked over to the table where Clint and the rest of the crew were.

“Hey guys, I think I’m going to turn in for the night. It’s been one hell of a day so far, and tomorrow looks to be just as busy. I’ll catch you all tomorrow, but don’t stay out too late!” I tell them.

A resounding chorus of “YES MOM!!!” rang through the bar over the music.

I just laughed and turned to walk out of the bar.

As I made my way outside, I heard footsteps behind me, followed by a soft touch on my elbow.

“Hey, can I walk you back to your room?” I turned my head to see that it was Bucky.

“I’m not going to stop you!” I said with a giggle, as we continued towards the hotel.

We actually walked the rest of the way in silence, and only when we had reached my room did either of us speak.

“Bucky, I … “ I started.

“Y/N, …” Bucky said at the same time.

“You go first!” he said.

“I was just going to say thank you for the dance, and I’m glad you’re ok.” I said, as a blush creeped up my neck.

Bucky blew out his breath that he’d been holding.

“It was my pleasure, Y/N, and thank you!” he said, looking at me intently.

“Well, this is me.” I said, gesturing to my door.

He looks up, as if surprised that the room was there, then looks back down at me.

“I.. I guess I’ll see you in the morning. Good Night Y/N!” he says to me, starting to turn away, just as I start to unlock my door.

All of a sudden, I’m being spun and crashed up against the door, as a pair of soft but delicious lips crash against mine.

The overwhelming sensation of pleasure, need and passion in the kiss was enough to momentarily stun me.

It wasn’t before long that my hands slid up his shoulders into his hair.

His hands traced up my hips and my sides, making me moan against his hungry lips.

Somehow, we managed to get into the room and the door was all but slammed as I was pressed back up against it.

His hands trailed down over my hips to my ass, as I’m suddenly hauled up into his arms, as he walks us to the bed.

He drops me down on the bed and stands to look up at me, panting, and his lips swollen.

To be given a sudden moment of clarity, I shake my head and put my hand up before anything else happens.

“Bucky…. “ I said looking up into his taunting eyes.

“Y/N…” he says, mocking me.

“We can’t. We shouldn’t. It’s not right!” I try to reason, definitely trying to convince someone, but I half heartedly believed it was Bucky.

He doesn’t say anything, instead stands there, panting, as his jaw clenches and unclenches for several moments.

His voice is ragged when he next speaks.

“You keep denying what’s between us. You keep letting me get close, then push me away. What. Are. You. So. Afraid. Of?” he says, punctuating the last part.

“It’s so much more than just you and I, Bucky!” I said feebly, still not sure if I was believing the words coming out of my mouth.

“Bullshit!” he exclaims.

I look up at him, eyes narrowed.

“I think you need to leave… NOW!” I said, pointing to the door.

“Fine!” he says, storming out of the room after ripping open the door and slamming it behind him.

Once he was gone, I curled up on the bed, and cried until I couldn’t anymore and sleep was beckoning me.

The last thing I remember consciously thinking was, “What am I afraid of?” just as sleep took over.

~~~~~~~

The next day, I made my way down to the grounds, and saw my team, apart from Bucky, ready to go.

“Ok everyone, good luck today. We’ve got some competition, but I have faith in what we can do. Go out there and show them what we got!” and with that, everyone dispersed to where they needed to go.

As I turn to head to the stalls, I see Bucky swagger into the grounds, with a blonde on his arm.

She was all over him in a way that looks not only pathetic, but so beneath Bucky’s standards, or so it used to seem.

After he left last night, I had no idea where he went, but if today showed me anything, it was that I didn’t care.

I walked over to the stalls, and started checking Brimstone over.

After yesterday, I wanted to make sure he was ok, and that there was not going to be any repeats of yesterday’s events.

I gave one last look over Brimstone, and then spared one last glance over at Bucky.

The blonde leaned up and put a kiss to his cheek, before he got ready for his first event.

I turned and walked away, not waiting to bear witness to any sort of PDA they were going to offer.

I didn’t have any reason to feel the way I did, did I?

I shook my head. No, of course not.

It was just that one moment, he’s in my room, kissing me and wanting more, but then when I turn him away, he goes to find someone else.

It was then that I realized what I was feeling was jealousy.

Why was I jealous?

I pondered that over a moment, and then it hit me.

I liked Bucky.

No, I had feelings for Bucky that went well past liking him.

Shaking my head, I went to the bleachers.

Bucky’s first event went flawless, placing first in the Bareback Riding event.

In the time allotted for the intermission, I went back to the stalls, checking on Brimstone again.

This time he had his saddle on, ready for the Saddle Bronc Riding event up next.

Giving him one more pat on his flank, I turned to leave.

Something caught my attention, and I turned back to the stalls,

What I saw made me hide behind the closest wall, peering around it to watch.

There walked the blonde up to Brimstone.

As if the horse knew something was wrong, he stomped and kicked the back part of the stall.

“There, there. That’s a boy, that Buckaroo isn’t going to win this event. Not this time.” she said, placing something under his saddle.

I waited for her to leave, and just as she was about to leave, Bucky came around the corner.

“Oh! There you are Babe!” she says, with a false demeanor.

“Hey, I was just coming to get this guy before the next event.” he says, taking hold of the reins.

And with that Bucky led Brimstone out of the stalls and towards the grounds.

I wish I knew what was going on, but if I went over to Bucky now and told him that she did something to Brimstone, he wouldn’t believe me.

All I could do was pray and hope for the best.

Once I got back to the gate, Bucky turned to look down at me. His eyes were cold and reserved.

“Good Luck!” I whispered, not sure if he’d hear me, as I turned towards the grounds.

What I didn’t see was Bucky’s eyes softening briefly.

The announcer called for the start of the event.

I watched as the first few contenders had their turn, pulling off impressive records, with seven, seven as the best time.

Bucky was up next.

As he got up on Brimstone, the horse right away became agitated. Stomping and plodding on the ground, kicking at the back wall.

Before I could turn around and say anything, Bucky was out the gate.

Brimstone tried really hard to shake Bucky, but he withstood everything that the stallion gave him.

That was until one brief moment when during the momentum, Bucky was lurched forward and thrust back down into the saddle.

Brimstone lost it.

He was shaking and bucking like the demons of hell had a hold of him, wanting to drag him back to where he came from.

I could see the brief moment of panic flash across Bucky’s face.

Then Brimstone did something I had only seen happen once.

He couldn’t shake Bucky off of him, so he crashed down backward, pinning Bucky under him.

The crowd went silent, waiting for any sort of movement.

When it felt that time had stood still long enough, I hopped over the gate and ran over to him, cutting the rope that held his hand to the saddle, and quickly taking the saddle off of Brimstone so the horse could get up.

Once the saddle was off, on the ground fell, what looked like a sharp nail covered in blood.

I looked at Brimstone's back, and sure enough, there was a bleeding wound on his back, right where the nail would have sat.

I quickly looked in the crowd for the blonde, but I couldn’t find her, so I caught Clint’s attention, and had him go look for a blonde that looked like she was out of place.

My focus was brought back to Bucky, as a groan escaped from his lips.

He looked up and saw me kneeling beside him.

“Y/N??? What happened?” he asked, looking all around his surroundings.

“Long story short… the blonde you were with? I saw her at Brimstone’s stall before you got there for this event. I saw her walk up to him, but I couldn’t see what she did. You came around the corner just as she was getting ready to leave. This is what she put under his saddle!” I said, holding up the bloodied nail.

Bucky looked from the nail, to me in disbelief.

“So when Brimstone lurched you forward, and you came back down hard on the saddle, it dug so far into his back that he went berserk. He tried to throw you off, and when you didn’t, he did the only thing he could do to try and get rid of the problem. He went backwards and pinned you under him!” I finished explaining.

Bucky tried to find something to say, but when the words failed him, he just closed his mouth again.

I stood up, and extended my hand to Bucky for him to take so I could help him up.

As he stood,the crowd went nuts.

Despite what happened, Bucky had managed to set a new record.

Officially his time, until Brimstone went backwards was fifteen, nine. Unofficially his time was over a minute, as he was still attached with Brimstone until I had cut the ropes.

The crowd cheered and started chanting Bucky’s name.

Bucky turned to acknowledge the crowd, then went to brush the dirt off of him.

He realized at that moment that he was missing his hat.

I had seen it off to one side, and had wandered over to where it was, some ten feet away from where Bucky was.

As I bent down to pick it up, I suddenly remembered the hat rule.

I knew the rule well, and had avoided it at all costs up until now.

I dusted off his hat, toying with it in my hands.

I thought back at the fact that I had been worried about starting something with Bucky because I didn’t want it to affect the ranch.

But after watching him almost get killed not once but twice in two days, I had to ask myself.

Was it really going to affect the ranch that much if I allowed myself the chance to be happy, even if it was with my Buckaroo?

My Buckaroo… My Bucky……

I looked up and over to where Bucky was standing, his eyes very acutely trained on me. His eyes wandered from his hat, back to me.

I couldn’t help it.

A full blown grin splayed across my lips as I looked him dead in the eye, and put on his hat.

The crowd went wild and cheered at this.

Bucky stood and looked at me with his mouth agape.

I sauntered back over to him, taking the hat off and putting it back on him.

“Y/N????” was all he could say, before I put a finger under his chin and closed his mouth.

“Are you coming, Buckaroo?” I said to him over my shoulder, as I had started walking away, giving him a wink.

I didn’t have to wait too long, as Bucky came running up behind me, scooping me up and practically running back to the hotel.

Once we got back to my room, I unlocked the door, and pulled him in with me,

After he came through, I turned and locked the door.

I reached up, grabbing his hat, placing back atop my head.

“You know the hat rule, right Buck?” I ask him, letting every ounce of seduction drip off my words.

He visibly gulped! And I couldn’t hold back my laugh as he launched at me pulling me close and kissed me until my brain sizzled.

When he pulled away from me a fraction of an inch, I could see a great big smile on his lips.

There were no other words needed as hands flew over pieces of material, stripping every last scrap off of us, except his hat.

I pushed Bucky back on the bed, straddling his lap.

I was about to take the hat off, but was quickly halted, as I looked down and stared into the electric blue eyes I had come to love.

“Keep the hat on Y/N! It looks good on you!” Bucky says, as his hands travel down to my hips, and positions himself at my entrance.

“I’ve wanted this for a long time, and now my fantasy is about to become a reality,” he says, as he pulls me down onto him until he’s fully sheathed in me.

I couldn’t help but let out a low moan, as my hips started to rotate, while my hands held onto his chest.

As I looked down at him, biting on my bottom lip, Bucky reached up and took off the hat, tossing it onto the pile of clothes that we had discarded, and rolled us over so I was pinned under him.

I looked up at him with adoration, as he leaned down to kiss me, proceeding to move and thrust his hips.

We lost track of how long this went on but the air in the room was thick with heat and steam, but we didn’t care.

His mouth trailed kisses over my body until I couldn’t take it any more.

As he kept thrusting, my hands trailed down his back to his hips, as I held on tight.

Suddenly he takes my hands and pins them over my head, his fingers intertwined with mine as I whimpered, my orgasm not far.

He must have sensed this, as his hips started to snap faster and harder, while his mouth attacked my neck and throat, leaving love bites on my collarbone.

I couldn’t hold it any longer.

“Bucky!!” I cried out, arching up against him as the coil in my stomach snapped and my release washed over me, making me tremble.

This was just enough to push him over his edge.

His hips faltered as he groaned out my name against my neck, giving a few more thrusts and then collapsing beside me.

We laid there for what seemed like forever, not saying a word, but enjoying what had just happened.

Finally, after a long enough time, I turned on my side to look at him.

“You know yesterday, When he tossed you off then kicked you. I was worried. Honestly I was. But today. Oh my God, Today, all I saw was Brimstone going backwards with you under him, and my heart stopped. And when you didn’t move even to signal for help, I couldn’t stay where I was. I needed to get to you, and there was nothing that was going to stop me.” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper.

He reached over and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear.

“I thought I had lost you, even though you weren’t mine, and then I was trying to figure out what I was afraid of?” I said, as his eyes looked up at me, and his expression softened at me asking the same question he had asked.

“What I was afraid of was losing you. The ranch had nothing to do with why I was afraid. That was an excuse and I realize that now. I was afraid of losing my Buckaroo!” I said with a smirk.

At the nickname, Bucky’s head went back with a deep belly laugh.

“I don’t want to lose you, and I know we can make this work for the ranch!” I tell him.

“That is if you want to, and don’t want to go back to your blonde?” I added.

“She wasn’t my blonde. She saw me this morning when I came into the grounds and said she’d seen me yesterday. I didn’t even catch her name to be honest!” he said, and then giggled when I swatted at him.

He pulled me close to him again, and kissed me deeply.

After breaking apart, I looked at him and suddenly started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he says, eyebrows arched up.

“Well I saved a horse to free you, and then I got to ride my Bucky!” I said between giggles.

Bucky just shook his head and launched himself on me, pulling the sheet up over us.

We held each other in our afterglow and eventually drifted off to sleep.

And that was how I ended up with my Buckaroo.

[triumphantfury]

Hi!!! Just dropping by because I was missing your fics so I reread them and now I have to tell you how much I love you. I love you a lot, by the way. Like literally every time I read a chapter of yours I love you more because GAH the writing is so damn good. Ahem anyways thank you so much for the update on Wrapped in Red and I still have to fan myself every time I look at Upside, but I've been thinking the most about "To Suffer a Witch." I don't mean to put any pressure on you or anything but may I inquire on the next chapter's status? Or perhaps just request a snippet? Also when you asked the readers whether or not they'd like an eventual lemon I'd like to vote yes to the lemon. Please. Possibly-Demon Hiccup is hot as hell and I'm greedy. 😅

Thank you so much for sharing your wonderful writing with us and I hope you have a wonderful day, week, and at least a virtual cabin in the woods where you can relax, read, and at least think on writing!

Oh boy….

It’s taken me forever to get around to answering this ask, but as the new chapter update is almost complete (after way, WAY too many rewrites), I feel like I can finally post this reply with some measure of confidence. Sorry it’s taken so long. I wish I had a good excuse, but my brain sometimes just shuts me out.

Anyway, after much anticipation, and likely a little cursing, here’s an excerpt from the soon to be posted next chapter of TSaW:

*The next couple days seemed to drag by for Astrid. She felt trapped between a longing to see Hiccup again just to prove she wasn’t mad, and a strong urge to just write it all off as a delusion. Perhaps one brought on by some bad grain or curdled milk. Countless times she’d been sure she heard hoofbeats outside, only to have them grow into a roll of thunder the next second. Or she’d catch a glimpse of a dark shadow approaching on the road, only to have it melt from her sight a moment later as if swept away by the driving rain.

Some small part of her was starting to worry she was actually going mad. Her mood darkening as she channeled her other feelings into straight anger so as to help herself deal with it better. It wasn’t as if she could really speak of it to anyone, anyway. She was still too confused about it herself.

Resigned to bear this burden alone, Astrid had kept to herself as much as possible while trapped inside. Waiting impatiently for a break in the weather when she could distract herself with repairs outside instead. The Lord knows there was always plenty of work to keep her busy. That, and manual labour was better than wasting time dwelling on… Whatever it was that had occurred here the other night.

Fortunately - or maybe unfortunately - she’d soon discovered that the storm hadn’t done anywhere near as much damage as she’d expected given its ferocity. The house, shed, and barn had all weathered fair enough at least. An old tree had toppled near the back of the pasture though. She’d gone out to repair the section of broken fencing yesterday. Her brothers helping her as much as she would allow them to - which mostly meant keeping the opportunistic goats from escaping through the hole while she worked.

It had been while she was winding the last of the rope around the newly set post that Ruffnut had approached her from across the field. Somehow always keyed in to the local to-dos, Tuffnut had heard from one of their other neighbours that some people had started to fall ill in town. The worst of which was little Argh — Mr. and Mrs. Ack’s youngest son, who was not yet a full year into this world.

“Gunnar thinks it’s because of those witches that Trader Johan was talking about the other day,” Ruff stage-whispered over the fence. Her thumb gesturing towards the home on the far side of Mildew’s plot as she glanced around, as if to make sure no one else was within earshot.

“I’d be rather foolish to agree,” Astrid huffed. “It’s likely just been brought on by the rain. We all know that a chill in the air today sets a chill in the bones tomorrow.” Looking away from her gossipy neighbour, she dressed the knot as her father had taught her before pulling it good and tight. Then she stood and gave her work a proud once over. Nodding, as if to show her approval to the craftsman.

“Maybe…” Ruffnut’s hesitant reply trailed off thoughtfully, and she was chewing on her lip when Astrid at last looked her way again. It was almost as if she had something she wanted to say, but wasn’t sure if she should speak it aloud.

“Go on,” Astrid grumbled. “Whatever it is, spit it out.”

“Well, Gunnar told Tuff that Trader Johan said the evil, or what ever it is, would arrive first in the form of a black shadow on horse back…”

“Trader Johan has always enjoyed adding plenty of dramatic nonsense about ghosties, ghoulies, and other such things to his tales,” Astrid felt the need to point out. “He seems to think it makes the stories more exciting.”

“I know,” Ruff agreed. “Thing is, Tuffnut swears he saw a stranger dressed in all black when he was out in the woods yesterday. A stranger riding atop a huge black horse. When he tried to get a better look, man and horse were already gone. Maybe the horse was just really fast, but… Tuff said it gave him the creeps.” Her eyes were shifting all around again as she leaned closer over the fence, and she looked unexpectedly nervous.

“Oh, that was probably just…” Astrid’s words died on the way to her mouth as she thought better of it.

Astrid knew how Tuff felt. The unease of not being sure exactly what you had just born witness too. This did not mean that she should necessarily encourage him to repeat his tale. Especially when she didn’t yet know what to think of the whole thing.

Would it truly be wise to mention it to someone else? The twins had never been known for their discretion, and Astrid’s words would simply confirm Tuff’s suspicions — which he would then feel required to share with every person he came across. At best, it could cause a slight scandal that a young man had spent the night in their home. At worst, the superstitious townsfolk may think the Hofferson clan had entertained something entirely inhuman, instead.

No, it was best to keep what she knew of Hiccup Haddock to herself for now. Surely the others would learn of him soon enough. “Just… because Tuff was busy snacking on unknown mushrooms in the forest again.” Astrid finished awkwardly. Covering her near slip-up with an eye roll, just to be safe, and hoping Ruffnut wouldn’t notice.*

If anyone wants to read it, here’s a link to the rest of the story. Or at least the beginning…lol

[thinplacesradio]

darkness to the left, a stream on the right, flowing over rocks under a distant bridge; bare trees reach over the water. the image is distorted by VCR static. white text reads:

[023] THE TEST. A CALLER MISSES AN OPPORTUNITY. THE HOST WADES IN.

listen here, or anywhere you find your podcasts. transcript under the cut:

[static, radio tuning]

[Traveling Sales Rep: Don’t touch that dial! We’ll be right back, after these short messages.] [static, radio tuning]

[click]

Hello and welcome to Thin Places Radio. I’m your host,

and it is the middle of the night. But don’t worry. You’re not alone.

[Thin Places theme]

[water sloshing and flowing] [crickets chirping] [owl hooting]

I’m coming to you in the flow from my studio, which is what I like to call this stream I am currently standing in, pant cuffs rolled up to just below my knees. The water’s cold. It’s dusk, and there were too many mosquitos when I got out of the car wherever I am now to grab the winter coat that I saw caught in the barbed wire of the fence that’s stretching across this little hill. The hood is shredded, but the lining’s still intact, and that’s what matters. The road provides.

Mosquitos don’t like running water. They look for stagnant pools to lay their eggs. I think that’s something I might have judged them for, even just a few months ago. But don’t we all need a place to lay our heads? Every night I move, like water. I thought that meant I was always changing. Maybe it did. But isn’t there something stagnant about always doing the same thing, too?

I’ll wait them out. It really is freezing, though.

[water burbles]

So… what is Thin Places Radio? Well, you can call in about anything strange that you’ve got going on in your life - feelings, omens, premonitions, hauntings.

Do you keep seeing cardinals?

Are you being tested?

Did you have a vision from the other side?

When the veil between worlds is thin, we get closer than ever to the strange and the unexplained - but also to each other. Call in, get it off your chest. Lines are open.

[click] [voicemail:]

I was in London several years ago for work, and a colleague and I were walking from a pub to dinner, and all of a sudden the woman appeared out of nowhere, uh, asking for money. Our initial response was to say no and to continue on our walk, but we reconsidered and turned around, and we turned around, she was gone - vanished. Even though it was a small, narrow alleyway that we were walking down. Was this some kind of a test? Was she a figment of our imagination? Not really sure what happened, but we've really thought about it since then.

[click]

Mm. Thank you for your quandary, caller. The shorter answer is: I don’t know. But here’s the long one:

She was real. You know that she was real - not because you both saw her, but because she’s still on both your minds. But was it a test? And if it was a test, what kind of test was it?

[searching music]

I want to tell you that it wasn’t, that life doesn’t work that way - that we're not being judged and measured by every small failing we accumulate. I don’t think that life is a test, but I think that we are often tested by it. We're often weighed down by our own shortcomings.

I don’t know if what happened back then was a test, but it’s become one since then. You’ve made it one in your memory through the very act of failing it. You have measured yourself and found yourself wanting. That’s a good sign, as long as you take it with you into the future instead of getting mired in the past.

Someone told me once that your second thought is the one that matters - the one that shows who you really are, once you take a moment to think a situation through, to recognize your own biases and internal voices, and lay them aside. This is good. But sometimes the second thought just comes too late. Sometimes the apology isn't accepted. Sometimes there’s damage done. Sometimes when you turn back to do the right thing, the person you wanted to help has vanished.

And what then? Maybe, then, we stop testing ourselves. Maybe we just try to make it right the next time.

[click] [Traveling Sales Rep over bouncy, distorted music:]

- we’ll work with YOU to get you the deal you deserve. Pay what you can. Because there’s always something you can pay. There’s always something you can give. What do you want? [voice distorts] What would you hand over to get it? [pause] Call now, and we’ll throw in a free -

[click]

[water flowing] [crickets chirping]

It’s dark - really dark, now. My feet have gone numb here, and my coat has gone warm, which means that it’s time for me to keep moving. I don’t have anything miring me, here in the present or back in the past. I never do. I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

I thought it was, when - when I - I don’t know. [frustrated] I can’t remember what happened. What I’ve done. That’s the anchor in the back of my head, now. Remembering that I don’t remember. Remembering that there was something to forget at all.

[owl hoots] [the host takes a steadying breath]

Okay. I’m going to run back to my car, now, from this ordinary stream, on unsteady feet that will sting as I pump blood back into them again, and I’ll probably fall on the way there, and my feet will burn when they thaw out, and I will savor all of these sensations as they come. Wish me luck.

[water sloshes as she gets out of the stream]

[distantly:] oh, oh my god, okay, ahh-

[click]

Thank you for listening, callers, and thank you for calling, listeners. I hope you feel a little bit lighter. I know I do. As always, our number is 717.382.8093. That’s 717.382.8093. Until next time. I’ll be here.

[static] [Traveling Sales Rep: visit us at the - diner just off -] [Various Garbled Voices: the - road - provides - the - road - provides -]

Thin Places Radio is a podcast written by Kristen O’Neal and produced by Kaitlin Bruder. The voice of Your Host is Kristen O’Neal.

Tonight’s voicemail was left for us by Kevin. The SFX, music, and voice of our Travelling Sales Rep are by Miles Morkri. Editing and sound design are by Kaitlin Bruder, and the music tracks you heard in tonight’s episode are: the Thin Places theme, by Miles Morkri, and Umeed by RANA. If you have a question to ask, a story to tell, or a suggestion for the host, give us a call at ‪(717) 382-8093. The lines are always open.

[Thin Places Theme outro]

[the-bottle-tree]

So yesterday we lost one of our cats. He was a very stubborn boy and absolutely loved being outside. We would make him come inside when it was super cold or super bad weather but other than that he would stay out and not because we wanted him to be outside. There was one time he had been missing at supper time. Meal time misses are always a red alert for my husband and I with the outside feral cats….especially Kit. He loved food more than life itself. UNLESS he was punishing me. So he had missed a meal time and didn’t eat much at breakfast the next day. He missed supper and breakfast and the next time I saw him I made him stay in the garage to keep an eye on him. HE REFUSED TO EAT FOR 2 DAYS. So we called our vet and brought him in and as soon as they put him in the cell he ate everything they gave him. They said he was in perfect health and sent him home with a b12 shot for good measure. He was back on his regular eating schedule after that but I was SO pissed he cost us $400 dollars in tests at the vet to see if he was okay and he was perfectly fine. Just not eating because he hated us for trapping him.

He was a talker. He absolutely loved to tell stories. He’d meow as soon as he saw you to let you know all about it! He loved our backyard and would sit in my lap in my swing and make biscuits all day. He had a set path of different sleep spots in our yard and you could tell what time it was by which spot he was in. There is still a trail in the grass from where he would walk every day. I pray it never goes away.

In February, Kit was in his second favorite sleep spot, a spot under a small bush in the front garden sleeping when three husky’s ambushed him and chased him into the neighbors. They cornered him at our neighbors 2 doors down and Attacked. We just happened to be at home so luckily we heard it happen and saved him. We got him into the vet immediately and they kept him overnight for observation. The cat survived and was in good health except for some bad arthritis.

It had been getting worse and worse for years and we had built him a cat run along the side fence because of it. We built it hoping that if something like that would happen he’d have easy access to an escape. The problem is that his sleep spot in the front yard was on the opposite side of the house so when the dogs showed up he had no escape.

After the attack we brought him inside. It was a transition and he went through fits of depression and he refused to eat for a few days until I was able to give him an appetite stimulant to get him to eat again. He would sit in the windows and watch the day go by and at night he’d sit with us on the couch then lay by my head at night.

A few weeks ago he stopped that and just laid in the bathroom floor. He stopped using the litter boxes and only peed on the floor until I got him pee pads. His blood work came back good. No diabetes. No thyroid issues. No kidney stuff. His blood was clean. He had a slight arithmia in his heart but that was it.

Sunday he kept peeing his bed and laying in it. He improved a little bit until yesterday. He would get up and walk and then collapse. He ate and drank water but would collapse. I was cleaning and in the time it took me to go get a sip of coffee he had disappeared from his normal spot. I found him wide eyed behind the toile gasping for breath. I knew it was time. We took him to the vet and they confirmed.

He was such a good boy and he is so greatly missed here. My life was better because he was in it and I hope that in the end he knows how much we loved him. My one wish was that I could go him one more chin Skitch under the oak in our favorite swing. I know he hated it inside and just tolerated it because he hurt too much to fight us.

The doctor doesnt know exactly what as wrong. It could have been an underlying health issue but I think his heart just gave out. He was 19 years old and lived a long beautiful life. The above photo I snapped the night before he passed. I'm so grateful I thought to snap that photo.

Yesterday evening we did a beautiful ritual to honor his life on the memory bench. We chose to get him cremated and will be bringing him back home soon.

Rest in power sweet boy. You are loved so hard. We miss you.

[nihilisticlinguistics]

this DOES work, btw.

I grew up profoundly lonely; although I had periods where I considered myself to 'have friends', those relationships always ended in ways that made it clear I was a stop-gap measure on the way to finding 'better' friends, so on the whole I really felt I had no sincere friendships from the ages of 7-18.

I tried being in activities; I did choir, sports camps, theater, model UN, knowledge bowl. I tried inviting people to movies or to come over to my house. I tried making conversations at school. Nothing stuck; I didn't know what to do, and I didn't know what I was doing wrong. I don't think this is my fault (anymore); I wasn't being invited to things, and I didn't know how to overcome a gulf that existed, invisibly, between me and my peers.

But I was pretty sure that going to college would be more of the same, so I was skeptical when my dad challenged me, in the weeks before freshman orientation, to adopt a new practice. This practice was called "the Year of the Yes," and it was to say "yes" to anything that I was interested in or on the fence about, or not interested in but wouldn't do me any harm. I could refuse stuff so I had time for schoolwork and going to class; I could refuse dangerous situations, but anything else was on the table.

I went to the party on day 1 of orientation, sang 2 songs of live-band karaoke, and of the 3 people I remember actually interacting with that night, 100% of them are among my closest friends today -- 8 years later.

Someone I barely knew asked me to cover a shift they needed covered at our shared student worker job in the cafe. I accepted, we exchanged numbers, and a week later they invited me to their dorm for leftover moon cakes from the mid-autumn festival. That person spoke at my wedding last month.

Not every interaction was a winner -- obviously. There were plenty of things I said 'yes' to that were boring, and didn't kick off a lifelong friendship. but the scattershot approach--yes to everything--meant inevitably I said yes to the people who genuinely got me, the people who clicked.

And it built a habit. It set off a chain reaction. I listened to the Adventure Zone because my new best friend liked it, and that cultivated an interest in D&D, and when in sophomore year my friend suggested getting a D&D group together from our loose affiliation of friends, I got to know the person who became my girlfriend, then my boyfriend, my fiance, and my husband.

In the span of 3 years I went from believing I would spend my life friendless, unloved, and alone to having a group of beloved people who would stand at my side at my wedding. Because I started saying "yes."

I think the first step towards the life you want is often to just say yes to more things. Accept that coffee invitation from your coworker even if it seems awkward. Sign up for that free class at the library that you're not sure you'll like. Join that club. Book that tour. Say yes to as many things as you can and kill the part of your brain that gut-reacts with a no.

[toddstool]

Female Separatist Town (American based but welcoming of all women)

Hi gyns!! I plan on starting up a female village for refuge for women and also for support but I haven't been able to get anywhere with it or just get the idea off the ground in general. Figured I'd start posting about it now because I'm 100% serious. I'm 20 right now and hope to get this going in 5-10 years. I'm buying farming land in Idaho for personal use in 2-3 years to build my cob house and plant and maintain a forest (which'll all be separate from the female town). the location may change but I'd love to just get some support and get ideas going :·)

To lay out the idea of what life will be like: every one will work and live together, every one will know each other, we will work out our problems together. like a tribe. society wouldn't be money based but more familiar and focused more on trade of actual objects of value and every one will work together to survive. some key jobs would include:

physician

dentist

hygienist

pediatrician

geriatrician

gynecologist

surgeon

internist

psychologist

nurses (multiple)

therapist (multiple)

horticulturist

stockman/husbandman (wifewoman ig lol)

rancher

farmer

hunter

butcher

forester

shepherd (already taken by me :P will also weave cloth and make string)

potter

seamstress

botanist

microbiologist

chemist

physicist

biochemist

ecologist

agronomist

architect

engineer

metal worker

plumber

electrician

handy woman

carpenter

brick maker

ironworker

contractor/builder

teachers (k-12)

professors (of any study)

collectors (books, artifacts, hard to come by items that are necessary for life idk)

cleaners/jaintors

mayor and other government officials/people who oversee specific apartments of labour (obviously a very tiny government and will we all know and trust each other)

and general labour workers/jack of multiple trades

plus anything else anyone can think of!

as for the more individual parts of life, that's up to you as long as your choices don't ruin shit for others! what kind of house you wanna live in is up to you as long as you can build it or trade something for whoever builds it for you. your diet can be whatever as long as you can trade with the farmers/butchers or if you're able to grow/hunt your own food. if you want help with things that you can't or don't know how to do, there should be people to help. in turn if you specialize in something you should be there to help others as well! if you would rather stay away from people but live in a safe town filled with only other women, then you can do that too! I do recommend we have constant daily resources for everyone that include /breakfast, lunch, dinner/ kitchens so we can all eat together, small "apartment complexes" or dorm like rooms for people who have just moved in and are still in the process of settling. crisis centers for traumatized or battered women who are escaping bad situations, orphanage for abandoned girls, as well as a Montessori styled school (for LEARNING not indoctrination or forcing them to be a specific way ya know), food forests so people can just grab a snack, a town square where we can all gather for funsies, town hall for any discussions, etc etc etc and anything else anyone can think of to add.

now for the "well what about-"s

no males. no husbands. no boyfriends. no brothers fathers sons. if you want to see them you can go visit them. but they can not stay or visit. that just defeats the purpose. if you are a woman with a son then maybe you can live near the town for support but not actually in the town. that's not fair to the female children. you can have all the relations with males that you want just like,,, not in the town. go crazy! away from the settlement. it'll just be a safe space to be able to walk around at night and for women that do not want male relations.

and to make sure the town actually stays safe and isn't constantly harassed or sabotaged, I suggest we have basic security measures. a fence around the town (with opening for animals and various other wildlife) would be best since it will be bought, private land. guards and guard dogs as well. getting friendly with towns and tribes near us for trade and whatnot will also help with any negative ill will, introduce ourselves to our neighbors! especially cuz most of us will have to go into town for any needs when we first start up.

as for religion, highly discouraged :/. it's just not safe to bring in any organized, misogynistic rhetoric. you can practice in your own home, maybe with a few people, but seriously cmon man if you're a radfem you should know better lmao. but also any violence directed at religious women is a gigantic fucking no no. but again if you're a radfem you should know better. discussions allowed ofc.

as for... controversial women. opinionated women. conservative women. women who pick a lotta fights. women that create drama. we're all human ya know. every woman that seeks refuge here will be welcome. obviously we're not all gonna match. some of us will have very different opinions about how things should be run from each other and the best we can do is lay basic ground rules and go each day from there. as long as we can have organized discussions and a nice line of communication with each other, I think we should do fine. a suppose an older matriarch would be our saving grace lol. (some of this might not apply for women who commit crimes, what counts as a crime? dawg idk fucking rape and abuse and murder n shit but we'll figure that out once we have a nice rhythm going)

another point i wanna bring up is circular lifestyle. the whole point is not only to not live with men, but to also not live like men. today's American society is extremely wasteful and not long term in the slightest. if we want to make life better for women, a natural way of living is most important for future generations. eco hippie living but without the pretentiousness lol. so no plastic!! that shit is a poison!! eventually im going to make a powerpoint moodboard list type thing of what i'd like it to be like and explain some of these topics in more detail. for now I'm just gonna plug in some graphics that explain better than me lol ⬇

some last minute thoughts: this town will NEED to be anti racist. if one thing will not be tolerated it will be racist women. yain't gonna come in here and make shit hell for other women. another thing is I really wanna strength ties with any natives on reservation near us. and since America is stolen land, to tread carefully with what we have. obviously we will have to buy the land (...... hopefully together of course) but that doesn't mean we actually own the earth there.

I suppose that's it for now. I hope most of you won't just scroll through this and will actually take the time to read this. female separatism is needed now and I know we can do this. not only that but we need to. it's about time we got shit started in America. society here will only get worse. please try to think about this as a serious proposition/proposal. if you have any question or want me to clear anything up, please ask on this post!! if you have any ideas to add, again in the comments on this post so everyone can see. also if you would like to get closer with me so we can get to know each other I'm thinking about starting a discord but those always die lol so if I trust you I'll give you the @ to my main on instagram.

this is not a discussion post for anything unrelated to what is said in the post. troll comments will be deleted. for radfems/female separatists only.

[faeri-meadow]

Out with the old, in with the cold (Philza x reader x Technoblade) (part 2)

I'm glad people enjoyed the first part! Here's part two! Now this isn’t going to 100% follow the lore or the mechanics of minecraft, think of it as Minecraft AU with some real life mechanics and some extra enchantments! Sorry if that makes no sense, I kinda just went with what felt right! Enjoy!

TW: Two mentions of death, that’s all!

My dreamless sleep was interrupted by the feeling of someone lightly shaking me, "Time to get up mate, Techno's getting ready and I've made breakfast." I slowly opened my eyes, attempting to blink away the sleep that clouded my vision, I was greeted by the sight of Philza standing close to the couch, his face near mine. He was staring at my face, and I was doing the same in return until he gave me a warm smile "C'mon, I've got some more clothes for you to wear, yours are still wet. I tried to dry your shoes to the best of my ability, but you may need to borrow an old pair of mine and maybe Techno can show you where the leather smith is in the village." He patted a spot on my legs making me look down on the couch to see a small stack of neatly folded clothing, "Ok, and I can wear my shoes, you've already done so much for me." I sat up as Philza backed up giving me room to stretch. I started to get off of the couch, lifting the blankets and letting my feet touch the slightly cold wooden floor. "Your shoes aren't meant for this weather, ours are. I would feel a lot better if you wore one of mine, though you may need to wear a few pairs of socks to make them fit." He extended a hand for me to take, which I did, and pulled me up off of the couch, "I'll find the smallest pair I can and then get you a plate ready, you can go to change in the bathroom." I gave him a nod and picked up the small stack of clothes and made my way to the bathroom I was shown yesterday.

A few moments later and I was wearing another green sweater, though this one was slightly thicker, and long black pants that I rolled up at the legs because they were too long. I opened the bathroom door to see Techno getting ready to knock, eyes wide, "Oh, uh, I thought you may need some things, so, here you go." He dumped some items into my arms and closed the door, leaving me confused and slightly flustered. I went through what he gave me and found a bar of soap, a wash cloth, toothpaste and a toothbrush, as well as a hair brush. I got to work on my routine, starting with washing my face and ending with brushing my hair. Once I was finished I dried off the toothbrush and gathered the items Techno gave me as well as the clothes Philza gave me the night before and left the bathroom. I could smell eggs and bacon as soon as I opened the door, making me walk a little faster to the kitchen, surprising Techno and Philza. "Oh, hey mate! You can set all that on the couch and come eat, after you can try on these shoes." I nodded and turned to the living room, quickly setting the clothes and stuff on the couch and rushed into the kitchen, sitting down in the same spot I sat in the previous night. Breakfast was just as quiet as dinner was, and once again Philza took my plate and cleaned it off and then set several pairs of socks at my feet along with some slightly large leather boots. " We made sure to enchant a lot of our items when we first got here, I'm pretty sure all of our outerwear have water resistance." I smiled and said a small thanks as I got to work putting on sock after sock, glad that they weren't all the same size, giving my feet some freedom. Once I had a whopping six pairs of socks on, I could finally wear the shoes without my feet sliding around too much. I stood up from the chair I was sitting on and walked around a bit, making sure the shoes actually fit. When I was happy with how they felt, I went into the living room seeing both Techno and Philza speaking in front of the front door, my heavy footsteps making them turn their attention to me. Techno looked at me through the holes in his mask, "There you are, we were just talkin about you. Question, what are you hoping to find at the village?" I stopped moving for a moment, "Oh, umm, I'm not sure. Maybe a place to stay so I can gather materials again? I don't have anything to really trade with so I guess I'll just offer to work around the village so I'm out of your hair." I gave a shrug and headed to the door as the duo looked at eachother, a sigh coming from Techno causing me to turn around to see his slightly annoyed face and Philza's very happy grin, "I suppose... You can stay here for a bit... But don't get comfortable, you were willing to work at the village, so now you get to help out here." Looking in between the two I couldn't help the slightly confused expression that took over my face, " Wait, quick question, why are you so trusting of me? You don't know anything about me." They both looked at me surprised, and seemed to be thinking about my question, but Techno seemed to get an answer quicker, "Because if need be, we can kill you without a second thought. As you've said, you don't have anything, and I highly doubt you can take on the both of us. If you're ready to go then we should be leaving, I've got other things I want to do today." All I could do was nod as we both started out the door, however Philza stopped us, "Wait! I don't want you catching a cold!" He came up in front of me and threw something over my shoulders and clipped it in the front. I look at my shoulders to see a long black cloak that nearly touched the ground, while I was distracted I felt the hood being pulled up, "Good idea Phil, I'm pretty sure we both would be too busy to take care of you." I nodded to the both of them, my cheeks turning a slight pink as Techno and I turned around and waved at Philza, saying our goodbyes.

Techno'a POV: (bet ya didn't see that coming muahaha!)

I lead (Y/N) to the stables where I kept Carl, "We don't have another horse, so you're gonna have to ride with me." I didn't really give them time to respond as I saddled up Carl and then jumped on, holding out my hand for them to take. They seemed hesitant and were a little too slow for my liking so I grabbed their arm and pulled them onto Carl, sitting them right in front of myself. "You act as if you've never ridden a horse before." I all but huffed out. In return I got a side glare, "Maybe I haven't Blade, I never needed to. I never left my house, and if I did happen to, wherever I was going was in walking distance." I let out a chuckle at the tone they used and ushered Carl to start moving. The village wasn't too far, and I've walked there plenty of times, but when I have plans for trading, it's best to have Carl. I could feel how stiff (Y/N) was on in front of me, probably due to her lack of experience in riding horses but decided not to say anything and just continued on. 

Eventually we reached the village, people already out and about despite the frigid weather. Once I reached a fence post I jumped off of Carl and grabbed (Y/N) from their waist and took them off of the horse as well, tying a lead to both Carl and the fence. “Alright, here are a few emeralds, go grab whatever you need and meet me back here around noon.” They grabbed the emeralds and muttered a thank you, heading further into the village. I let out a sigh and looked at the sky to see I had about two hours before noon hit, and with that thought I headed into the village as well.

~Time skip~

As soon as the sun was in the middle of the sky I was back at Carl’s location, lugging some bags onto his back. It was only moments later when I heard heavy foot fall, “Did I make you wait? Sorry if I did, I had to get some measurements taken.” I turned around expecting to see dozens of articles of clothing only to be surprised when I saw a small bag in (Y/N)’s hands, “What were ya getting measured for?” They laughed at my confused expression and opened the bag, ushering me to see the inside, “It’s enchanted, it has a lot more space then you think. Oh, that reminds me!” They reached into the bag and pulled out two things, one being a handful of the emeralds I gave her and the other being a golden necklace with a small crown sitting at the end. “Here is what was left, and I wanted to get you and Phil something as a thank you! I know they were your emeralds, so you kinda bought it, but I plan on paying you back, every single emerald.” I gently took the necklace into my hands, confused as what to say, “Erm, thank you, you didn’t have to get us anything.” they simply shook their head and gave me a smile, “Lets head on back! It seems like you got a lot of stuff and I don’t want Carl to have to carry it for longer then he needs to.” I couldn’t help but try and read their expression, to see if there was any motive behind the act of kindness, but saw none. I gave them a nod and untied Carl, jumping on and grabbing their arm as I had before, and then we were off.

(Y/N)’s POV:

The village was nice, the people being very sweet when asking about where I came from. When I went into the jewelry store to find something for Techno and Philza I was asked what I was looking for, and when mentioning the two men who had allowed me to stay, the shop keeper directed me to gold for Techno and onyx for Philza, and to make everything better, I got a discount from the shop keeper, the reasoning being “They have already done so much for us, it’s the least I can do.” I was pulled out of my thoughts by two large hands grabbing my waist and picking me up off of Carl, “I tried calling your name but you weren’t respondin, you go on inside, I’ll put Carl away.” I nodded at Techno and hurriedly ran inside, warmth greeting me as soon as I opened the door. I started calling out Philza’s name while stuffing my hands inside the bag feeling around for his gift, smiling when my fingers wrapped around the cool stone. “In here mate!” I followed his voice down a ladder and into what looked like a smithing room, “Hey! How was the trip to the village? Find anything good?” I gave a nod while looking around the room, there were anvils, smithing tables, blast furnaces, and what looked like a cauldron full of different metals. “Mate? You alright?” I turned my attention to Philza who was now standing in front of me, the metal he was working on still red hot behind him, “Oh, yeah, I’ve just never really seen or used most of these things!” This caused Phil to furrow his brow, “You mean you’ve never used a smithing table? Or a blast furnace? Surley you’ve had to of used an anvil at least!” I let out a laugh and shook my head, “I guess compared to you guys I never really had much to begin with, I’ve used a furnace before, just not a blast furnace. I don’t really know what a smithing table is for, and I think I’ve used an anvil once or twice, mainly to stamp names into name tags.” Phil’s eyes were wide, “You’ve never had netherite? A smithing table is used only for netherite, it’s a material from the nether, the strongest material in fact!” I stared at his bewildered face for a moment before replying, “I’ve never been to the nether, I never really was an adventurer I suppose, I had everything I needed at home.” This only seemed to confuse the winged man more before he took a deep breath, released it, and then looked a lot calmer, “Well I suppose Tech and I will have to change that at some point! So what did you need me for?” He turned around and made his way back to the metal that was a little darker then before, and proceeded to dunk the metal into the furnace, turning it bright red once again. “Oh, I got you something while we were out, as a thank you of sorts!” I held out a silver chain, at the end sat a black feather made of onyx. The light from the fire seemed to dance across the shiny stone catching his gaze, “Oh mate, you really didn’t have to.” But none the less he slowly grabbed the necklace from my hands, eyes never leaving the detailed feather, “I did though, without you guys I would be dead. I practically owe you both my life.” His eyes left the feather only to catch my own gaze, “You don’t owe us anything, neither of us could just leave you out there.” He grabbed one of my hands with his free one, “I love it, it’s beautiful.” I gave him a light smile as I tried to pull my hand away, but instead of letting me go, Phil pulled me in for a hug, “Seriously (Y/N), please don’t feel like you owe us anything.” He held onto me for a bit longer before letting me go, a blush slowly spreading across his cheeks, “Sorry, I didn’t mea-” I cut him off by going in for another hug, “Don’t be, I needed that.” Once again his arms wrapped around my back, his head laid on top of my own.

“Ahem.” A throat being cleared scared us both as we quickly split apart, seeing Techno at the bottom of the ladder with a slight smirk, “Oh, I’m so sorry, did I interrupt something?” I could feel the heat rushing to my face and I rushed out an answer, “N-no, I was just giving him his gift, a-and he gave me a hug in return!” I couldn’t help the slight stutter, but that seemed to make Techno’s smirk widen, “Oh? I kinda feel bad now, all I said was a thank you.” He started moving towards me and within a few steps was right in front of me, “Guess I’ll have to make it up to you.” Before I could question what he meant, his arms wrapped around my back as he lifted me into the air, giving me a bone crushing hug, “Tech-no, can’t breath-” He held onto me for a bit longer, a slight chuckle making his chest vibrate before setting me onto the ground, “Okay, okay, now it’s time for you to help out (Y/N), Phil, you look busy down here so I’ll just take them with me to feed the animals and collect some crops, sound good?” Hearing no response I glanced at Philza who was giving a slight glare to Techno, but soon realized I was looking and dropped it, mumbling out a quick sounds good and going back to molding the metal in front of him into whatever he was turning it into. With his response, Techno and I headed back up the latter and outside to care for the crops and animals.

Philza’s POV: (Hehehehehe)

Once I heard the door upstairs shut I put down the hammer I was using on the rod of iron, and instead turned my attention to the necklace given to me by (Y/N). It hurt for some reason to hear that they felt they owed us, it made me think about what they may have gone through in the SMP to feel that way. A small part of me was happy when they hugged me back, I was worried I had stepped too far. However when Techno showed up that feeling was replaced with slight jealousy. I pushed away those thoughts away and instead focused on the previous part of our conversation. The fact that they never had a netherite weapon confused me as they had once lived in the SMP, and the citizens were noctorious for their netherite weapons and armor. I made a self note to speak to Techno about a possible trip to the nether, which he shouldn’t be too opposed to, but then thought about (Y/N). Neither of us know them well enough to know if they can fight which means we would need to keep an eye on them. Not only that but a lot of materials went into the creation of L’Manhole, so before a nether trip, a mining trip is needed. We could always ask them to stay back, but then they would think they owe us more, either way they need something to defend themselves if we were to leave. My eyes glanced down at the slightly cooled iron sitting on the anvil, and just like that I went back to work, this time with a plan.

~Time skip~

(Y/N)’s POV:

All of the animals seemed very happy to have their food for the day, and I was carrying a basket full of potatoes, carrots, wheat, and some beetroot. Techno was in charge of the meat collecting, and he seemed to be done as well as he approached me with a similar basket, though his was covered with a kind of tarp. We both nodded towards each other and walked towards the house, the sun starting to set, the figure of Philza was standing on the porch of the cabin, “Looks like we won’t need food for a while huh?” His icy blue eyes studied the baskets before he stepped towards the door and opened it for us. I stomped off my feet before I entered the house and made a bee-line for the kitchen, setting down the basket with a huff, Techno not too far behind me. “Oh, before we start putting things away and such, I wanna give you something (Y/N).” I looked at him confused when he went into the living room, coming back with something wrapped in a blanket, “Here ya go mate!” I unwrapped the blanket and saw a shiny iron sword, with my name scratched onto the base. I grabbed the handle of the blade, switching it from hand to hand, amazed at how light it felt, “Philza, I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know how to use a sword!” This caused both Philza and Techno to laugh, “Remember this morning when you asked us why we trusted you? And I said that we could kill you if we wanted?” Techno stared at me, a smug grin on his face, “I think we could teach you a thing or two about sword fighting. They don’t call us the Angel of Death and the Blood God for no reason.” I tilted my head slightly, “Angel of Death? Blood God? Sorry if this sounds rude, but I’ve never heard those names before.” For some reason the room went quiet, Techno and Philza looking at eachother, seemingly having a conversation, “That’s a story for another day Mate, how about we get ready for dinner?” I agreed quite quickly and rushed to the bathroom, grabbing out some of the clothes I bought from the village which consisted of sweat pants, wool leggings, some nicer long pants of various colors, a few sweaters, sweatshirts and jackets as well as (Whatever scent you want) scented shampoo and conditioner. I crossed my fingers and looked around the bathroom for some sort of closet or cabinets and saw a chest in the corner. I opened the chest and found towels, quickly taking one out and running myself a bath. I was quick to wash off any sweat that accumulated over the day and washed my hair. Once leaving the bath and emptying the water, I dried myself off and put on a pair of black wool leggings and a light pink sweatshirt as well as a pair of fuzzy socks and left the bathroom. I went into the living room, put down the clothes and the bags and ran to the kitchen where Philza and Techno were both cooking. “Hey, nice choice of clothes eh Techno?” Techno’s eyes lazily moved from the meat he was cutting up towards my form, as soon as he sees me though his cheeks go pink, “HEH?” Philza and I both started cracking up before I was ushered over to help make dinner. Within fifteen minutes the air was filed with a delicious smell of veggies and meat, the stew that we all worked on finally finished. Dinner was eaten quickly, however this time I grabbed the dishes and went to the sink. “You guys can head upstairs and go to bed, thanks for taking me out today Techno, and for the sword Philza!” Warm smiles bloomed onto both of their faces as they came over and each gave me a hug from behind before they headed for the stairs, simultaneously saying no problem, followed by a string of ‘Jinx you owe me a soda’. Once dishes were washed and lanterns were blown out I made my way once again to the couch, fire still burning keeping the air around me warm. I laid down on the couch and wrapped myself in the blankets, with a full stomach and a clean body, sleep came quick. 

AN- Once again, thank you for reading, and I’m sorry for any mistakes!

[lovelyspencers]

Paper Rings

Synopsis: Spencer and pregnant fem!Reader spontaneously get married in Las Vegas

Word Count: 1.3k

Content Warnings: allusions to sex

❝ I like shiny things but I’d marry you in paper rings ❞

Y/N and Spencer exit the clinic his mother is placed in with their hands intertwined as she traces mindless patterns on the back of it and occasionally gives it a gentle squeeze.

The November air is flush and he had wrapped her up in his grey cardigan and the scarf he had knitted her for Christmas. Besides being a genius, his measures had been terribly wrong and she looked like the purple wool ate her alive every time she wore it.

Still, she looks adorable. The cold paints her nose in a faint red and he stops in his tracks solely to place a kiss atop of it, admiring how she scrunches her nose in response and he can’t stop himself from peppering her face with kisses.

She’s wearing the same sweater she wore on the night they first met, except the baby blue garment with puffy clouds on them looks way better under the soft glow of the sinking sun than the harsh fluorescent lights of the club his team members had dragged him to all those years ago — and back then she didn’t have a small baby bump to cover.

They are quiet, undoubtedly thinking about the same thing as only the running engines of cars and birds chirping as they settle down for the night fill the silence. His mother had brought up a question that dreaded both of them and Spencer’s mind has been occupied with it ever since.

“When will you guys finally get married?”

He proposed to her two years ago and while the initial thought was to get married as soon as possible life got in the way or more frankly a false conviction and the aftermath of his trauma.

The only thing that gave him hope as he was robbed of his freedom, his most treasured possession, was the thought of Y/N. He glanced at empty walls, envisioning all the pictures their house would be plastered in if he ever got out of there.

He went to sleep despite his concern that people might come after him because at least in his dreams he got to see her and then he’d feel safe even if it was just in his imagination.

His thoughts solely revolved around her and the future they shared if he was strong enough. He imagined her in a white ball gown and the way her eyes would brim with nothing but utter joy and love as she finally became his endlessly.

When he did survive and the fresh air outside of the confinement of prison fences reached his nose and he fell into her soothing embrace, the scent of her shampoo still the same and her touch still was full of love, all he could think about was how he never wanted to be separated from her ever again.

But they were too busy trying to fix his invisible scars to even think about drowning in the stressful process of planning a wedding again. And when he did feel like himself again with the patience and care of Y/N (as well as some long-overdue therapy session), she got pregnant and they were too busy in their own little bubble to even acknowledge the still missing rings on their fingers.

It’s not like Spencer has any doubts about spending the rest of his life with her. He knows it every morning he wakes up next to her, their blanket fully draped over solely her body and her head laying on his chest, the sun peeking through the curtains and bathing her in a glow that made her seem celestial.

He knows it every time she kisses him, her lips always tasting of strawberry chapstick and her hands softly playing with his hair as she tries her hardest to convey her love to him in the simplicity of a kiss. He always understands her secret language because truthfully he’s trying the same.

He knows it every time he walks in on her singing and dancing in the kitchen, so blissfully unaware of the horror in the world he’s constantly exposed to and giving him a glimpse of peace too.

He knows it every time she pulls his body into hers and gives him her all. The sounds that leave her mouth when he proves to her that there’s no one that knows her as much as he does and her features when she falls from grace with him.

Honestly, he’s known that he wants to spend entirety with her ever since he first laid his eyes on her.

But as always his fears get the best of him. He’s been separated from her once and he knows how much it hurt her and how can he claim to love her when he put her through that? How can he claim to love her when he’s still uncertain that he can protect her from all the evil that’s lurking in the shadows.

As he looks at her, the afterglow illuminating every imperfection on her face that he would mesmerize and admire for entirety if he could, all his fears and insecurities fade away like fallen leaves and he’s never been more certain about wanting anything more than finally call the love of his life his wife. Now.

“How mad do you think our friends would be if we got married right now?”

“What?” Y/N turns to face him, a shaky smile spreading on her face as she fiddles with the ends of her scarf.

Spencer isn’t surprised by her disbelief. The most spontaneous thing he’d done during their relationship was kissing Y/N on the porch of her house after their second date and well, get her pregnant.

“Marry me,” he repeats, mirroring the soft smile that adorns her face as he absently plays with the engagement ring on her finger, “Like right now.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and chuckles before placing a chaste kiss on his lips. “I don’t have a dress. We don't have rings and I’m kind of pregnant right now.”

“I’d say you’re very pregnant right now,” he laughs as he places his hand on her stomach, something he’s been doing almost subconsciously ever since they found out that they were expecting — and that exposed their little secret multiple times already.

She nuzzles her face in the crook of his neck and peppers kisses there, muttering incoherent love declaration. “You really want to marry me in a shitty chapel when I barely fit in my clothes anymore?”

He nods and places a kiss on the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her floral shampoo and resting his head on top of here. “I do. To be honest, I’d marry you in paper rings.”

Noticing the worries in her eyes, he grabs her face and cradles it like she’s the most precious thing he ever had the pleasure of holding. While he does want to marry her desperately, his number one priority is always that she feels comfortable and if that means that he has to wait forever for her then so be it.

“I don’t want to pressure you and If you want a fancy wedding then I’ll gladly give you that. I’d wait a lifetime for you.”

The sound of her laugh fills the otherwise empty parking lot, the kind that brightens up his days that would otherwise be doomed in black and white as she places a lingering kiss on his lips.

“I know. But I don’t need a fancy wedding, I just need you.”

She grabs into the pocket of her jacket, pulling out a random poster she had picked up earlier and starting to fold the material until she crafted a rather messy ring.

“You ready to get married in paper rings?”

[lavendertales]

bad guy (Javier Peña x f!reader)—part 12

summary: you accompany Pacho for a business dinner, but his proposal is anything but that. And Javier doesn’t react particularly well to the news.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: this is pure angst, proceed with caution.

gif: @pascalsky 

series masterlist | AO3

You did your best all week to not raise any suspicions at the office.

With Steve or Trujillo it wasn’t that complicated. They never asked too many questions, even if they were in your close and trusted circle.

But with Javier it was tricky. Not because he posed never ending questions, but simply because of who he was. His instincts had almost never failed him, and because of how he felt for you—and vice versa—it got him on a higher alert than before. Even when you said you were having dinner and some drinks with Connie on Friday night he seemed a bit tense, but he quickly dismissed it and went on with his day.

You didn’t like the fact that you had to go behind his back that way, but you had only the best intentions, as well as keeping Javier’s best interest at heart. You cared too much for him to have some sort of a stroke because of his anger, so why worry him excessively? 

One might have argued that involving Connie in your little Friday plot was far more dangerous than simply telling Javier what you were doing, but you had it all figured out. Connie wouldn’t be in any danger. And you could absolutely not risk anyone messing up that dinner and lose the huge opportunity of getting one of the Rodriguez brothers.

You chose one of your best dresses for that dinner, more because you needed that extra shot of confidence rather than to impress Pacho. As far as you had seen, he was easily impressed by a set of pretty eyes, empty words and minimum physical contact. You chose to get your gun as well, just as a safety measure. Should a worst case scenario happen, you better be ready. As the saying went, better to have something and not need it than to need it and not have it.

So you instructed Connie thoroughly and told her every single detail about the evening, telling her to stay in your car and to call you if there was anything even remotely suspicious. You knew you were already risking a lot that evening, so you wanted everything to go down smoothly.

You stepped into that restaurant with high anxiety, much more intense than anything ever experienced on the field, but you kept your head high and your most radiant smile. You pleasantly noticed Pacho standing up from one of the tables in the middle, eyes rushing to your long legs and your walk, but quickly focusing on your face as he kissed your hand to greet you.

“You sure know how to dress to impress,” he remarked, pouring you a glass of wine already.

“You’re not doing so badly either.”

“Are compliments to other men not a dangerous slope to go down on from your pledged loyalty to your husband?”

“Not if they’re true.”

Pacho chuckled, and you were unsure at that point whether he was simply going along with your flirtatious acts and comments or if he was truly flattered and charmed by you.

“Didn’t you say that I can bark at cars even if I’m chained to the fence?” you asked, raising your glass.

“I did. I wouldn’t have thought you’d change your mind.”

“My husband has very questionable past encounters with… women. And I looked past it. Why can’t a woman have some innocent fun too?”

“I see no reason against it.”

You clicked your glasses and went through dinner rapidly. 

Pacho had proved innocent yet again under the first impression, but as you pieced the details together, you soon wondered if what was worse was yet to come. You thought about Connie, your heart sinking for a few seconds, and you hoped for the best.

“About my request,” you finally tackled the issue at hand.

Pacho raised his brow with delight, a rather devilish smirk erupting from the corner of his lips.

“You wanting one of the Rodriguez brothers.”

“Yes. I hope you understand that I have to do my job.”

“Of course. So far our collaboration worked excellently. Everyone gets what they want and we get to keep our business on the low. However—“

Your heart sunk into your stomach, shrinking to the size of a peanut. You gulped, patiently waiting for the rest.

“It’s still a big request,” Pacho continued.

“Go big or go home.”

“I like a woman with goals. But why did you feel the need to use leverage for tonight?”

You frowned, genuinely confused.

“I think your friend Connie Murphy is already bored in that car by herself.”

You he stared at him in disbelief, heart and stomach disappearing completely by that point. Pacho leaned over the table, closer to you.

“You’re much more resourceful than I initially thought.”

“She has nothing to do with you and me. Leave her out of this.”

“It would be a shame if her husband realized she’s not quite where she said she was tonight, wouldn’t it?”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated and afraid.

“Fine. Let’s cut the crap. What do you want in exchange for one of the brothers?”

“How about both?”

Your head was close to spinning. Your heart began racing wildly again, too thrilled to believe what you had just heard.

“Both?” you repeated, distrustful.

“Why not? They have been getting on my nerves lately.”

“In exchange for what?”

Pacho smiled, somewhat fondly, before providing his final answer.

“You.”

There it is.

The catch.

The ultimate catch.

You stared back at him, mouth ajar in shock. But then again, the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. 

You really shouldn’t have been shocked at the revelation. Pacho was a straightforward man with many resources and endless ways to threat or corner someone, and throughout that entire time, he did exactly that. He cornered you and now there you both were, having the final showdown.

Still in awe, you could only stare at him, desperately trying to figure out an appropriate response.

“We don’t have to agree on anything right now,” Pacho told you calmly. “You can think about it for a while.”

“Connie stays out of this.”

“She’s not that interesting compared to the real prize if you ask me.”

“Swear to me that she remains safe.”

“She stays out of this.”

You gulped, fear wrapping itself around you and surrounding you with waves of fear and anxiety. Your mind was in shambles, rummaging into thoughts of Javier and Steve and Connie, and how their hunt for the Cali cartel had become by far more important than their own lives.

The stakes were higher than ever, you thought, and you could practically feel your throat close and body go numb under the immense pressure.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit of a stretch?” you asked Pacho.

The man giggled. “For a fine woman like yourself? Not even a little bit.”

You eventually left dinner with a huge pit in your stomach. When you got in the car and came in contact with Connie, you hugged her tight, much to the latter’s surprise.

“What’s—going on?” Connie asked from over your shoulder, confused.

“Nothing. Just… eased to see you.”

“What happened in there? Did you make a deal?”

You hesitated. “It’s… in the making.”

“I can’t imagine he just shook on it, did he?”

“No. He’s one clever son of a bitch.”

“Are you okay though? You’re a bit pale.”

You didn’t respond with anything but a reassuring smile and drove Connie back home. The ride was comfortable and friendly, but your mind could only work endlessly and process everything with high intensity, nearly painfully so. You knew damn well that you should’ve refused Pacho on the spot. You couldn’t simply sell yourself like that.

But that was precisely what Pacho wanted. And he wouldn’t have hesitated to retaliate against the rejection and go after Connie. He wanted to buy you one way or the other, and he used your own needs to get to you this time.

When you parked in front of Steve and Connie’s apartment building, both of you noticed Javier’s Jeep as well, and moments later, Javier and Steve themselves, seemingly engaged in a hectic conversation.

“Honey,” Steve cooed, hugging Connie tightly and not letting her go for many seconds.

“I’m wildly popular tonight,” she laughed.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

Surprisingly, Javier did the same as Steve and hugged you tightly. You hugged him back, his trademark scent of cologne and warmth overwhelming you to the degree of a mental breakdown.

“Berna called me and said that Pacho’s out in town tonight at some meeting,” Javier clarified. “With you ladies out, we thought—“

“Oh, no, we were perfectly safe,” Connie said immediately.

“Besides, I was prepared.”

You showed Javier the gun hidden in your purse and he nodded as if in agreement.

“Thank God you’re both okay,” Steve said.

“I wasn’t worried. This lady can handle shit,” Connie smiled at you.

You returned the smile before addressing Javier and Steve. You had no clue how the hell were you going to play that card now that it got so personal and close to them, but you knew you had to.

“What if I told you I could get all of our hands on Cali and take them out?” you said to the men.

“I would say that’s kind of an indecent proposal for a gang bang,” Steve joked.

Javier chuckled at well, but soon it faded upon seeing your desperate face.

“Both Rodriguez?” he questioned you.

You nodded. “Berna, too. All of them,” you added.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

You faltered, anxious again. You didn’t want to blow the night’s cover, but the implications of the situation were greater than ever before and you were convinced you couldn’t hide them anymore.

“Let’s just say that Pacho said something at his meeting that… well, if he gets that, he will give us the Rodriguez brothers, the labs, everything.”

“What’s in it for him?” Steve asked, holding onto Connie.

“I think he really just wants this one thing.”

“Ah, come on, there’s not enough money or cocaine in this world to make him betray the entire cartel just like that!”

Javier observed your shaky body language, your facial expression and your reluctance, and finally understood. The kind of panic that ran through him at that time was immeasurable and incomparable.

“He doesn’t want money or drugs,” he muttered, tone grave.

Connie shot you a concerned look.

“You dragged Connie tonight with you?” he asked you.

“What?” Steve interfered.

“Pacho’s fucking meeting was with this one right here. And Connie, apparently.”

Steve stared at Connie with panic and concern alike, but she was quick to dismiss him and jump to your defense.

“Look, she knows what she’s doing. I was in the car the entire time, perfectly safe. She handled things like a pro.”

“What the fuck?!” Steve exclaimed.

“You could’ve said something,” Javier grunted.

You finally exploded.

“Could I? Every time that I do, you get this overwhelming instinct to protect me like I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Of course I want to protect you! I give a fuck about you!”

“I am not a fucking property, Javier! I don’t belong to you like an object! And I am not some poor defenseless little lady! I am a grown ass woman, swift and intelligent and cocky enough to solve shit on my own!”

“I don’t—you don’t—belong to me, I—“

“Shut up! You act like I am only here to look pretty and to be impressed when a man your size and your rank is the only thing I need. I am not. I am not an object, and I am not incapable at my job. Is that clear?”

“Never said you were, but when you go behind my back like this, behind our backs—“

“I planned everything carefully for days! I knew what the fuck I was doing! I didn’t need you or your excessive jealousy and anger to mess this up! Pacho knew Connie was with me. One wrong move or word and—“

“He knew?” Connie whispered.

“I knew what I was doing and I kept my cool whilst doing it, unlike you, Javier.”

He huffed, both insulted and relieved at the same time. There was no real point in trying to argue or dismiss your words, he knew that you were right. He knew that his anger sometimes got the best of him.

“If something would’ve happened—“he insisted, voice breaking.

“Nothing would have happened. Pacho won’t hurt me.”

“Please.”

“You might find it hard to believe that someone would be into me as well to the point where they couldn’t stand seeing a single wound on me, but just know that I could end this deal. I could end this cartel with a single word.”

“What the fuck does Pacho want then?” Steve asked.

Silence.

Javier felt like breaking into a million pieces when he looked at you. 

He saw the sadness in your eyes, the madness, the nerves and all of it. You were shook. That much he could tell: you were trying your hardest to satisfy everyone and to take everything up on yourself, but it was consuming you deeply.

“He wants me,” you confirmed at last.

Javier ran his hands through his hair, nearly ripping it apart, while Steve and Connie stared at you with astonishment. Even Steve found it hard to believe that Pacho would go that far and low.

But he had to remember that he was one of the four chairmen of the Cali cartel and that those people did not give a flying fuck about anything else but their empire and their own needs. Only Pacho had some decency to remain somewhat of a gentleman.

“How – what the fuck does he – how, exactly?” Steve tried to put one and one together.

“He just said he wants me, not how. But I have a pretty accurate guess as to how he wants me and it’s not a very pleasant image.”

“Obviously that’s off the table, we can’t spare any people and especially not you. Right, Javi?”

Javier didn’t answer. He was pacing around furiously, facing away from all three of them. Steve eventually went to him and forcefully dragged him back.

“What was the deal?” he grudgingly asked you.

“I initially said I want one of the Rodriguez brothers but he offered both… in my exchange. He said I could think about it for a while.”

“How generous of him,” Connie sarcastically remarked.

“What—what do you want to do?”

Clearly you hadn’t expected Javier’s thoughtful question. You soon realized he was fighting his inner instincts very hard because his fists were clenched and he was sucking his cheeks in, but you nonetheless appreciated it.

“I don’t know yet. This can bring them all down.”

“But you’d… be with Pacho,” Steve reminded you, face contorted with disgust.

“The idea is hardly appealing, but… the agent in me says that it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

“Hitting on married women. This motherfucker really has no standards.”

“He couldn’t buy her at the auction so now he’s trying to buy her with the one price that we all want,” Javier muttered.

“It’s actually clever as fuck if you think about it,” Connie added.

All three stared her down.

“I’m just pointing out the obvious.”

“I have to think this through,” you said.

“There shouldn’t be anything to think about.”

You glared at Javier, seeing his pained reaction and feeling extremely guilty as well, but in all honesty, you had the hardest time right then, not any of them.

“You’ll end up agreeing anyway,” Javier said out of the blue.

“What?” you asked, bewildered.

“Because this is bigger than any of us. It’s gotten out of control. For fuck’s sake, this is controlling our lives, it’s owning us! And… you’ll go with you agent instincts because you are a workaholic like me and Steve, and you’ll go with Pacho.”

“Because it’s an easy decision to make, isn’t it?”

“No. Because it’s duty above anything else, apparently. And because who better to make this kind of decision that the daughter of a former drug lord?”

You didn’t realize when it happened, but it did. Your hand swung down Javier’s way and slapped him across the face as hard as you could. Steve and Connie watched in agony and surprise and said nothing.

“Don’t you dare use that against me, ever again,” you growled to Javier. “Ever. I told you that in confidence, in a moment of intimacy and security. You don’t get to use my past against me or to dictate me what I should or shouldn’t do.”

You got in the car and drove away without saying anything else to either of them, anger practically seeping through your every pore. You just knew you would have another sleepless few days.

previous | next 

[ravenvsfox]

Things Fall Apart; the Centre Cannot Hold

Summary: He keeps remembering the chafe of Ronan’s shoulder against his ribs as they got oriented in his little bed, the glisten of tears and nightwash wringing his lovely eyes, the lonely twist in his unguarded late-night voice over the phone, the one that Adam had almost liked, because it meant that he was indisputably missed. It was worse, that Ronan had been trying so hard for Adam, because it was easier to tell when he stopped.

(Adam's perspective throughout Mister Impossible, as his worry reaches a fever pitch, and the two versions of himself begin to converge)

Word Count: 9.5k

Warnings: mi spoilers, death/suicide mention

A/N: batshit middle books my beloveds. adam pov or bust 😌

Read on AO3

In high school, Gansey would very occasionally call Adam in the middle of the night.

He would speak low and fast, his panic pinched between thumb and forefinger and held at a respectable distance. Adam would smother the receiver with his palm and step outside of his family trailer, listening hard for movement at his back.

The news was always the same: Ronan Lynch was on his latest rampage or bender, exercising his dark talent for bullying his way into people’s lives and then breaking down all of their windows and doors trying to get out again.

Gansey would fret and apologize, guilty for luring Adam out of his wolf-den, guiltier for neglecting his duties as Ronan’s warden. Adam would wait tiredly on the line for Gansey’s anxiety to exhaust itself, and then dutifully join the search party.

He would step into his beaten tennis shoes and pry his bike from the fence, silencing the silvery shock of metal on metal, and avoiding the reedy whir of the spokes by holding the whole thing aloft until he reached the gravel road.

From there, he would venture out into the abandoned Henrietta streets, the crunch of his tires cutting clean through the woolly midnight silence. He often circled the perimeter of the park nearest Monmouth, stepped through the great dark portal into St. Agnes, and nipped under the old bridge, squinting into the darkness for the challenging shoulders, the oil-slick BMW gleam, the slump of a body or clatter of bottles.

This is a part of Gansey that I admire, he would think. And with equal fervour, this is a part of Gansey that I resent. This blood attachment to Ronan, who was not even attached to himself. The insomnia that seized two heads of the lopsided Cerberus that Adam, Ronan, and Gansey were all part of, a restlessness on either side of him that shook him awake over and over again.

He chased Ronan’s shadow, hating him. Hating his thoughtlessness, his privilege, his chokehold on Gansey’s interests, his purposefully and continuously ruined potential, and yet bristling with anxiety at the idea of finding him bleeding.

They hadn’t known then that he was a dreamer, but they’d felt the ear-popping pressure of his grief, glimpsed the hulking animal of his self-loathing, urged onwards by the twin spurs of Declan and Gansey, the past and the future, digging into his sides.

Adam had seen Ronan, teeth bared, hurling himself at rock bottom, and he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pulled him back by the collar.

Things are completely different now, but he still finds himself sleep-raw and petrified, reaching after Ronan in the dark.

He examines himself in the mirror of the communal bathroom in Thayer hall. The overhead lights are an unflattering yellow, the sink has a long dark hair stuck to its basin, and Adam’s face is gaunt and bruised with lack of sleep.

He’s losing it, a little bit.

He takes his own pulse, focusing on the faraway burble of the ley line. Everything, lately, seems far away.

As if through a stranger’s eyes, he slips from the seafoam tiling and bleach tang in Thayer’s North bathroom to the accordion door of the trailer toilet, the creaky cubicle shower, his gawky, hurt reflection in the burnt-out light. This version of Adam had to watch his best friend’s best friend escape suicide watch and get screaming drunk in public, treading mud and malicious dreams all over Monmouth manufacturing.

He can still smell the salt tang from teenaged Adam’s ocean of disdain.

Now that he loves Ronan, his irritation has only gotten sharper, more deadly. Ronan performs each perilous swan dive into the unknown, each foolhardy act of self-sacrifice, as if the people who care about him aren’t gasping spectators. It makes Adam furious.

Perhaps neither of them have changed as much as they wanted to believe. As Gillian keeps advising the crying club—with the confidence of a seasoned psychiatrist—progress isn’t linear.

He keeps remembering the chafe of Ronan’s shoulder against his ribs as they got oriented in his little bed, the glisten of tears and nightwash wringing his lovely eyes, the lonely twist in his unguarded late-night voice over the phone, the one that Adam had almost liked, because it meant that he was indisputably missed. It was worse, that Ronan had been trying so hard for Adam, because it was easier to tell when he stopped.

He slides fingers over his temples, smooths a knuckle over each eyebrow to ease the tension he always carries there. Sleep is a little knot of gristle lodged at the back of his throat; he can’t swallow it and he can’t spit it up. It never used to be this hard to put his problems to bed. He would worry the weight on his chest into small pieces, and go to sleep knowing that even the worst things about his life were organized correctly.

This time though, he’s out of sorts, divided, always busy but always spinning his wheels. He has a white-hot secret pressed to the roof of his mouth.

Every time he folds himself into bed, his subconscious helpfully reminds him that Ronan might be dead. And then a highlight reel plays in his head like an In Memoriam: Adam’s hand cupping Ronan’s nape, a barn silhouetted against a melancholy sky, a fistful of dreamt light, a dozen hard-won smiles and a hundred easy ones, a white handprint on a flushed thigh, a colourful joke to placate a brother, a kiss pressed to a dream’s forehead. All of that—gone. And Adam, at Harvard.

He highlights long patches of text in his sociology textbook, drinks a sensible amount of jack and coke at Eliot’s birthday party, declines Gansey’s calls by sending cheerful and conciliatory texts, and drifts through the library with his hand knotted in the strap of his satchel, looking for something that he can’t really articulate. He reads the same line of theory over and over and over and over, feeling like he’s scrying, like his focus isn’t his own.

He did all of this before Ronan went missing too, but now it’s a whole different class of performance. It used to be, I’m convincingly attentive, I’m sipping overpriced coffee on the way to class like a good Ivy leaguer, I’m making an impression on my professors, I’m forging friendships. Someday I will cash in these relationship tokens, and it all will have been worth it. It felt impossible that his life could be so simple and rewarding.

Now he thinks, I’m studying for finals and my boyfriend is being hunted by people whose job it is to kill him. I’m drinking a latte and the only people I’ve ever loved have left me, and I'm alone again. I’m putting my hand up in class and somewhere, Ronan’s life is changing, rapidly, dangerously, without me.

He lies to everyone, all the time, and tells himself that this life he’s building is more important than anything.

Once, as they cleared placemats and mugs full of stagnant coffee from the kitchen table, Ronan—still cobwebbed in his most recent dream—had detailed the sensation of hovering over himself afterwards. He was unable to manipulate his physical body or even really recognize it as his own, and his consciousness, detached, had its own limbs, its own intentions. He was like a parasite trying to wriggle back into its host.

Whenever Adam consults his double in a bit of glass, he imagines himself as a nimble dreamer, peering down, working to bring a fantasy to life. He can see his own outline, a slick college student with a flat, pleasant affect and a gaggle of soft-shelled friends. He plays his role impeccably well, but he can’t fit himself into it. If he passed himself in the hallway he would not stop.

Looking in the mirror now, he feels a red pang of fear, then a supercut of the ways he used to let himself love and be loved, then resentfulness hot on the heels of his worry.

His reflection withers, and he looks deliberately down at his hands. It’s a Tuesday, and he needs to sleep, or his tightly-scheduled Wednesday will be a misery. It’s a Tuesday, which means he hasn’t spoken to Ronan in—he stalls. Call me, he thinks, miserably. Just call me.

He can deal with a multitude of challenging and improbable situations if only he can see them clearly. Ronan is, for whatever reason, keeping him in the dark.

The not knowing is bad. It’s not how he functions. It’s not how they function. But instead of dwelling, he puts his back into the narrative that is now his reality: Impeccable student. Devoted friend-group. Tough break-up. Bright future.

Ronan isn’t here. Can’t ever be, physically, so far from the ley line. Adam has to be.

“Croissant, as ordered.” His gaze snaps up, connecting—not with his own image, but with clever, horn-rimmed Gillian. “They tried to foist it upon me without butter, if you can imagine that.” She deposits a crinkly brown and tan paper bag in front of him, and then two little plastic pots of butter. Adam regards the squashed shape of the bag’s contents with confusion.

It’s— “Is it Tuesday?”

“Wednesday,” Eliot corrects airily, licking jam from their thumb.

“My god, Adam. Whatever happened to your infallible circadian rhythm?” Fletcher asks. “You are the Swiss timepiece by which we measure our days.”

A terrible wave of vertigo strikes him, and he’s grateful to find himself sitting, at one of two conjoined wrought-iron tables in the courtyard near Thayer. He can feel the ley line breathing for the first time in a long time.

He must have gone to bed after his late-night breakdown in the bathroom. He must have. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was. His hand strays to his hair. Wet. He’d woken, showered, and met his friends for breakfast, and he can barely remember it.

“Sorry,” he chokes. “Sleep deprivation is catching up to me, I think.”

“Aw, chicken,” Benjy says affectionately. “I’ve sung those end of term blues. The profs think we’re machines. Don’t even get me started on Dr. Fraundberg’s Lit Crit for assholes.”

“Whyever would we?” Eliot says. “We want to make it to class before noon.”

“Har-har. You wound me. Adam you’d better get a tissue ready, I’m about to tear up.”

“Also,” Gillian says, pointing her be-honeyed knife in Eliot’s direction. “Speak for yourself. I want to make it to class never.”

“Your presentation is going to be exceptional,” Fletcher tells her. “Your rough draft already drove me into paroxysms of jealousy. I don’t know why you’re so concerned.”

“I don’t just want to pass,” Gillian says. “I want to win.”

“Admirable,” Benjy sniffs.

“You’re being awfully quiet, Adam,” Eliot says, at length. He’s aware that they’re all trying very hard to act like they don’t notice how poorly composed he is.

“Can’t a man savour his pastry, Eli?” Fletcher rumbles.

“No, that’s fair,” Adam sighs. The four of them peer at him expectantly, eyebrows arranged into an array of benign and non-threatening shapes. “It’s possible I’m having a slight breakdown,” he says, adopting the grim hyperbole of a student for whom finals are the beginning and end of their emotional upset.

Everyone at the twin tables indulges in a bit of mild laughter.

“What a coincidence, so am I!”

“Well if it’s only slight, I’ll stow my concern.”

“Harvard or personal?”

He smiles faintly, and says, “kind of both. The personal is political, or something.”

He thinks he’s laying it on thick, but Gillian grins at him. “'Atta boy.”

Fletcher goes to take a sip of his tea, but chokes when his phone lights up with an incoming text message. “Criminy, is it eight already? Starting the day with a bang, as usual. I’ll meet you at Weld this evening, yes?” he asks, shaking out his tweed jacket and thrusting an arm through it, securing the remains of his bagel between his teeth with his other hand.

“Of course,” Adam says. Fletcher gives him a thumbs up, mouth charmingly stuffed, and sweeps away across the now bustling courtyard.

“Hey magic man,” Eliot says. “Will you do a reading for my sister tonight? The break-up with Margot is hitting her kind of hard. I’m pretty sure she just wants to be told she’ll find love again.”

Adam watches the juddering impact of Benjy kicking Eliot under the table.

He shrugs. “First come first serve, but I’ll give her the friends and family discount.”

“You’re a prince,” Eliot says, blowing him a kiss. Adam tries to imagine any of his friends from Henrietta doing such a thing, and can’t. “Come along Benjy. Bookstore or bust. They’re giving out discount computing textbook codes at sixty dollars a pop.”

A slip of paper for sixty American dollars. Adam’s head aches profoundly.

Gillian waggles her fingers at their friends as they depart, then she turns and fixes Adam with that familiar amateur therapist look.

“What?”

“Are you sleeping?” she asks bluntly.

“I’m a very good sleeper,” Adam says wryly. “Ask anyone.”

“But are you actually doing it?”

“Yes, Gillian.” Liar, liar. “Do you want me to keep a dream journal as evidence?”

“Oh, yes please.” That shark’s grin. “I’d pay to know what the fuck is going on up there.” She taps her own temple to indicate Adam's guarded mind.

He spreads his hands between them. “I’m an open book.”

She hums, only half-smiling now. “I dunno. That Southern charm. I’m never quite sure if I should trust a politeness that perfect.”

“On that note,” Adam says, standing. He’s relieved to find that he’s wearing matching socks, and his pant legs are rolled just so. There’s a tiny streak of yellow on one of his shoes, and with a jolt he realizes that it’s dream-crab guts. He presses on. “Thanks for the croissant. And the psychoanalysis. Send me the bill.”

She salutes him with her coffee cup. “You couldn’t afford me.”

He laughs, and turns, and then spends the whole walk to his 9 AM class trying to straighten all of the haywire compasses in his brain so they point due north.

His assignment is in his bag, pressed neatly into a navy blue folder. He has three classes today, a meeting with his supervisor at three, a study block set aside from four to six, then dinner, then tarot readings all evening—his phone rings. His treacherous heart leaps. Ronan.

He stops mid-stride, scrambling for his cell in the front pocket of his bag.

“Hello?”

“I—oh—Adam! I didn’t expect you to pick up. How on Earth are you?”

“Gansey.” He exhales through his nose. “I’m just on my way to class.”

“Fantastic to hear your voice. How’s—not that one, Jane, the I-90—exactly. How’s Harvard? Are you batting away job offers yet?”

“Constantly. How are your nature hikes and hippie communes? Contracted any backwoods diseases yet?”

“Charming. I’m actually in remarkably fine form, health-wise.”

“Is that a brag?”

A guffaw. “More of a curiosity. It’s actually part of the reason I’ve been trying to get in touch. Have you noticed any surges of power from the ley line lately? I mean, of course you have, but do you have any idea what’s causing them?”

He frowns, pinning his cellphone between his good ear and shoulder as he heaves open the ancient door to the physics building. “I could give you my best guess.”

A beat, and then, “I’m listening, Parrish.” Something about the way he says it makes homesickness pulse painfully in Adam’s chest.

He finds a semi-secluded stone slab bench behind an empty stairwell, and slings his belongings across it before he replies, “Dreamers.”

“Dreamers,” Gansey repeats, but it sounds like he’s saying of course! “Plural?”

“At least three.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure yet.”

“Ronan hasn’t spoken to you,” Gansey guesses.

“Not—in a few days.”

“Is everything alright?”

He swallows, and is horrified to find tears burning at the back of his throat. There’s no pretending with Gansey. It’s why he never calls him.

“Adam,” he says quietly. “Is he in trouble?”

He struggles with his composure for several long seconds. “Possibly.”

A world-weary sigh. “I really wish you had called.”

“Yeah, well,” he says vaguely. He checks his watch. 8:23.

“So he’s playing with others. Why would Ronan want to do that?”

“I think—he’ll do anything not to feel powerless.” He understands as soon as he says it that it’s the pockmark in the windshield from which all of the damage is splintering outwards. “And people take advantage of that.”

Gansey makes a thoughtful noise, somewhere a thousand miles away, and it clicks in a lock and opens Adam’s shoulders up. Maybe he doesn’t have to be alone in this fight. How could he have forgotten careful, persistent Gansey?

“Well. He’s certainly not powerless. I almost feel back to my pre-Cabeswater self. Everything is pleasantly linear. And Blue is—lighting up.” In the background, he hears her say supercharged with relish. “I can only imagine what it’s like for full-blooded dream stuff, with all of that energy at their disposal.”

“I don’t know if I like it,” Adam says carefully. “It’s good for a while, helping all the Matthew’s of the world, and then what? Where does all of that diverted power end up? What makes dreamers qualified to harness it without their worst nightmares manifesting?”

“You’re worried about the Lace.”

The last time they spoke, Adam had told them briefly about his last scrying session, warning them to look out for the hateful, faceless thing that had pierced his cells and magnified all of his pain and fear until all he could possibly do was scream.

“I’m worried about Ronan. I know he’s in over his head, and I know he won’t believe it until it’s too late.”

“Sounds like someone I know. Don’t bite off more than you can chew with this, Adam. I know you’re enormously busy.”

It stings, a little. “I’m still going to—I’m obviously still going to make time for him. Especially when he’s—“

“Struggling. Yes. I understand perfectly.” It occurs to Adam that, unlike his well-meaning Harvard friends, he actually might. A needling murmur in the background, and then, “listen, Blue’s telling me that you should get in touch with the psychics, and Mr. Gray.”

He nods. The rhythm of problem-solving is soothing his frazzled nerves. “I’ve been considering it. I’m also pretty sure that Declan has been keeping his own tabs on things.”

“My money’s on yes,” Gansey says. Adam half-smiles. His money has been on a lot of things. “Poke around when you can. See what turns up. I’ll give Ronan a call, not that it’s ever done me much good before.”

“I’m pretty sure he ditched his phone.” He checks his watch. 8:24. It feels like it’s been much, much longer than a minute. There is so much day ahead of him.

Ordinarily, he would be compartmentalizing better than this. No feverish Gansey phone calls directly before class. No pleasure with his business. No finesse when logic will do the job just as well. But the subterranean, black-eyed Adam is still within him, tethered to the ley line and to his friends, and he wants very badly to fix this.

“Ah, Ronan,” Gansey sighs. “It’s always got to be him, doesn’t it?”

“I know,” Adam says narrowly. “If he’s not looking for trouble it’s looking for him.”

“You sound like Declan.”

Adam makes an offended noise in the back of his throat. Blue must be leaning across Gansey, because she says “that’s a new low,” almost directly into the receiver.

“I’m hanging up now,” he says flatly.

“Update me if anything changes? We’ll come home the moment things go south.”

He resists the urge to check his watch again. “Don’t cut things short on my account.”

“Well. Don’t disrupt your studies on Ronan’s. I’ve never known you to put your future on hold for anything.”

“I’m not—“ he stops. “Ronan is a part of my future.”

“Good,” Gansey says warmly. A test, then. And like most tests, there was never even a possibility that Adam wouldn’t pass.

______

It’s easy to tell when a dreamer is suffering.

As the energy from the ley line ebbs, dreamt creations judder and bolt like horses loosed suddenly from the service of a carriage, galloping towards safer pastures. If the dreamer is in more immediate peril, the dream simply folds its limbs into an agreeable shape and passes into sleep.

In the wee hours of Thursday morning, Adam lies awake in bed, dangling his hand between the wall and his bed frame, feeling along the subtle unfilled crack in the plaster. A flagpole casualty, from the day that everything stopped being enough for Ronan, and he slipped away on a dreamt current like a dark Ophelia.

He’s being dramatic.

He feels the drywall flaking, and digs his thumbnail into the split, wanting to rip the whole wall open with his fingers.

He keeps picturing Matthew’s half-lidded eyes, cloudless and blue as a wide prairie sky. The slouch of his posture, the tarnished golden head, the body briefly without a pilot.

Matthew had looked—Adam turns in bed, taking his chalky hand from the wall and fisting it in the sheets. He had looked like a faded old pillow, tucked unobtrusively into the chair by the window. He wouldn’t respond to Declan’s call, fluttering his drowsy lashes, and Adam had thought, ah. This is how I find out. His heart slumped over in his chest, dizzy with sudden grief. The tarot cards in his hands were dead leaves.

This is what happens when your life is tied to my brother’s, Declan had said, diverting his horror into scorn as he often did. The death of any one member of his family ensured the destruction of another. It had always been that way.

Matthew eventually roused, and Adam had closed his eyes and turned his face towards the ceiling until he could be normal again. He felt suddenly foolish for peddling lies to college students when magic was so obviously in the room with him.

Earlier, he had called Maura over lunch, and she vaulted right over small talk to ask him, with concern, about his loosening grip on his psychic inclinations. She’d said, “You do know that the ley line isn’t the source of your problems, right? Give yourself some credit. You can fuck things up in a completely non-mystical way.”

She pulled the Magician, reversed, and the eight of wands, and then, without further comment, passed the phone to Mr. Gray.

Unexplained weaponry, he’d reported. The Lynch brothers loosed on two separate worlds at the same time. Buttoned-up Declan for the first time unbuttoned, schmoozing with an array of dangerous and connected people, trading in secrets just as his father had. Purposeless Ronan for the first time with a purpose, wading out from the murky waters of his dreamspace and bringing the tides with him.

Bryde, the name in the corner of everyone’s mouth, joined all at once by Ronan’s and Hennessy’s.

Renegades, liberators of dreams, scorchers of earth. He could see, easily, why this would appeal to Ronan. A mission, finally. A father figure to guide his hand. A world that wanted his dreams, and wouldn’t crumple under the weight of his unusual ambition.

When they were teenagers, Aglionby was just another one of Adam’s jobs, but it was one of Ronan’s nightmares. He would go to school, a hooded bird of prey, seething with resentment and squandered ability. He longed for the Barns because of what they represented: the childlike belief that his family would never die; the possibility for creatures like him to roam free; a landscape powered by unconditional love.

Bryde, Adam knows, must be offering him the same relief. Exquisite flight, after the cage.

It’s not possible, is the thing. It’s a pipe dream. A Niall Lynch fairytale.

Foresight has never been Ronan’s strong suit. He gets it into his head that a solution is right up until the point that it falls apart in his hands. He throws himself entirely into belief. It makes him an extraordinarily loyal and trusting person. It also makes him stubborn, rash, and susceptible to manipulation.

He believes in one facet of something, and the rest follows. He can’t just take a sip—he downs the bottle.

Adam is a boy on a bicycle in November, needing to find Ronan alive so that he can hate him without feeling guilty about it. He never stops oscillating between resentment and love, reality and unreality, understanding and disappointment. He wants to be normal so that he can choose to be abnormal. Sometimes he wants the cards without the magic.

He closes his eyes and remembers a slumbering mouse against an angular cheek. He imagines Matthew like that, perpetually immobile, perpetually innocent, like a taxidermied puppy. The pieces of Ronan’s consciousness that will linger after his death, statues in a graveyard. Tamquam—tamquam—

What would Ronan be without his dreams? Here, Adam thinks. He’d be here.

He stays in bed for another wasted hour, and then stands up, disoriented, in the dimness of the room. Fletcher is snoring softly. Someone outside their cracked window is shuffling over the concrete stoop. His upstairs neighbour is playing tinkling soundtracks while he sleeps. Adam can’t be here anymore.

He plucks Fletcher’s laptop silently from its charging station, tucks his bare feet into stiff leather shoes, drags the cardigan from his desk chair, and lets himself out into the hallway. The glare from the overhead light pins him against the wall for a moment.

He shuffles half-blind down the hall and upstairs to the solarium, nearly losing one of his unlaced shoes in the stairwell in the process. The lights are blessedly shut off up in the attic, and he feels his way to the nearest of the tables hunched in the shadows. Aching with fatigue, he sits, unfolds his stolen laptop, and gets quietly to work.

He’s never had the time nor means to be truly proficient with technology, but he extracted a handful of leads from Mr. Gray, and he’s been in touch with a friend of Benjy’s—a computer science grad student and hacking hobbyist.

He chases key phrases down rabbit holes and assembles news articles, tracking Ronan’s movement by his “unexplainable” signature (code for mind-fuckery, joyful innovation, and dark humour). Adam is a practiced note-taker and serial obsesser, so it’s barely a strain to find Ronan—whom he knows better than anyone—cropping up all over the continental United States.

“What are you doing,” Adam murmurs. The sky lightens gradually to periwinkle. He has work today, but his shift doesn’t start until noon. His mouth is bone-dry, and his head feels cotton-stuffed the way it always does when he’s pushing his body to its limit.

When it’s late enough in the morning to be socially acceptable, he messages Benjy’s friend with the bare bones of what he’s looking for: a project under wraps, a lonely last name, a suppressed pattern. They correspond, remotely, until Adam is reading government files over watery coffee, wearing sweatpants, dress shoes, and a cardigan with cracked elbow patches.

He pores over it all, cross-referencing dates, and ignoring the widening sink-hole in his chest.

Industrial espionage isn’t at all Ronan’s usual brand of destruction. Highly controlled, not much up-front gratification. A little more political than Ronan usually leans. A lot more ambitious. Whatever their agenda, ley energy is flowing more easily now that it's unobstructed on such a large scale. Adam has been feeling its effects rippling all the way out to Boston, a persistent background pressure, unavoidable as a migraine.

It’s clear that the Moderators are desperate to eliminate Bryde’s party. Their reports are a comedy of close calls.

Slowly, Adam begins to understand the scope of things.

Billions of dollars in damages, manmade structures ripped from their foundations. Magical fugitives hunted by a team that specializes in murdering the targets they call Zeds. Visionary headlights pointed towards certain apocalypse. A world that is always awake, but always, always feels like it’s dreaming.

It’s pretty much exactly as he feared. Night terrors. The Lace. Beasts and legends. Adam holds his head in his hands. It’s more than what Ronan must be imagining. It’s more than Aurora waking happily in Cabeswater, powered by the swaying trees. It’s the indiscriminate waking of every incredible thing that’s ever been dreamed.

He’s struck by a wave of hopelessness that rushes all around him and tears at his hair. Ronan, dreamer of baubles that dispense music and light, cars that go very fast, and menageries of curious creatures, recruited to a cause that transmutes creation into chaos. Ronan, promising to wait, and then running full tilt at a future that can’t possibly keep Adam in it.

His dream half is going to destroy his human half, and he’ll take everybody else down with him.

If he could just see him, maybe—

His jaw creaks, teeth clenched tight against the emotional groundswell. The late morning sunshine strikes him, and he feel more like a vague, pale shape than a person. Like a dream, maybe.

Alter idem.

If Adam can’t reach Ronan, maybe the Moderators should.

He feels the weight of that awful thought burning a hole through his stomach lining. He can’t think about it. He needs to go to work.

_____

The next evening, he experiences a surge of power so acute that it nearly puts him in a coma.

It’s another Wednesday night, and another batch of his peers hitch polite smiles to his heels as he passes them by, winding his way up into the high, arched sunroom at Weld hall. They’re all wishing for magical solutions for their mundane problems, the opposite of Adam in nearly every way.

He bumps knuckles with Benjy and Eliot in turn, pulls up his chair, and knocks his last reading from Persephone’s deck, mostly out of habit. He consults his phone idly as his friends try to make pleasant conversation, holding up a finger when he finds a new batch of texts from Gansey.

John Amos power plant in WV shut down Monday

Intense. maura said she could’ve brought HER dreams to life afterwards

no word from Ronan yet? Leads from Declan? pls advise

I’ll assume no news is good news

He puts his phone in his satchel and fastens it closed. Every new scrap of information he gets feels like a stroll through Ronan’s security system at the Barns—hopelessness compounding and compounding until he staggers out the far end weeping.

He needs to focus on something productive. He nods at Benjy to start letting people inside, straightening the notebook where he usually scribbles his observations. Here, he is an adjudicator: powerful, organized, and reserved, tallying points and offering constructive critique.

His curious audience starts pouring in then, amateur wiccans and wannabe believers, aggrieved last-resorters and skeptics following friends’ recommendations. It’s a brighter collection of characters than Aglionby could ever have hoped to foster.

Gillian texts him to say that she just passed Weld and his line-up was out the door. He is a prim and unobtrusive con artist, a false prophet, and business is booming.

Eventually, a bespectacled girl who looks anywhere from five to ten years his senior sits across from him, tucking a bag armoured to the teeth with candy-coloured enamel pins between her feet.

“Hi,” she says nervously. “Anna.” She stretches her hands out in front of her, then thinks better of it and drops them into her lap.  “I’m not sure how this usually goes, so you might have to hold my hand a little bit.”

“No problem,” he says smoothly, passing his deck across the tabletop. “Just go ahead and shuffle. Concentrate on what you want to ask the cards.”

She does as directed, struggling a little to keep the papery stack in check. Not a natural born card sharp, then. He studies her neat black shirt, tucked precisely into a plaid skirt. A Marilyn mole drawn on just above the corner of her mouth. A pride flag pin he doesn’t recognize next to a cat wearing a cowboy hat, and the word “rude” in cursive.

She holds the deck fleetingly to her chest, eyes squeezed shut like a child making a birthday wish, and then plops it in the centre of the table. A card slips near the top, slightly uneven, and Adam plucks it free.

He hums thoughtfully. “Eight of cups. Okay. So you’re having some trouble with letting go.” She frowns and nods once, quick.

He lays out the rest of a simple five card spread neatly between them. A couple of stray swords, the chariot, a wand.

“It seems like things are stagnating in your personal life. Maybe your friend group used to feel like your family, but you feel like they’ve lost interest in you. And you love them, but Anna, if you’re being honest with yourself, you’re pretty sure you were done with them before they even started pulling away. Right now you’re kind of just going through the motions. A couple of years overdue to convocate, right? Everyone else moved on to greener pastures.” He taps his thumb thoughtfully against the bones of his opposite wrist. “It’s not even the loneliness that gets you. It’s the not knowing. Are you supposed to chase after them? Is there another community out there for you? There is, you know.”

He notices another card spilling loose, and he grabs it without thinking. The Magician again. He thinks, huh, caught in the coils and dust of Persephone’s overturned cards.

And then the waking world disappears.

Adam is airborne, tumbling up into the atmosphere on a geyser of ley energy, whipped by branches and light. He throws his arms out to stop himself, but he’s only a projection, so his momentum doesn’t slow.

Something—Lindenmere? The cosmos?—shows him a series of images: an upturned nose made from oil and turpentine, a coiled old tree stump, a red-haired woman grinning toothily and then exploding, a rose the colour of warm dark skin, a pale scar-split hand cradling a silky head, the animal haunch of something black, a terrible voice booming turn back—

He skitters away, panicked, and bumps into his own body. Or not his own body. A double, blinking confusedly in the bathroom mirror.

His doppelgänger turns to leave, and Adam reaches after him, through the mirror, following himself into a version of Thayer which is not Thayer. Everything is alive, in this reality. Energy sings and saws its fingers together.

It’s a memory, but it’s also the present, and it’s also a nightmare. Wake up!

Obediently, the city wakes.

He gasps, although he doesn’t have a mouth. It’s the heaving first breath of a sleeping witch, like Gwenllian turning in her grave.

Adam struggles against the current of wild power, thick and pungent as gasoline. Everything feels more intense near magical artifacts, dream stuff, supernatural fault lines, and it is with great effort that he hunts for something familiar, something heavy enough to bind him. He was unprepared for this, and although everything around him is bitingly familiar, he's lost. He wheels around and around, reaching for his most trusted tethers—Gansey, Ronan, Blue, Persephone—

Persephone.

He follows the lingering perfume of her intuition, feeling blindly for those old handholds in her tarot deck, that familiar grip, like the hilt of a trusted weapon.

And then he finds himself looking again at the girl, Anna, her fate bunched around her narrow shoulders. And then at his own empty body, a glowing card clamped between his fingers. As soon as he’s aware of looking at himself, he’s looking out of himself, and he stands up quickly, overturning his chair.

“—Adam? Jesus Christ, are you okay?”

“What on God’s green Earth was that?”

A palm between his shoulder blades.

“Don’t touch me,” he chokes.

The hand retreats. A murmur: I’ve never seen him like this.

“Is it—is it bad? Am I going to be okay? Is it bad?” Anna keeps asking, horrified.

“You’re fine,” he manages to say. “I’m sorry.” The ‘o’ in sorry comes out a little wide and swerving.

“You went blank,” Benjy says, voice high with residual panic. “For like—ten minutes. Beyond hyper-focus.”

“I thought it was a gimmick,” Eliot says. “But a ten minute gimmick? What is this, Las Vegas?”

“I got carried away. I have to,” he swallows. “I need a minute. I promise everything’s fine.”

“Do whatever you need to do,” Eliot says quickly. “But, fair warning, I’m going to ask you a hundred questions when you get back.”

“And then I’m going to ask another hundred,” Benjy says. “Magic man.”

“A riddle, inside an enigma, wrapped in a sweater vest,” Eliot muses. He can tell they’re still shaken. He’ll have to deal with that, later.

“I'll be right back,” Adam says, touching them very lightly on the shoulder as he passes. The ley line is bursting, and he feels so flushed with its vitality that it almost makes him sick.

He stumbles past them, all the way out of the building and into the street. The winter air tears at his thin shirtsleeves, nips at his sock-less ankles. He shields his eyes against the sun, watching a bird swoop low overhead. A silvery, seagull-sized thing, but with knobby legs that taper into—he squints. Hooves?

He keeps moving, propelled by the mad urge to catch the bird, to pin the wild magic down so he can understand it.

Adam walks for what feels like a long time, trying to find the source of all of this haemorrhaging power. He spots a couple of fidgety-looking students, a few more curious creatures. Somewhere, faraway, there’s music crooning, and it sounds exactly the way a hot shower feels.

He stops in the middle of Oxford street, head cocked towards the natural history museum across the way, the orderly buildings, the sparse evening foot traffic. Business as usual. All of it screaming with energy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a parade of scuttling creatures marching towards an invisible destination. Frowning, Adam crosses the street, chasing the peacock blue shimmer from an unfurled wing. He slows, stooping in the alley to pick one of the strange insects from the stream. He peers through a nail-sized hole in its head. Its spindly legs wave fearfully for a moment, and then it goes limp in his hand.

The ley energy punches out of him, and he sits back on his ankles, winded.

Adam gazes down at the jewelled beetle in his palm, its siblings scattered out like shell casings around his knees. Dreams, all of them. Briefly, impossibly roused in a dead city. He stands, letting the beetle drop from his hand and bounce across the concrete. He kicks them all hurriedly behind a nearby bench, mind racing. Bugs from an exhibit next door, no doubt. Dormant animals, transplanted from their habitats and pinned in place for decades.

What kind of ecoterror was wrought to bring about a flash flood of energy in a drought? How must Ronan be feeling, out there in the world, wracked with waking dreams? What unimaginable monsters were just stirring in the shadows because of him? Is Bryde one of them?

His lives are merging. The distant rumbling of thunder is overhead now, and the downpour is rolling in. There’s no way he’ll be able to keep dry.

Standing in that alleyway by himself, drained and ordinary again, he feels terribly alone.

He weighs his feelings against his logic for several agonizing minutes, standing still and watchful as a predator. He recalls the jarringly clinical accounts of Ronan's most intimate dreams, the sparsely encoded language in those government files outlining the world-ending dangers of something Adam had, for a long time, shared a bed with.

If something happens to Ronan now, it might kill Adam. If something happens because of Ronan, it might kill everybody.

Another minute, and he has his phone out and ringing.

“Hello?” Declan answers. Oddly, it’s not his usual prickly greeting. He sounds almost jovial.

Adam looks out into the darkening street, feeling like a death omen, a shadow across someone’s doorstep. “We really need to talk about Bryde.”

______

It’s the worst possible time for Declan to be withholding information from him.

Adam had graciously tipped his hand and Declan was, infuriatingly, holding back, as if this was a low grade in Ronan’s high school algebra class, and not the cataclysmic fuck-up of a powerful dreamer.

Declan, so uncannily like his brother in vulnerable moments like this, had thought of Matthew first. A world where dreams could stay awake, he’d marvelled. As if they could afford to think so small.

Once, Adam had awoken to find his arm glued to the bedspread. Ronan had dreamt a bee-less hive in the night, and it was oozing a steady stream of honey into the sheets between them.

“Score,” Ronan had said, when he’d rolled back into his body. “Sting-free. Fucking vegan.”

“What happens when we don’t want any more honey?” Adam had asked, critically. Ingesting dreams always felt like a slippery subject. “Does it shut off like a faucet?”

It didn’t. Ronan filled a dozen amber jars full, and then abandoned the hive in a dusty kiddy pool in one of the barns near the back of his family property.

A month later, Opal had crept in through a window looking for trouble, and emerged, shrieking, in a viscous flood of syrup.

Combing the mess out of Opal’s fur, her little legs slung across his lap, Ronan had complained about the magnitude of the clean-up job he would have to do, the special honey hoover he would have to create, what a waste of a dream it would be. Adam reminded him of his faucet idea.

“Too late for that, Parrish,” he’d griped.

It was their pattern. A marvel, too good to be true. Adam, the skeptic. Ronan, too in love with creation to care about consequences.

Eventually, it will all be too late.

Ronan will pursue this liberation fantasy, this golden daydream, even if it never stops oozing. Even if it makes the whole world uninhabitable.

______

That night, Adam tries to scry for the first time in months.

He gently pushes the crying club—only tenuously placated after the tarot incident—to have drinks without him, claiming stress-induced fatigue. He leaves his study notes open and blinking on the bed, lights a sad little tea light, and casts himself out into the ether.

Straining hard, he searches for the familiar contours of Ronan’s dreamspace, plucking the distant strings of the ley line and listening for the particular timbre of Ronan’s consciousness.

He doesn’t like walking this tightrope without a net, but Harvard isn’t exactly flush with psychic spotters. He keeps a delicate balance, far from his body, inching closer and closer to Ronan’s mind, the safe plateau at the end of this rope.

Eventually, he finds himself in a grey bedroom. It's full to the gills with water, there's a toy sailboat bobbing past at chest height, and storm clouds huddling nervously on the ceiling. Adam’s hair plasters instantly to his scalp.

“Ronan?” he calls, sloshing through the curiously luminous water. It starts raining harder. A familiar, curly-headed child stares at him through the darkness, eyes sharpened into silver points in the moonlight. “Ronan?” he asks again, gently this time.

A muffled sentence, a sad, crumpled expression, and then Adam is staring at a closed door.

“What—let me in! Ronan!” He pounds at the door. “Come on!” He can still feel rainwater, unnaturally warm on his neck.

A voice in his head, not Ronan, whispers, turn back.

“No,” he snaps, knocking harder. “Just let me—“ A sudden gust of wind in his sails, and he’s ejected from the dream altogether.

He pinwheels for a horrifying, weightless moment, struggling to tune back in to the feeble light from his stubby candle, and then dragging himself, hand over fist, back to his dorm room.

“Fuck, Lynch,” he says, when he has a voice. “Don’t be stupid.” He recrosses his legs, shaking off the pointless, clinging feeling of rejection.

When he tries to reach out again, searching, searching, Ronan’s expecting him. He never makes it past the threshold.

Back in his body, he knocks his candle over, relishing the controlled destruction, the spill of wax, the sizzle of the squashed wick. A fire he can actually put out.

______

The next time Adam scrys, Ronan looks like himself. Maybe a little scruffier, with what looks like a tunnel piercing on his right ear, and a rare openness to his posture. He’s lounging in a pasture up against a sleeping cow, boots up.

As Adam watches, he tips his shaved head back into its mottled hide, and the sun makes his eyelashes into lit matchsticks. He loves him very much. He’d almost forgotten.

“Don’t lock me out,” he says quickly. Ronan opens his eyes, and when he sees him he smiles instinctively.

“Adam,” he says, vaguely. And then he locks him out.

“No,” he cries. “Would you listen to me.” He feels for the fissure in space and time, the pocket where Ronan is dreaming, sweetly and inaccessibly, about the only home Adam has ever known.

Nothing gives. Nobody replies. He crawls back to Harvard, weak with misery.

In the next dream, Ronan is older, driving a boxy jeep over a foreign landscape. Rolling Irish hills, skies humming with artificial energy. A woman who can only be Jordan Hennessy, chattering in the passenger seat.

Then it’s Ronan with his head in his dead mother’s lap, stroking the downy wing of a black swan.

Then Ronan and Hennessy again, opposite one another in a sunny gallery. One of them examining an impressionist portrait no bigger than a postcard, the other examining the exit.

Then Ronan, discovering Matthew’s corpse in a dim hallway, blinking furiously at the stranger crouched over his prone body. “What did you do?” He sounds like a kid reprimanding his sibling for getting them both in trouble.

Every time Adam gets close, some defence mechanism stops him, like a firm hand against his chest, pushing him away again and again.

He doesn't know what to do except keep trying.

______

Blankly, he looks down at a sink full of tinfoil and uneasy water. In pieces, he becomes aware of his surroundings—green stalls and laminate countertops, a row of hundred-watt lightbulbs, and somebody rattling the locked doorknob.

“Adam, are you in there?” Fletcher. “We’re going to be late. It’s nearly ten. Adam?”

“Just a minute, sorry,” Adam slurs. He stares closely at his face in the mirror until he recognizes his own features. He has an exam at 10:30. He glances down at his watch. 9:52. He had been so sure that he could just drift for a few minutes, maybe catch Ronan before he woke up. That was almost an hour ago.

He drains the sink, hands shaking, cuffs getting damp. The lightbulb filaments float behind his eyelids when he blinks. He throws his satchel over his shoulder, smooths his hair up and out of his eyes, and rubs the bags under his eyes until they hurt.

When he lets himself out of the bathroom, Fletcher is directly outside, tapping a nervous rhythm on his hips. His hands fly from his body and into the air at the sight of him.

“Adam! Thank god. I’ll cancel the search party.”

“I got lost in my notes,” Adam says, as they both make for the stairs.

“Of course you did,” Fletcher says warmly. “A supremely Adam move. I just hope you’re taking care of yourself. Gillian thinks you might be—well—not spiralling, but—“

“I’m handling it.” He takes several mental paces backwards. “Uh—poorly, clearly. I’m sorry Fletcher, I didn’t mean to snap.”

Fletcher, to his credit, recovers quickly. “I can’t imagine going through my first semester of college and a break-up at the same time. You’re a stronger man than I.”

Adam rather doubts that Fletcher can imagine going through a break-up at all, but he nods conspiratorially. They hop down the last few steps and out into the chilly sunshine together.

“You’d be amazed what one can do out of necessity.”

“Too true. We all have our hidden depths, don’t we,” Fletcher says thoughtfully. For a moment, Adam considers telling him—something, looping him into this tangled web with him, but then he says, “now, chapter twenty-three wasn’t on the outline, was it? I beg you to say no. Lie, if you must.”

And Adam is a student again. He doesn’t have out of body episodes. He doesn’t carry wads of tinfoil in his trouser pockets. He doesn’t keep deadly secrets from people whom he is mostly pretending to like and understand.

They walk onwards, towards a test which Adam will rouse himself for long enough to ace. Then he will think of the next thing, and the next. Appease these school acquaintances of his. Tinker with finicky car engines. Make flash cards. Drift into the beyond using one of Fletcher’s three-wick candles from pottery barn. Text Declan, who activates Ronan’s accountability in a way that Adam does not. Call Gansey, if he can bring himself to face his disappointment.

And clear away his feelings, which keep pouring out of him like so much honey.

______

Ronan hangs up on him, and Adam holds himself in the biting wind outside the library for a very long time.

He’d thought, if he could only speak to him, that he could begin to undo Bryde’s poisonous influence. They know each other. They’ve known each other. Ronan would listen to Adam’s fears as he always does. Adam would appeal to Ronan’s heart, which tends to ache for helpless things. They would see how lost they had become without each other. Adam would be allowed back into Ronan’s dreams, and Ronan would be allowed back into Adam’s future.

Why didn’t you text back?

As if they’ve been suspended in time since Ronan’s last tamquam, and none of it—the running away, warding his dreams against Adam, abandoning his phone, trusting a complete stranger over his friends and family—had ever happened.

It’s absurd. He should have expected it. Ronan was searching for a reason to stay, and when he looked for his reflection, his second self, Adam wasn’t there. For a single moment, he wasn’t there, and now he’s paying for it.

Impatient, wrathful Ronan. Leaping from the moving vehicle because Adam was going the speed limit. Going rogue, and then calling Adam with all of these stinging accusations, like he was the one who’d been abandoned.

He thinks again of Bryde manipulating Ronan, preying on his loneliness, his love for his brothers, his fear of himself. This big bad rumour, older and crueler than the Lace itself.

And Ronan letting himself be manipulated, putting on blinders, using Adam’s brief silence as an endorsement for a glorified joyride with unthinkable global ramifications. Self-destructing because things got a little too quiet.

Adam feels hot rage taking ahold of him with its sticky fingers.

Then he thinks of Ronan saying I need to see you, his thin, frightened voice finding Adam from somewhere out there in the city, and his anger goes clammy.

There’s no way Ronan will call again. Negotiations were off as soon as Adam refused to house them both from the Moderators.

And now, without Hennessy, Ronan is the last arrow in Bryde’s quiver. He’s going to be the explosive that brings everything down. He’s going to be buried at ground zero.

If I'd replied an hour sooner, would he really have waited? If I’d gone to school closer, would I have noticed him disintegrating? If I explained that my dream isn’t what I thought it would be either, that he’s the only thing that feels real, would he have said it back to me?

After everything that’s happened, am I going to be the one who gives up on Ronan Lynch?

Everything is so fucked.

He calls Declan.

He picks up on the first ring. “Parrish—”

“He hung up on me,” they both say at the same time.

“Mother of God,” Declan moans. “Then there’s no hope. He thinks I sold him out to the Mods.”

“Did you?”

“No. I did exactly as we discussed. I negotiated for his safety. I thought—I mean, you said it yourself, Adam. Being anti-apocalypse is a pretty solid platform.”

He shakes his head. “Ronan won’t see it that way. He’s not like us. He doesn’t want to be moderated even a little bit.”

“Believe me, I know that. The way he was talking—about the world screwing them over, all of them, dreamers. That’s not the way my brother thinks. That’s all Bryde. And now he’s taken him—Christ—Christ knows where.”

“He wanted to see me,” Adam feels compelled to say. “He was trying to come here.”

“He said that? That's good,” Declan says, relieved. “Where—“

“I let him get away,” Adam says, through numb lips. “I let him go.”

______

He texts Gansey, things have gone south, and then he turns his phone on silent.

His puts his fingertips to the floorboards, a knobbly hand on either side of a scrying tableau: the leaping flame of a candle, a well-organized pile of cards, his overturned phone and discarded tie. He’s just finished crying, and he feels volatile and ill-prepared even as he ties himself to the flickering light.

His mind races through the night like a skipped stone. Vaguely, he pictures a vast body of water and a glittering mountain range, with no horizon line in-between. Darkness reflected in darkness.

“Ronan,” he calls. The dreamspace whirs and grinds its gears and won’t reply. “You know this is wrong. You know, or you wouldn't be hiding from me.”

It’s all water out here in this sublime mirror-space, but it’s also warm, like the steam rising from a hot spring. Something is moving, changing things on a chemical level.

For a moment he thinks he sees himself, a wan doppelgänger with its hands raised. But it’s not Adam. It’s Bryde. Cool, sturdy, a pale Atlas holding the dream together on his back. He recognizes him instinctively.

Adam deliberately throws his mind closer, into the terrible heart of this fire Ronan is creating. Smoke whispers and catches all around him, and it’s even harder to tell the difference between things now. No horizon, no seam, no reality, no death.

What have you done? What are you doing?

The heat is quickly becoming unbearable. Adam is stretched too thin, and the fire is fraying him, eating through each fibre of his connection to reality.

Ronan, please, I need you to stop. I’m losing my grip. Listen to me.

And then, without any warning at all, he collapses on his dorm room floor.

He hacks and retches, lungs full of phantom smoke. Everything feels very wrong. He thinks for a second that he’s blind, but it’s not his vision, it’s another, less tangible sense, it’s—

He scrambles backwards on his hands, heaving. He tries to pull himself up onto his bed, head first, then chest, but he has to stop with his face buried in the comforter.

Ronan is—he must be—he’s—

“God, no, oh my god, no, no.”

He needs to throw up. He needs to call somebody. There’s complete silence in his head.

He was slingshotted back to Cambridge, swatted back along the zipline to his body, because there was nowhere else for him to go.

He’s sure, in a very non-magical, intuitive way, that every dream in the world has just collectively collapsed. Adam staggers to his feet. There’s a smoke alarm going off, somewhere. A background hum of electricity groaning as it shuts off. A high, scared voice.

As if in a trance, he goes to the window.

There are five dead lightbulbs in the nearest row of street lamps, what looks like a sleeping child out in the middle of the square, and a woman clutching her chest and sitting slowly on a bench.

Panic is deadening his senses, crawling blackly into his mouth and nose and eyes. He thinks of Matthew sitting weakly by the window. Opal slumped over a stump in the woods. Chainsaw falling from the sky like a stone. Gansey’s Cabeswater heart decaying in his chest. Ronan, either dissolving into nightwash or felled by a Moderator’s bullet, dead, lost, or powerless.

Every morsel of magic, every innovation, every cherished friend, every sacred place, turned off like a faucet.

The world outside, drooping and disconnected, is now exactly as ordinary as Adam has been pretending it is.

The ley line is gone.

[ill-skillsgard]

Faust x Faith - No Looking Back

Warning: 18+ smut, public sex, violence, blood, arson, implied death, mentions of non-consensual touching (nothing explicit and no r-words used,) mentions of stalking, unconsciousness, anti-religious themes, strong language.

Note: Hey, hey. I’ve wanted to write this for a while, but haven’t had much time. This isn’t based on any requests—just something I feel needs to happen to move the universe along. After this, I’ll be basing future FxF stuff off drabble requests instead of going story-heavy for a bit. Likes, comments and reblogs are suuuper ‘ppreciated!

Summary: - Not based on Lords of Chaos. I use Faust!Valter’s likeness only as inspiration - 3.6K words -

Faust makes good on his word to protect Faith, taking drastic measures to assure her assailant never bothers her again.

Read more Faust x Faith here [x]

Thin raindrops pattered the man's leather jacket as he walked through the streets with his hood drawn up and his eyes low. For two days, the drizzle persisted and melted the black snowbanks into slush. Though the dismal atmosphere kept most inside, Sven had good reason to travel across town on foot. The promise of a girl's company waited at the end of his route, and he put off his regular nightly routine of masturbating to fetish porn for—what he hoped was—the real thing.

He glanced at his cracked phone screen every few minutes to check in with her, making sure she hadn't changed her mind, that she was serious. From the earnestness of her messages and the speed at which she replied to his questions, he determined she meant what she said about wanting to meet. Finally, his luck was turning. He’d show that miserable bastard Faust who was the better man.

- What abt ur bf? Lol

- What about him? Not here, is he?

- Thought u were a good girl.

- Haha, not really. Are you close?

- Ya. Y r we meeting at this random place?

- I need you to promise you won't tell a soul. If you can prove that to me, maybe we can keep meeting up.

- Lol ok. I PROMISE I won't say a word😉

- Thank you. Hurry, please. It's cold out!

- Be there in 5. I'll let u wear my jacket altho idk might not need it😉

- Hehe omgosh. You're making me blush.

- I'll make u do way more then blush baby. Just wait.

Sven lengthened his strides and turned the corner onto a hill leading toward the industrial area of town. Down the slope, he walked past several warehouses and legions of trucks parked inside barbed-wire fencing. It was a peculiar site to meet up, but his rendezvous insisted on a place nobody would think to look.

Betting his night would take an erotic turn, Sven popped a piece of gum in his mouth and chewed away the cigarette taste. He was seconds away from the spot she chose to meet, and his chest constricted with excitement. His boots crunched over gravel and garbage as he walked down a narrow alley between two faceless buildings. There was an open lot at the end of the lane, where he assumed she was waiting. As he made his way through the dimly lit alley, he whistled to make his presence known. The shrill tune reverberated off an overflowing dumpster to his left, and as he stepped to clear the reeking trash receptacle, something hard and blunt swung out at eye-level and flattened him to the ground.

Dazed and blinded from the sudden strike, he tried moving his mouth, but only a bubble of blood popped from his lips. A piercing stream of sound filled his ears as the edges of his vision turned dark. A large black figure came into view above, haloed by the soggy grey sky in the deepening veil. The featureless shadow chuckled deeply before a heavy boot's tread put out his lights.

~*~

Several hours passed before Sven's eyelids shuddered. By then, his assailant had had plenty of time to tie him to a wooden chair and organize his instruments of punishment. A headache blistered through the man's skull, throbbing in his eye sockets until he gained enough consciousness to open them. When he saw the person who had knocked him out, his throat closed and the gasp ripping through came out high-pitched.

"Faust... Please... Don't—" Sven hiccoughed. "Don't do this. I'm sorry. I'm SORRY!"

Faust, who had been facing the doorway at the end of a long red runner, turned toward Sven, holding a hammer's handle in one hand while cradling the head in the other. A malicious smirk peeked out from a curtain of black hair. He took a step forward, the clomp of his leather boots echoing through the church. Each step made a menacing sound that bit down on Sven's nerves and rattled his sensitive skull.

"What are you apologizing for?"

"I know you hate me, but please, don't hurt me. I swear I'll never talk to her again!"

Faust approached, flashing the obsidian hammerhead. He tossed the tool in his grip and stuck his hand into his pocket, producing several five-inch nails.

"No! God, no, please! Faust! Don't do this!"

The black-haired giant stopped to admire the curve of the hammer’s prongs. Sven looked around the empty church and saw a jerrycan taking up space in a nearby pew. He immediately started struggling against the jute rope binding his wrists and ankles to the chair as Faust drew nearer, smile uncoiling.

"I already gave you the chance to never talk to her again. Remember?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Sorry means fuck all to me. You should know that. The only reason you left the campsite with your dick intact is because of the witnesses," Faust said, then spun around with his arms out, showcasing their solitude. "Now, it's just you and me."

"Please don't," Sven muttered through swollen lips. "Fuck, I'll do anything!"

"There's nothing you can do. Nothing a sorry sack of human waste can provide this world to make me change my mind."

"SHE LIED!"

Faust jingled the nails in his jacket, reminding Sven who held the weapon.

"Whatever she told you... It's not true! I was at the party, but I didn't do anything to her!" Sven's voice cracked.

"Oh... So you didn't follow her into my bedroom?"

"No! I talked to her for a minute, and that's all. That's all, I swear, Faust. Don't kill me."

The stomp of boots neared the altar where Sven struggled in the chair. He twisted to loosen the rope and slipped one hand out. Faust grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the arm of the chair, readying a nail between his lips as he gripped the hammer. Sven let out a scream, stifled instantly by the hammerhead. Faust wedged the metal between his teeth and hissed.

"Shut the fuck up, or I'll use this to smash your teeth out like a goddamn window. Understand me?"

Sven nodded and quaked as Faust placed the tip of the nail against the soft, flat part of his forearm.

"Stay still. If I fuck up and hit the Radial or Ulnar artery... You could bleed out before I'm done. Gotta get it right between the bones." Faust slapped the pale skin to reveal blue veins. He pressed the nail’s tip in place and rose the hammer above his head, bringing it down and stopping short of the head as Sven shrieked.

Faust cackled. "Jesus Christ, dude. Did you really think I was gonna nail you to a chair?"

Sven groaned, relieved and moist with cold sweat. "Faust, I'm serious. Please, man. You gotta believe me."

His dark laughter continued, bouncing off the high ceilings, the wooden pews and polished floors. As Sven let out his own nervous chuckle, Faust brought the hammer down in one swift pull, then slapped his hand over Sven's gaping mouth to stifle the screams. Howling, Sven rattled his head back and forth as a searing bolt of pain tore through his right arm, crackling in his shoulder where it burned and burned.

Faust tore his phone out of his back pocket and brought up a video, slamming the screen into Sven's face. The video of him grabbing Faith in his room while he was states away watching the live feed from the camera he'd set up on the desk.

"I knew these little cameras would come in handy. See? I know what you did, you stupid fuck. And you know what else? I would have just beat the shit out of you had I not stopped by your place before our little meeting."

Sven whined, tears pouring from his eyes in steady streams.

"Oh, yeah. That's right. I went into your room... Saw some interesting things on your computer. At first, I thought it was just standard fucking creep shit. Snuff porn, torture... Teen girls. None of that surprised me... Until I dug around and found your little stalker file buried in your folders. You didn't even encrypt it. How fucking stupid are you?"

"I'm sorry," Sven shook.

"Why are you apologizing to me?"

"I'm sorry for touching her. I should have left her alone."

"What'd you think was gonna happen? That she wouldn't tell me? Or that I wouldn't believe her? And now I know you've been following Faith around, taking pictures of her, you fucking predator. And what about those other women, huh? You sorry about them, too?"

"Yes! I'm sorry. I know I have problems! I'm trying to get help. Please, Faust. If you let me go, I promise I'll do it. I'll get better. I haven’t hurt anyone!"

Faust shook his head slowly, grunting in refusal. "No. I meant what I said when I told you I'd crucify you if you went near Faith again. I'm doing the world a favour."

Sven hung his head and bled from the grievous wound pinning him to the chair, shuddering weakly from his injuries. Faust would never relent. He'd witnessed the drummer's cold disdain, the malignant hatred living inside that made him turn to the dark with open arms. Faust wasn't an actor. He pledged himself to the darkness with unyielding conviction, never one to take such things lightly. This realization depleted Sven's will to reason with the man.

Faust gripped another thick nail and drove it through Sven's left arm, smiling as blood dripped from the wood onto the church altar. The violent yelps filled Faust with morbid delight as he pressed the bloodied hammer under his victim's chin and raised his face.

"You're gonna die tonight, Sven."

"What makes you better than me? You'll be a murderer," Sven stuttered. "You hurt people, too."

"You and I are not the same. Don't ever compare yourself to me. You're a coward, and I warned you. Tread on what's mine, and I'll destroy you. That's what I said."

"All this over a girl? Are you fucking crazy!?"

Faust stooped to one knee, looking up at Sven as though the insult had cut him. Faust's brows arched, bottom lip jutting outward as he studied Sven, who closed his eyes. Then, Faust rose to his feet, leather stretching from the motion. Faust tapped his chin, smiled, and leaned over to whisper, "yes... Totally fucking crazy."

With a powerful kick to the chest, Faust sent the chair and Sven toppling backward. He then unzipped his pants, pulled out his manhood and giggled as he emptied his bladder on the weeping man. While Sven cried and moaned, Faust closed his zipper, whistling merrily. He left Sven on his back and snatched the jerrycan from the pew, taking slow, calculated steps while twisting off the cap and dousing the altar in gasoline.

As the gas trickled, Sven's desperation mounted. He could not flail, so he screamed. Faust gently reminded him what he'd do to Sven's teeth if he carried on shouting. The pinned man blubbered and begged, but Faust ignored his pleas. Inside his head, all Faust heard was the sound of flames rushing into a circle around Sven, crackling over the carpet and up the old church's wooden beams. By the time the roof caught fire, Faust had planned on being long gone.

"Please, Faust... You'll regret this! I know you're a serious person, but this is too far. You won't be able to live with yourself!"

"Wrong. I couldn't live with myself knowing I let a vulture like you walk this planet freely." Faust poured a trail down the floor runner, far away from the altar. He tossed the can aside and looked up at the Catholic saints' stained-glass portrayals and Jesus at the center of it all, staring down with sad eyes. Faust took a book of matches from his pocket and ripped one from the bunch, running its tip across the ignitor strip until a small flame burst to life. Faust flicked the match to the ground without a second thought, and the flame ate up the gasoline trail swiftly. The church was illuminated, and the colourful glass windows came to life. Faust raised his eyes to the forlorn Jesus and leered while the fire spread.

He did not stay to admire his work or revel in the cries of a man burning alive. Faust fled before the fire consumed the church, not once looking back or wondering if his victim had somehow escaped. He trudged through puddles of slush, hair swinging in the wind, white shadows of breath leaving his mouth.

It was time to get back to finish the tour. But he had one more stop to make.

~*~

Faith left the mall after helping close the book store. She received small smiles and nods from the mall staff as they locked doors and unfolded security gates. Some of the people she had spoken to before, and some she had only seen in passing. Though she returned their pleasantries, inside Faith was fretting. She tried not to worry about her boyfriend or ask where he was under strict orders to go about her day as usual.

She stepped into the evening air as the sun sank, taking the blue from the sky along for the descent. Wisps of white cloud stretched across the pink and violet above. Faith took in a deep breath and walked to the bus stop situated between a movie theatre and a dollar store. She popped her earbuds in and turned on a song that reminded her of Faust; one he wouldn’t like. His music taste had no room for the upbeat indie rock she enjoyed. Still, she smiled when the lyrics reminded her of him.

The scent of cigarette smoke caught her attention, and she looked around, finding no culprit. She wondered where the smell came from if nobody was around but soon forgot when the city bus appeared in the distance. It had to make a long trek around the parking lot before it pulled up at the movie theatre. Faith readied her bus card to scan as another cloud of smoke enveloped her senses.

Faith whirled around, and there he was, all black and leather, white teeth clutching the filter of a cigarette. Faust smiled, his words bolting from his mouth as she clamped her arms around him and crushed her face into his chest. The leather and musk brought tears to her eyes. She ripped out her earbuds and tried not to weep.

He hushed her, lifted her off the ground and retreated into the shadowed alley between the theatre and the store. By the time the bus pulled up, Faust had pressed her against the brick wall behind the building.

"Faust. Oh my gosh, where have you been? I was so worried," Faith gasped.

"Sh, don't ask questions, baby." Faust smothered her mouth, holding her thighs around his waist.

"Mm—I love you. Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re here! I love you so freaking much."

"I know you do," Faust breathed against her lips. "I love you, too, babe."

"Tell me where you've been!"

Faust shook his head and kissed her neck instead. She raked her fingers through his hair, knocking his hood down so she could see him unobstructed.

"Told you... Don't ask... Mmkay?... Stop asking... Just let me... Mm—fuck!"

Faith pulled his pelvis inward with her thighs, rubbing against his crotch and the heavy bullet belt wrapped around his hips. In their cloud of lust, Faust pushed his black jeans down just enough to free his erection.

"Fuck, I love your little skirts. Makes it so easy," Faust murmured.

The thought of Faust showing up disquieted her, but his lips on her skin and his desire thwarted these anxieties for a while. She set aside her questions, happy to have him in her arms again and overcome by arousal. When he stretched her panties aside and pushed into her, they both froze in expressions of excruciating ecstasy. Faust tilted his head back and closed his eyes, and Faith clutched his shoulders, already writhing from the intense fulfillment between her legs.

Just as she thought Faust might drop her, he bent his knees and hoisted her higher up on the wall. In his arms, she weighed close to nothing. She missed feeling tiny against him.

"Miss my cock?" He growled in her ear.

"Yes, baby. Oh my gosh, of course, I missed it. I missed my big man."

"Yeah? Fuck, I miss my little pussy," Faust breathed. "Mm, show me those gorgeous tits."

Faith unbuttoned her work polo and stretched the collar down around her breasts for Faust to bury his face. Though there wasn't an abundance of flesh to lose himself in, Faust shivered from the first taste of her nipples. With muted groans of pleasure, he rammed into her until Faith could no longer contain her cries, unaccustomed to his girth. Faust absorbed her whimpers with his mouth, coaxing her tongue until she only hummed.

He felt ferocious from the last twenty-four hours. If he could make Faith scream without drawing attention, Faust would have slammed her into the wall and fucked her until she shredded her vocal cords. He had to keep a low profile. Even visiting Faith was a considerable risk, but one he relished taking as she clamped her thighs and rutted against him.

He supported her ass in both hands and shifted off the wall to fuck her standing up. While he took her this way, she wrapped her arms around his neck and whimpered, whispering, "yes, fuck my pussy hard, big boy. Oh, I love that big cock inside me."

Faust unhooked and held her out so he could watch her breasts jiggle with every bounce. "You still taking your birth control? I'm gonna fucking bust so hard inside you, baby."

"Yeah. Yeah, baby, do it. Fill my pussy, please. I want your cum."

Her dirty talk and sweet sobs for his cock pushed him over the edge. He cradled her head as he pushed her against the wall and throbbed between her legs until empty. Faust pulled out and immediately turned her around and bent her over to watch globs of fresh cum dripping from her wet slit. He used one finger to push some of it back inside and had her suck off the rest. Afterward, he pulled up his pants and compressed her against the wall, one hand over her mouth while the other worked her clit in gentle circles. Faust didn't stop until she squealed and shuddered against him, muffled in his jacket and writhing from the manual orgasm.

When Faith calmed down, he released her and stepped away, pulling a cigarette from the squished pack in his jacket pocket. The lighter's flame created an orange halo around his face and promptly died. He smoked like nothing had happened while she fixed her skirt, buttoned her polo and zipped up her coat.

Faith smiled up at her lover, the night blotting out most of his features.

"I'm so glad you're home," she said.

"Not for long," Faust exhaled.

Her heart quivered. "Wait, what?"

"I gotta go back."

"When?"

"Tonight."

"What? No! But... You just got back," said Faith.

Faust shrugged, his leather jacket speaking for him. The evening matured, consuming the details of her hurt expression until the streetlamps along the road came to life.

"Why did you come here?"

Faust took one last long haul off his cigarette and flicked it down the alleyway. "Listen to me, Faith... You need to quit asking questions. I'm serious. The more questions you ask, the worse it'll be. And you and I did not see each other tonight. As far as you know, I'm on tour. Understand?"

"Yes," Faith said to appease him.

"I want to stay, trust me. But I can't. You know why. All the answers you want, you already have. Don't keep bugging, don't mention it ever again."

"I want to go with you," she whispered.

"No. You stay. Go to your classes, go to work, go visit your parents. Everything normal. And I don't want you moping around either. You put on that pretty smile, and you pretend for me. I'll call you in a couple of weeks before the last show and arrange a way for you to get there."

"What do you mean you’ll call in couple of weeks?" Faith whined. “What about goodnights?”

"I don't have a phone anymore."

"Why—? Oh, um... Okay. I understand."

Faust gathered the girl up in his arms and kissed the top of her head. "Good girl. I love you, and I miss you."

"I love you, too."

He tipped her face up and sensed tears forming in her eyes. Faust shook his head. "No crying. We'll see each other very soon. Just a couple more weeks."

"I know," she sighed.

"I love you more than anything, Faith. Now, go catch your bus. Should be here in a few minutes."

"But what about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I'm on tour. I'm not even here," he explained.

Faust kissed her again, smoothed his hands over her shoulders and turned her to face the bus stop. He urged her along. "No looking back. Hop on the bus and go do your schoolwork."

"Okay," she said, determined to make him proud. Faith walked out of the shadows and into the lamplight hovering over the depot. Across the lot, the city bus pulled in, and though she longed to turn around to see Faust watching over her, she kept her eyes forward and waited. When the bus pulled up, and the doors drew back, she stepped onto the platform and smiled at the driver as she scanned her pass. Faith took a seat in the back and put in her earbuds. She searched through a list of bands and selected the only one whose logo was illegible. As she pressed play, she listened to the immediate assault of the drums, their constant and violent beat. Faith smiled—warm in her chest and between her legs.

[apiratewhopines]

Thanks to @teamhook for the updated artwork. She’s the only person I know who will provide a gift for her own gift 💝

Thanks to @motherkatereloyshipper for helping me pick Killian’s hometown in this story and for being an all around lovely person

Midnight

Chapter 2 — The Stroke

Summary: In which our heroine does what she does best

Chapter 2 of 7 on AO3

“And my imagination will feed my hungry heart,

Leave me one thing before we part”

-A Kiss to Build a Dream On, Louis Armstrong

The spot he was referring to was an out-of-the-way pub serving the greasiest onion rings in existence and a lively clientele that didn’t notice it was one o’clock in the morning and all decent people were in bed. After days of getting by on breakfast bars and the memory of what a full meal tasted like, Emma thought she had died and gone to heaven.

Melancholy tunes droned softly in the background as she demolished enough food to feed an army. The pretty waitress earned her respect when the woman didn’t even blink at her handsome companion, and she liked to think she earned it back when she ordered three of their daily specials without a trace of shame.

Ignoring the way Killian watched with an expression close to awe as she stuffed her face, she happily gulped down a cup of coffee and observed, “Nice place. Come here often?”

“Not as much as I used to,” he murmured, taking a sip of his drink. “Tell me about this man you’re hunting. Is it personal?”

“Please, don’t make me lose my appetite. Surely we can come up with something else to talk about,” she groaned around a mouthful of beef and melted cheese. He had removed his leather jacket when they entered the pub, and his black short sleeve t-shirt stretched across his biceps in a manner entirely too distracting for comfort. Their high-backed booth made it feel as though they were on an island all by themselves, the dark wood and Tiffany lamps creating a cozy cocoon while still allowing a view of the nearly deserted dance floor.

“Ah, definitely personal then. Did he insult your honor? Break your heart? Have you ever even been in love?”

It stung how quickly he was able to see through her. Did she wear her heartache like a stamp on her forehead announcing to everyone she was an idiot? Ignoring the last question, she replied, “He hurt the only person who ever cared about me out of petty revenge. Neal Cassidy broke me. Now I’m going to return the favor.”

“Chills, darling.” His tone was teasing, but she thought she saw him shudder at her words. “I guess you don’t abide the notion of turning the other cheek.”

“Not when the first hit cost me my home, my possessions, and my peace of mind.”

“So he’s the reason you haven’t eaten in days and don’t have any luggage? Sounds like a lovely chap.”

“I don’t need your commentary or your sympathy, Captain. While I appreciate your help tonight, and I definitely owe you one for the meal, I think my past is closed for further discussion. Let’s talk about you instead. What’s your story?”

“I don’t have one, love. What you see is what you get.”

“What I see is someone dodging my question. Guess I’ll have to fill in the details myself then. Let’s see…thirty-something-year-old man who lives a life of boredom and pines for more while feeling stuck in his white picket fence world. You have a decent career in a field that pays well but decided to start a side hustle to meet new people and have something to do after eight in the evening.” Gesturing with her chin toward his forearm, she continued, “Currently nursing his own broken heart over the woman who loved and left him. The only thing I can’t figure out is what part of England you’re from.”

“Well, aren’t you the perceptive one,” he answered with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Although, I would argue it’s cheating since I have my emotional baggage inked on my skin for everyone to see while you carry yours around like an invisible tumor on your soul. As far as where I’m from, a man likes to maintain a little mystery.”

“Come on! You really aren’t going to tell me anything about yourself? After I guessed all that about you?”

With an unfathomable look, he smiled softly and said, “Fine, I’m from Cambridge. Now you know all my secrets. And allow me to call your attention to how well my devious plan worked. My first evening with my side hustle, as you call it, and I’m already having a late night rendezvous with a beautiful woman. One full of food and dancing.”

“There will be no dancing, Captain. But I wouldn’t be opposed to more food.”

“Not sure where you’ll put it, love, there’s no more room on the table. But I’m game if you are. Come on, one dance, and I’ll buy you a whole pie.”

She wanted pie but not as much as she wanted to feel his arms around her. She wanted it so badly her mind raced with images of skin on skin and restless hands exploring. Then her stomach twisted at the knowledge they would say goodbye soon. They probably should have already said it, truth be told. As she debated what harm could come from giving in just this once, he extended his hand and pulled her gently from the seat. Slowly, she felt a small section of her walls crumble and gave him a reluctant smile. “One dance.”

The soft music wasn’t loud enough to allow for an appropriate selection of dance style, but she didn’t mind when he gathered her close and swayed gently in time with his soft humming. She felt his breath stir the hair around her face and realized this was a mistake. Now that she knew how it felt, it would be harder to deny herself an encore. Especially knowing tonight was a one-time thing.

“Tell me something, Swan. Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“No, I don’t believe in love at all,” she answered. Her words conveyed her deeply held conviction that poets and Hollywood movie producers invented love to make people so miserable with the lack of it, they had to seek out fictionalized versions to find some measure of happiness. Her tone, however, sounded as though she was open to being convinced otherwise.

“That’s a shame. I think you’ll miss out on a lot of what life has to offer by being so close-minded and scared.”

“If I were scared, which I’m not, I have every reason to be. One of my foster moms told me a long time ago that love wouldn’t buy me a diamond ring, and it was as easy to be in a relationship with a rich man as a poor one. Easier really. I used to think she was a witch, but now I think she had a point.”

“Bloody hell, what exactly did that man do to you?”

She felt his direct gaze like a physical thing caressing her even as his eyes flickered with disappointment. “I told you. He broke me. And my bank account.”

“Money isn’t everything, love.”

“Excuse me if I ignore advice telling me to count my non-monetary blessings from the man who picked me up in his Beamer. It may not be everything but not having it leaves you with nothing.”

“A person who needs forty dollars a day and makes forty is richer than someone who has everything and needs more.”

“Now you’re just being silly,” she said as she slipped from his arms. “And when a rainy day comes? What then?”

“I recently took up being an Uber driver in my spare time, love. I imagine I’ll make more on rainy days.”

Laughing as she looked at his endearing face under the dim light, she shook her head. “About my pie…”

—

She knew what she was doing. She lingered over the large platter containing a sampling of every type of pie the surprisingly eclectic menu had to offer. She watched him with affection as he critiqued each in turn, always saving the bites with whipped cream for her. The best parts, in other words.

She was stalling.

The night hadn’t turned out as she expected. While her main goal was unfulfilled, she couldn’t make herself think of it as a loss when her sides hurt from laughing, and her troubled heart felt at peace. It was a pity it had to end. And not because she had nowhere to go, although that was certainly the case.

Slowly they made their way back to his car, neither one speaking as the noises of the summer night buzzed in the background. She’d said a lot of goodbyes in her lifetime, eagerly in most cases, but was strangely reluctant to add this one to the list. “Well, Captain, it’s been an expensive night for you. I think you better drop me off at the nearest bus station before I cost you any more.”

“You’re always trying to bring the conversation back around to money. Get in,” he ordered as he handed her into the car.

The air in the cabin of his luxury sedan felt heavy with expectation. Neither of them spoke nor hardly moved a muscle. She considered asking him to turn on the radio but didn’t want to miss out on the last few moments of hearing his even breathing next to her. Minutes passed, and it took her a while to notice they had left Storybrooke and were heading back toward Misthaven. “How much further to the bus station?”

“We passed it several miles back. You’re going to stay at my place.”

Under normal circumstances, this would be where she prepared to kick someone’s ass, but she knew deep down, as surprising as his announcement was, she had nothing to fear from him. Well, nothing except a repeat of the broken heart fiasco that was getting harder to remember with every second spent in his company. “Oh no, I’m not. What happened to no strings and no funny business?”

“Calm down, Swan. Our deal stands. I’m working the rest of the night so you’ll have the place to yourself. Trust me, the bed in my guest room is much more comfortable than a seat at the bus station.” Without taking his eyes off the road, he reached into one of the compartments in the console and pulled out a key. “There are some shirts in the dryer if you need something to wear. Help yourself to whatever you want. If you hang around until nine, I’ll even make breakfast. If you don’t, leave the key under the Welcome mat.”

“I think you better keep your key, Captain. There are two ways this could end, and neither one is pretty.” She gave him a sidelong glance and was mildly irked to see him grinning at her.

“Only two? Please enlighten me with your power of premonition.”

Heaving a sigh of frustration, she wished he would be logical about this whole thing. Sure they had attraction in spades; the very air around them seemed to crackle with electricity whenever their eyes met. But she knew it would fade, and the only thing left then would be goodbye. Better to skip the messy part and go straight to the end. “The first is I stay and have breakfast, and it turns into the day and then another night….”

“That doesn’t sound so bad, love. And the second?”

“I leave the key under the mat, and we never see each other again.”

“Hmm, option two is decidedly less appealing. I’ll take what’s behind Door Number One, please,” he joked.

“You think so until reality sets in and you realize you’ve taken in a stray with a score to settle and not a cent to her name. It won’t be long before the sight of me in your shirts makes you cringe, and you resent having to share the couch with a woman who has nothing to give.” She would know having been in a relationship with a person who was only capable of taking, and she vowed never to do that to someone else.

“I have half a mind to hunt down this Cassidy fellow myself after seeing the hit job he did on you. Listen, Swan, the key has no strings. Breakfast is just food. Whatever happens, happens. But if you think I’m going to drop you off at a deserted bus station with only the clothes on your back, fetching as they are, you’ve got the wrong idea about me in more ways than one.”

“I’m not yours to rescue, Captain.”

“You could be,” he whispered in a voice that made her skin tingle. He tossed her a half-hearted smile, eyes stormy with the knowledge she was going to turn him down. Again.

“The fact we both want me to be is warning enough it’s a bad idea. Come on, Killian, let’s call it a night now so we can remember it fondly in the years to come.”

His jaw clenched, and she was worried he was going to fight with her sensible argument. People didn’t meet people in the middle of the road and form attachments in one night. This wasn’t a fairy tale, and she was as far from a princess as a person could get.

Although she had to admit he made a rather fine prince.

Pulling off into a nearby gas station, he turned to her and said almost threateningly, “We’re not through discussing this.”

Then he stepped out and slammed the door as the sky opened up.

—

It was a dirty trick. She knew even as she did it, but it was for his own good. For whatever reason, he felt like he needed to protect her, and she needed to save him from himself. So she waited until he walked into the convenience store and made a run for it.

That’s not to say she didn’t have a brief moment of whimsy. She couldn’t stop herself from placing a kiss on the key he had casually tossed to her as if inviting her into his home and his life wasn’t a big deal. Then she carefully placed it on the dash, grabbing the newspaper from his backseat as an afterthought, and scurried away before she was caught.

Like a rat.

Maybe Neal was exactly the kind of man she deserved.

The rain beat down in a punishing way, her makeshift umbrella getting soggy and soft under the onslaught. She was so busy looking over her shoulder, convinced he was going to search for her and half hoping he was successful, that the sudden absence of the storm took her by surprise.

“Here, miss, it’s raining cats and dogs tonight,” the sturdy doorman of the fancy establishment she was passing said as he reached out to place his umbrella over her. The burgundy awning extended to cover most of the sidewalk and, despite the late hour, classical music was drifting from the open door. Limousines lined the street, spilling well-dressed patrons as they approached the swanky club.

Before she could maneuver out of the way, she was swept into a tide of rich fish, all glammed out and ready for the party to start or continue as the case may be. She overheard one woman, whose hat was so large she had to tilt her head to make it through the door, complain, “Regina’s parties are always so dull even nature weeps.”

Deciding a boring party indoors was better than a lonely night in the rain, Emma changed her stance and walked over the threshold with her head held high like she belonged there. She noticed the plaque on the wall as she entered read The Rabbit Hole and couldn’t help but think it was aptly named. With its marble floors and curving staircase, it was no wonder this wasn’t one of the stops on the Captain’s tour of town. This place was as high-end as they came.

There was a man collecting tickets at a small side table and, with only a minute to improvise, she was glad to see the stubs were roughly the size of the photo she was toting around, one of the few remaining possessions to her name. Without a moment of regret, she turned the photo face down, relieved the love note Neal had written on the back was faded and worn, so only his faint signature was legible. Luckily, the sheer volume of people entering the place meant the employee merely took it from her without looking to confirm it was what it appeared to be.

Following the crowd into a large ballroom off to the side, she saw a black grand piano played with a precise kind of violence by a wild-haired man in a tuxedo. The room was packed to the gills, the group she straggled in with taking the last seats on the far side of the room. The audience was appreciative but far from silent, conversations carrying on as if private concerts of this caliber were a normal everyday occurrence for them. Every time Emma thought she found a place to rest her sore feet and sorer heart, someone took it before she could get there and, in one near miss, she almost flattened a lap dog that warranted his own seat for the show.

Finally, after pushing her way through a narrow row, she found a place and asked the man in the next chair with a hint of desperation, “Is this seat taken?”

Shrugging a silent negative with brooding eyes that lit up when she neared, she tried to ignore the searching glance he gave her as she dropped into the chair and surreptitiously removed her shoes. She could tell by the hint of a smirk he noticed the movement, but at least he had the good grace not to comment on it.

He was handsome in a careworn kind of way. His tousled dark hair and thick stubble were eerily similar to the Captain’s look, and it made her shuffle in her seat with guilt. The man kept staring, his light-colored eyes settling somewhere between gray and green, keenly taking in her appearance and finding it amusing if the continued presence of his smirk was any indication.

As the final notes of the concerto echoed through the room, a burst of applause started. Now that she was fed and able to sit for a few moments, Emma realized she was exhausted. It was a bone-deep weariness far beyond fatigue, and she was fairly confident it could be traced back to a man with blue eyes and more charm than any one person should be allowed to have.

She wondered where Killian was now. If he had already given up or if he was wasting more time and losing out on more money combing the streets looking for his erstwhile damsel in distress. Emma knew what she did was for the best as surely as she knew she would be haunted by the feeling of his arms wrapped around her for a long time.

After a brief break, the musician approached the piano again. Before he could start hammering out another song with the intensity of a madman, a raven-haired woman stepped in front of the instrument. She called out in a commanding voice, “Pardon the interruption but does anyone recognize this man? It would seem there was a mix-up at the ticket counter and someone accidentally handed in a photograph instead of their invitation to this private event.”

Resisting the urge to sink deeper into her chair, she furtively looked around as the audience murmured amongst themselves regarding the unusual disruption. She could tell by the sardonic tone of the woman’s voice and the way she emphasized the word private she wasn’t convinced it was an innocent mistake. A scene would be made if the guilty party were found and couldn’t provide the appropriate documentation.

“Really? No one is going to come forward?” With an annoyed look at the assembly, she sulked, “Fine, I won’t waste any more of your time.”

She saw the woman hurry to the corner and carry on a quick conversation with a few men before the group disbursed and fanned out to cover the room. Feeling her luck was running out, she slipped her feet back into her shoes with barely a wince and slowly stood under the watchful gaze of her neighbor.

She needed to escape for the second time that night, but now she had hundreds of witnesses. Nonchalantly, she surveyed the room, trying to determine the best way. During this perusal, a man caught her eye, and she froze as he began to cut across the room to her side. So much for a stealthy getaway.

Her pursuer had an air of refined boredom with an edge of mischief. His graying hair was an attractive finish to a lean, well-dressed form. Cocking an eyebrow in disdain or maybe curiosity, he spoke quietly to not draw the notice of the surrounding crowd. “A word, madam.”

“With me?”

“Indeed.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Squaring her shoulders, she ignored the way her neighbor watched with rapt attention as she resolutely marched toward her fate.

@teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @motherkatereloyshipper @stahlop @xarandomdreamx @xsajx @klynn-stormz

[anjuschiffer]

The Fabric Roll Of Fate

So this has been sitting in my WIPs since October of last year... Finally had the time to finish it up! More like I couldn’t sleep so I finally worked on it

Hope you enjoy it!

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Tag: @theatreandcomicfreak @damianette-is-life @toodaloo-kangaroo (welcome to the permanent taglist!)

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It was one of those random family outings, one of those moments that Damian was reluctantly dragged to

He just wanted to stay home and train for the upcoming fencing tournament in his school, one of the few things that Damian looked forward to in the school year

Yet here he was, being held captive and listening to Garyson talk for the umpteenth time about his daughter’s latest adventure

Finding an opening, Damian slips off, walking through alleyways to escape his family, eventually arriving to the fashion district of Gotham

He decides to enter the first store he sees, seeing as his hands were starting to get cold

He hated Gotham’s chilly and cold seasons. Spring was his favorite season.

As he ventures inside the store, he starts to look at the fabric inside, now wondering why fashion designers were so picky with their fabrics

It was when he saw two identical rolls of fabric that he decided to investigate for his answer

As he runs his hands across two white fabrics (linen and velvet), he notices the slight differences, not noticing that he was starting to mumble his observations

It was then that his hand bumps into someone else’s Damian turning to see a girl his age.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to bother you!” She quickly apologizes. “You were probably in your zone and-”

“I was simply looking at them. You didn’t interrupt anything.”

Damian watches as the girl relaxes and smiles at him.

“I see. Well, if you need any help, I’d be happy to help! Is there a certain reason you’re-”

“I was thinking of hiring someone to make me a suit for an upcoming event-” Damian attempted to lie (although he technically didn’t as his family was looking for one...not like he was going to tell them about the one he just found), taken aback when the girl looked at him with twinkling eyes. What was going on

“A suit? So I’m guessing a tux, but if you want something to make you standout- but I think you don’t want that, huh?” She begins to look him up and down, quickly mumbling some numbers to herself. “Black or any dark color would suit you, but having emerald accents-no! Gold accents would suit you better.” Damian remains silent as she circles him, not once placing a hand on him. “Shawl collars, traditional or modern could work. Definitely single breast, maybe tail-oh god no. No tails.” Damian watched as her eyes filled with happiness. “A cumberbund would definitely suit you. That’s where I can place the gold!”

Damian kept listening as the girl kept listing ideas to herself, watching with awe as she kept the ideas coming, eventually snapping out of his trance when she presented him a card.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to make that suit. Of course! The decision is yours if you’d allow me to make it.” He watches as the girl points to a phone number and email address in rose gold. “Give me a call, text or email if you decide to accept my offer. See ya!”

Damian is left dumbfounded as he watches her go and pick some fabric rolls, purchase them and then leave.

“What just happened?”

Damian looks at the all black card in his hand. On one side was the phone number and email. On the other, the letters M D C were on the card, a single line going through the three letters. Simple, yet elegant.

Damian ends up accepting the offer, setting to meet the girl that Friday afternoon after his classes.

When his family attempts to tag along, he tells them no, setting on going alone.

“Welcome to my humble home.” She greets him after picking him up (she insisted despite Damian saying he had his own mode of transport) at the rendezvous and then to her flat. He was faced with one of Gotham’s most expensive penthouses, Damian wondering who exactly was this girl who can afford one of his father’s expensive hotels.

“Do you...live by yourself?”

“Yup! Although my uncle- oh! How can I forget?” The girl says, closing the door behind her. “Sorry for the late introduction! My name’s Marinette. The one behind the upcoming brand MDC. I’m currently here for a commission. Although, by the looks of it, I might end up staying here in Gotham.”

He’s heard of her, the decade’s youngest designer in the fashion world, or so he’s heard.

“Now, let’s start with getting your measurements, shall we?”

One visit became two, to then various

And they were mainly never about his suit that she was making him.

He didn’t know why he found him attracted to her place...to her

But simply felt at home with her

He quickly learns everything about her. Her old school life, her friends, her ex, her parents, hobbies, and old commissions. 

At first he thought she graduated early from highschool because of her bully, but it turns out that it was because she already had all her requirements done and seeing that there was no other reason to stay, she left. Also, having more time is what she needed if she wanted to succeed in the fashion world. So when her uncle (who he learns is Jagged Stone) offered her a hand, she took it and came to Gotham.

But Damian didn’t just listen, he also talked about himself

About Titus, his family, his fencing tournament. His opinions on Selina. His mixed feelings about his mother.

His family kept trying to follow him, but they have yet to figure out where he would go every other afternoon and evening.

Months pass, the suit already done and ready to be worn, but it still wasn’t the day of the Gala yet. But even then, Damian still stopped by, often times letting Marinette use him as a mannequin and dress form

Sometimes they would continue to talk about their mundane lives or things from the past that still ate at them, anything for Damian to simply listen to her voice because while he didn’t fully accept it, he knew he had feelings for her.

A scene that happens:

“And the worst part was that Alya knew she was lying. Lila was definitely not there because Alya was there. She was the one who saw Ladybug capture the akuma not Lila. Lila wasn’t anywhere near Paris when it even happened!” Marinette huffed as she tippy toed to make sure she was measuring the correct portion of Damian’s back. 

Damian felt her presence ever so close to him, causing him to panic. Yes, he only allowed her to invade his personal space, but this was too much for his heart. 

The aroma of baked goods always radiated from her and being this close only made Damian want to become obsessed with the smell even more. 

“So even with that in mind, this Alya decided to take the other girl’s stance?” Marinette let out a sigh, walking in front of Damian and throwing the tape measure around his neck, causing him to tense up. 

“Yeah, and I guess that’s what really made me snap to reality when it came to Alya.” Mari frowned at that, tightening the tape closer to each other to get a collar measure. 

Lord, did she have no idea how much restraint Damian had to put himself under for just wanting to kiss her right now, but he knew better than than. 

He took her hands away from the tape, noticing her eyes lacking that shine they usually carry when she’s in the crafting zone. He looked at her hands, covered in calluses and a few sewing mishaps. Even when they were covered in painful memories, Marinette hands were still gentle. “What’s gentle?” 

Damian’s breath hitched, realizing that he said that last part out loud. 

“You are.” Damian said, bringing her hands to his lips to kiss. Damian couldn’t help but feel victorious at the sight of Marinette glowing pink. “You’re a gentle and kind person. She doesn’t deserve your kindness if she was willing to quickly push you aside like that.”

Marinette looked straight at Damian before throwing herself into his chest, almost causing him to tip back. “Thank you, Damian.”

A few days were left until the gala, and it just had to be that time when his stupid brothers found out about his meetings with Marinette (and him coning to terms that he absolutely loves her)

“A girl, huh?” Jason would tease while Dick tried to gathering more information about Damian’s “friend”

“She’s simply designing my suit for-”

“The gala. Sure Lil’ D.” Grayson would say before wanting to pry more information from him. 

“Why don’t you invite her to the gala?” Bruce proposes, Damian no thinking about it

“Maybe I will.” He regrets saying

And Marinette ends up saying yes, now panicking about what to wear

“What about that dress?” Damian points to her almost completed black dress.

A high collared black dress with long sleeves was what Damian was referring to. With an open back and skirt that fell to the ground, it’s golden accents by the collar that ran across the chest...it would match his own all black suit with golden accents at the shoulders and cumberbund. 

“That.. that could actually work.”

Time skip to the gala, where when the two arrive, they steal the spotlight because not only did Damian arrive with a date, but she was stunning. Despite being three inches taller than him, Marinette was perfect by his side

“So Damian, what’s her name and how’d you meet this girl?” Jason asked first, but to Dick’s annoyance.

“Her name’s Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the one behind both of our attires.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Dupain-Cheng.” Bruce manages to say despite being surprised by Damian’s new development.

“So how-” Tim attempted to ask, but marinette cut him off.

“We met at a fabric store. A fabric roll brought us together.”

The night goes on, with it ending by Marinette asking Damian to be her boyfriend. (Damian then also reveals that he was also going to ask her to be his girlfriend)

“Of course.” He says, having to stretch to kiss her, glad to have gone into that fabric store that day.

Sure, it was weird, but Damian was glad to day that a single fabric roll decided their fate of meeting each other.

[the-bottle-tree]

So yesterday we lost one of our cats. He was a very stubborn boy and absolutely loved being outside. We would make him come inside when it was super cold or super bad weather but other than that he would stay out and not because we wanted him to be outside. There was one time he had been missing at supper time. Meal time misses are always a red alert for my husband and I with the outside feral cats….especially Kit. He loved food more than life itself. UNLESS he was punishing me. (I’m partially kidding.) He had missed a meal time and didn’t eat much at breakfast the next day. So I made him stay in the garage to keep an eye on him. HE REFUSED TO EAT FOR 2 DAYS. So we called our vet and brought him in and as soon as they put him in the cell he ate everything they gave him. They said he was in perfect health and sent him home with a b12 shot for good measure. He was back on his regular eating schedule after that but I was SO pissed he cost us $400 dollars in tests at the vet to see if he was okay and he was perfectly fine. Just not eating because he hated us for trapping him.

He was a talker. He absolutely loved to tell stories. He’d meow as soon as he saw you to let you know all about it! He loved our backyard and would sit in my lap in my swing and make biscuits all day. He had a set path of different sleep spots in our yard and you could tell what time it was by which spot he was in. There is still a trail in the grass from where he would walk every day. I pray it never goes away.

In February, Kit was in his second favorite sleep spot, a spot under a small bush in the front garden sleeping when three husky’s ambushed him and chased him. They cornered him at our neighbors 2 doors down and Attacked. We just happened to be at home so luckily we heard it happen and saved him. We got him into the vet immediately and they kept him overnight for observation. The cat survived and was in good health except for some bad arthritis.

It had been getting worse and worse for years and we had built him a cat run along the side fence because of it. We built it hoping that if something like that would happen he’d have easy access to an escape. The problem is that his sleep spot in the front yard was on the opposite side of the house so when the dogs showed up it was too far to get to.

After the attack we brought him inside. It was a transition and he went through fits of depression and he refused to eat for a few days until I was able to give him an appetite stimulant to get him to eat again. He would sit in the windows and watch the day go by and at night he’d sit with us on the couch then lay by my head at night.

A few weeks ago he stopped that and just laid in the bathroom floor. He stopped using the litter boxes and only peed on the floor until I got him pee pads. His blood work came back good. No diabetes. No thyroid issues. No kidney stuff. His blood was clean. He had a slight arithmia in his heart but that was it.

Sunday he kept peeing his bed and laying in it. He improved a little bit until yesterday but would get up and walk and then collapse. He did eat and drink water but would get tired and winded so easily. I was cleaning and in the time it took me to go get a sip of coffee he had disappeared from his normal spot. I found him wide eyed behind the toilet gasping for breath. I knew it was time. We took him to the vet and they confirmed.

He was such a good boy and he is so greatly missed here. My life was better because he was in it and I hope that in the end he knows how much we loved him. My one wish was that I could give him one more chin Skitch under the oak in our favorite swing. I know he hated it inside and just tolerated it because he hurt too much to fight us.

The doctor doesnt know exactly what was wrong. It could have been an underlying health issue but I think his heart just gave out. He was 19 years old and lived a long beautiful life. The above photo I snapped the night before he passed. I'm so grateful I thought to snap that photo.

Yesterday evening we did a beautiful ritual to honor his life on the memory bench. We chose to get him cremated and will be bringing him back home soon.

Rest in power sweet boy. You are loved so hard. We miss you.

[bailey-reaper]

How about a drabble of Barok serving as Klint's judicial assistant in his younger years, before he officially studies law to become a prosecutor? I like the idea of him becoming interested in and familiar with law from his brother. "Judicial Assistant van Zieks" has a certain ring to it.

Work Experience

Notes:

Oh that's a lovely idea, anon! I'd imagine that by the time he's promoted to 'Director of Prosecutions', Klint would most likely have been a very senior barrister known as a Q.C. ('Queen's Counsel'); they're also known colloquially as 'silks' because they 'take silk' (i.e. acquire a robe made of silk) upon attaining this lofty rank.

When a barrister becomes a silk/QC, they often only handle the most difficult (and expensive) work, but they will usually have a junior barrister assisting them (i.e. doing all the work, though I doubt Klint would conduct himself like that).

I can very much imagine Klint taking Barok as his junior and allowing himself to be 'led' by the latter. The term 'leading' basically means the barrister in charge of conducting the case where there's more than one involved.

Content Warnings: legal gubbins (that's the technical term btw... it's not); I take liberties with all things van Zieks, as usual...

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Klint's office was the very best place to study as far as Barok was concerned - the vast table in the centre of the room allowed him to spread his books out while the peaceful calm was greatly conducive to reflective reading. It was as good as, if not superior to, going to the university library. "Barok!" Klint said as he entered his room and shrugged out of his formal scarlet jacket, tossing it haphazardly on a coat rack, "What a pleasant surprise-- drink?" "Good afternoon brother," he looked up and nodded in greeting, "Mm, yes please. How was court?" "Fairly standard stuff," Klint sighed as he took two glasses and poured a measure of whiskey into each. Truth be told it was yet more of the depressing hypocrisy that grew ever-apparent to him day by day, but there was no need to sour a visit from his brother with such things. He set the glass down beside Barok and held up his own in a toasting gesture. Their glasses chimed melodically before both took a sip. Barok coughed a little, still unaccustomed to way whiskey punched the back of his throat when he swallowed it, "I imagine you were splendid, as always." "Oh?" Klint chuckled, his brother truly did worship him. Then, while he leaned against his desk, an idea came to him, "Hmmm! That's a thought..." "Huh?" "How about you take on a little work experience by my side, hm? I'm sure it would be fun to have you as my junior counsel for a while." "What? Really?" Barok looked simultaneously shocked and delighted, "I'd very much like to learn at your side, brother, I imagine there is much you could teach me about court etiquette and procedure!" "Then it's settled! I'll write to your professor and tell him you're to undertake a period of practical study beside me. After all, you're planning to become a prosecutor are you not?" he knew full well his brother intended to follow in his footsteps, which was incredibly flattering-- though he did have his reservations about what such a career might do to his darling brother's character. The younger nodded, "I should very much like to become a prosecutor." "Very good," he set his glass down and sat at his desk, taking a sheet of paper and his quill in hand, "We'll have that letter sent out today!" ──────≪⊰✥⊱≫─────── Barok had been to court many, many times but mostly to observe by way of the public gallery when safe to do so, or from a corner of the courtroom once he started being targeted due to Klint's ever-growing renown as the 'bane of criminals'. This, however, was on an entirely different scale: today he would be assisting with the proceedings -- a participant rather than a spectator. "You look nervous," Klint remarked as he stood beside his younger brother. "What... what do you mean?" "Your eyes," he said, chuckling behind his fist, "They're darting all over the place like a furtive rabbit's" "....O.. Oh..." he took a deep breath and shook his head, "I... didn't sleep much last night, my mind seemed to want to go over the case details again and again." "Mmmm, I had forgotten how it felt to be quite that nervous in court... still, it's good you feel that unsettled sense in the pit of your stomach. One should never be blasé about standing in this sombre hall of justice. It should always create a sense of disquiet, that is how you know you yet hold the essence of what it means to be an officer of the court," Klint took a glass and a decanter from under the bench and filled it with a small measure, "But, here, it doesn't hurt to settle your nerves." "Is that... whiskey?!" Barok uttered. "Yes, go on, for your nerves, little brother." He took a sip as directed, and choked again; still not used to that fiery punch in his throat, "T...thank you." Suddenly there were three loud knocks at the door followed by the court clerk's booming voice: "All persons who have anything to do before my Lords - the Queen's Justices - at the Central Criminal Court, draw near and give your attendance. God Save the Queen!" the clerk bowed to the judge then took a seat in the corner so as to record a transcript of the proceedings.

The Judge sat down, "In the name of her Majesty, Queen Victoria, I declare this court to be in session. God Save the Queen," the middle-aged man, whose hair was starting to fail him, though it was hidden under his white wig, cast his gaze over the persons in attendance, "Lord van Zieks, I see the prosecution has a junior member today." "Correct, my lord," Klint replied with a smile, "This is my younger brother, Barok, he desires to become a prosecutor, so I thought it only proper for him to accompany me on a few excursions so as to get a feel for the thing." "Quite right and very good," the Judge nodded, "I bid you welcome, young man, I hope you will learn much from your older brother, he is a skilled prosecutor and an invaluable asset to this court." "Y... Yes sir!" Barok said, standing straight to attention. Klint chuckled before placing a hand over his heart and bowing, "Thank you, my Lord, you honour me." "Now, Counsel, your opening statement, if you please." "With pleasure, my Lord..." ──────≪⊰✥⊱≫─────── Barok dutifully passed evidence and case notes to his brother as the case progressed, while also taking notes of things that struck him as important in terms of procedure, witness testimony and the general way in which matters progressed. He also made a few notes on Klint's control of the courtroom and general demeanour; the way he eloquently developed his arguments and appealed to the Jury with a seemingly effortless, poetic grace. It was a true masterclass in courtroom conduct and he longed to commit every second of it to his memory so that he might mimic his brother's style in the future. "I already told ya!" snapped the witness in the box, "I ain't never had nothin' to do with the gobshite!" Klint sighed while removing a handsome goblet, fashioned from silver and crystal, from under the bench and filling it with a measure of whiskey, "I'm going to overlook your use of a double negative, no doubt you'd have no sense of what that actually means, and presume that you're trying to deny all knowledge of the accused." "Double wot?" "Never mind all that, " Klint took a sip, startling Barok-- was his brother drinking in court?! The Judge didn't seem remotely bothered by it, in fact no one said a word. Did he do this often?? His brother continued, "You say you don't know that man in the dock." "That's right!" "Are you sure about that?" "W-Wot?! Why'd you keep askin' me that?! If you got somethin' to say about it then say it!" the witness looked flustered and vaguely guilty to Barok's untrained eye. "I'll do better than that," Klint said, setting his goblet down, "I'll show that you're lying to me, to this court and these fine men and women of the jury." "... U..urk..." the witness bit their bottom lip, "Yer lyin'! There ain't no proof to be had!" "I don't play games of bluff, good sir. Like any lawyer worth his salt: when I assert, I go on to prove what I'm saying," he held up a document, "Do you know what this is?" ".... Looks like a bit'o paper..." "It's a contract, signed between you and the accused. A... 'gentlemans' agreement of goods and for services rendered –– you, sir, would receive the stolen property from the accused and his associates, then sell it on for them via your Pawnbrokery!" "W-Whaaaaat?!" the witness recoiled, "W...Where'd you get that?!" "It was well hidden, I'll give you that," Klint replied with a smile, "But not well enough to escape my notice. You're as involved in this intricate criminal fencing enterprise as the accused!" The court descended into a shocked furor... ──────≪⊰✥⊱≫─────── "I think this is a good place to adjourn proceedings for today," the Judge observed after the breakdown of the witness, "Bailiff, have that man arrested and handed over to the Yard so he can answer questions about his involvement in this sordid affair!" The bailiff did as ordered and apprehended the witness.

"Thank you to both Counsel's, and our young junior, for their assistance today. We shall continue again first thing on Monday. Court is adjourned!" the Judge rose, nodding to the courtroom once before leaving.

Klint turned to his little brother and grinned, "Well? How was your first real day in court, brother?" "It... it was amazing!" Barok replied, eyes practically twinkling, "I was so awed by your performance! You truly are an exceptional legal mind and practitioner, brother!" He laughed, "Stop it... you'll make me blush!" "It's true! Though, I must say... I had no idea one could drink in court or kick the prosecutor's bench... those were most flamboyant and striking displays!" "Most people can't," Klint conceded, "But, well, it seems I have a flair for the dramatic. It must run in the blood... Our lord father was a similarly passionate man when it came to matters of court –– even when he occupied the bench as a Law Lord. Many a lawyer would refer to him as 'Good Lord Kicking' behind his back!" he laughed at the thought. "Wow... really?!" "Yes, really!"