#In the interim I have been FLOORED by everyone's response to it? Like?

[rahabs]

This Horror Which Bleeds [ read on A03 ]

He'd known, realistically, that Lilith was gone, and that she'd no intention of coming back. The knowledge didn't make Lucifer anymore prepared to find her mark engraved on the Radio Demon's soul.

Charlie asks her father to check in with Alastor after the hotel's reconstruction. In the process, Lucifer makes a discovery, and things get worse before they get better.

[creative-caramel-coffee]

The Addams Allergy

Pairings: Thornhill x Weems x Reader (platonic)

Word count: 1.7K

Summary: Reader's allergy is a thing of myth, and someone decides to do some myth-busting. This won't end well for anyone.

TW: allergies, anaphylaxis, needles, hospitals, ambulance, difficulty breathing, bullying, attempted manslaughter (fancy legal terms hehe), mentioned heart attacks, physical violence

A/n I have added a link at the end for very simple instructions for how to administer an epipen. Spend like three minutes reading it and save lives. Also please reblog the linked post to help other educate themselves as well.

You suppose it wasn’t too bad being an Addams. But then again you weren’t quite the same as your sister Wednesday. You were more of an interim between Pugsly and Wednesday. You were soft but not squishy, cold but not frigid. You were actually most likely the most seemingly normal of all the Addams’s.

But being Wednesdays twin, you shared many things, a womb (for all of nine tortuous months), black hair, pale skin and your most inconvenient shared trait, an allergy to colour. Luckily though you did not share a dorm. You were roomed with Yoko who was much more palatable than the ball of colour who was Wednesday's ‘roomie’ as the wolf-pup had put it.

Unfortunately, most people were sceptical bordering on disbelieving about the colour allergy. Taking it as another Addams lie. And you being the easier target of the two of you often copped the most teasing. Everyone knew not to mess with Wednesday, but you were slightly easier. You cared more.

Yoko and you were sat in the library studying at the tables down the back when a group of siren boys came in. They had been teasing you a lot as of late and Yoko knew about it, but you begged her to keep quiet, you didn’t want to attract any more attention than you already had.

The boys were quick to spot you down the back and grinned wolfishly beelining straight for you. You let out a soft groan and Yoko looked up.

“If they lay a hand on you, I’ll drain them dry.”

“It's fine Yoko. I’ve got this.”

“The same way you ‘had it’ when you got a black eye i had to help you hide for two weeks?” She asked with a deadset tone. You grumbled a response when you felt your chair being pulled back.

“Hey!” Yoko said, “leave her alone.” She started but one of the boys spoke with his siren song.

“Sit” he commanded, and Yoko found herself no longer in control of her muscles as she sat and watched helplessly.

“So, a birdie told me your allergic to colour?” The main boy said, he was light-skinned with deep rich blue eyes and blonde curls. He looked like the type to be a surfer with the tan he had.

“That would be correct.” You nodded trying to remain calm and mimic your sister's tone.

“Well, how about we check you still have this … so called ‘allergy’” he said in a mocking tone. Pulling something from his pocket, you tried and failed to stop your eyes widening.

Between his thumb and forefinger was probably the most colourful and bright piece of fabric you had ever seen.

Despite the allergy, you hadn’t given any of your friends and epipen for you yet and the only people who had one were the nurses and weems. So, in other words unless Yoko was fast at running because the headmistress's office wasn’t too far, you may be looking at the object that would kill you.

Drawing a shaky breath, you looked the boy in the eyes. “As much as i love attempted murder, this isn’t a good idea.” You said

“Huh? Really?” He mocked “You think your smarter than me, don’t you?” He sneered and you gulped.

“Obviously.” You muttered and the boy scowled. Before you could stop him, he pinned you to the floor and shoved the scrap of fabric in your mouth. Your eyes went wide, and you began to flail and kick wildly trying to get him off.

Yoko was screaming bloody murder which seemed appropriate on more than one front.

After a second the boy rolled off you and stood brushing off his uniform.

“See… lies.” He said as you rolled onto your stomach, propped up on your elbows and spitting out the wet cloth onto the floor.

“Gross.” The boy said.

“You moron, let me go i need to get her epipen.” Yoko screamed and the boy's face morphed into something else for a second.

“Wait is she … actually?” He asked starting to look a little scared.

“Yes, you tool what would she gain from a fake allergy. Now let me go.” Yoko screamed and the boy froze before bolting. Luckily as he grew further away Yoko felt his song fading. She stood running over to you. You were laid on your back gasping as the anaphylaxis began to set in.

“W-weems.” You rasped and then coughed, your throat feeling ridiculously tight. Yoko nodded.

“You’ll be ok Y/n/n. Im going to get weems.” She said and raced out the doors.

Yoko ran the fastest she probably ever had in her immortal life. In a matter of seconds, she was banging hand over fist on the wooden doors before she simply pushed the open wasting no time.

“Ms Tanaka-“ Weems began, she was sat on the couch with Ms Thornhill looking equally startled.

“No time… y/n … epipen…now.” Yoko said between gasps. In a second both teachers were on their feet. Weems hurried over to her desk throwing open the second draw and pulling out the epipen she kept there just for you.

“Where is she?” Weems said with a commanding and scarily calm voice.

“Library.” Yoko replied and the three of them ran to the room of books.

Yoko led the two teachers to the back of the room where you were still gasping. Luckily for them you were already on the floor which made this next part easier.

“Christ.” Weems said, “Marilyn, call an ambulance.” She commanded as she uncapped the giant needle.

The Botany teacher scrambled to find her phone pulling it out and punching in the numbers for the emergency services.

Weems mentally recited the rhyme from when she had to do this for Morticia as a student as she pulled off the blue safety cap.

‘Blue to the sky orange to the mid-outer thigh.’ She thought and in one swift motion she lined it up with your thigh, Yoko having helped her pull down your skirt. She quickly stabbed your outer-mid thigh listening for the click and then counting to three before gently removing it. She gingerly deposited the epipen on the table.

The two teachers sat either-side of you while Yoko sat next to Ms Thornhill on your left. Your breathing began to even out, becoming less and less raspy as the epinephrine began to take effect.

Ms Thornhill was still on the phone with the emergency services who had assured her they were on their way now.

Both teachers and the vampire sat and watched with bated breath as they realised your breathing had stabilised.

After about ten minutes you tried to sit up, but the headmistress placed a hand on your shoulder.

“No. Stay lying down the EMTs will be here soon darling. Then I’ll come with you to the hospital, and they’ll check you out alright?” She said and you nodded and laid back down.

“Can i come too? I need to tell you something.” Yoko said and Weems made a thinking face and then nodded.

“Yes. After all, I do need to know how this happened. The Addams family know their limits and are quite good at avoiding this so any insight you could provide would be helpful.” The principal said and Yoko nodded. After another few minutes of tense silence, the emergency services came in and the paramedics gently lifted you onto a clean white stretcher. You hated the idea but luckily weems made sure nobody saw as you were taken to the ambulance that sat by the nevermore gates. Yoko and Weems joined you in the ambulance and Ms Thornhill waved as you were driven off.

About an hour later you were being held for observation. It was another three hours before they would let you go. You were sat up in a hospital bed with Yoko and weems sat in plastic chairs beside you.

“This feels like one hell of a power imbalance.” You muttered and both of them laughed.

“Well, you did just cheat death.” Yoko teased and you nodded.

“As an Addams it's an expected weekly occurrence. Kind of like a grim ostentatious weekly period.” You grinned always finding ways to relate everything to blood. Yoko groaned dramatically and facepalmed.

“And as the principal of two Addams’s who weekly try and take me with them to then grave, I’d say I’m cheating death myself with the number of heart attacks you and your sister attempt to induce upon my poor heart.” Weems said sounding exasperated.

“It wasn’t y/n/n’s fault though!” Yoko exclaimed and weems raised a brow while you opted to look out the window and avoid eye contact.

“You never did explain how this happened.” Weems said gesturing with a sweeping motion to the bed you were still in.

“Well i guess now’s as good as any and i doubt Ms. I-cheat-death-daily is going to spill.” Yoko said before launching into an explanation starting a few weeks ago when the teasing began. It was safe to say the principal was outraged.

“I will not have students attempting to murder each other.” She huffed with pure unadulterated rage in her eyes burning with fire, rage and brimstone with the likeness of hell itself. The look would have scared Satan into being as straight as a nun.

In a matter of seconds, she drew a deep calming breath, and you were reminded of the saying, the calm before the storm. Then she opened her eyes again and excused herself, walking out into the hallway and pulling out her phone. Not even five minutes after Yoko’s story ended, she was on the phone in the school board arranging his immediate expulsion.

About a half hour later, Weems returned looking flustered but when her eyes settled on you, she deflated slightly and gave a tender smile in your direction. Her eyes locked with yours, scanning for any hints of pain.

She had also texted the anxious botanist who had agreed to come by once you were discharged to drive the odd team home. As well as ordering about a dozen epipens for all your close friends and her office.

Once Weems had decided you were defiantly not in pain, she walked over to your bedside and gently brushed the hair from your eyes.

“It's dealt with darling. Nobody will hurt you now.” She assured and you blushed slightly at the contact, leaning into her hand.

You were safe. Alive. Breathing normally. And safe … again.

Masterlist

How to give an epipen here

[the-haunted-office]

"Did you hear that, Stanley? That sounded like Doom," Thursday says, looking frantically over at Stanley as the two of them fly down the stairs into the basement, taking two, sometimes even three, steps at a time.

Stanley just nods in response, too focused on where he's placing his feet to speak or sign in return. It was a scream they'd heard, and not one of pain, but one of fury. Some shit was about to go down, and they needed to stop it before Dorian ended up hurt even more for it. The poor Office had been Retconned enough in the interim.

"Doomsday!" Thursday shouts down the basement corridors as she and Stanley continue to belt along. "Wait! Wait!"

(Cut here due to length!)

"Doomsday, stop!" Stanley shouts through his neural link, his own voice sounding weaker in comparison as the volume on the device can only go so high.

Together they reach the room where the Retcon has Doomsday cornered, only to discover... it doesn't have her cornered. Doom is kneeling on the floor, head bowed, as if waiting for the Retcon to take her, allowing it to reform her. And the Retcon is advancing, ready to take her, ready to reform her.

Stanley interjects.

"Wait!"

The Retcon pauses. Doom looks up.

She huffs. "What are you two doing? I'm giving myself to the Retcon so we can get this whole bullshit hullabaloo over with."

Stanley blinks. "You are? I thought you didn't want to be changed."

Doomsday sighs. "No, I don't, but if I have to change in order for all this crap to be over, then fine, just change me. It doesn't matter. How I feel about all this doesn't matter."

Thursday steps forward. "Of course it matters, Doomsday. Of course how you feel matters. That's the whole point of the Retcon."

Doom raises an eyebrow.

"It's not about changing for anybody else," Thursday continues. "It's not about... allowing yourself to be changed to- to fit in with what other people want or what they expect of you or what we think might make people like us or accept us more. It's about changing to- so we can grow. It's about changing so we can have a better shot at happiness for ourselves. It's so maybe one of these days, Doomy, you can look up and say, hey, I'm not a worthless piece of shit and I don't have to work so hard to make everybody think that I am too - I'm fine the way I am and if there are people out there who don't appreciate that, then who cares. Right? It's not about changing for them; it's about changing for you."

Down on the paper littered floor, Doom can feel pressure behind her eyes. Uncomfortable pressure. She doesn't want to let it out, even though some of it has already found its way out through the cracks. But that's all it takes, really. Just that small trickle through the cracks before the rest of the dam breaks, as they say.

She moves from kneeling down to sitting and sort of folds in on herself, like a cooked shrimp, and just... cries. She doesn't say anything, doesn't even try, because there's nothing to say. Too much to say. And she doesn't have to say it. Thursday understands. They are, after all, the same person, and who better to understand you than your own self?

Thursday approaches her alternate and sits down with her and embraces her. Doom leans fully into her and just lets it all out. Everything. All of it. A whole lifetime's worth of never being enough, or always being too much. One extreme or the other, but never that perfect desirable in between state that everyone seems to be looking for. What does it matter? It doesn't. But it does. But it doesn't. All at the same time. And it hurts. It hurts so much to know that no matter what she does or doesn't do it's never going to please anybody, or anyone, or even someone. And so she decided to do the opposite - please no one. And work extra hard to make sure that no one was pleased, because why have any hope anyone would ever like her? Why try? Why bother? Why get her hopes up when it all ended in her being hated anyway?

Stanley comes over to too, embraces her from the other side. Doom is one of his best friends, if not his actual best friend, and he hurts seeing her like this. Maybe she doesn't know it, but he loves her. And she doesn't have to be any different for him to feel that way about her. Why else would he follow her around and listen to her and let her lead him around on all her crazy adventures, even into dangerous ones? He feels safe with her, even when she's setting things on fire and jumping motorcycles over flaming school busses and blowing shit up and jumping off the roof and scaring the ever-loving shit out of him. If he didn't feel safe with her and didn't love her, he sure as hell wouldn't be sticking around for any of that.

It's been a few minutes, and the Retcon has been remarkably patient for something with no consciousness or thought or anything. Doom finally lifts her head, putting one arm around each of her closest friends and pulling them closer to her. Then, at last, she says, "I'm ready. I'm ready to change."

"And to give Dorian a break," Stanley interjects. "The Retcon has been reforming it too while trying to catch you."

"Oh, what. Oh come on, now that's just rude. What did Dorian ever do to you, you asshole?!" Doomsday scowls at the Retcon. And with that, she leaps up off the floor and jumps straight into the Retcon herself, causing it to recoil and roll backwards several feet until it bumps up against a nearby wall and comes to a rest.

There is silence in the basement while whatever battle is taking place in the Retcon takes place. In the meantime Stanley and Thursday just look at each other, and around at the mess on the floor.

"Eugh, it really is a horrible mess down here. These poor rats don't deserve to live in all this mess," Thursday complains, wrinkling up her nose. "I'm going to call the Conservatory and ask them if they can help these guys out. This is horrible! Really unsanitary. I didn't know it was this bad..."

Stanley nods in quiet agreement.

A pair of yellow glowing dots for eyes pops up between them and nods along as well.

"Oh, hey Stanley - er, Shadow, I guess, since now there are two Stanleys down here, ahaha," Thursday laughs.

The three of them wait, Thursday doing most of the talking until finally Doomsday is spat back out of the Retcon. Or does she come flying out of it herself? It's sort of hard to tell. Either way, she comes out of it with enough velocity that it sends the soiled papers piled up around the room up in into the air like a heavy gust just blew through there, leaving exposed rats and rat babies scampering around.

"Ah!" Thursday cries, and bends down to shield them from any debris that comes falling back down. Stanley tries to help as well.

Doomsday doesn't look any different. Not in the least. She, like the others, looks exactly the same as she did before the Retcon. Except... her smile. Her smile has changed. There's a different air of confidence to it now. One that's not as much cockied and "try me", but more so "I'm comfortable with who I am".

"Well, anyway," she says, brushing her hands together as though she'd done nothing more than just finished sweeping out the garage. "You guys wanna go get something to eat? I'm hungry. Pizza, maybe? Cheese and black olive for you and me, Thursday - plain cheese for you, Stanley? And, ah... I guess the leftover crusts for the rats?"

There's a shrug from Stanley and a thumbs up from Thursday. Shadow has already gone back to rubbing his eyes all over the mounds of papers. And the Retcon has vanished, back off into the hands of the Author, to see another day whenever it shall be called upon again.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

An update (and it's good news).

Hi everyone! Thanks for being patient with me. I have some good news to share. I'll put details below the cut for anyone who is okay with reading medical stuff, but for those who prefer to avoid it, the TLDR is that things are going very well, and I am hoping to start making a slow return to normal Tumblr/fandom activities very soon. I have missed you all so much, and I'm so grateful to everyone who reached out with such kind and supportive words. I love you all more than I can say.

And now, the details.

Gratuitous Darcy gif because I can't find one of Mr. Bennet saying, "Read on, Lizzie!"

We are at the midpoint of my partner's treatment course, and they had a progress check yesterday. We discovered two things: first, the bad news was that it was not just one blood clot, but many, running all through their thigh. For whatever reason, that information was not disclosed at the initial diagnosis. The good news, though, is that ALL of the deep vein clots have dissolved, and only the superficial ones are left. The risk of complications from the superficial ones is far lower, so a huge amount of stress has been lifted.

It took weeks for cardiology to see them, which was incredibly frustrating and nerve-wracking. But they finally did a full workup and found that their initial diagnosis was either inaccurate, or it had resolved in the interim, which was a massive relief. It honestly felt like we were sitting on a time bomb, and so not having that looming over us feels very freeing.

Their doctors have not attempted to find the cause of the clots, but they have a follow-up appointment scheduled with their vascular surgeon at the end of the treatment (in six weeks). We are hoping that they will try to track down the root cause at that point, but we also know that they are likely to need surgery to repair the vascular damage from their preexisting condition, so this is likely to be an ongoing issue until that is resolved. That said, it seems that the immediate, life-threatening danger has passed, and for the first time since early June, I feel like I can breathe again.

During the past several weeks, we've had some long conversations about how we are going to move forward from this, and one of the decisions we reached was that we will likely be staying in this house longer than we originally anticipated, so we need to make some changes to it to make sure it is accessible and will accommodate our bodies as we age. With that in mind, we started planning several significant renovation projects, some of which are now already underway. These range in scale from installing safety railings, to a large remodel of our downstairs so we can have our bedroom on the ground floor. We honestly should have done this years ago, but living in a construction zone is my own personal version of hell, so I've been procrastinating. But this situation was definitely a wake-up call that we need to take care of these things now instead of waiting for them to become emergencies.

As you can imagine, planning and carrying out those projects (in addition to dealing with the medical stress and continuing to work full-time and take care of all my usual responsibilities and commitments) is taking up all of my energy and attention right now. I haven't had time or inspiration to write, but since getting such good news yesterday, I can already start to feel the sparks of creativity coming back, so I am crossing my fingers that I'll be able to pick that up again soon. I hesitate to commit to any deadlines, though, because my brain is just too unpredictable, and what little inspiration I've had recently has been for original fiction.

All of which is to say that I'm hoping to start returning to the fandom very soon, but I will likely be a bit less active than I was before, at least for the next several weeks. Thank you again for your patience and for sticking with me through this. You've all been so kind and lovely, and I feel incredibly lucky to have you in my life.

🩵

Hiatus announcement.

Hi friends. I've got some stuff I need to focus on in my personal life right now, and I'm not able to balance that with keeping up with Tumblr and Discord. I'll be taking a hiatus starting immediately. I'm not sure when I'll be back, but hopefully it won't be too long. If you have submitted a request for a fic, design, or artwork, please know I'll do my absolute best to fill it when I'm back, but for now, I need to be present in my real life.

I love you all, and I'll miss you, and I can't wait to come back! I'll put a few more details below the cut in case you're interested. CW for medical issues.

My partner has been unwell recently, and this week, we discovered that they have a blood clot in their leg. Further testing revealed they have a serious heart condition. Unfortunately, they also have a preexisting vascular condition that makes blood thinners risky, but their PCP went ahead and prescribed a three-month course of medication for the clot since it's an immediate issue. We are waiting to hear if insurance will cover the meds; apparently this prescription gets rejected by insurers frequently due to the cost. (Thinking about the fact that some analyst in a cubicle could decide that my partner's life is worth less than a three-month course of medication is making me feel absolutely sick.)

They have more appointments scheduled with a cardiologist and a vascular surgeon, so for now, we're just kind of stuck in limbo. Their PCP gave us a long list of, "If x happens, go to the emergency room immediately. If y happens, go to the emergency room immediately. If z happens - you guessed it - go to the emergency room immediately."

At this point, I'm still trying to come to terms with it. My partner just turned 44. We have an active lifestyle; we eat healthfully; we don't drink to excess. We just got fucked over by genetic risk factors.

The scariest part is that we wouldn't have found out about any of this if they hadn't gone to the doctor for a completely unrelated issue. I'm trying not to think about it too hard, or my imagination starts to send me into a spiral.

Please allow me to get sappy for a moment:

If you've read much of my work, you probably know my partner better than you might think, as they inspire a lot of my characterization, either directly or indirectly. If you enjoyed the way I wrote Waxer in "The Sixth Language" or Jesse in "In Which Jesse Gets What He Deserves," then you have a good idea of their personality. They are extraordinarily kind and patient, funny and sweet. They have been here for me consistently for twenty years, first as my friend, and later as my everything. They've held me when I cried, and they've made me laugh every single day since I met them. They know me better than anyone in the world, and I trust them with my soul.

They are the only person IRL who even knows that I write fanfiction, and they have read every single fic I've ever written. They've served as my guinea pig when I needed to work through the physical mechanics of a scene, and they've listened to me ramble for hours on end about plotting and characterization. They've supported and encouraged me in this and so many other areas, and now it's my turn to support them through this.

If you've read this far, I just want to say thank you for all the love, support, encouragement, and kindness you've given me over the past year. This fandom community has truly changed my life, and I am more grateful than words can communicate. I hope to see you all again very soon, hopefully with good news. But in the meantime, please know that I love you all.

May the Force be with you. 🩵

[wwpia]

Part 2 -

Syd does as such, resuming paperwork in usual office - albeit no longer with partner across from him. (I imagine office floor plan is fairly compact but also is fairly fancy for a ‘police station’ type environment. This is like… the executive suit type room lol. See floor plan.

Syd filling out paperwork/reports - is called into chief’s office to discuss new reports/assignments

Syd walks to chiefs office, en route in elevator bumps into Faustus

Syd instantly hates him because he’s being gross (cramming an entire bag of crisps into his face at the rate of knots and pressing all the elevator buttons) assumes he’s a potential suspect and basically pushes him out of the elevator (They’re both twats here equally. Faustus is being obnoxious, Syd is being pretentious. They both started it.)

Syd arrives to the chiefs office - quick intro to Tammy as assistant chief of UK WWPIA. Chief/Tammy have a clear friendship/rivalry going on with a bit of banter

Explanation to Syd of assigning a new partner to him given the potential urgent state of drug reports/ongoing dangers to human/HPO alike (attempt at empathy as Sydney lost his partner but also need for someone to essentially protect Sydney. Syd becomes instant ice queen. Emotional constipation.)

Explanation of new partner flown in from the UK - substantial experience with this particular drug issue/has followed all leads extensively. Causing perpetrators to essentially flee the UK.

Wait for a bit as ‘new partner’s is clearly running late, bit awkward. Syd is not impressed at all.

Faustus arrives! Clearly has been running to get to office. Hostile recognition between Syd/Faustus as they realise that they actually have to work?!? Together?!?!?11111.

Initial start of planning collaboration by chief/Tammy, doesn’t get very far at all as Faustus/Syd start to argue - both fairly instantly and openly rejecting the notion of working with each other. they’re both equally childish, insulting each other looks, intelligence, country (oof) etc etc.

They pretty much are about to murder each-other (mostly due to Sydney calling Faustus a ‘mangy Monster mutt’ lol try saying that real fast. Faustus EXTREMELY insulted, threatens to rip his throat out, lovely). Tammy loses her temper and floods the whole office with boiling hot water (chief is just like, sighing and standing on the desk at this point)

Tammy gives them both a literal boiling hot telling off about responsibility, childishness, actually thinking about something else than their egos - like the children and people they are supposed to protect.

Made more effective by the fact both Syd and Faustus have to both stand on top of the chairs they were sitting on to avoid being boiled alive. Sydney nearly falls off his chair but Faustus catches him and hoists him bridal style above the broiling water. they both suddenly find that they have become mature individuals in the face of being steamed to death.

Tammy relents - satisfied with the progress. All water drains away (yep she knows exactly what she’s doing)

Funny moment as Faustus is just… still standing on the chair with Syd in his arms. Syd is extremely embarrassed, Faustus unceremoniously drops him flat on the floor.

Re-evaluation of case goals and chief orders Syd/Faustus to work together. Syd grumpy, Faustus cocky. (Turning Point 1)

Leave office with pretty much both Syd/Faustus threatening to get the other fired.

Chief/Tammy makes bets on who will break first - Chief bets Faustus, Tammy bets Syd. (Spoiler, Tammy always wins every bet).

Interlude later as Faustus settles into new office space, he’s unapologetically untidy and lives n ‘organised chaos. Sydney hates it so much.

Faustus asks about Yumez’ wing piece hanging on wall, Sydney basically tells him to stfu.

((Insert interim case - related but unrelated case here. IDK. A siren goes bonkers on HBO Uber drug and makes everyone jump into the sea. Syd and Faustus have to work together. It goes nowhere evidence wise. too much water.))

Actual work time - Faustus gives brief on information of his previous work in the UK. He has worked to discover various drug runners, indicators to show that drugs are more organised and stem from a previous military objective (essentially creating super soldiers to fight - both human and HPO). Although this ultimately failed, emerging strains of the drug are now popping up.

Faustus starts to explains the military project, although Sydney is already aware. Military scientist, experimenting in children/DNA extraction/monoclonal antibody production. Obv Faustus does not elaborate his own particular involvement as being a child subject of said experiments.

Joint acknowledge/understanding/discussion of seriousness of situation - not just ‘druggies doing druggie things’ but a whole repeat of tragedies past.

Both Syd/Faustus still clearly dislike each other but willing to put aside differences to work together (the enemy of my enemy is my friend? Kinda??) (Turning point 2)

Reports handed in about HPO turning feral/violent for no apparent reason - Syd/Faustus assigned to interview in person. Syd initially very reluctant (poor bby, ptsd from previous incident.) Faustus calls a lil bitch, service resumes as normal.

Syd/Faustus go to get info from potential suspect (not having confirmed anything, just attempting to ask those involved with incidents, asking witnesses etc.)

Highlighting Syd/Faustus different ways of working, literally a sort of bad cop/good cop dynamic. Sydney more authoritarian, direct, and willing to threaten with punitive action. Faustus exactly the opposite. Both unappreciative of the others approach.

Faustus’ instincts lead him to a Nagi street vender, Sydney (initially) hanging back as Faustus tell him to kindly FO. Faustus starts building good rapport with vender, pretending to be someone who wants to sort of ‘be more in life’ .

Vender suspicious but genuinely convinced by Faustus’ act (because it’s honestly half true), Faustus turns up charisma to persuade vender to give him some drugs. Vender gives Faustus a ‘sample of the goods’ - explaining its effects (feeling more powerful, having more energy etc)

Faustus just about asking where they came from when interrupted - second (human, magic user) accomplice to Nagi noticing Sydney’s WWPIA badge (as he’s still hanging around attempting to rubberneck).

Human attempts to attack Sydney magically (type of magic?? Undecided) - obv surprised to find Syd also extremely talented in magic use, they start fighting - they order Nagi to escape (obviously an underling of the human).

Faustus attempts to apprehend the Nagi, tackling them before nearly getting suffocated/overpowered, Sydney in turn facing difficulty as human witch more than willing to hurt others in the crowd while he is not. They both kinda just fuck up? I guess? (To be refined).

Nevertheless they both have managed to come out of the encounter alive, Sydney managed to ascertain information from his opponent (Nagi mafia tattoo, black magic, a note of locations of factories). Faustus also has his ‘sample’ of the drugs and overall modus operandi of why/how the drugs are being delivered.

Post encounter, they’re both pretty banged up - they both get into office and start arguing, they’re both frustrated and annoyed. They both pick holes in each other’s way of working but eventually concede that if they’d actively worked together, the incident would have gone better (yay, character growth!)brief interruption as new name starts appearing on Yumez’ wing piece on the wall - it takes a little while to reveal itself, wing scales turning colour /shifting to reveal a name.

name is Juan L Balcarce! Military scientist and madman - cue extremely gob smacked reaction by Syd/Faustus as this individual was very much thought to be 6 feet under. (Kind of like Peter Pettigrew from HP!)

Syd/Faustus discuss plan of action now with this new information - Sydney for his part is more curious as to how this insane scientist has managed to evade authorities, understands that realistically he is potentially behind new a merger e of drug synthesis but is much more… clinically analysing about it.

Faustus on the other hand is very much NOT (obviously with his own traumatic experience with this individual). Basically loses his temper and punches his own desk in half. Sydney (foolishly) mocks Faustus for being emotional, Faustus (understandably) rounds on Sydney violently and berates him for not being able to ‘understand what it’s like to know the person who ruined your life is fucking still out there’.

Interruption from tannoy/notification from lab to advise lab work/results on confiscated drugs have come back - Faustus storms out angry while Syd left a bit shook up.

Syd goes to chiefs office, albeit reluctantly to advise he does not believe Faustus is ‘emotionally stable’ enough to resume correct management of case. Obv chief know more than Sydney does - advising Syd to at least talk to Faustus re subject details.

Resume office work together, Sydney somewhat on Faustus’ case re paperwork (he’s notoriously bad) albeit impressed at Faustus’ ‘organised chaos’ approach.

Discuss of drug trafficking/Nagi mafia routes - Nagi mafia notoriety for city wide underbelly activities, very family oriented. Will protect their own at all cost.

Both review lab report of drugs apprehended - concluded differing strengths of drug/their effect. Lowest level able to just produce a ‘high / feeling of being powerful’ - highest level causing literally full body extreme changes in HBO subjects. Adult a mainly effected, children have to take a significantly higher dose to achieve more extreme effects. (Reassuring both Syd/Faustus a small amount). Lab also reveals from gathered from Syd/Faustus that the drugs are indeed linked to mafia type Nagi family organisation, including several warehouses across the country.

Syd/Faustus prepare to get to work, but not before Syd attempts to broach subject of why Faustus so heavily invested with catching perpetrator of this drug production (genuine professional concern).

After reluctance Faustus (honestly) advises how he was a uses of said lower level drugs before obtaining a more stable job in a bakery - bakery owner actually willing to give him, a complete mess - a chance at giving himself a better life. This went a bit south as member of the public falsely accused Faustus of contaminating food. Bakery owner persecuted for endangerment to human life - complete misunderstanding due to shitty laws.

Faustus describes how how was an a crossroad in life, to go back to doing drugs and being bitter (including being with GF, Nia. Person equally, if not actively more bitter) or could choose a path to changing the system/being a better person - he chose the latter.

Sydney shows sympathy at this/admiration on turn, admitting he hasn’t really gone through the same thing but explains how he knows what it’s like to go against someone who has very specific plans for you (his father), takes strength. He acknowledges the hardship.

(Turning point 3 - They both like ‘yeah mate, gotta love a shit childhood LOL’)

((Interim case? Maybe something to highlight Faustus’ increasing desperation to find this scientist - becoming far less objective))

Sydney considers their options - both do some more paperwork (I mean, it always has to be done right?) they discuss their plan moving forward and plan of action as they (mostly Sydney) have essentially been ‘found out’ to be tailing drug dealer suspects… but it the same time drug production facilities are in fixed facilities.

Syd departs to talk to chief again cos he’s lil bitch like that (soz man but ya are), discussing possibility of undercover inspection of factory facilities. Advises he doesn’t believe it wise to include Faustus anymore as too emotionally compromised in with the case.

Chief has to concede as agent impairment/personal involvement a major factor in exclusion of case, places the order for Faustus not to resume field work. (After Chief then makes call to Tammy - bet lost number 2! He was betting on Faustus quitting first.)

Sydney returns to discuss this/inform Faustus of this (does so with genuine kindness as doesn’t want it to be a shock announcement from the chief - Faustus obviously very pissed. Another argument about professionalism/emotional detachment. All very dramatic, Faustus leaves Sydney in office.

Next…few?? Weeks?? Sydney is working with another WWPIA agent, much more junior to Sydney/even Faustus. He doesn’t like it, at all. Agent is an overall yes man/woman and or/possibly looks up to Sydney a LOT. Very unhelpful, albeit sweet. Sydney regrets his decision. (Sorry man, you did this to yourself!)

Faustus briefly seen talking to lab staff although actively avoiding Sydney (he literally grabs his crotch and flips Sydney off in front of everyone. A really big FU. All witness are vaguely amused - everyone has no doubt waited for someone to put Sydney down a bit. SorryNotSorry.)

Both Syd/New partner are assigned to stake out new witness reports of factory with drug ingredients potentially going in and out. Syd very much taking the lead in his style, choosing staking out the place from afar whilst mapping all incoming trade routes. All very analytical - his assistant is taking very many, star stuck notes. We do love an impressionable teachers pet.

Syd/his assistant performing a stake out of the factory - enter is Faustus! He’s undercover.

Faustus undercover as a homeless/drunk/possibly drugged HPO, Syd watches as Faustus acts (extremely convincingly ) outside of factory. Factory is a clothes/sweatshop type factory so prime employer of extreme low wage workers, the exact target of the drug peddlers!

Syd’s assistant immediately wanting to call for backup (gud, rule abiding boi) but Syd stops them realising Faustus’ actually doing a damn good job. Watches as Faustus initially gets into a bit of a tuffle at the entrance with a gator-type HPO. Faustus overpowers gator-HPO but then immediately makes friends (macho men, amirite?). Gator-HPO invites Faustus into the factory.

Sydney (and assistant) gobsmacked at this, assistant scared and concerned at blatant rule breaking. Syd extremely worried at every that could go wrong with Faustus perceived plan but decided ‘fuck it, let him cook’.

They wait for hours, clearly Faustus is being made to work or someshit. Assistant questions Syd as to why he was ‘allowing’ this blatant disregard for WWPIA investigation procedure. Syd has to admit while his approach or methodical etc, Faustus’ brings are much more intuitive/rapid results etc. Assistant tentatively suggests perhaps maybe, in that case, they are the perfect pairing and complement each other very well (acknowledging their own inexperience/incompatibility as Syd’s partner). Syd is way more embarrassed than this then he lets one as he initially thinks of a ‘differing’ partnership. (Aw, baby’s first feelings - don’t let it break ya brain.)

They both observe Faustus coming out of the factory a while later, looking to leave. Fortunately basically going past Sydney’s car.

Sydney renders the immediate area ‘invisible’ as to not attract attention and accosts Faustus as soon as he nears the car. Faustus in turn nearly wipes the floor with him (in surprise, as well as being on edge already) Clearly hopped up on factory delivered drugs - honestly nearly folds Syd over the hood/bonnet of his own car like freshly ironed laundry.

Quick realisation that all parties are ‘friends’ - Faustus pretty scares the shit out of Syd and his assistant, but also advises he’s found the exact location of the actual factory that is producing the drugs.

Cut back to WWPIA headquarters, Faustus in isolation as still under influence of drugs, but undoubtably has cranked up progress of investigation to high gear. F essentially in jail cell, cranky, angry and more overtly mean than usual.

Sydney brief talk with Faustus in cell - Faustus divulges he was one of the child experiments (kind of blurted out in frustration to Syd’s ongoing ice queen demeanour) - information of which not really placed in reports. Obv Sydney shocked by this - camaraderie/understanding as Sydney now stands now why Faustus wants to find said scientist.

Meeting held with Syd/Faustus - Faustus EXTREMELY reprimanded in terms of behaviour - especially by Tammy. (she’s a fierce bish that Tammy. She dun give him a right tongue lashing about being an example of HPO behaviour.

Syd in his turn is turn is reminded by Chief, lesser so but no less emotionally jarring - like ‘are you really going to throw all your colleagues under a bus? Fucking come on.’

Nevertheless leave with new objective: infiltrate main factory of drug operations.

(Ugh this is where my story turns to mush because I am out clever enough to write out espeionage bs, help!)

Syd/Faustus prepare for infiltration of main factory (in a rural location - away from most people). Sydney able to magic a discussed and aims to be a tag-along to Faustus (Faustus suggests a younger/lankier/sicklier brother to himself - Sydney is infinitely insulted but concedes ths is a good idea). Faustus now been recommended to assist in factory production as a heavy machine lifter.

They both do just this, entering into said factory & soon get to work - factory is very ‘sweat shop’ type business model, Humans and HPO alike laying on floors just trying to sleep on the job, starvation rife, overt incidents of violent punishment etc. Not a nice place. Sydney struggles as not used to hard manual labour, Faustus protects him as older brother type figure - as insulted as Sydney is,this dynamic works extremely well.

They are both gathering a huge amount of information - they both ascertain that Nagi mafia/drugs that they are producing is now being hugely funded by an unknown scientist. Previously their working conditions were betters but now with new partnership things have been massively worse. A lot of unrest and unhappiness. Nagi boss has previously seen to be untouchable is now seen as the ‘second in command’ of this scientist. Nagi clearly have huge loyalty for the boss though, akin to mafia family dynamics.

Unceremoniously invited to meet said boss - Syd/Faustus assume it’s a factory boss but nope! It’s THE boss, of the whole feared Nagi mafia boss. (Insert The Godfather Theme Song I suppose. Pfft.) Blake Alba. Her name literally names Black & White… because its a pun. I’m clever. Ha ha.

Syd/Faustus keeping up the false facade of being factory workers/interested ‘family members’. Blake initially playing into this, sweetly, gently, dangerously. She seems initially impressed by Syd/Faustus’ ‘brotherhood’ - expressing how that has somewhat disappeared from her own ‘family’/business.

Faustus/Syd initially keeping up the act of attempting to make like they’re just a pair of doofuses’ trying to get into Blake’s good books - she seems to like it. Until she doesn’t. (typical mob boss behaviour).

Orders all the underlings to leave and attacks Sydney (or Faustus? Who cares? Either at this point) - coiling him up and squeezing him with the intention to kill. Syd attempts to use his magic but is completely negated by Blake who also uses magic - albeit dark magic. His and hers completely negate each other, although she’s the one squeezing a person like a wet dish cloth lol.

At this point the jig is up - Faustus’ in desperation admits fully he just wants to see the scientist behind all of it punished and put to justice. This immediately stops Blake mid killing spree, turns out she’s 1000% for that shit!

Blake decided that she is happy to not kill them / is willing to help them in their plan.

((AUGH, this is where may planning has gone hazy. IDK what can I say? I’m tired. Help?))

VVVV unformed bs plot territory VVVV

Forward scenario? tentative? Blake aids Syd/Faustus in getting into ‘upper ranks’ of science/lab. maybe on a different week? With a lot of planning?? IDK All evidence points to scientist looking to jump ship again to another country so they need to apprehend him ASAP.

Lol just imagine Faustus bullshitting being a lab assistant, nearly blowing himself up. Sydney now the one who has to regularly save his butt. They’re pretty prepared this time, or so they think? (Help? I don’t know wat I’m doing.)

Once again… get to meet the boss, feel like a repeat in theme is like like ‘omg why we got to get our butts handed to us again?’. Except this time is much quicker - only brief intro into Juan L Balcarce before he’s kind of like ‘oh yeah, those bitches? Knock em out.’ He does so, sweet? Land of nod for Syd/Faustus.

^^^^End? Of BS plot territory. Maybe? Like. Know what I’m doing. Cries.

Syd/Faustus wake up in the middle of a massive cylindrical type room. Tied up to a control pole via their wrists. Syd has magic negating cuffs, Faustus has silver cuffs burning into his skin. Neither are happy about it. At all.

Juan does his whole villain monologue, unlike them he’s pretty chipper! What a psycho. He details his plans of worldwide distribution of his drug, how this as a setback was relatively minor as all countries are all too eager at the idea of ‘enhancing’ their military power. He’s only too eager to have a free supply of desperate guinea pigs! Even children, but impoverished adults are the BEST.

Faustus obviously VERY angry at this, finally alluding to his own involvement - Juan seemingly sweet in response, admitting how Faustus was probably his ‘crowning achievement’ in terms of experimental success. But eh - you know, upwards and onwards!

Juan also offers Sydney to chance (or idea of it) about being involved in experiments, entertaining the idea that humans are just not ‘special’ enough. Sydney declines, vehemently.

Juan decides to leave (stairs? Elevator? Whatever takes the longest mate), admitting now that current base had been compromised but wasn’t really really a set back for him. (Insert villainous plans and ‘aw, you did so good but not good enough bitches.’)

As he leaves , he advises Faustus to ‘enjoy the ride’ and for Sydney ‘good luck’, both of which don’t really know wtf he’s talking about.

Syd/Faustus both initially argue about who’s the biggest dipshit (because you know, MEN.) Before actually trying to make a plan, Sydney notes that his crystals are on a lab table out of his reach, Faustus notes the doors are completely sealed off. The walls are vertical surfaces going upwards. They are fcked but trying you know?

Quick change of tone as Faustus starts going a bit loopy - starts singing, being really annoying and… overall starts dragging them around central pole basically high as a kite. Sydney very, very unimpressed and confused until they both realise that Faustus has most likely been drugged when he was unconscious.

Obvs tone kind of a bit more serious as Faustus flips from panicking to being high, Sydney in turn attempting to break cuffs or do anything to help the situation.

Lastly Sydney attempting to calm Faustus down as he has an actual full blown panic attack. - before ultimately Faustus isn’t able to hold back anymore (he even tries to knock himself out on the pole, doesn’t work - guess he has a hard head? Figures).

Faustus transforms into his uber were/dragon form, it’s a pretty gross transformation. Syd is (understandably) terrified as he’s hoisted up the pole like a frikkin flag.

Faustus in monster form snaps his own and Sydney’s cuffs easily just through having massive limbs. Sydney is freed but dazed from dropping like… 16 feet I guess. (-pets his broken body- Sorry mate, I assure you it’s going to get better…. Later.)

He comes face to face to Monster!Faustus with the pole in between them, Monster!Faustus stares at him for a second before lunging for him. Luckily for Sydney, M!F’s vision s kind of shitty, he bites down onto control pole whilst Syd parkours away like his life depends on it. (It does.)

Sydney runs to get to previously mentioned crystals, he grabs them to them and forms a blue spherical shield around himself - kind of like a hamster in a ball! M!F proceeds to punt said ball around the room. Poor Sydney, there is only terror for him at this point.

Insert pinball noises. Man, anyone also remember playing Pinball Space Cadet? I do! I’m so old… anyway. Back to torturing Sydney!

M!F decides to toss Hamster!Syd into the air then catches him, chomping down with force. He then starts shaking. (Good god the G forces must be insane)

Sydney is actually a BAMF, but nevertheless can’t keep up for sheer pressure. He has a full set of pretty chunky crystals and each just crumbles away into grey dust as he depletes them in quick order. M!F is just biting through shields like someone popping a lightbulb.

Eventually Sydney runs out of crystals - he gets thrown across the room, he’s got a broken arm but other ok. Tries to defend himself but honestly it’s a bit futile.

M!F seems to look to round on Syd/eat him in one go - quick thinking (genius actually) Syd yells at Faustus (by name - important note) to stop.

M!F does stop! In fact he actually wasn’t trying to hurt Sydney, just kind of thought ball!Sydney was a toy of some sort. M!F turns out to be fairly passive, like a really really big.. .slightly scaled/horned dog. He tries to to pick Sydney up again, Syd yells at him to stop (because ew, gross. Also pain.) - M!F is very upset/concerned.

Brief POV of Faustus in monster form - literally in his own monster!headspace. Everything is colourful, everything is cartoony, he’s just a black German shepherd/wolf type puppy and Syd is just a baby bunny. He sees Sydney as a baby bunny. He doesn’t know wtf he’s doing. (Look up Baby Bunny Screaming after Being Rescued from Hungry Dogs on YouTube, that is what he thinks he’s doing. He’s a big idiot.

After a bit of mutual understanding (Sydney ascertains Faustus is actually present and he’s not going to eat him), Syd attempts to figure out a way out of essentially ginormous, smooth sided pit. M!F decides to expedite this thought process by simply grabbing Sydney in his mouth (he very mouthy this one) and starts climbing vertically.

Lab workers/whatever lackeys try to shoot at M!F climbing up the shaft - it just doesn’t deter him at all. Syd is appropriately terrified.

M!F emerges from lab shaft - then horks up Sydney up like a hairball. (Yeah, that’s right, he did swallow him - probably more to keep him safe than anything else.)

Sydney understandably horrified, but no time to complain (Alright, maybe a LITTLE time. Enough for a ‘you fucking swallowed me?!’) as Juan is actually also there - equally surprised (and now actually angry) that they’ve both survived. Currently moving to a personal helicopter/mode of getting away.

(IDK what can I say, he clearly walked up the stairs lol? Or maybe not? Maybe he’s just so full of himself?

Juan not too happy he has two potential witnesses - decides to take them both out at once, with a suitably outrageous weapon. I mean, it’s the only way really - imagine taking pistol potshots at t-rex, just isn’t going to work. Maybe something something explosive, projectile, handheld? A bazooka?

(God this all sounds ridiculous but I honestly can’t imagine wtf else would be used. CRINGE.)

Juan shoots, he hits on target as M!F rushes to cover Syd. He’s suitably smug and arseholish in his perceived victory, yes Juan, everyone is very impressed by your bazooka.

Except M!F isn’t, turns out it takes a lot more firepower to take him out. (that said, he obviously IS pretty injured) He doesn’t really give much warning though as he unceremoniously lunges for Juan, tosses him into the air and chomps down. He then eats him. Sorry Juan you had your cringe villain monologue, byeeee.

Syd is in shock (probably…. Actual physiological shock by this point to be fair. Oof), Juan’s ride tries to run away (probably screaming something like ‘I didn’t sign up for this shit!!’.

M!F attempts to go after this person - Sydney stops him as technically just an innocent bystander. M!F obeys, still a gud boi.

Sydney procures a phone from the late scientist’s travel case - proceeds to phone WWPIA headsquarters.

For context, this ‘lab’ they are currently at is far, far away from the previous building they had entered. Potentially (and likely) that they had backup crowding the previous place… but not where they are now. I imagine it to be… an abandoned cotton mill or something.

Syd explains situation to Chief/Tammy - for their part they probably had everyone looking for them. Syd explains their exact location - emphasis on the ginormous monster Syd is now walking around with.

Plan set in place and risks involved - M!F is way too big and too volatile to go near members of the public. Tammy orders Syd to lead M!F across an out of order/in repair suspension bridge over a river opposite the lab. (Sounds a bit strange but reasoning is if he were to go bonkers then there would be less rampaging space.)

Syd distracts M!F with a shield ball - he’s got just about enough magic to maintain for a fair while to lob down the length of the bridge. I imagine he has to do this a few times as M!F comes back with it and notices the hostile blockade at the end of the bridge. (Oh, no no! Don’t growl at them! Look at this! What’s this? (Baby talk voice) Lookaddaball! Who wants da ball? You do! You do! HUP! haaa….. Fuck my life.)

Meanwhile meets with Tammy (in between, you know. Ball games i guess) at her blockaded end of the bridge to enact her plan. She gives him a shotgun type weapon - brief explanation that it is a modified ‘dragon killer’ type weapon. Meant to previously pierce the hides/kill dragons. Explains one side is a sedation dart designed for the approximate weight of M!F, the other is a ginormous silver bullet. Essentially ‘okay so either this works or… he rampages and you kill him! Lol good luck’.

Sydney follows through with this plan although obviously really doesn’t like it. He does a last ball throw, waits until M!F turns his back and takes the shot (did I mention Syd is a top marksman? He is the best).

Brief tense moment where M!F screams/roars at being shot in the arse. (I mean… who wouldn’t be angry at that?) Looks like he’s honestly going to lose his complete shit as he rounds to see wtf hurt him. Syd prepares the next shot as… well yep, thats the next course of action - as much as he hates it.

There’s a pause as M!F realises Syd is in fact actually the one who shot him. He clearly quickly goes from YOU! To… oh my god you hurt me?! He then limps over to the ball-shield and starts rolling it towards Sydney in the manner of a kicked puppy thats been told it’s a bad dog and is trying to get back into your good books. It’s all very sad.

He doesn’t get very far, the sedatives start kicking in and he soon collapses into unconsciousness in front of Sydney.

Tammy immediately starts directing WWPIA staff to load M!F onto a timber lorry type vehicle - explaining to Syd (and reader) that the drug duration time is about 12 hours. Faustus was given said drugs about 3 hours ago - going to be a long night!

Syd gets medical attention/is taken back to WWPIA headquarters - he feel a bit shit overall as this whole event kind of sinks in.

(Woof, what a MEATY chapter.. part… whatever. I don’t know if thats enough with the ‘filler’ events. I feel like there should be more in the way of… I guess maybe less important missions/things for Syd/Faustus to do that aren’t critical story wise. For a bit of breathing room. These are kind of the core concepts I guess that bring these two characters together.)

[radiant-reid]

Brilliant Doctor Daddy Unit Chief Reid

Summary: Spencer gets a visit from his wife and daughters on his first day at his new job

Could you write a fic where Spencer became a unit chief and his wife (bau!reader) is super proud of him.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Fluff)

Content Warning: sexually implicit content

Word Count: 2.1k

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Being Unit Chief wasn't a thought that had ever occurred to Spencer. He'd joined the team when Hotch was in charge, then Morgan in the interim, JJ for a short period, and then Emily. It had never been a problem for him to work under them. The team had forever operated with everyone's opinions being weighted equally. The Unit Chief just had the additional responsibility of an atrocious amount of paperwork.

He didn't even think he would be suggested for the position when Emily became the director of the FBI. JJ had taken the job in New Orleans, Garcia had her new job, Rossi finally decided to retire, and suddenly Spencer had been on the team for the longest. Initially, he thought it would be Luke, Tara, or Matt, but they picked him.

Y/n was the person who had to convince him to take the job. She knew he was worried about the even longer hours, but she knew it was what he loved. Plus, no one could do paperwork faster than him, and the Bureau had approved the hire of a media liaison, so he didn't have to pick the cases too. No one knew Spencer as well as she did, and she knew it was something he wanted deep down.

The day that Emily's things were finally cleared out, Spencer insisted on staying late to arrange his stuff and ordered Y/n to go home- something he could now that he was her boss-

She intended to do something to celebrate the day he officially became the BAU's Unit Chief. Her plans were foiled when two little girls realized why their Daddy wasn't home.

In their best dresses- matching sleeveless purple satin dresses with puffy skirts and a big bow on the back-, the two excitedly stood in the elevator with their mother. The girls were close to bouncing up and down when the elevator made it to the 6th floor.

Their beeline was interrupted by the oldest's godmother, or fairy godmother as they both called her. "Princesses!" Penelope exclaimed, bending down and opening her arms widely. The girls jumped into her arms, giving her a hug.

"What are you doing here, P?" Y/n asked, knowing she hadn't worked there for five months. Penelope stood up to give her a quick hug.

"Luke." She explained, shaking her head. "That idio- smart man who I love." She cut herself off, remembering the girls were there. "Left his passport here. And you can't get into London without a passport." She said, looking at the girls, who were nodding like they understood international travel.

Y/n saw through what Penelope said. After all, they'd been friends for 10 years. "You wanted to see Boy Wonder, didn't you?"

Penelope sheepishly nodded. "I had to tell him how proud of him I was in person. Before Luke and I left."

Y/n smiled at the couple's relationship and the fact Penelope instinctively smiled when she talked about him. "From what Luke's been saying around here, it sounds like it's going to be great." He had not stopped talking about it, discussing the surprises he had lined up for Penelope across the ocean.

"Can you get us presents?" Her goddaughter asked, grinning at her sister and showcasing her missing teeth.

Y/n chuckled while shaking her head. As if they didn't get enough presents from her whenever they saw her. Even the dresses they were wearing were gifts from Penelope, handmade by a friend of hers.

"Of course, my lovelies." Penelope agreed, squeezing the girls tighter again. "They have lots of delicious chocolates and candy, and I'll bring them all back for you." She assured them.

"Not too much, Penelope," Y/n warned, sternly staring at her so she'd follow the instruction.

Defeated, she nodded. "I do have to go, but I promise to visit as soon as we get back." She said, holding out her pinky finger to wrap around the girls'. With another hug and one for Y/n, she was stepping into the elevator and waving to them.

"Love you, Auntie Penelope!" The girls cheered as the doors closed.

Once she was gone, they were back on the mission to find their father. Racing each other, they sprinted past the glass doors and into the bullpen. Immediately, they noticed something was off when they reached his desk. Not only was their father not there, but none of his stuff was either. Their mom's desk still had framed photos of their family and drawings they'd done.

"He got Auntie Emily's office as well as her job," Y/n announced to them. It only took them a few seconds to figure out where to go, flying up the stairs and swinging the door open. She couldn't help but laugh as she followed.

When Y/n walked in, Spencer was already bent down to hug them. "Hi!" He exclaimed, hauling them up. Siena in his right arm and her older sister, Venice, in his left, as he rested them against his hip. Both nuzzling into his side "What are you doing here?" His eyes flicked up to meet Y/n's.

The room was different than when it was Emily's. He'd gotten them to repaint it light blue because he insisted it was a calming color. The red leather chair that used to be in Gideon's office was there as well, along with a chess set on the coffee table. There were photos not only on the desk but the cabinets behind it and a smaller desk near the couch with shorter chairs, paper, and coloring pens.

"They twisted my arm," Y/n answered, looking at the girls and wondering how so much mischief could be in a 5 and 7-year-old.

Both of their cheeky grins matched their father's, as did the brown curls down their shoulder. They were both intelligent like their parents, too, most definitely too clever for their own good.

Spencer knew too well about how persuasive they could be. The week prior, Y/n had to stop him from selling their house to move to a ranch in Wyoming. All because Venice went horse riding and wanted a pony. Spencer had been wrapped around their fingers for 8 years and Y/n's for 3 before that.

"You two are good at that, aren't you?" Spencer asked, bouncing them up and down while they giggled. "And you wore your pretty dresses." He commented, turning to place a kiss on their cheeks. "Thank you so much for coming to see me."

Siena cupped her hands around his ear to loudly whisper a secret to him. "We want to see you because we're proud of you." She pulled back with a grin, kicking her feet up and down excitedly.

In his other ear, Venice was doing the same thing. "And because you're the best Daddy in the world."

Spencer couldn't stop grinning between the two girls and his wife. The idea of family had never been something he thought he could have. It was a concept warped from his childhood. Something he never thought he could have or even wanted until he met Y/n at 26. Now he had it all, and none of the bad days were as bad.

It made Y/n beam when she looked at him. She'd seen him sad more times than she would have liked to. But with his daughters, he was always happy.

"What do you think of the office?" Spencer asked them, spinning around while he held them so they could look at his things. He had more room for his personal objects in there, and it was almost as decorated as Penelope's Batcave back in the glory days.

Venice pointed to a spot on the wall. "You need artwork there, Daddy."

"Maybe you could do one for me?" Spencer suggested, earning a big nod from his daughter.

"Does Mommy get to work in here too?" Siena asked, realizing there was only one desk.

He smirked while looking straight at Y/n, and she knew he was about to answer cheekily. "No, she's still got to work out there." He said, pointing out the blinds to her desk. "Because I'm her boss now." He said in anticipation of the next question.

"But she's still the boss at home?" Siena clarified.

"Don't forget that." Spencer reminded her with faux strictness. "Do you want to do some coloring?" He offered, putting the two of them down. The office clearly didn't interest them as much as the coloring table he had already set up.

With their attention occupied, Spencer made his way over to his wife. Immediately, he wrapped his arms around her waist, letting his hands drift down until they were resting on her ass. He pulled her body right onto his, where it perfectly fit. His lips were on hers just as quickly, as deep and passionate as usual. It had never wavered in the years they were together, always making her stomach erupt in butterflies.

Y/n broke the kiss with a smile, her arms still around his neck as they stood together. Her heels made it slightly easier for her to meet his eye line, giving her the best view of his God-like bone structure.

"Missed me that much, Doctor Reid?" She joked, gazing into his sweet brown eyes. They were always lighter when he was happy, with flickers of gold. He was always so warm to be close to as well.

"Yes, always." He replied before adding, "Mrs. Reid." A name that she would never get sick of hearing.

She played with the messy curls on the back of his head. "We are so proud of you, you know?" She reminded him. "The most brilliant Doctor Daddy Unit Chief Reid."

"That's a mouth full." Spencer quipped, sending her another bright smile. He looked down at where their hips were resting together. "You know what I've always wanted to do?"

Y/n caught onto what he meant, promptly smacking him on the chest. "Shh, your daughters are in the room."

"So, if they weren't, you'd be on your knees for me?" Spencer whispered, keeping his voice low both because it was sensual and because it meant the girls couldn't hear.

She hated him and his ability to find any loophole, but she knew how to tease him just as much. "You'll just have to find out on Monday."

Spencer threw his head back with a groan. "I have always wanted to take you over that desk." He mentioned, tossing a glance over his shoulder.

"What, the supply closet, your office at university, and the bathroom wasn't hot enough?" She questioned, amused by him.

The tight squeeze on her ass gave her an answer. "The round table room, though." He added to the list of their sexcapades. It was probably their riskiest and definitely the most fun.

"It's kind of a miracle we haven't been caught yet." She realized with a frown.

Spencer shrugged. "It wouldn't stop us." She knew that much was more than true. He took his eyes off hers for a moment and turned his head to look at the girls. "Why did you really bring them?" He could always tell if there was something more to a story with her.

"No reason." She replied, trying to look innocent. It never worked with him. "They just wanted to."

But he knew what would work. "Girls?" Their eyes were quickly on him. "Why did you want to come here?"

"Mommy has to buy you dinner because you got a new job," Siena revealed before going back to her coloring with her sister.

"And she didn't get you a present," Venice added, unaware of the congratulations Y/n had given him four nights in a row.

"Is that so?" Spencer questioned, amusement written all over his features when he turned back to look at her.

Sheepishly, Y/n smiled at him before moving her hand slowly down his chest. Spencer frowned, darting his eyes between her and the girls to make sure she remembered who else was in the room until she slipped it into his pocket. She pulled it out a moment later, along with his wallet. Spencer still looked confused at what she was doing, but she just smirked in explanation.

Leaning up, she placed another kiss on his lips, distracting him while she took out his credit card. "Alright, girls, who's ready to go to dinner?"

"Me!" They both cheered, getting out of their seats while Y/n pulled away from Spencer.

"Hey, that's not exactly buying me dinner," Spencer exclaimed, following her and the girls out of his new office.

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[deluluass]

Red, like blood. Blue, like love.

Content warnings: rape/noncon; nsfw; bullying; soulmates au

Prompt: 88 & 183

There’s someone for everyone, you’d learned growing up.

 "Remember, blue means happy," your mother would say. "The happiest you'll ever be.”

She liked reminding you about this fact— for it is an indisputable truth, every so often when she could still carry you. You’d be hugged from the back, as she recounted stories of first meetings, serendipitous and life changing in their nature; belonging to those who’ve lived long before you, sometimes even those who’ve only lived in tales.

Mostly, your mother loved telling those involving the people she knew. And if you’ve behaved properly, she would tell you about hers. 

Tracing your palm, starting from the forked lines to the dashed ones on your fingers, she’d say, “These would start to glow like stars.”

“That’s weird!” you’d burst out, shrieking a laughter as she tickled you. 

“Listen carefully,” she chastised. “Blue is for your soulmate, okay?”

And you’d repeat: Blue is for my soulmate.

“Then, mama,” you tugged at her sleeves, “What if it’s really, really bright red! Like! Bloody glow sticks! Say, mama, you see, everyone at the park was talking about the man who died because he touched someone and his hand became bright re— ”

You never brought that up again. What your mother said about it had been enough to never make you forget.

“Tell me if you get red,” she said firmly, clutching your arms as if she feared someone would snatch you away from her. “Red is bad, my heart. Red means run.”

 It hadn’t nearly been as gruesome as your mother made it out to be. 

Case in point, when you turned twelve the couple three houses down your street found out, shortly after their honeymoon, that their palms gleamed a fierce red once they clasped each other’s hands in front of the neighborhood aunties.  

Their marriage ended with a swift and ordinary divorce, a year or so later.

Red: Not just an ominous warning for homicide, then. That was a relief, you’d thought.

Contrary to how your mother framed it, you were thankful, actually. It helped some of your friends escape from potentially hellish relationships. How lucky is it that you lived in a reality where the universe seemed exceedingly benevolent. Though, you sometimes have to question if that generosity extended to everyone.

Fat lot of good it did for you. 

Because, from where you’re standing, it doesn’t have to take some arbitrary and unsolvable scientific mystery to heed that Oikawa Tooru must be avoided like the plague.

Any person in your shoes would be conditioned to do exactly that. 

You’d first met in Elementary. You thought he was the prettiest kid you’d ever seen, with chestnut curls and doe eyes and lashes that swept past his cheeks, and when you’d asked for a hand shake he’d called you “the ugliest girl I’ve ever seen” and “fart face.” 

Recess and lunch were when he’s most fearsome. Spiky burdocks slapped on the collar of your dress; dead lizards in your food; the boy was determined. The worst part was that it always happened when no one was looking. And if someone were, it was his best friend. So when you finally told on him to your mom, both your teacher and the principal simply judged Oikawa as the victim of an attention deprived child.

“Please discipline your daughter,” they told her. “We are all aware of your situation at home, but do ensure that she’s not getting out of control.”

You couldn’t even muster up the strength to defend yourself. In that moment all you could do was swear that you’d never allow anyone to talk to your mother in that way again. 

You moved out of that school. 

You didn’t wait for your palms to flash a warning signal because, somehow, you knew that boys who discover early that they could get away with anything cannot get any better. 

There’d been no way to be sure of that until Aoba Johsai— after a peaceful interim of no Oikawa; no red palm lines (and no blue ones, either).

The proof hit you in the face. Literally. 

“Oi, Shittykawa!”

Heat permeated from your nostrils as you patted your cheek, detached and staring back at the large gymnasium. 

“You hit someone!”

How unlucky did a person have to be to bleed right on the first day of classes? 

You tried to lean forward. “It’s okay,” you slurred nasally, pinching your nose and averting your embarrassed gaze from the boy kneeling next to you.

“Trashykawa! You better hurry and apologize!”

“Don’t be mad, Iwa-chan,” that disgustingly saccharine voice came from behind you, making you flinch, as if the years you’d spent apart had done nothing to purge it out of your system.

In all honesty, you hadn’t really cared for whoever was responsible for the ball that careened all the way to where you were standing, so sure that it had to be an accident. No one in their right mind would want to injure someone they barely knew, especially if said someone is a couple of feet away from you. 

Morally and athletically, it should’ve been improbable. But then you saw who did it and everything made perfect sense.

Iwa-chan. The boy beside you. Iwaizumi Hajime.

If he’s here, then— 

“You,” he whispered. 

“Eh?! Gosh, I’m so sorry!” Oikawa Tooru gasped. “You’re bleeding.”

Time is cruel. It wears down on you, tears you and molds you into something you can’t even recognize, if it decides to. (Fate, more so). You didn’t know if you wanted to cry or laugh, looking at him. If the universe were so benevolent, then perhaps Oikawa Tooru had received all of its favor.

He was beautiful. You’d known this before, but with all the baby fat replaced with sharp yet slender angles, figure lean and imposing even when he’d lowered himself to meet your eyes, Oikawa didn’t seem real.

“I did hit someone, didn’t I?” he pouted, wiping the dried blood atop your lip. “And such a pretty girl, too.”

That volleyball existed should’ve made life better for you. It didn’t. If anything, it seemed that out of the court, when he’s not taking names and being praised like a god, you were his little pastime. Something fun to take his mind off whatever it is he thinks about it. 

The mocking comments, you could handle; every time you’d recite and he’ll interject with something playful and then the entire class would laugh (because he’s Oikawa) and your professor would reprimand him but you could always tell that they, too, are holding in a giggle. 

Those were easy to bear, because although his insults hit way too close to home, it’s just— it’s just so petty.

Really, it’s the aftermath that does the damage.

“They’re like Christmas lights under your skin!” 

This topic pops up every month or so. Most people your age can be lucky enough to meet their soulmate this early. 

“And it’s the most awesome feeling in the world,” your classmate sighed. “When we touched hands? Man. We just- we glowed.”

Then, the others would poke fun, faking a gagged expression, but they’d always ask afterwards, “What happened next?” And everytime, you’d watch from the sidelines. Like an uninvited audience. 

You tried being a part of it once, wanting to share about the time your close friend met her soulmate. But all you’d gotten were side eyes and titters, as if they were laughing about a joke only you didn’t know about. 

“They’re so mean to you.” 

You groaned.

Oikawa was seated behind you, resting his head against his elbow. Everyone was too busy talking about blue lights and destined souls to notice what’s happening at the back of the room. 

He continued, “Not including you in conversations, treating you like an outsider.”

You didn’t bite, focusing on the opened book in front of you.

“Must be lonely, having no one.”

“Oikawa,” you muttered under your breath. “I don’t have the energy for this.”

The silence that came after that was unexpected. You were sure it would be short lived; he’s just gearing up for more. He usually went at it until you’d have no choice but to physically remove yourself from his presence. You’d thought once that that may be why he does this so much. Maybe he still thought you were the “ugliest girl” he’s ever met and he wants you out of his sight. Because Oikawa’s infantile like that.

But the silence stayed, accompanied by the background noise of eager conversations; lingering some more as white, fluffy clouds passed by the glass windows. 

When he broke it, all Oikawa said was, “Soulmates, huh.”

You felt a finger touch your back, drawing the barest of lines over your uniform. He removed them just before you could stand up and leave. 

You disliked those moments with him. 

You disliked him especially when he played. 

Oikawa’s a monster, be it in volleyball or with you. There are times, though, that you’d notice some things that you think you’re not meant to see. Like after a serve— its impact booming throughout the court, he’d have this puzzling expression on his face. 

It looked like....anger. 

He scored a point, right? Everyone’s cheering for him, aren’t they? Wait, didn’t they win?

You thought maybe it’s the adrenaline making him nastier than usual, but sometimes you’d pass by the gym when he happens to be alone. And that anger is still there, punctuated by the sound of the ball exploding against the floor. Jump. Hit. Spike. Jump. Hit. Spike. He’d do it, again and again and again. 

As if he’s trying to grasp something even he cannot reach. 

Those instances should’ve taught you that the best thing to do is look away. 

That’s what you should’ve done. Look away.

They lost the Interhigh tournament.

You knew this not because you’d watched, but because for one day, Oikawa Tooru wasn’t your bully. 

The derision was replaced by sulking. He didn’t speak for the entire period. The funniest thing about it was that everyone kept staring at you. Like somehow you’d been the cause of this, when all of them were lamenting the loss just as much as the team itself. 

 What was supposed to be a reason for celebration suddenly became a crime that you had to explain for.

 “Great,” you grumbled to yourself. “One time I don’t have a target on my back, now I’m the bad guy.”

Trash bag in hand, the scraps inside rattled against each other as you stomped to the recycling bin, both sleeves of your P.E jacket folded up to the elbows. You affected a tone, choosing to mock the grating way some of classmates talked:

“Oh, hey, if it’s not too much,” you began. “Can you please be his punching bag again? If you will, can you relieve our superstar’s burdens? By, I don’t know, alluring him into walking all over you? Like the good old days! Please, oh please? We rely on you, oh Great Punching Bag! We Beseech thee, oh Esteemed Doormat! We compel— dude, what the fuck?!”

Crumpled papers and steel and tin cans rolled to the ground. You didn’t pick them up, like you should’ve; you left it there, trash bag lying open, and grabbed the ball that whisked mere inches from your face. 

This time you’re not making the same mistake. The asshole is more than capable of suspending what little morals he has, just to hurt someone he barely knew. As well as athletically adept (an understatement, that) at hitting a walking target; or not hitting it, in this case.  

You stormed the almost empty gym. Oikawa is a ray of sunshine, greeting you with that smile. It makes you want to punch him.

“What is wrong with you?” you spat. 

He chuckled. “Whoops. Sorry!” 

“I’m not having this-” you shoved the ball to his stomach. He didn’t even blink. “This isn’t gonna slide anymore, Oikawa.”

Wide grin still in place, he took it from your hands with his much larger ones and said, “Wow, you’re actually mad this time. ”  

Then, he added, “I didn’t mean it! Honest!” 

Must be nice, you thought with a scowl, to be him. Anyone can be sincere if they look anything like Oikawa. 

“Sure. Fine. No, actually,” you glowered. “You know what?” 

“Hm?” He tilted his head. Oikawa tilted his pretty little head.

You seethed. “I get it. You lost. That doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. I mean, what did I ever do to you, Oikawa? I have-” you exhaled, surprised by the break in your voice. 

“I haven’t done anything to you. We stopped being kids a long time ago. That shit you pull should’ve ended by now. We’ve grown.” You jabbed his chest. “But I see that maybe not all of us have.”

His pleased expression hadn’t dropped. “Ouch,” Oikawa grimaced, glancing amusedly at the place you’d touched. “How mean.”

This isn’t going anywhere. 

You don’t know why it took you this long to realize this, as you shifted your gaze away from him, noticing the gashes on the floor that tear the surface like scars that never healed. That must’ve been because of him, with the amount of practice he does. 

“It won’t be enough, won’t it, Oikawa?” you whispered. “Not for you.”

The smile that’s been there since you arrived tensed, straining at the corners of his lips. 

“Yeah, I’ve been told,” he beamed. 

He was bathing in his own sweat, seeping through his shirt and matting his hair to his face, and he looks— Oikawa looked tired. His eyes were sunken in, too. Did he even sleep?

You’re so used to seeing him not a hair out of place, with a sweet scent that you amusedly thought lures his gaggle of admirers into following him everywhere. It takes you aback, honestly. Particularly the wobble in his step as he bent and squeezed his knee with shaky fingers.

You don’t think he’s aware he’s doing it in front of you.

Then, just like that, everything seemed to have added up.  

“You’ll never be happy,” you said.

You should’ve stopped there. You should’ve left. Instead, you looked him in those brown eyes, the warm hue becoming a lot colder as he moved closer. 

Oikawa sneered. “And what do you know, huh?” 

(Go. Leave.)

“Nothing,” you told him. “I don’t- I don’t know. Because, I don’t get it.”

(Shut up. Shut up.)

“Why you try any harder, I don’t know. Win or lose, it’s all the same. You’re still the same. You’re still awful and annoying and- and still you.” You laughed, unsure why you’re running your mouth like this. 

“Win or lose. Oikawa is still Oikawa,” you breathed in. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

His teammates must’ve gone somewhere. For lunch, maybe, you thought as you eyed the abandoned bottles and used towels scattered around the court. “Besides,” you huffed, not without a twinge of envy. “They’ll all still love you, either way.” 

Everything went still for a while, and you’d just realized what you’d just said.

“What about you?” 

You looked back at him.

“What?”

He tipped his chin. You stepped backwards. 

He brushed your wrist.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, but he only smiled and wrapped his entire hand around it. 

Oikawa had been your first bully. Before you could even comprehend what that meant, Oikawa had been the source of your mother’s worries whenever she parted with you at the school gates. It is funny, thinking about it, for letting this boy affect you despite making an effort to stay away the first time. 

But it is only now— now that he has a firm hold on you, gentle yet smothering— that you truly feared Oikawa Tooru. 

It rattled your breath, squeezing your heart and refusing air to pass through your lungs, as you felt a shock zap through you. And apparently through him as well.

You broke away from each out with a cry.

Your hand was burning. That’s the only explanation for it. Your hand was burning and any moment now smoke will diffuse from the pores. 

You waited. Any moment now. But the more you stared at it the more tiny spots of flames sparked under your skin, bursting along the palm lines— first, the forked ones; then, the dashed lines— glaring back at you, glowing brighter, blotting and spreading until they mapped your palms then your entire hands like constellations. 

“Red is bad, my heart,” your mother said. “Red means run.”

“I knew it,” you scoffed, shaking your head. 

Well, it’s not as if this is news to you. 

“What about that, Oikawa?” You put both your radiating hands in the air. “The universe is telling us, you and I? We just don’t—”

Why are you crying?

Why is Oikawa crying? 

“I knew it,” he croaked.

Your mother made the red light sound so horrifying for a reason. 

There has to be a reason, too, why the universe is warning you so late into your life. You’d actually ran before. And when you thought it a waste of money, you chose to stay and not fight back; thinking that his punches have become less severe, degraded into verbal taunts that induce social exclusion at most; that, certainly, red doesn’t forbode something as bad as murder, right?

Well, what now? You were wrong, after all. This time you have a feeling that you actually need to hide. 

Because Oikawa’s looking at you like you’re the last two people left in this Earth. 

Just you and him. Without any need for anybody else. 

You didn’t breathe, attempting to bolt despite the overwhelming need to throw up right where you're standing. He stepped closer, faster than you’d liked, and touched your face, caressing your cheek up to your aching temple.

“You should really stop trying to run away,” he said, voice low as if he’s sharing a secret. “I’ll always find you, you know?”

You didn’t have to look to know. Even if you closed your eyes, as well, you know it’s still going to be there; glowing in the darkness behind your eyelids.

“Me and you—” Oikawa sighed. 

Listen carefully, your mother said.

“ —we have a connection that no one else will ever understand,” he said.

The light emitting from his hand was so harsh it hurt you, pricking your sight until it drew fat tears, reflecting against your damp face and tinting the fallen streaks with bright—

Blue means happy, she told you. The happiest you’ll ever be.

And you’d repeat: Blue. Blue is for—

“My soulmate," Oikawa said, before locking you in a deep, searing kiss. 

The lights didn't die even as he dragged you into the storage room.  

"Hey, where'd senpai go?" 

The rest of the volleyball team came in droves, occupying the hollow court with their squeaking shoes and questions about Oikawa's whereabouts.

"Must've gone somewhere," you heard a deep voice say. 

You could answer that question. All you  had to do was scream. They weren't so far from the room that they wouldn't pick it up over the noise of their volleyball practice. Really, if you needed to, you could even outshout their guttural yells of "Nice kill!"

Though, you'd have to remove the underwear lodged in your mouth first. 

Yours, in fact; soaked now by your own saliva, drool dripping to your chin as your wrists chafed against the rope that's keeping them tied at your back.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" You felt every sickening movement of Oikawa's lips against your throat. "Feels good when you- ah, fuck- when you give in."

With the cloth muting your shrill bawling, you tried your best to recall how you ended up here: seated on his lap as he sluggishly humped himself against you, his still glowing hands cupping your ass.  

The only thing left on your body was your bra, and even that he's already lowered to let your tits spill over the top. Your pants and t-shirt and jacket are lying around somewhere. You couldn't determine where in particular; the only sources of light were behind you.  

He was leaving imprints of blue all over your skin; around your waist as he slithered his hands to reach your breasts, scantily brushing over the hardened nipples and making you keel over.

"So sensitive," he tutted, smooching your neck so gently that even the underwear couldn't muffle your loud yelp when he suddenly bit into the flesh. Hard. 

You wanted to claw his eyes out and call for help and you wanted badly to scream don't do that Oikawa someone please save me he's gonna kill me he's gonna kill me-

But the gag remained intact and the boys outside continued their game, ignorant that their precious captain is taking everything away from you. 

Sharp canines bruised your skin, provoking a fresh batch of tears as he sucked and licked every after cruel bite. 

Then, when you thought the worst had passed, he removed his mouth from your neck to spit onto your bare cunt, allowing it to slide from the hair on your mound to the nub sticking out in the middle.

(It is not enough that he is killing you. Oikawa must defile you, too.)

His fingers gripped the insides of your thighs open when you tried to shut them together. "Don't be a brat," he clicked his tongue.

"Be a nice little kitten for me," Oikawa drawled, smearing the slick that's soaking your folds against the spittle coating your clit.

You didn't notice when he'd taken his cock out, you only realize that he's about to enter you when he teased your entrance with it, pushing the tip to nudge the drenched hole, only to pull it back again.

And you didn't dare look. The feel of it almost stretching you out with just the head is already driving you to insipid begging.

"What'd you say, kitten?" he pouted.

Oikawa you've already taken too much is it never going to be enough Oikawa let me go.

"I can't understand you," he chuckled. "Here—"

He pulled the underwear out of your mouth as he thrust all the way inside, your back arching, driving him deeper, as his cock throbbed against your pussy walls.

"Now, what were you saying?"

You swallowed your cries and heaved and swore you were gonna tear his heart out after this. 

"Say," he whispered, sniffing your wet panties without breaking his gaze. "If everyone saw us right now, how'd you think they'd react?"

It was so reverent, the way he did it, blue light revealing that he closed his eyes as he took a whiff, as if he hung onto your scent like a lifeline.

But you thought that'd been a calculated move, because as you dumbly stared at him, he immediately gyrated his hips under you, rocking back and forth ever so slowly, and you remembered that you had to keep quiet.

His cock was so big inside you, making you bite your lip as it filled you up, the curved tip hitting a spot that has you squirming in his embrace.

"At this point they'll know how much of a whore you are," he said, tangling his muscled arms around yours and anchoring you to his body. "Made just for me."

"Oika-Oikawa…"

You don't know this person. 

"Help..me.."

You don't know who's speaking out and whimpering for Oikawa, on her knees and bouncing up and down on his lap with weak, quivering thighs. 

It couldn't be you.

"Help you?" You felt him nuzzle your neck. "I thought you wanted me to stay away, though?"

Someone mewled out a pathetic, "N-no."

"No? Then what d'you want, kitten?"

(Oh. Oh, he feels so fucking good.)

Your belly has never felt this hot before and it's driving you crazy that you're chasing for something you cannot see and it feels so near but there's something, something that's keeping you from it that all you can do is grind your sopping cunt closer to him.

"Wanna- I wanna cum."

Oikawa kissed you on the forehead, and then he said, "Go ahead, then."

He released your arms. 

Then, he's scooping cum off your pussy, making sure to drag his fingers under the lips, before circling your large, swelling clit. Then, he's sucking your tits and swirling his tongue around a nipple and you're so so close.

"That's it," Oikawa sighed. "Ride my cock, baby."

His rough palm slapped both your ass cheeks and the cry that erupted from you only made him laugh. 

"Make yourself cum on my cock," he grunted, licking his smiling lips as he leaned back against the wall, hand idly rubbing your dripping clit. "You're making a mess, darling. Leaking like that."

You're quivering all over; your cunt is spasming and your legs are complaining beneath you, but you don't stop. You lift your hips and then sink your pussy down, down until you feel his balls touching your sore ass, the sloshing sound growing louder as you move faster. 

You don't think about what this'll all mean later, what you're doing giving in to him, when you scream out his name. But as soon as you did, Oikawa's growl had been your only warning.

He grabbed the back of your head and kissed you, plunging his tongue into your throat, his strong arms pressing you so close to him you can no longer tell his skin from yours, his battering heartbeat from yours. 

You didn't move—weren't allowed to, when he hammered his cock into you, pounding your cunt and fucking you raw until you're breathless and nothing but a shuddering wreck, splitting at the seams in his hands as you feel thick spurts of hot cum slide out of you. 

"My pretty girl," came his hoarse whisper. "My pretty, pretty girl."

The lights have dimmed, when he cradled your shaking form and moved out of you, faint traces left on just the palm lines and fingertips. 

They were flooded by the sudden brightness that enveloped the storage room.

"Holy shit."

You pressed your eyes close, your entire body prickling at Oikawa’s touch.

It shouldn't be surprising, at this point, that Oikawa, as quick as he'd stripped you off of everything, has already covered you back in your jacket. The smell of it striking you ruthlessly, that old cologne that you always use to school reminding you of who you were, before all this.

Had it only been a few hours? It felt like a lifetime ago.

"Ah," Oikawa murmured. "They caught us."

"Oikawa,” someone roared. Oikawa held you, hiding your face against his chest. “Why you son of a-"

"C-coach..! Stop- Oi, someone help me hold him- no, coach! "

You heard him chuckle. “Sorry about this, everyone.” He held up his hand and you had to keep yourself from sobbing. “But, look.”

There were several gasps. 

(Everybody knows now.)

“You..and her?” 

The boy who said that sounded so astonished, clearly overjoyed for some reason, that it revolted you.

“Mhm,” he nodded, a smile in his voice. “Now, can you guys please give us some privacy?” 

Feet shuffled out of the room, along with stuttered apologies. They all left. 

Except for one.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa pouted.

“What did you do, Oikawa?”

A beat. Then, he repeated, “Iwa-chan.”

Please. 

Iwaizumi didn’t say anything. 

Please help me.

“Sure,” he grunted.

He was gone, too, after that.

You were back in the darkness, with nothing but the faltering red and blue on your hands and his, while he untied your wrists and kneaded the abrasion away, cooing sweet nothings to your ear. 

“I hate you,” you rasped. 

“Don’t say that.”

“I fucking hate you-”

“Please stop yelling-”

“I won’t ever forgive you, Oikawa!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he cried, shaking his head as he brushed your tear-stained cheeks with both thumbs. You clutched them, wanting him off you, but he only latched himself firmly into you. “We’re meant to be.”

“You’re the only one for me.” 

Oikawa brought your numb hand to his face, pressing a kiss to your palm, the red light basking him in its soft glow.

“And I’m the only one for you,” he said, intertwining your fingers together. 

The lights flickered in and out, at first, as you stared vacantly into it, the red and blue swallowing each other. Until they finally disappeared, leaving just you and him, curled against each other in the shadows. 

[arrowflier]

I wish you would write a fic where the gallaghers + kev & vee find out about ian's 87% comment and they all give their opinions and ask why mickey, ian's husband who's been a part of ian's life for nearly eleven years only gets 87% of his heart, if the other 13% goes towards his toxic exes and why since they're not in his life anymore, ian explaining himself and ends with ian taking the comment back so mickey has 100% of his heart

I decided this was perfect for Gallavich Week Day 5: Fix-It! Thanks as always to @gallavichthings for hosting💖. Also on AO3.

Eighty-Seven Percent (Anatomy of a Heart)

It was a normal morning in the Gallagher kitchen.

That is to say, it was chaotic.

Carl and Liam sat across from each other at the narrow table, tossing dry loops of off-brand cereal at each other over Franny’s backpack, which lay open between them. The girl herself was running circles around them both in her pajamas, Debbie chasing after her with a stern face and a frilly dress held in outstretched hands.

“Come on, Franny,” she muttered impatiently as her daughter evaded her again by diving under the table, “just put on the dress!”

Mickey laughed when Franny ran to him instead, trying to hide behind his legs where he stood by the brewing coffeemaker. Ian ruined her attempt by swinging her up into his arms and twirling her around until Debbie snatched her from him, resulting in an angry shriek as Franny writhed in her hold.

“For fuck’s sake, keep it down in here!” Lip hissed, coming in from the living room where Tami had just gotten Fred settled in his play pen. “If you get Fred crying again, I swear I’ll fucking end you all.”

If anything, the kitchen got louder as everyone there chimed in in their own defense.

Mickey just snorted as he grabbed two mugs and got to pouring the fresh coffee. “Good luck with that,” he offered to Lip, amused. “You get one Gallagher going, you get the whole fucking pack.”

Lip glared at him, opened his mouth the say something undoubtedly scathing and most likely regarding Mickey’s place in the family, when Carl laughed and chimed in from the table.

“Funny, man, that’s what Trevor said to me and Ian at the station yesterday.”

The room went quiet.

Or maybe it just seemed that way to Ian, who could see the way his husband’s back immediately tensed at the familiar name, the way he gripped the handle of his mug a little too tight and poured the coffee a little too high before setting down the pot with a hard clack.

“Trevor, huh?” Mickey asked, voice deceptively mild, and Ian winced behind him.

Carl didn’t get the memo.

“Yeah, you remember him, right?” he checked. “He still works at that youth place, came in to post bail for some kid when Ian was bringing by lunch.” He shrugged, tossed a handful of cereal into his mouth. “We chatted a bit,” he mumbled as he chewed.

Mickey gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles going white under his tattoos. “Funny,” he said quietly, “Ian didn’t think to mention that.”

Ian sighed, ignoring the eyes of his family on their quickly unfolding drama. They’d been fighting a lot lately, a lot more than they used to, and today had been shaping up to be better, damn it. Now he had to do damage control again instead of enjoying a quiet day in with his husband.

“We’ve talked about this, Mickey,” he started, a tad bit exasperated. It must have come through in his voice, because Mickey’s shoulders went up. “Trevor’s not a bad guy, and I’m not gonna avoid him if I see him around.”

Mickey released the counter to grab his coffee again, taking a long, scalding swallow. “Right,” he said finally, not looking at Ian. “Not a bad guy at all. Just wanted to leave your ass rotting in jail when you couldn’t be his poster boy anymore, that’s all.”

“Mickey…” Ian warned, but it didn’t stop him.

“Tell me, Ian,” Mickey mused, turning to face him with hard eyes. “How much of that thirteen percent belongs to him?”

Fuck. Not that again.

“Wait, what’s he talking about?” Debbie was the one to ask first, voice cutting through their palpable tension. She’d even stopped trying to force the dress over Franny’s head in the interim, allowing the girl to escape up the stairs unscathed. “What thirteen percent?”

“Oh yeah, he told me about that,” Lip butted in. “Said Mickey got all bent out of shape cause Ian still thinks about his exes, or something, right?”

Ian closed his eyes against the hurt in Mickey’s as his brother revealed that he knew about their squabble. Fuck his family right now, seriously.

“Not quite,” he gritted out, but when he opened his eyes again, Mickey had schooled his face back into disinterest.

“No, that’s just about it,” Mickey confirmed. “Got my nose out of joint because Ian, here,” he gestured at Ian with his mug, ignoring the hot coffee that splashed over the side, “said I only got eighty-seven percent of his heart.”

Someone whistled, low and long. Ian couldn’t tell who.

“It’s not that big a deal,” he insisted yet again. “My whole life is a fucking shrine to you, Mick. If my heart was a room, there’s be posters of you on every fucking wall.” He took a step closer, until Mickey’s mug pressed into his own chest, leaving a wet spot on his shirt.

“You really can’t let the others have a little space in that room? Not even in the bottom drawer of a dresser that nobody uses anyway?”

Mickey was still, and silent. Then he spun around and slammed his mug back down on the counter, shoved past Ian, and stormed off up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Ian called after him.

“To clean out the goddamn drawers!”

It was quiet in Mickey’s wake, and then—

“Dude, that’s fucked up,” Carl said frankly, and Liam nodded in agreement, eyes wide.

“Did you really say that?” Debbie asked, sounding horrified, and before Ian could answer the back door slammed open.

“Morning neighbors!” Vee greeted as she came through, Kev on her heels. She was holding something, a dish covered in foil, and a carton of juice hung from Kev’s hand.

“We brought you guys some…” Vee trailed off when no one even looked at her, noticing the tension in the room.

“Uh,” she voiced, confused, “what did we miss?”

Carl answered, still looking at Ian in disbelief. “Ian told Mickey he keeps stuff from his exes in a drawer, so Mickey’s up there looking for it.”

“Oh, that’s cold man,” Kev breathed, and Ian exhaled.

“It was a metaphor,” he muttered, and Vee heard him.

“A metaphor for what?” she asked, curious.

“For the thirteen percent of Ian’s heart that belongs to other people,” Debbie revealed, and Vee set down her dish with a clatter.

“You said that to him?” she clarified, and at Ian’s reluctant nod, shook her head and turned to Kev.

“You ever say shit like that to me,” she said firmly, “I’ll cut off thirteen percent of your dick.”

—

A few long minutes later, after he had finally escaped his family’s inquisition about the state of his relationship, Ian made his way upstairs, alone.

When he got to their bedroom, Mickey wasn’t actually going through their things. He was just sitting on their bed, back to the wall, spinning his wedding ring round and round on his finger. Next to him, balanced on their folded blanket, sat the little box with the fancy ones they used in the ceremony just so they wouldn’t have to take theirs off.

Ian’s heart beat harder. That box had been sitting safe in the bottom drawer of their shared dresser.

The one that nobody used.

“Hey,” he said softly from the doorway. Mickey didn’t look up.

“You okay?” Ian asked, and that at least got a response.

“Do I look fucking okay to you?” Mickey returned, eyes on his knees.

He didn’t. Not really. He looked haggard, and upset, his hair spiky where restless fingers had combed through it. Ian couldn’t see his eyes, but he had a feeling they were rimmed in red.

Ian let himself into the room, sat opposite Mickey on the bed with his feet still firmly on the floor. He reached out to trace a finger over the rings in the box, and then the ring on Mickey’s finger.

Mickey let his own hand fall away when he did.

“You know that’s not how I meant it, right?” Ian asked, suddenly desperate to hear Mickey agree. He needed to know that Mickey understood, that just because he remembered his past, it didn’t mean he wasn’t dedicated to his future.

But Mickey just shrugged.

“Not a lot of ways you can mean it,” he said, and shit. Ian had really fucked up this time. “Either I have your whole heart or I don’t,” Mickey continued, “and I don’t. So,” he shrugged again, “whatever.”

Ian took a moment. A long one. He thought of Mickey’s reaction the first time he had said it, when he was mostly just teasing. The way he had been shocked to think that Ian still had fond thoughts for other men. And he thought of his family downstairs, each one more fucked up than the last, all in agreement over the severity of his error.

And to be honest, he still didn’t quite get the uproar. But maybe that was because none of them got his side, either.

“You’re right,” he began, “you don’t.”

Mickey tensed further, pulling away from him on the bed, but Ian wasn’t done.

“You have all the good bits, you know,” he continued. He went to rest a hand on Mickey’s chest, saw his stiffness, and pointed at his own instead.

“You have all four chambers,” he told him. “Atrium and ventricle. You keep my blood moving, keep it useful, keep me alive. And you have my valves,” he added, trailing a finger side to side to point to the right spots as he spoke. “Mitral and aorta, pulmonary and tricuspid.” He smiled. “You keep me going in the right direction.”

Mickey was softening, he could tell, the tension seeping from his limbs as Ian droned on. He kept going anyway.

“You have all my arteries, Mick,” he whispered. “You’re in all my veins. You said I was under your skin, once?” Ian laughed. “Well you’re under my skin, too. And in my muscles, and in my blood.”

“And the others, they’re like…” he hesitated, searched for the right words. Better words than he had used before. “They’re like cholesterol,” he settled on, “plaque. Or…like the scar tissue from a triple bypass, the parts that don’t work anymore.”

Mickey’s lips quirked, despite himself, and Ian counted it as a victory.

“You have a lot a heart surgeries, Gallagher?” he questioned softly, catching on.

Ian smile widened, and he reached out to take Mickey’s hand. This time, Mickey didn’t pull away.

“Maybe a few,” he admitted. “And maybe I’m better for it.”

He lifted Mickey’s hand to his lips, held it there.

“I don’t mind the broken bits,” he told his husband. “The pieces they left behind. Because you pushed through them every time, and made me healthy again.”

Mickey fidgeted, and nudged himself off the wall to settle closer to Ian’s side.

“Alright,” he allowed, “I get it.”

“Do you?” Ian asked earnestly. “Because I want you to, you know.” He dropped Mickey’s hand to hold his face instead, gently stroking a thumb over his cheek. “I want you to know that that thirteen percent, it doesn’t really matter. All that matters are the parts that are you.”

"I chose you, Mickey," he murmured. He reached out blindly for the spare rings in their box on the bed, worked one free. Slipped it onto Mickey's finger without looking away from his eyes. Mickey's hand clenched around it, around Ian's hand, and held tight.

"I married you," Ian added. "Because I love you with every real part of my heart, every little bit that works."

“All eighty-seven percent?” Mickey prods with a soft expression, leaning forward until his nose brushes Ian’s.

“All eighty-seven percent,” Ian confirmed, and kissed him.

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ 37.5

➻ characters: yeosang, wooyoung, yunho ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst ➻ word count: 3.6k ➻ rating: M ➻ warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba chapter specific warnings: past abuse and dubious consent are discussed - no graphic depictions of any of the above, depictions of piercings and needles. this interim deals with heavy topics relating to a whorehouse and it is not required to read this interim to understand the rest of the story. it is an optional chapter as all interims are, so please skip over this one if you are not comfortable with the warnings tagged ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

✧✧✧ act five ➻ part 4.5

​​​​

“I’d like you to give me more piercings.”

“I—” 

The blunt statement catches Yunho a bit off-guard, moreso than he would like to admit, and as much as he tries to hide that shock, it still slips through nonetheless. He blinks back at Wooyoung with some wonder in his eyes, enough to make the other man tilt his head in question. Yeosang stands beside him as well though the Elitist’s eyes remain unfocused and noncommittal. It’s been quite some time since Yunho gave Wooyoung any piercings — god, how long has it been? Two years? Maybe three? Surely that can’t be right… — and the doctor is absolutely no stranger to the reasons why Wooyoung would be asking for such a thing now. However, because he tries to be a good and fair doctor, Yunho never goes through with the piercings unless he and Wooyoung have talked things through. 

And by that, he means therapy, basically. Checking in on where Wooyoung is at mentally and emotionally before doing anything drastic. Yet that also brings more challenges than anything else because out of everyone Yunho has ever treated in his years being a doctor, Wooyoung is by far the more difficult. He doesn’t like talking about himself, his experiences, his feelings; he despises the thought of sharing intimate and vulnerable parts of himself outside of Yeosang, but according to the Elitist, it’s near impossible to get Wooyoung to speak even when it’s just the two of them together. 

Yunho would call it a phenomenon of trauma but frankly, it makes a perfect amount of sense.

Given what Wooyoung has been through and experienced — between being a slave and suffering at the hands of not one but two cruel masters — Yunho truly cannot blame the young man for being so hesitant to talk about his feelings. But, as he said, he knows vaguely how Wooyoung must be feeling if he is coming to Yunho for more piercings now.

“You hardly have any room left on those ears for more piercings, Woo,” Yunho comments through a slightly strained smile. Wooyoung opts to simply wave a hand through the air in response. Yeosang glares at the floor. “Take a seat.”

There is a large amount of struggle in this for Yunho. On one hand, he wants to be firm, stand his ground, and say absolutely not until Wooyoung opens up a little. On the other side of things, Yunho understands that this is what Wooyoung needs to cope with whatever trauma he experienced while being held captive. Yunho doesn’t know all the details, of course, he merely knows that Wooyoung was held in a cell on a ship with San and Mingi for several days before being sold to a whorehouse in Lynder. Then he stayed a few days in that whorehouse. He no doubt had to work against his will, no doubt gave in and didn’t fight what he was told to do even though he didn’t want it, and it no doubt brought back horrid memories from his time as a slave. Yunho isn’t stupid. Such a thing would be taxing for anyone.

The other thing Yunho is grossly over aware of is the fact that pain, to Wooyoung, is nothing. He still has a hard time wrapping his brain around that. Wooyoung… feels pain to a certain degree like any other person would but he has conditioned himself into not feeling it the way others might. The slice of a knife against his arm would be nothing but a pinch of a needle on his skin and wouldn’t bother him one bit; all it is to him is a small pinprick. He asks people to go harder on him when sparring. He punches closed fists against his thighs when he’s upset. He enjoys getting piercings after going through something that would otherwise be traumatic for others. Because it doesn’t hurt. Yunho recalls asking once about it because at the time he didn’t understand that either.

“Why do you ask for piercings as though you want to be hurt? If you don’t really feel that pain? What do you gain from it in that case?”

“Because it’s a pain that I get to choose. All my life I’ve been subjected to pains that are not my own doing or that I didn’t ask for. But in asking for a piercing and choosing where it will go and when it will happen… I get to choose that pain. Getting to have that after suffering pains I didn’t want feels liberating in a way. I enjoy it, as bad as that sounds. It helps me cope with what I’ve been through. Like, for every pain they force on me, I choose a new piercing. Eye for an eye but… on myself, I suppose?”

“Where would you like them?” Yunho inquires, shifting over to shuffle through his cabinets in search of his needles and barbells. “Just one or are we doing more than that?”

“Two this time, I think,” Wooyoung hums as he sits down on the edge of the first bed in his vicinity. Yeosang falls down on the bed next to him without a noise, still staying silent even though Yunho can clearly see how much this bothers him. Which part of it bothers him exactly is a mystery to Yunho because it could be any combination of things. The doctor wants to ask Yeosang if he’s okay with this but that would be a tragic mistake on his part so he bites his tongue instead. It would seem too much like giving Yeosang all the power in Wooyoung’s decisions, and doing such a thing to a former slave would only be detrimental to long-term progress. Besides, he doesn’t need the verbal confirmation when he can clearly see how much Yeosang does not want Wooyoung to do this.

Yunho’s hand hesitates over his growing collection of piercing rods, and he glances back at Wooyoung once more.

“Where are you wanting them?”

“Nipples!” The combination of Wooyoung’s blatant enthusiasm as well as Yeosang’s far too deadpan expression sends Yunho reeling, and he chokes around nothing but air before truly processing Wooyoung’s request. 

“A-Ah, I see, of course. One moment,” Yunho murmurs, blinking down at his collection with a bit of bewilderment before picking out what he thinks to be the right size barbells. He’s not unfamiliar with these sorts of piercings — ones on the body that is — and he has found himself well acquainted with certain body parts of the crew to a point where he is no longer uncomfortable with doing things like this for them. Wooyoung is one of the few (the others being Yeosang, Seonghwa, and Y/N) who Yunho is not well acquainted with in that way, however, so this does come as a bit of a surprise. “Your shirt… would you mind taking it off?” Wooyoung strips himself of his top in the next second, and Yunho watches the way the fabric catches on his metal collar before springing loose. Then his eyes settle on the expanse of freshly exposed skin. It elicits a sharp gasp from Yeosang as well, one that Yunho matches in intensity because… well. Yeah. Yunho isn’t sure how to phrase what comes to his mind then. 

“Wooyoung,” Yeosang exhales as he balls his fists around the sheets. Wooyoung stares forward at Yunho with a certain expectancy, like he’s challenging the doctor to not breathe a word about the sight before him, but Yunho would rather lose that challenge right now.

There are… bruises against Wooyoung’s waist. Vaguely shaped like large, manly hands that press the outlines of fingers into his tanned skin. They wrap about the young man’s lithe waist and leave little to the imagination about what sort of scenario and position Wooyoung must have been in when receiving such bruises. The sweeping sensation in Yunho’s gut is so strong that it nearly makes him sick on the spot. Yeosang just looks angry at this point, and Yunho cannot blame him all too much for that. With a sigh, the doctor sinks onto his stool and presses closer to the bed until his knees bump against Wooyoung’s. 

“Wooyoung, we need to talk about… this.” Yunho motions to the other’s torso, unable to peel his gaze off the ugly marks. 

“What is there to talk about?” Wooyoung sounds almost genuine when asking the question. “We all know the nature of working in a whorehouse. There’s nothing to discuss.”

“That’s not — you didn’t — Wooyoung.” Yunho may or may not be bordering on desperation when he exhales this time. He has dealt with a lot of different scenarios and situations as a doctor, but something of this degree is far out of his wheelhouse. 

“I asked them to be rough,” Wooyoung admits through a whisper so quiet that Yunho at first thinks he misheard what the man said.

“W-What was that?” 

“I said I asked them to be rough.” Wooyoung’s repetition doesn’t make it any easier to hear. Almost worse. Definitely worse. “I told them to rough me up a little, make me hurt some, I asked them to treat me that way.”

Yunho spares a pleading glance in Yeosang’s direction, hoping that the man will have some insight on this part of Wooyoung since that is far from Yunho’s specialty. He doesn’t know… intimate details about Yeosang and Wooyoung’s more physical relationship, but Yeosang would surely be the person to ask for confirmation about this side of the man. Instead of a small nod of approval or some sign that this is normal, all Yunho sees is a horrid scowl.

“You — did you want them to be this rough with you?” Yunho asks, tone falling into a more quiet one now.

“I asked them to make me hurt, Yunho.”

“That wasn’t the question, Wooyoung. Did you want them to do that?”

“I came here to get my fucking nipples pierced, not to be interrogated pointlessly,” Wooyoung snaps back. This time he pushes some venom into his tone but it rolls off Yunho’s shoulders without sticking one bit. “I like pain during sex. I like when Yeosang pushes me around and hits me some even when I’m fully in control. I barely feel it anyways so why should it matter at all? Now are you gonna do this or not because I’m sure I can do it myse—”

Wooyoung moves to push up off the bed and make for the door but Yeosang is quicker to wrap his hand around Wooyoung’s wrist and pull him back without a word.

“Did they do anything you didn’t want?” The Elitist asks through tightly gritted teeth.

The hesitation and silence speak volumes, Yunho is hurdling towards a conclusion he does not want to hear, and he is ready to cry by the time Wooyoung finally opens his mouth and answers the question.

“No, they didn’t. I got lucky. I got fucking lucky, Yeosang. All my clients in those days were fucking kind and only did what I told them they could because the workers knew I was fresh meat. They knew people like me needed to be treated gently for the first few weeks so they only sent clients with good and safe track records to my room. Those clients only ever did what I told them to, only did what I said was okay, didn’t touch me if I said no. I got lucky.” Wooyoung spits the words like he hates himself for speaking them, and Yunho thinks somewhere in the back of his mind that the man was not as lucky as he says he was. He should be relieved, grateful even that he got lucky, but he only sounds enraged. 

“Were there…” Yunho starts but his question dies a bit early on his tongue. He swallows around nothing, pulling a pair of latex gloves off his workstation and working his fingers into them as he mulls over his next words. When the last of the latex snaps around his wrist, he finally speaks again. “Were there ones who weren’t lucky?”

“Every fucking night after my clients left, I got to listen to the prostitute next door sob alone in a room with no one to help him. And the very first night I tried to talk to him through the fucking wall and ask him if he was okay and if he was hurt, and he told me I was lucky to be fresh meat. That they would listen to me because I was new and still had some hope left in my eyes. While he didn’t get that chance, he didn’t get to dictate what he wanted or didn’t want because people just took it from him for so long that he lost the will to ask. So yeah, there were ones who didn’t get lucky. There always are.”

Yunho opens his mouth but closes it just as quick, expression a cross between blank and just flat out dumb because he doesn’t know what to say if there even is something to say.

“That’s not your fault, Wooyoung,” Yeosang says instead, but his grip on the other’s wrist releases. “What happened to him is not your fault.”

“What was it that your mother said when you picked me out of a line of slaves? That I was lucky to be picked? But why did I get to be lucky while others suffered? Why did I get to choose not to be hurt or in pain while that prostitute was stripped of that choice? We were all whores for sale in that place so what did I do to deserve being treated better than him? What did he do to deserve being treated worse?”

“Woo…” Somehow the Elitist manages to sound genuinely saddened by the words. 

“The very least I could do was ask to be treated the same as him, was it not? But I couldn’t even have the courage to ask for that? The only thing I could do was ask them to hurt me even though I knew it wouldn’t really hurt. How lucky I was, right? If I’m not hurt, then it doesn’t matter who else gets hurt in the process, does it?”

“Wooyoung.” The edge in Yeosang’s tone pushes forward, bordering on threatening, but Wooyoung is hellbent on speaking his mind right now and any threat from Yeosang won’t stop him. Yunho has the thought to intervene and stop them but he knows — he knows how badly Wooyoung needs this right now. If this will help him cope with what he had to go through then Yunho is in no place to stop him. 

If this is what he needs to make Yeosang cope with it too, then Yunho again is in no place to stop him.

“How does it feel, Yeosang? Knowing that the only reason I was hurt in there is because I asked for it? Do you still think we got lucky?”

“Don’t ask me questions you don’t want the answers to.”

“No, because if it had been you in there, things would have been different. Because you — you are lucky, Yeosang. You always have been and you always will be. Yet no matter how many times I tell you that, you still refuse it. You—” Wooyoung stabs his index finger hard against Yeosang’s chest, voice coming out a bit choked and wet now “—could have sat there for weeks and listened to that boy next door cry and sob without an ounce of sympathy. Because that’s what an Elitist would do. That what you were raised to do, that’s in your blood, how your brain works. But it’s not how mine works. So you don’t get to sit there and tell me that I made the wrong decision.” 

Perhaps Yunho is too used to conflict and gross distortions of communication because when Yeosang stands down rather than fighting back against Wooyoung’s words, he’s overwhelmed. Simply put, he is overwhelmed. He doesn’t know how else to describe the swell of emotions in his chest. But Yeosang just lets his shoulders sag and his face falls flat once more, anger ebbing out of his expression like Wooyoung has a tight grip of control over him. Yeosang isn’t a person to stand down so easily; he’s stubborn, has a short fuse and even shorter patience that causes issues more often than not, and he hates when things don’t go his way. Yunho merely assumed the same would apply to his relationship with Wooyoung. 

It doesn’t, as it seems. 

“Then what would you have me do, Wooyoung? Let you bend until you break without batting an eye? Watch as you blame yourself for something that happened to a person you didn’t even know? Who had been there well before you? Letting you torture yourself for things that are out of your control is not logical or fair; I don’t need to be an Elitist to realize that.”

“You can be as upset as you want, I don’t mind if you’re upset, that’s not what this is about!” Wooyoung argues back, voice climbing in volume a bit. Yunho takes it upon himself to lean away from the bed a bit, and he does his best to make himself seem as insignificant as possible while prepping his clamps and needles. “It doesn’t matter if it was my fault or not. What matters is that he suffered while I did not. And even asking to be hit and pushed around and bruised wasn’t enough because I was still asking for it. I’m… I’m not saying that I wanted my choice taken away — I would never ever ask for that or want that in any capacity. That’s the worst possible thing that could ever happen to a person. No one deserves that. No one. It just didn’t feel fair enough even though it was all I could do to make it feel fair. So yeah, I got fucking lucky, I guess. But he didn’t do anything to deserve to be unlucky.”

“I’m not saying that he did, Woo,” Yeosang whispers to the space between them. “I’m certain that he was a good person who got a bad hand in life, and I’m sure he deserved much better than what he was given. You always ask me to consider your thoughts and feelings on matters. You tell me that it’s because I’m an Elitist that I can’t understand you. You say I just have to accept things and move on, but you don’t — I’m not some emotionless husk, Wooyoung. Being an Elitist doesn’t make me not feel anything. Just because I think with logic more than emotion doesn’t mean that I can’t have emotions. For every fucking night you were gone from my side, I suffered too. It felt like I was losing you to the fate you wanted to fight together, and there was nothing I could do except wait. I was lucky too. Lucky that I didn’t have to wait longer or fight harder to get you back. Lucky that we got you on the first try. Lucky to have you even sitting before me now. It’s not… the reason I keep saying that we got lucky isn’t because I think everyone else in that whorehouse deserves the fate they were given. It’s because we had the chance to fight what fate gave us and took it.”

Yeosang manages a shaky exhale. He blinks down at his hands without saying anything for several moments, but doesn’t look back up at Wooyoung even when he decides to talk again.

“For the first time in over fourteen years, I didn’t get to be your shield. I wasn’t at your side. It wasn’t as simple as coming home from a mission and having you by my side, in my bed, or being in your arms. None of that was even an option because it wasn’t a mission and there was no guarantee of if you would ever come back. I have dedicated my whole life to protecting you because I promised to never let you be hurt again. So you want the answer to that question? How does it feel knowing that the only reason you were hurt in there was because you asked for it? It feels like you’re fucking spitting in my face, Wooyoung, and taunting me for my failures because I wasn’t there to stop you.”

That causes Wooyoung to backtrack in an instant. Realization sinks through his skin, and Yunho doesn’t doubt that it hurts more than any pain that he could inflict on himself. Because that’s the thing about love — it can simultaneously bring you the greatest joys in life as well as the deepest ruin.

And right now?

Yunho can clearly see the ruin in Wooyoung’s features as much as he tries to contain the emotions. Yeosang doesn’t stop there, and it’s with a small shake of his head that he lifts his chin to look Wooyoung in the eye again.

“I’m not blaming you, Wooyoung. I know the kind of person you are, I know how deeply and strongly you feel, especially towards injustices and unfairness like what that boy experienced in there. I know you did what you thought you had to, and I’m not blaming you for making those decisions. But do not ask me to love you even a fragment less than I do now. I knew a boy who was in that very same position once too. Who didn’t have a choice, who couldn’t make any decisions for himself, who didn’t get to choose his pain. I knew a boy who sat on the other side of a metal divider in a bed too small for his body and cried because of how unfair life was to him. And I promised that boy I would get him out and save him and keep him safe from harm at any and all costs. I can’t keep that promise if you won’t let me.”

The breath of silence that ensues after Yeosang speaks is thick enough to choke Yunho, and he pauses his movements in the wake of that quiet because it just feels utterly wrong to even move right now. Wooyoung is dangerously still, perhaps more still than Yunho has ever seen him before. Then a tear escapes the corner of his eye and rolls down the ball of his cheek to pool at his jawline before dropping to the bed. It breaks the dam of the frozen atmosphere, and Wooyoung careens forward to smack his fist against Yeosang’s shoulder. 

“You stupid little — how can you say cute shit with that stupid lovesick look on your face? And I’m supposed to be okay? God, I’m gonna suck the soul out of you later for that, you absolute sap. Then ride you until you cry for good mea—” 

“Um, too much information, hello!” Yunho intervenes before Wooyoung can even think about finishing the thought in front of him. “Listen, I’m all for sex but I do not need to hear those kinds of details. Just… practice safe sex and wear protection. That’s all I need to know about your sex lives, please!”

“I’m just trying to show my appreciation here,” Wooyoung argues through a wet sniff, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand.

“Yes, well, save the appreciation for later. I’m still piercing you, am I not?”

“Was that enough talking for you then?” Wooyoung offers a small laugh that sounds more pitiful than anything else, but Yunho isn’t about to call him out on such a thing. 

“You tell me, Wooyoung.” Yunho shrugs a bit and glances over to where Yeosang is sitting, watching the way the Elitist folds a hand over Wooyoung’s without hesitation. “This is about how you’re feeling and where you’re at mentally and emotionally. I’m not the person who gets to determine whether it’s enough or not.”

“No, i-its — I feel… better getting to tell someone that. And getting to reassure you guys that it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Even if I still feel a bit of guilt about it, I know I couldn’t change it even if I tried. But yeah, talking about it — that helped.”

“I’m glad,” Yunho hums through a smile of his own. “I know you’re probably sick of hearing me say it over and over, but my door is always open if you’d like to talk more about it. That goes for both of you.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, Yun, don’t worry! But right now I’d like for you to put that needle through my nipples so I can get on with choking on Yeos—”

“Nope, okay! I’ll put this needle through your tongue to shut you up instead, how about that?”

✧✧✧ a/n: okay so!! i felt like this chapter was kinda necessary? considering what we saw wooyoung go through and i didn’t want to bury what he went through or act like it didn’t happen but bec of the heavy nature of the topics i wanted to make sure that it wasn’t absolutely crucial for anyone to read this and feel like they were missing out. these are serious things, they are important things, and as always i tried my best to represent those things as best i could and as realistically as possible to avoid any romanticizing of these topics so i hope i was able to convey that and the feelings the characters had well. please please please take care i love u all as always be safe and stay healthy !! i’ll see you guys soon with another chapter!

also it’s been a minute but this survey is always open for you guys to take whenever you like!

taglist: @faeriewoobin @sugarrimajins @atinyinwonderland @sparklychangbin @jeong-uwu @jeonartemis @anothershorthuman @xxbluestrifexx @haotheheckk @noonawriter @lostscenarios @nlost21 @mirror-juliet @okokokok123-45 @purple-aeon @theoinkypiglet @toothlessshiber @atinyarmyx1 @simpforhyunjin @hwangwoosan @softyubi @drumboydowoon @chatsgotmytongue @just-a-starfruit @babydolljo @scintillating-souls @khjssss @rawrrainn @hewwo-from-the-other-side @icekdy​ @eggteez​ @bangtanxberm​ @uglychildd​ @lucymultistan​ @revehosh​ @choistan​ @vampyrejimin​

[calligraphist-artemisia]

Finding Courage

Written for the Kidge Spring Event! 

Prompt 6: Edelweiss | Courage, Devotion

Summary: AU - Canon Divergence. Five years after the end of the war, Pidge finds herself wanting to go back out and see the universe with her own eyes. Luckily, she knows someone who can help with that, but only if she can find the courage to ask.

Also posted on AO3 under the username Kishirokitsune

❀ - ❀ - ❀ - ❀ - ❀

The time had come.

Pidge looked in the mirror as she ran her hands down the sides of her shirt, trying to smooth out the few wrinkles that had accumulated. She wanted to look nice, but not too nice. Lance and Hunk would notice if she was trying too hard and they would poke and prod until they were satisfied with the answer she gave, and that wasn't something she really wanted to deal with. (Shiro was likely to notice as well but at least he would be polite enough to keep it to himself.)  

Which was why she'd selected a pair of jeans, her signature green shirt (at least according to Lance), and her nicer lab coat that didn't have oil stains all over it. And while for most of their Team Voltron get-togethers she would forgo the lab coat for something nicer, she had plans to drop by the hangar where Project Lionheart was in the works to grab a few things from the lab she shared with Matt.

Text appeared at the bottom of her glasses.

Matt: I leave in 10 minutes if you want a ride.

Pidge pressed her finger to the right side of her frames. “Send message: I'll be down soon.”

Her new glasses were a labor of love that were nearly five years in the making. She'd spent countless nights trying to link it to her computer and then to get the voice recognition to work and then to devise a lightweight battery that would both hold a charge for a minimum of twelve hours while also having the capability of being wirelessly recharged. She'd wrangled Matt and Hunk into helping her, which sometimes involved 2 am conversations when she couldn't sleep because an idea wouldn't leave her alone, but she needed someone's brain to pick and see if she was crazy or on the right track.

She still had a hundred new ideas to try out for it, but for the moment it was the perfect way for her family to contact her when she was eyeballs deep in some new project. (Not to mention, it was also remarkably helpful in displaying measurements and any other schematics when she needed them.)

Pidge slung her bag containing her laptop over her shoulder and then headed downstairs to join Matt and tell her parents they were headed out.

Colleen pulled her in for a tight hug, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “I'm so proud of you!”

“Mom, I haven't even asked him yet,” Pidge complained, her voice muffled against her mom's shirt.

“Oh, please, like he's going to say 'no'?” Matt remarked from the doorway. He grinned at the glare his sister cast in his direction. “I'm just saying that I talk to Shiro a lot. And you know who else talks to Shiro? Keith does. Trust me, he'll be tripping over himself to agree to let you join him.”

Pidge rolled her eyes. The very idea of Keith being anything other than composed and unshakable by something she had to say was silly. Maybe it would have been different when they were younger and just starting out as Team Voltron, but not after all of their experiences during the war and throughout Reconstruction.

“You're all getting way ahead of yourselves,” Pidge said as she extricated herself from her mom's arms. “And making way too big of a deal out of this. All I'm doing is asking if I can go with him and help with the Outreach Program.”

With Kolivan serving as the interim Emperor of the Galra until he either stepped down or Reconstruction reached its ten-year mark, it had fallen on Krolia to lead the weakened, but not fully depleted, Blade of Marmora. She split the Blade into two separate but equal groups – one to continue their undercover work and root out any insurgents before they could cause too much trouble and the other a much more public branch dedicated to reaching out to affected planets and offering aid in whatever way they could.

Pidge, who felt like she was stagnating by staying on Earth and doing the same thing day in and day out, thought that going back out and seeing the universe with her own eyes was exactly what she needed. And sure, she could ask Hunk if she could tag along with his crew and he would gladly welcome her on board, but she wasn't sure she'd really find what she was looking for on a ship devoted to the culinary arts of the universe. Pidge had thought about it for a long time and, in the end, came to the conclusion that asking Keith was the way to go.

That was months ago and she'd seen him twice since then. She'd chickened out both of those times.

Because maybe she had a second motive for wanting to go with him. Something beyond wanting to explore the universe and even more of a... personal desire.

“Leaving already?” Sam asked, poking his head into the entrance hall.

Matt nodded. “Yeah, I have a few things to check on in the lab and Pidge wants to get to her meeting on time, so I figured we should head out.”

Pidge and Matt wrapped up their goodbyes and then set off to the Galaxy Garrison, where Matt dropped her off close to the Voltron Memorial before continuing on his way to the parking garage. Pidge watched him leave before she began making her way up the gleaming white stairs, which led to the top of a hill where a massive stone sculpture of Voltron stood watching over the land.

Normally the area was crawling with tourists, but once a year it was reserved for a group of 7 as they celebrated the day they first met.

As Pidge reached the top of the steps, she saw most of her friends were already there and seated at a round patio table. Shiro was smiling as he listened to whatever story Lance was enthusiastically telling, while Hunk leaned back and occasionally interjected.  Lance paused his story as she approached.

“You're on time!”

“Like you haven't been late a time or two,” Pidge shot defensively shot back. Seriously, she was late once or twice (or a lot) because she got wrapped up in something she was working for and the man would never let her forget it.

Lance grinned at her. “I was just telling Shiro and Hunk about the time you came out to visit the farm.”

“A memory I'd rather forget,” Pidge said with a wince. She sat down between Hunk and Shiro and gently set her bag down on the floor at her feet. “Where's everyone else? I figured Allura and Coran would have come with you, Lance.”

“Dropping the twins off with Romelle. She agreed to babysit,” Lance responded.

“Even after last time? Brave woman,” Hunk joked.

Pidge couldn't help but smile. The twins were Lance and Allura's 3-year-old children, Alfor and Maribel, and were a handful even for the most experienced and patient people. Romelle was practically a saint for being able to watch them on her own and Pidge wished she could know how she did it. (Maybe then she wouldn't end up covered in mud or running from bees or locked in the attic, all of which had happened during her first and last visit to the farm and was undoubtedly the story Lance was telling when she walked up.)

“You could have brought them along. I would love to see Alfor and Maribel again,” Shiro said.

Lance shook his head. “No, trust me. This is the better option. If we take our eyes off of them for even a second they'll have climbed to the top of the Voltron statue. Somehow. And good luck getting them down.”

Shiro made a sound to indicate his disbelief. “They're not that bad.”

“Yes, they are,” Lance and Pidge deadpanned in unison.

And honestly, they were sweet kids, but the amount of trouble they could get into was staggering and, in some ways, only reinforced Pidge's feelings that she never wanted to have any of her own.

Lance soon launched into a series of stories of the more interesting antics of the twins, which Allura and Coran backed up once they arrived. Pidge found herself laughing over some of the ones she hadn't heard before and because of that, she completely missed Keith's arrival via one very special cosmic wolf. He easily inserted himself into the conversation as he took a seat between Shiro and Coran – directly across from Pidge – and it was like he'd been there the whole time.

They soon branched off from stories about the twins so everyone could describe what they'd been up to since the last time all seven of them were together.

Lance and Allura, of course, had the kids and their farm on New Altea, which they ran with the help of Lance's family. In the beginning, Allura tried to split her time between them and trying to rule as Queen, but it eventually became too much and she turned to Coran for help, who suggested a council of trusted individuals to run the day-to-day duties that were necessary for the new planet to flourish. No one was surprised when he was elected Head Chancellor of the Council.

Even once things calmed down, Shiro retained his role as Captain of the Atlas, if only for the fact that he was the only one the ship responded to. The big, bulky ship didn't have much use outside of exploration and assisting with Reconstruction (sometimes by providing extra muscle for goods, sometimes just for transporting more sensitive or bulky materials), but Shiro spoke of his job and crew with pride. He even mentioned that he started seeing someone, though he wouldn't say who.

(“It's still new to both of us,” he said in response to Lance's begging. “We want to wait and see where things go before we start telling everyone.”)

Hunk had a myriad of new stories about all of the new recipes he created, as well as some of his worst failures. He had them all laughing so hard that it brought tears to their eyes at some of his descriptions. He then spoke of future plans and how he was looking to hire more chefs to help with the increased demand for their food before turning the conversation over to Keith.

“There isn't much to say,” Keith said with a shrug. “It's not like anything has changed since the last time we talked. You all know what I've been doing.”

“Are you really going to sit there and say that nothing interesting has happened to you? You're traveling with Zethrid and Ezor and yet you have no stories?” Lance asked incredulously. “Nope. I don't believe it.”

“You don't have to believe it, but it's true.”

Some things never change.

Pidge tried not to laugh as the two bickered. They only stopped because Shiro stepped in to put an end to it and then it was her turn to gloss over what she'd been working on. Project Lionheart was largely still a secret, though they'd be ready to announce its existence in a few months.

Hours bled together as the seven friends sat and talked and laughed together. Eventually, the sun began to set and Allura and Lance stood to say their goodbyes and go collect the twins from Romelle. Shiro followed soon after, giving the excuse that he had a “hot date” to get ready for, and then Coran and Hunk left together, talking about food supply and whether or not Hunk was willing to make a stop by New Altea during his next round trip.

That left Pidge with Keith.

Alone.

With no one else around to watch her make a fool of herself.

“Are you alright?” Keith asked.

Pidge jerked her head up to stare at him with wide eyes. “Y-yeah, of course! Why wouldn't I be? Everything's great!”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “You've been more quiet than usual.”

Pidge opened her mouth to protest and then immediately shut it. He wasn't wrong. She'd spent most of the afternoon trying not to blurt out her question in the middle of someone else talking and she was dying to get it over with. Finally, they were alone and it was the perfect chance, but everything she wanted to say had suddenly fled her mind.

It was ridiculous!

Keith was her friend!

Her rather handsome friend who she'd developed a large crush on, but her friend nevertheless. Talking to him was easy. She just needed to keep it simple.

“I was wondering... If I asked to go with you the next time you head out, what would you say?”

She watched as Keith sucked in a breath as her words registered in his mind, his eyes widening slightly, and then...

“I'd say that I'd be lucky to have you by my side. You're welcome to come along whenever you'd like.”

[believerindaydreams]

Valentine fluff and stuff, Benny/Arcade <3 post the events of Raging Against the Machine

"Permission to court Arcade? My my, that's a trifle old fashioned, isn't it?" Daisy props the sniper rifle over her back, gives a little wave to Boone as they exit the dinosaur's mouth.

Benny shrugs. "He's welcome to ask my mother if he wants to...we're like that in the Boot Riders is all. Fucking is one thing, but where marriage is concerned you ask the matriarch."

"You could hardly consider me the matriarch of anything. And I didn't raise that boy to just take orders from anyone, especially one of...us."

"Orders about what?" Arcade's left off his coat in the Mojave heatwave, and his lover down to sharp black trousers and a blue shirt rolled up to the elbows makes him momentarily wish that Daisy wasn't here, or indeed the rest of the population of Novac.

Lover, heh. The thing he most regrets about all this is giving up that fond familiar term for a new and alien one.

"Anything," Daisy says mildly. "I won't spoil the surprise if Benny hasn't told you yet."

"...if he hadn't told you- uh, okay. I can wait." He throws Benny a confused look, gets a cheerful stonewall of a response.

Really, there's no need to inform Daisy that he let famously laidback Arcade Gannon be the one to propose first.

***

*one week earlier*

"I'm prescribing you a break. Medically."

"House had a point plugging himself into a mainframe," Benny growls, tossing yet another clipboard into the ever-growing stack besides him. "It would save a lot of trouble to do this all mentally- do you know how many pages of negotiations I'm dealing with for the sharecropper farms alone?"

"No, and that isn't the point. You need to stop acting like we're in perpetual crisis mode, the war's been over for a month-"

"The crises don't stop just because of a sudden outbreak of peace."

"You've got Swank. You've got a room full of clerks back there," Arcade says, gesturing. The Tops presidential suite is almost unrecognizable now from its earlier iteration as a swinger pad; there are charts on the walls, hurrying subordinates, and the bar has been cleared of liquor in favor of a shiny new terminal for Benny's private use. "You have responsibilities, yes, but you need to ease off at some point. Unless you actually want everyone to start thinking you're another Mr House in the making."

Not only has the thought occurred to him, now wasn't even for the first time today, but- you can hardly say that to Arcade.

"I couldn't relax here if I wanted to. Look at this mess. There isn't a place in New Vegas where I could go without having a lot of hangers on trying to get my attention, at least I can hear myself think in here."

"True. That's why I bought a house."

"The fuck- you what?" Squatting is one thing. Actually, literally, owning property, putting in for an official deed claim with the antiquated RobCo property machinery...not only is it an incredible pain, it's incredibly expensive. Even the Kings didn't bother with that, and the Old Mormon Fort is technically rented.

"Well. I had a few gold bars burning a hole in my pocket...and some free time, since the horrendous bloodbath of a New Vegas conquest singularly failed to happen."

"I thought you were donating that to the Followers."

"I thought it'd be good to use it for purposes that advance a Follower agenda. Such as insuring that our newly independent city-state has the opportunity to demonstrate it can exist without its interim dictator." Arcade leans over the bar, kisses his forehead in a gently, oddly chaste way.

It seems odd to Benny at first, until Arcade pulls back and he realises they have an audience. There is no way everyone from the back office needed a pencil all at the same time.

Well, if there's an audience he might as well live up to it. Benny flicks them a smile, adjusts the folds of his collar. "That's different. If you wanted to sweep me off my feet for a long dirty weekend, why didn't you start with the lead?"

He pulls Arcade close for a much more enthusiastic embrace, lips and tongues interlocked, until the doctor actually overbalances. For one terrifying moment he thinks he'll lose control, helplessly watch Arcade go falling headfirst into the wall or the floor or something equally painful.

It doesn't happen. He sustains the weight, until Arcade manages to pull back and stand up again, apparently unaware that anything could have happened. It's all right. They're all right.

"The things I'll do to advance a healthy socio-political agenda," his lover retorts, rather pink-faced, to general clapping and cheers.

***

Phoenix Point, the house is called; and Benny almost regrets it.

It's right across the street from an old tools factory, one of the places he'd resorted to while hunting up Lucky 38 access codes, heart in his mouth every minute. It hasn't been long before he'd known that Arcade's gambit with the Fiends had ended with his rescue by the courier; it had been considerably more worrying, that she had him than they. Fiends being killable.

Marilyn...he still has nightmares, justified ones.

The mistrust eases as Arcade opens the small barbed wire gate, though- it's pre-war security, with a physical and electrical lock. The outer door offers a hefty piece of metal plating, impenetrable to two centuries of decay.

This better not be like a vault. Arcade knows his opinion on those-

but then his lover unlocks the door and lets them inside, and it isn't like that at all.

Light, that's the first thing he notices. Real sunlight, glinting off the water in an open courtyard- a reservoir then, water to waste. That's an immediately soothing sight right there, unmitigated luxury for anyone raised to Mojave dust.

He makes for it immediately, tasting its sweet clarity- no rads, the Pip-Boy silence confirms that. In place of a Geiger counter he can hear Mr New Vegas, endlessly ruminating about love; and the faint whistle of a stewpot on the boil.

And his lover's quick breathing, behind him.

Benny turns, grins at Arcade's self-conscious pose; lying down but with an elbow propping up his chin, all that height shown off even horizontally as compared to the array of ferns and broc flowers behind him. "Is the rest of it this nice?"

"I certainly hope so. I went to more trouble than I needed to, perhaps- the Lucky 38 has been, uh, liberated of a number of books. Brought out some supplies for the workshop, that kind of thing...put together a wardrobe for you," Arcade says, looking very nearly pained. "Even articles that I do not have any comprehension why a sane person would wear."

Benny laughs, but can't sustain it; too much at once, too deeply meant to him. "I love it. I love it already, I love you."

"You haven't even seen it yet."

He draws his lover close, the scent of herbs and animal warmth and the brightening light of the Strip all melding together into one glorious sensation. "I will. Because..."

He doesn't know how to say how a home is holy to him, or how there's no one else in the world he would trust to shape it for him. Or how to say anything at all that means what he needs it to, when words are his worthless stock in trade.

"Because it's you," he says eventually; because that's honest.

Arcade laughs, strokes his hair. "Glad to hear it. Imagine trying to woo the Chairman of the Tops without a reasonably impressive dowry."

That rings false, he almost pulls away. "You don't need to buy me."

"I thought you appreciated that kind of ironic backchat."

"I do, but...not from you. Not with that sincere Followers face of yours." With that ready impatience for the truly immoral, the willingness to speak truth to power. "You're my moral center. Keep on keeping me honest, please."

Arcade favors him with a distinctly stunned expression. "Oddly, I'm rather in the habit of thinking that's what you are to me. You're braver than I am, as far as accepting the risk of failure to try to steer towards better outcomes. There are times when indecision itself can become paralysing."

The sunset isn't visible from behind the high fencing, but there's a rich blueness fading to purple above them. "In that case...carpe diem?"

"Seize the day?"

"Is that what it means? The impression I got was that it meant something more like 'jump my bones'. That'll teach me to listen to ex-Legion prostitutes."

"...you have a profoundly terrible sense of timing," Arcade murmurs, and rolls over on top of him.

"Uh."

"Carpe diem, then?"

Maybe his voice does fail him; but he kisses his way into a yes.

[redeadepression]

Seven Minutes | John Marston x (My OC) Karmen Davis Cassady

I was inspired by reading @inkrabbit’s Seven Minutes in Heaven! Go and read it if you haven’t already! Read it last night and spent all night and today thinking about what it would be like to be forced to play SMIH with your bestie John.

I barely edited this. Enjoy!

Characters: John Marston, Karmen Davis (Cassady) | Modern AU Setting Tags: Fluff, Getting together, friends to lovers, kissing, making out, Modern AU Word Count: 2767

Summery: Modern AU John Marston gets roped into playing Seven Minutes in Heaven with his friends at a party.

~~~~~~~~

John kept himself quiet with a swig of his drink as his friend’s raved excitedly about which game they wanted to play next. They’d just finished a few rounds of Never Have I Ever and John was busy feeling a little uncomfortable at how sober he still was compared to some of the other party guests.

He’d never really realised how little he’d experienced in his life until everyone had started to use the game as a platform for bragging. Shouting out their wildest stories before proudly taking a drink and watching as the others in the room were forced to refrain.

But despite the crazy anecdotes there were also some pretty tame claims made.

John had felt sheepish every time he didn’t drink. The other men furrowing their brows in his direction until he’d started to drink anyway to keep them off his scent. Pretending to understand half of the things that everyone but him had seemed to experience and hoping to hell no one called him out and asked about it.

He never was good at lying on the spot.

“We could play seven minutes in heaven.” Sean suggested loudly. “Spin the bottle style.” He added, grabbing the nearest empty bottle of alcohol and spinning it around the tabletop to add flare to his suggestion.

A collective groan rolled out around the room as he argued that it would be harmless fun.

“We’re nearly thirty.” Karmen argued back, stopping the bottle in it’s place right before it fell from the counter.

“Some of us are over thirty.” John pointed out with a smirk directed towards Arthur.

The older man sneered at the comment. Thinking for a moment before placing his drink down on the edge of the counter and taking the empty whiskey bottle out of Karmen’s hand.

“You know what?” He asked lightly as he turned to John. “Let’s play seven minutes in heaven. Could do you some good you goddamn loser.” He snipped, clapping John on the shoulder on his way passed.

John rolled his eyes, watching as the other party guests followed Arthur without question into the living room. He settled onto the floor and put the bottle down in front of him. Gesturing for the rest of them to sit in a circle around the container.

They obliged without argument and John wondered briefly if perhaps more of them had actually wanted to play than they’d let on. The squabbling at stopped quickly at Arthur’s suggestion and suddenly no one was objecting anymore.

“Fine.” John said tersely as he was pulled on the arm by one of the ladies. “But I ain’t kissin’ you.” He spat at Arthur as he settled himself next to the older man.

“New rule!” Sean shouted excitedly as he sat across from John. “You must go into the bedroom with whomever your bottle lands on. No redos unless your spin will result in incest!” He teased, grinning at his own joke at the others chuckled under their breath.

“So… What do we do in the bedroom?” Karmen asked as she settled herself beside Sean. She seemed less than impressed to be playing. It seemed out of character for her. She was usually up for anything.

Sean looked to her incredulously. Shaking his head as he reached for the bottle.

“Whatever ye’ want.” He answered simply, spinning the whiskey with vigour. Silence descended on the group as they waited to see who Sean would be leaving the circle with.

The bottle landed on Karen and he raised his brows at her seductively.

“What if what we want is nothing?” She asked flatly, clearly not amused.

Sean barked out a laugh, rising to his feet and holding out his hand for her to take.

“Aye, that ain’t nice.” He scolded, as she took his hand. “New rule.” He cried suddenly, turning to address the group as Karen wrapped a hand around his waist with a sly grin. “Consent must be given and honoured in the bedroom.”

“Also, literally everywhere else.” Charles added as Sean and Karen disappeared into the nearest room. The click of the lock echoed around the living room as the other party guests sat awkwardly until one of them dared to speak.

“So…” John began, making the others chuckle. “We’re just supposed to sit here and wait while they have sex?” He asked, looking around for an answer as everyone began to return to the conversations they had been having before Sean had rudely interrupted them with his suggestion.

He looked to Karmen, catching her eye from across the circle and she shrugged in reply. Turning to Sadie as she was asked a question about her job.

As it turned out seven minutes was a painfully long time. Especially when no one was timing it. It had taken a good half an hour for the couple to emerge by which point the other guests had moved away from the whiskey bottle and gone back to mingling with one another.

The game forgotten as Javier had started to play his guitar and Mary-Beth had started a sing-along.

“Aye, aye!” Sean shouted as they re-entered the room. “What’s goin’ on here? I thought we were playin’ a game!” He yelled as the guests turned to him in surprise. Having forgotten all about them in the interim.

“Oh right.” Arthur laughed. “Forgot I was tryin’ to get little Johnny here to loosen up.” He teased, gesturing with his head back towards the living room. The other party-goers followed him as they did before. Settling back down into their places. Murmurs of annoyance flittering around the circle until Arthur passed the bottle to Karmen.

She sighed, taking it and placing it with a clink on the floor in front of her. The group fell silent once more as they waited for her to spin it.

“For the love of God someone time it this time.” Sean interjected as she placed her hand on the glass. “I think I only have seven minutes in me.” He chuckled wryly as Karmen gripped the bottle and flung it across the floor.

John watched as the bottle skidded across the hardwood and came to a stop directly in front of him. He kept his eyes trained on it for a long second as a collective gasp bounced around the circle.

There was no mistaking the fact that the neck of the bottle pointed to him. No leeway on either side for him to shirk the responsibility onto another.

He smiled weakly, looking up and meeting her eyes across the circle. She stared back at him with an expression he couldn’t discern. A wily smile creeping onto her own face as she raised her brows at him in question.

“Well go on!” Sean shouted, throwing his arm out as he gestured for them to leave the group. They hesitated, both of them stuck in place as John chewed on his lip and shook his head lightly.

“You can spin again.” He chuckled awkwardly, reaching for the bottle and intending to pass it back to her as Arthur slapped his hand away lightly.

“Rules are rules John.” He chided, gesturing with his head for the two of them to leave.

John looked to Karmen apologetically. She shrugged once more, pushing herself to her feet and holding out her hand for him to take.

He obliged, taking hold and letting her hoist him to his own feet as they looked one another over uneasily.

“Remember, you’ve only got seven minutes.” Karen called to them in a sing-song voice, holding up her phone and showing everyone the app as Karmen pulled John by the hand away from the others.

“Ah, Johnny won’t need that long.” Arthur teased, earning himself a rude finger from John as he rolled his eyes again. Letting himself be led by his other hand into the nearest bedroom.

He walked inside behind Karmen, closing the door and locking it quickly before turning to her and sighing.

“We can just preten-.” He began, a gasp leaving him as he was cut off abruptly by her lips on his. He was shocked into inaction, standing awkwardly as she kissed him with passion.

She pulled away, furrowing her brows as he looked to her in complete shock.

“You wanna’ waste seven whole minutes?” She asked sarcastically, a quirk in her lips as he opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out.

“I…” He began, unable to finish the sentence as she pulled away from him completely.

“Do you not consent?” She asked, intending the question as a joke but her face falling seriously as he continued to stare at her in shock. “Uh, okay yeah.” She said after a moment. “We can just pretend.” She conceded, an awkward chuckle leaving her as he watched a flush appear on her cheeks.

“No, no.” John said quickly, coming to his senses and placing his hands on her hips. He pulled her towards him, crashing his lips against her as he wrapped her arms around his neck.

She kissed back hungrily, tongues mingling with one another they both squirmed under their growing arousal.

John had never even let the thought cross his mind that she might be attracted to him. They’d been friends for over twenty years and she’d never once shown a romantic interest in him.

He found her attractive, but he wasn’t about to go lusting after her like a dumb kid when he found their adult friendship so fulfilling in and of itself.

He was content with what they had.

He’d never wanted anything more from her. She was his rock. The one constant throughout his life that never changed. He’d never fathomed that they could be more than friends. The thought was exciting and utterly terrifying at the same time.

John pulled himself away quickly, pulling a moan from her as they parted. Her lust filled eyes looking him over in question as he swallowed thickly.

“Are… Are you?” He asked croakily, unable to get the words out as her eyes glinted at him through a coy smile.

“Are you?” She asked, understanding completely the hesitation in him. She had spent a lot of time thinking about this eventuality. Time that he had spent married to another. Time that he hadn’t had to recover after she’d broken his heart.

She was sure. She didn’t need to be asked. But she supposed perhaps he did. She had considered the way he felt about moving forwards from friendship to something more but she was quietly hoping that they didn’t need to speak about it. That he would just reciprocate physically and alleviate all need to have the talk she dreaded.

The one that might ruin this. The one that would turn serious too quickly for her liking and take away all possibility of just letting it happen naturally.

The one that made things awkward if they didn’t immediately fuck afterwards.

“I…” He stuttered again. “I don’t… think…” He stammered, unable to answer as she sighed softly. Pulling away from him completely and smiling weakly at the uncertainty on his face.  

“It’s alright.” She assured, running a hand down his arm for lack of anything else to say.

“Wait.” John said quickly, stepping back into her personal space and locking eyes with hers as he tried again to get his thought out. “I want this.” He said simply. “More than… anything.” He gulped, inhaling shakily as she looked to him in surprise. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.” He said openly, emotion in his throat as he finally fished his thought from earlier. “But not… Like this.” He said finally, averting his eyes as she cocked her head in question.

“Then how?” She asked quietly, her hands coming to rest on his waist as he placed his on her hips, squeezing tightly. Swallowing against the arousal threatening to overtake him at the feel of her under his hands.

He had never realised just how much he had wanted to touch her like that.

They’d hugged a thousand times over the years but he’d never touched her body in this context. He’d picked her up before but he’d never felt the curve of her hips under his hands in quite the same way. Never gave himself permission to.

He’d always thought she was gorgeous but he’d never let himself really look at her and understand why. The colour of her eyes and the freckles on her cheeks were nice and platonic reasons to look at her and think she was beautiful. But the way her thighs hugged the jeans she was wearing, her cleavage peaking through her cropped tank top and the way her tongue darted out to lick at her ruby lips; were all things he’d not have noticed about her in any other context.

“Dinner?” He asked softly, after taking a moment to really see her. The word croaky in his throat as he tried to act nonchalant. His erection straining against his fly as he tried not to think about the fact that this was new territory for them.

“Dinner?” Karmen scoffed, a giggle leaving her lips as she looked up at him with a mix of amusement and empathy. “We have dinner all the time.” She snickered, taking another step closer and pressing herself against him. Gasping at the feel of him pressed against her belly as he subconsciously tried to hunch away from her.

“Uh…” John faltered, trying desperately to ignore the feel of her against his member as he attempted to act the gentleman.  “What do the kids call it?” He rasped, lightheaded as she pressed herself closer, arms moving up to wrap around his neck once more. “Netflix… something…” He mumbled. Closing his eyes as she pressed her lips against his and kissed him softer than before.

He huffed into the kiss, wrapped his own arms around the small of her back and dragging her flush against him before repositioning his hands on her waist. Hips grinding subtly against her as he kissed her back fervently.

“Netflix and chill.” Karmen answered, smiling against his mouth as he hummed in agreement.

“That?” He asked, softly, only breaking the kiss for long enough to murmur his word.

“I guess.” She sighed, feigning disappointment as her hands curled in his hair. Heartbeat in her ears as she felt his hands tighten on her sides.

His hard length pressed insistently against her as she moved her mouth against his greedily. Lapping up every quick second of privacy as they moved together as one for the first time in their lives.

“Two minutes!” Someone called impatiently from outside the door, making the them both jump.

They pulled apart out of instinct, staring at one another for a long minute before both bursting into fits of laughter. They were a sight to behold. Shocked, aroused and dishevelled.  

John felt himself doubling over at the stunned expression on Karmen’s face. The redness of her cheeks as she tried and failed to look at him seriously.

Karmen cackling at the deer in headlights expression on his flushed face as he tried to discreetly adjust his erection so it wouldn’t be viable to the rest of their group.

She moved towards him once more, hands holding him still before she brought them to his head. Raking her fingers through his tussled hair as she tried to straighten it before licking at her thumb and wiping at the lipstick on his swollen mouth.

John grinned against her thumb. Unrolling one of his sleeves, placing it to her mouth and trying to even up the colour on her lips and wipe it away from where it wasn’t supposed to be.

They both giggled like idiots, suddenly stopping their ministrations after a moment. Hands falling to their sides at the same time as they accepted unanimously that it was a fruitless endeavour and Karmen vowed silently never to buy Matte Super Stay lipstick ever again.

Firm knocking on the door next to them signalling that it was time to leave and making them both chuckle nervously as John held out his hand for her to take this time.  

He unlocked the door, stepping out into the room and shrinking under the hoots and hollers from their friends as they both slunk back into their places in the circle. Letting go of their joined hands reluctantly to sit across from one another once more.

Knowing smirks and nudging elbows followed them both well into the night as they gazed at one another over the whiskey bottle. Excited for what was to come.

[undeadorion-archive]

Strap in, folks! It’s family drama time! But there’s a lot of history, first. CW: emotional abuse, anti-vax/mask, physical assault

I have 2 sisters. One older, one younger. We’re all our own brand of mess thanks to an emotionally abusive and manipulative mother. But my older sister takes it to a whole new level. She’s the one who fell into perpetuating the cycle of abuse. 

Older sister is 6 years older than me, thus in her mid-40s. Younger sister is 1 year younger than me. 

Technically, my older sister is adopted. But she’s also my biological sister. It’s a longer story, but my mom got into a serious accident when my older sister was just a baby. My mom’s cousins adopted her, but didn’t tell her until she was like 10. They told her she was going to meet her biological family, gave her a one way ticket from the midwest to Oregon, and put her on a plane by herself. They didn’t tell her she was leaving for good. Which, understandably, would mess someone up for a while. 

Growing up, she had some serious issues with acting out and just being awful. She’d skip school to bring boyfriends home and have sex in other people’s beds, for example. 

The big thing she did to me, however, happened when I was like 20. I’d injured my knee severely and was still waiting to see the physical therapist. I couldn’t bend my right leg at all, I’d later find out it was because my kneecap had started to heal crooked. But at the time this happened, I was just in so much pain I was physically ill. She cornered me in the kitchen about something and refused to let me leave until I told her what she wanted to hear. I was in tears because I just wanted to go lay back down. I begged her to move, she wouldn’t listen. I tried to slap her out of sheer panic, but because of the pain and standing on one foot, I barely even touched her. She responded by taking my feet out from under me and laying on top of me, in a wrestling move type of thing. She then mocked me for not being able to get back up while I was laying on the floor having what I now realize was an extreme panic attack. I couldn’t even speak. 

To this day, she waffles between claiming to not remember it even happening and it not being a big deal. By one line in the sand is that if she apologizes, genuinely, for it then I’ll speak to her again. She’s tried exactly once in 15 years, and it was to tell me to get over it and move on.

At some point, she moved 300 miles away. She would periodically come to visit, but I wasn’t speaking to anyone in my family during that time.

She got REAL mad when I moved in with my dad. For the longest time using my deadname or the wrong pronouns. Eventually upgrading to calling me “Colon” (with the quotes). I’ve lived her since early 2018, and she continues to insist that I turned my dad and younger sister against her. Even though it was her vitriolic behavior about me that did it. My only caveat is that I don’t have to see her if she ever comes to visit. Yet somehow that’s too much for her to handle.

Slowly, my dad and younger sister started distancing themselves. The biggest blow coming in the middle of 2020. Late in 2019, my dad had started planning a trip out to see her in May. He bought plane tickets because he’s getting older and he just can’t do that drive anymore. Then his flight was cancelled so he re-scheduled for September. But the more the pandemic dragged on, the more he questioned it. So he told her he was going to cancel for now and they could try again after the world got back to normal.

She absolutely fucking lost it. Just blew her top. Started ranting and raving about how it’s all a hoax. Called him selfish and demanded he have empathy for her plight. Expecting him to risk the airport, when he was in a very high risk category, between his age and health issues. 

After that, she got REAL loud about being against masks. And eventually, against the vaccine. 

Then, about a year ago, she “coincidentally” tested positive for COVID when she went to the hospital for pneumonia. And expected the family to travel 300 miles to see her because of it. She’s still anti-mask and anti-vaccine.

All the while she’s been threatening my younger sister to come and visit. While also demanding to take my niece and nephew (ages 9 and 4) out for a day just the 3 of them. Without any other adults. Like flat out harassing my younger sister about it. 

She was constantly attacking both my dad and younger sister. And any time they’d say anything in the real of “that’s not okay” she’d start in with the usual “That’s just my OPINION” nonsense. Like telling my younger sister to have a cleaner house.

Then added on top of all that, over the last year we lost our 2 closest relatives. Our aunt and uncle who lived one town over. We practically lived at their house for several summers. When older sister was told about their passing, all she said was “sorry to hear that,” as if they were strangers. She didn’t care at all about it, and was almost irritated that she was expected to acknowledge it.

Until a few weeks ago. We went to help our cousins with clearing out the house. Took some heirlooms and sentimental stuff and otherwise helped sell what they weren’t keeping. They lived in a huge house out in the middle of farm country, so cell signal was non-existent and internet was spotty at best. She saw younger sister posting photos from the visit, and lost her shit. Because she expected us to video call her so she could see what stuff there was. Of course didn’t give a damn about the emotional weight of it all. 

Sometime after that, she ended up calling my dad and berating him about it all. Just yelling and insulting him for no reason. She called him a “Stubborn old fool” and hung up.

In the interim she had to go back to the hospital due to post-covid complications. During which she was on a call with my younger sister. Pulled that usual abuser tactic of pushing someone’s buttons until they explode and then letting someone see just the fallout. So she could then tell my dad the doctor asked if everything was safe at home, and called my younger sister abusive for it.

Well, today was all of this coming together in one single phone call. My dad called her back after a missed call, mostly to check in after her hospital visit. And all of a sudden it became her bemoaning her “abandonment issues.” Like literally saying “You should have compassion because of my abandonment issues.” This was in response to my dad telling her calmly that he didn’t like when she insulted him or yelled at him, which she also defended with saying she had been “frustrated”. As if that excused any of her behavior. It ended with him saying “I’m not your therapist,” and telling her to speak to one.

Ultimately, she proved that she’s allowed to say or do whatever she wants and everyone else must only be nice and sweet to her. 

Also, somehow, this is all my fault. Personally. 

Family is exhausting.

[chiseler]

Dastardly Deeds

If you happened to find yourself wandering around New York in the late Sixties, especially if you were up near the Columbia University campus, chances are good you might have encountered the graffito “George Metesky Was Here” spray painted on walls and sidewalks and store fronts. Even if you had seen it, though, chances are equally good it made no impression. Most people who saw the cliched slogan likely thought little of it, assuming it had been left by some poor, desperate soul named George Metesky in a pathetic bid for attention.” But those people would’ve been wrong on two counts.

First, although Metesky was still alive at the time, the graffitos had been left by a radical activist named Sam Melville, not Metesky himself. And second, as pathetic and desperate as Metesky may have been, he had more important things to do than spray paint his own name on walls all over Manhattan.

Sam Melville, who detonated eight pipe bombs in government and corporate office buildings around Manhattan in 1969, is today remembered as one of the radical Left’s first  bomb makers of the late Sixties, presaging the likes of the Weathermen and the Armed Resistance Unit. He was eventually arrested, convicted, and shipped off to Attica, where he died in the 1971 uprising. Even though Metesky had no apparent interest in politics, radical Left or otherwise, he was still Melville’s hero and role model. After you learn a bit about Metesky’s story, you have to wonder why, exactly, Melville latched onto him instead of, say, an early 20th century explosives maestro like anarchist Mario Boda, but there you go.

Metesky was born in Connecticut in 1903. In his teens, he enlisted in the Marines and was shipped off to the U.S. consulate in Shanghai, where he served as an electrician. When his stint was up, he returned to the States and moved in with his two sisters in Waterbury, Connecticut. He also took a job as a mechanic with Consolidated Edison.

By 1930, Metesky had been assigned to ConEd’s Hellgate generating plant. While he was wiping down a generator one day in September of 1931, a nearby boiler exploded. Not only was Metesky blown to the ground, but he inhaled a plume of scalding, noxious gas which seared his lungs. He lay on the plant’s cement floor for hours, he said, receiving no medical assistance whatsoever. As he would later claim, breathing those industrial fumes resulted in a case of pneumonia which then developed into tuberculosis, leaving him bedridden and unable to work.

After Metesky collected six months worth of sick pay, ConEd terminated his employment. His worker’s compensation claim was denied because he’d missed the filing deadline. Three subsequent appeals of the decision were also denied, in part thanks to testimony delivered by three former co-workers, who, perhaps with some encouragement from ConEd brass, insisted Metesky’s injuries weren’t as bad as he claimed. Metesky, who was only 33 when his final appeal was denied, suddenly found himself sickly, unemployable, and very, very angry.

Five years later, it’s safe to say that everyone at ConEd had completely forgotten about George Metesky. George Metesky, however, had not forgotten about them. On the morning of November 16th, 1940, he placed a small pipe bomb inside a wooden toolbox, strolled into a ConEd substation on West 64th St. in Manhattan, and left it on a windowsill.

It was a primitive device, just a short length of brass pipe packed with gunpowder with a sugar and battery detonator. Such bombs rarely detonate as planned, which may be a moot point, as Metesky’s was discovered before anything happened. That may have been at least partially intentional, as wrapped around the bomb was a slip of paper. In a block-lettered handwriting (which would become familiar to investigators in later years) he’d written: 

“CON EDISON CROOKS – THIS IS FOR YOU.”

The would-be bomb was shrugged off by the ConEd crooks, and ignored by everyone else. The same was true nearly a year later, in September of 1941, when another bomb with a similar design was found on the sidewalk several blocks away from the Irving Place building that housed ConEd’s headquarters. There was no note, the bomb did not explode, and few gave it a thought.

Despite two duds which made no mark whatsoever on the public consciousness (let alone ConEd), Metesky apparently had a grossly inflated sense of the impact he was having. That would explain the note received by a (very confused) NYPD shortly after the U.S. entered WWII in December of 1941. Metesky, an ex-Marine, wrote in that same block lettering:

“I WILL MAKE NO MORE BOMB UNITS FOR THE DURATION OF THE WAR – MY PATRIOTIC FEELINGS HAVE MADE ME DECIDE THIS – LATER I WILL BRING THE CON EDISON TO JUSTICE – THEY WILL PAY FOR THEIR DASTARDLY DEEDS... F.P.”

The “FP” signature was a mysterious new addition, but what’s not to love about someone who, apparently in all seriousness, uses the term “dastardly deeds”? The NYPD promptly filed the letter away in their “Crank Letters from Would-Be Cartoon Villains” drawer.

Metesky meant what he said about laying low in deference to the war effort, however, waiting an entire decade before planting his next bomb, satisfying himself in the interim by sending angry notes in ALL CAPS to ConEd and the cops. When he did finally get around to planting bombs again in 1951, two things had changed. First, his designs had grown slightly more sophisticated, meaning this next generation of pipe bombs actually exploded most of the time. And second, although at heart ConEd was still his target, the actual placement of the bombs had become decidedly more random. Also, whether it was intentional or the result of an increasingly unstable Metesky merely losing track, throughout the 1950s he bombed several buildings multiple times.

In March of 1951, the first of Metesky’s pipe bombs to actually detonate was dropped in a trash can outside the Grand Central Oyster Bar on the first level of Grand Central Station. No one was injured. About three weeks later he blew up a phone booth in the New York Public Library, followed by another phone booth in Grand Central.

Between 1951 and 1956, he blew up several phone booths, bathrooms, storage lockers and trash cans. He left bombs in the subway, the RCA building, Macy’s, and several movie theaters. He hit the New York Public Library twice, Grand Central five times, Radio City three times, the Port Authority twice, and Penn Station five times. He also finally got one inside ConEd headquarters, and tried mailing another to his nemesis, though it turned out to be a dud. 

In most cases he would place a warning call to the targeted building in question, letting them know there was a bomb on the premises so the building could be evacuated. Considering the minimal damage his bombs generally caused, it’s also conceivable he made the warning calls to let people in the targeted buildings know the loud “bang” they thought they heard in the bathroom was in fact a terrorist attack.

Sadly for Metesky, despite all his hard work the NYPD dismissed his reign of terror as merely the work of juvenile delinquent pranksters. The press didn’t treat him any better, if they took any notice at all. These were, after all, very small pipe bombs.

Perhaps out of frustration, in October of 1951 he mailed a letter to the New York Herald Tribune which read:

“BOMBS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL THE CONSOLIDATED EDISON COMPANY IS BROUGHT TO JUSTICE FOR THEIR DASTARDLY ACTS AGAINST ME. I HAVE EXHAUSTED ALL OTHER MEANS. I INTEND WITH BOMBS TO CAUSE OTHERS TO CRY OUT FOR JUSTICE FOR ME.”

You do have to feel sorry for Medesky. After being fucked over by ConEd, and after learning all the usual channels of redress were stacked against him, he was forced to take drastic measures. But try as he might, even then he was ignored. He was nobody. All he wanted was a little attention, for someone to listen to his gripe. He clearly wasn’t out to hurt people—he just wanted a little justice. You can sense his growing aggravation in a follow-up letter to the Herald Tribune, which arrived in late December:

“HAVE YOU NOTICED THE BOMBS IN YOUR CITY – IF YOU ARE WORRIED, I AM SORRY – AND ALSO IF ANYONE IS INJURED. BUT IT CANNOT BE HELPED – FOR JUSTICE WILL BE SERVED. I AM NOT WELL, AND FOR THIS I WILL MAKE THE CON EDISON SORRY – YES, THEY WILL REGRET THEIR DASTARDLY DEEDS – I WILL BRING THEM BEFORE THE BAR OF JUSTICE – PUBLIC OPINION WILL CONDEMN THEM – FOR BEWARE, I WILL PLACE MORE UNITS UNDER THEATER SEATS IN THE NEAR FUTURE. F.P.”

Finally, the NYPD and others began putting the pieces together. Yes, as a matter of fact, there had been more bombings than usual in the city these past months, hadn’t there? And if these letters were any proof, the man responsible was completely bonkers. Sounds like he has some kind of beef with ConEd, but hey, who doesn’t?

Still, it says something that in November of 1954, a bomb Metesky had sewn into the cushion of a seat in Radio City Music Hall exploded as a sold out house of over 6,000 people watched a screening of White Christmas. Three people sitting near the seat in question were mildly injured and taken to the first aid station, 50 other people in the immediate vicinity were asked to move to different seats, and the rest were allowed to continue enjoying the film and the state show that followed. Only after the audience filed out an hour and a half later did cops move in to start collecting evidence. Bombs had been going off all over Manhattan for three years, but they were still being treated like backfiring cars or manhole fires.

It was only in 1956, after an elderly bathroom attendant at Penn Station and an audience member at the Paramount theater in Brooklyn were seriously injured that Metesky’s bombing campaign finally received the kind of banner headlines he’d been after. After years of trying, he’d finally been recognized in the tabloids as “The Mad Bomber.” 

Suddenly under pressure from newspapers and the public, NYPD captain John Cronin publicly announced, perhaps tongue-in cheek, that he was launching “the largest manhunt the city’s police department had ever undertaken” to capture the Mad Bomber. He even created the NYPD’s first Bomb Investigation unit.

Although none of the hundreds of officers working the case were able to come up with a single solid clue, the campaign did have one immediate effect. Suddenly people all over the city began turning in neighbors and co-workers they felt had been behaving strangely. And the number of delusional types anxious to take credit for the bombing spree jumped precipitously. The cops found they were spending far more time and manpower fending off the cranks and crackpots than they were actually trying to find the bomber.

Essentially on a whim given nothing else was happening, Cronin contacted the assistant commissioner of the New York State Commission for Mental Hygiene, James A. Brussel, and asked if he had any ideas. Brussel, a psychiatrist and criminologist, agreed to take a look at the evidence to see what he could glean. Apart from the obvious—that the bomber was a paranoid with a serious gripe against ConEd—he also produced what is considered among the first )non-fictional) examples of criminal profiling.

Brussel came up with a 13-point list of attributes investigators should be looking for in a suspect, which in retrospect turned out to be surprisingly accurate. The bomber, he said, would likely be a male in his forties. He’d be of medium build, a good and meticulous worker, probably of Slavic origin. He was likely a loner with no wife, not much interest in women, living in Connecticut with an older sister. He was on the arrogant side, and probably didn’t respond well to criticism. And oh, when he was arrested he would likely be wearing a buttoned double-breasted suit.

(It’s unclear how he came up with that last one.)

At Brussels suggestion, the NYPD distributed the profile to all the local papers, asking them to give it a big push. The thinking was, if there was anything in the profile Brussel got horribly wrong, the Mad Bomber, being an arrogant paranoid, would feel compelled to step forward to insist on a correction.  So on Christmas Day, 1956, the profile was plastered across the front pages of every paper in town.

The next day, the New York Journal-American (in cooperation with the cops) took it a step further, running a front-page plea directly to the Mad Bomber, asking that he turn himself in, promising not only that he’d get a fair trial, but that the paper would publish his side of the story.

The ploy worked about as well as could’ve been hoped. The very next day, December 27th, Metesky’s response arrived at the Journal-American’s offices:

“My days on earth are numbered – most of my adult life has been spent in bed – my one consolation is – that I can strike back – even from my grave – for the dastardly acts against me.”

He also included a detailed list of all the places he’d planted bombs thus far (some of which hadn’t been found yet), and stated he had no intention of giving himself up. The note, as usual, was signed “FP.”

Now that they had him on the hook, the cops and the Journal-American decided to play him a little. They ran his letter along with another plea that he explain a bit more clearly how his beef with ConEd arose.

Unable to resist now that he finally had an audience, Metesky immediately wrote back, explaining he’d been left permanently disabled because of a workplace injury while employed by ConEd, and that they’d refused his worker’s compensation claim.

“When a motorist injures a dog – he must report it – not so with an injured workman – he rates less than a dog – I tried to get my story to the press – I tried hundreds of others – I typed tens of thousands of words (about 800,000) – nobody cared – [...] – I determined to make these dastardly acts known – I have had plenty of time to think – I decided on bombs.”

A quarter century after the fact, having finally found an audience eager to hear his story, Medesky couldn’t stop himself, and penned yet another letter. He wrote at length about the circumstances surrounding his injury and his fight for worker’s comp, including the exact date the accident took place. The letter contained pretty much every bit of information any detective worth a damn would need, save for Metesky’s full name and a map to his house.

Well, despite ConEd’s best efforts to block access to their employment files, a clerk named Alice Kelly took it upon herself to do a little digging through the worker’s comp cases, eventually stumbling upon Metesky’s file, which had been clearly labeled “permanently disabled.” The real tip-off, though, were the letters from Metesky included in the file, many of which used the term “dastardly deeds.”

Around midnight on January 21st, 1957, a group of NYPD  and Waterbury officers showed up on Metesky’s front step. He seemed to have been expecting them. He let them in, answered their questions, gave them a writing sample, showed them his workshop and all his bomb making tools, and explained that “FP” stood for “Fair Play.” When the officers sent him upstairs to get dressed for the drive to the station where he’d be booked, Metesky—and you saw this coming—returned a few minutes later in a buttoned-down double-breasted suit.

Over the course of seventeen years, Metesky planted 33 bombs around New York, 22 of which detonated. A handful of people were injured, but no one was killed. Given his motivation, you have to believe he was looking foerrward to a trial in which he’d be able to air his grievances with ConEd in a public forum that would undoubtedly receive a mountain of press coverage. And looking back now, you have to believe both the press and a jury would be sympathetic to the poor schlub’s plight. No doubt ConEd realized this too.

Before the proceedings got underway in the spring of 1957, though, a judge declared Metesky legally insane and unfit to stand trial. So there went his public forum. On April 18th, 1957, Medesky was remanded to the Matteawan Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Given the state of his health, it was expected he wouldn’t last six months.

In December, 1973, having been determined to no longer be a threat to anyone, the still very much alive 70-year-old Metesky was released. He returned home to Waterbury, where he lived a quiet life until his death in 1994 at age 90. 

While he was institutionalized, the Journal-American retained a worker’s compensation attorney in an attempt to get Metesky’s claim re-opened. The hope was they might be able to force ConEd to cough up the decades worth of back pay Metesky was owed. The appeal was denied.

by Jim Knipfel

[rvnclwsews]

100 One-Shot Prompt: Dying

Summary: Nico begins to see how his relation to the Underworld can have a positive impact on the culture at Camp Half-Blood.

     The sun was hot and bright as it beat down on the camp Nico could feel his dark hair getting warm as he made his way across the open square to the Apollo cabin. The camp was quiet with the fatigue and grief of battle still hanging heavy in the air. In contrast the sunny day felt like a mocking thing. He pushed the sleeves of his hoodie up to his elbows to get some small relief from the warmth and, he figured, to be prepared to wash his hands once he got inside. Will was nothing if not thorough in his aid station management.

               He walked into the cool first floor of the Apollo cabin. The whole first floor had been turned into a triage center with neat rows of cots. The small amount of lounge furniture was pushed against one wall in abandon. No one was looking for a place to practice their guitar right now. There was a staircase to his left that went up to the beds where the Apollo kids slept and a few private rooms either used for campers that needed more private treatment or, in Will’s case, a quiet office. Being head councilor had its perks.  A few of the Apollo kids glanced up at him before going back to their work with bandages or salves. Nico glanced around before he spotted Will towards the back of the cabin. He was standing next to a patient’s bed, his fingers on the boy’s wrist and watching his watch. He lifted his head and spoke something to one of his younger siblings who wrote furiously on a clipboard before Will turned away and spotted him.

               The look on Will’s face felt like a weight on Nico’s chest. His usually warm complexion was pale and sallow. There were dark circles under his blue eyes, blue eyes that looked bloodshot and glassy. He approached Nico and stood close, talking quietly to respect the patients.

               “Hey,” he said. One side of his mouth turned up in some small effort of a smile. He shoved his hands in his lab coat pockets. Nico looked him in the eyes, hard.

               “Are you okay?” Nico knew he wasn’t always so good at communicating his feelings but he tried to pour every ounce of his concern into his voice. No use. Will just shrugged.

               “eh,” he replied, “I’ll be okay.” Nico put his hand out and held Will’s arm, squeezing in a subtle show of support. Will sighed and for a second shut his eyes hard to hold back his emotions.

               “It’s Kayla, Will. You don’t have to be okay,” he murmured before letting go. Will opened his eyes and nodded, swallowing hard.

               “I know, Sunshine, but I have to try. At least for them.” He gestured to the room behind him with a nod of his head.

               “I know.” Nico said solemnly. Will seemed to brighten up a small fraction.

               “So did you just come to check on me?” He asked. Nico shrugged a shoulder.

               “Well, you and the dead, but you more so,” he shot him a small smile, “I can’t cheer them up.” Will grimaced at his comment. “Sorry, that probably wasn’t very sensitive.” Nico twisted his skull ring nervously. Will shook his head dismissively.

               “Come with me,” Will said, walking towards the back of the cabin. Nico fell into step next to him until they turned down a hallway Nico had to admit he didn’t notice they had. At the end of the hall was a door.

               “I didn’t know this was here,” Nico commented.

               “Well we can’t keep the dead on cots up here. Different climate control requirements.” Will opened the door to reveal a staircase leading down to a basement level. Now that he thought about it Will was right. They had to keep them somewhere until funeral arrangements could be made. A basement level would be much easier to regulate conditions. He’d just never considered that any of the cabins had basements. Then again, his was partially underground, so it wasn’t too hard to believe. When they reached the finished basement level morgue Nico froze. He felt the blood run from his face.

               The eight campers were laid out on tables which he expected, but what bothered him deeply were the two Apollo kids carefully, silently, cleaning and preparing a body.

               “Nico?” Will was looking at him, concern in his face. Blood was rushing in his ears, deafening in the silence of the morgue.

               “Why?” Nico whispered.

               “Why what?” Will responded. Nico swallowed down what even he could admit was an intensely emotional response.

               “None of these campers have mortal families?” Will looked confused.

               “What? I mean, a couple are… were year-round kids but… what is this about?”

               “Stop,” Nico said to the quiet room, “stop!” his voice came out a little harsher than he had meant but the two kids stopped what they were doing and looked at him, and that’s what he needed. He looked at Will again who was looking at him with a combination of confusion, annoyance, and… pain? “Sorry, “ he said, “but this shouldn’t be your job. You all tend the living, not the dead.” Will crossed his arms over his chest, a defensive expression on his usually easy-going face.

               “I don’t think we’ve ever done a bad job of it before.” The idea that Will, younger than the two kids standing with them now, had once been responsible for preparing the bodies of his friends and peers made his chest ache. He put his hands up in a gesture of supplication.

               “I didn’t mean it in that way. I only meant you guys shouldn’t have to do this. I need to find Chiron.” He turned to leave the basement and the cold that seemed to penetrate his bones. He vaguely heard Will telling his siblings to stay put and leave everyone be until he got back. He was only minimally aware of Will following him up the stairs and out of the Apollo cabin.

               Nico had lived for years now with the grief of losing Bianca and his own mother. Just the emotional strain of finally being able to grieve his mother after being robbed of the memory of losing her and then regaining said memory was intense. But those things had helped him understand more about grief and the impact death has on the living better than most of his peers. That wasn’t to say that demigods were unfamiliar with the complex feelings of grief and loss, they had done it more in the last several years than most of them had ever imagined they would. But Nico understood the need for accurate funerary rites because he had been robbed of giving them to the two people he had loved most in the whole world.

               “Chiron!” he yelled, bounding up the steps to the Big house. No answer. He knocked on the door, hard. “Chiron!” Will’s feet pounded up the porch steps behind him. He didn’t prod or speak, just stood over Nico’s shoulder. A little part of him noted his appreciation for Will who didn’t know what this was about but was still willing to back him up, no questions. Well, no questions yet, Will was absolutely going to ask questions later. But Nico could deal with that when the time came.

               “Mr. Di Angelo, what is the matter?” Chiron approached the porch from behind, carrying his bow with him. Nico whirled around and Will caught his shoulders before he ran right into him.

               “Chiron, the Apollo cabin should NOT be preparing the bodies.” He got straight to the point. A mild look of surprise flickered across Chiron’s face before it returned to a neutral gentle expression. Nico took a deep breath and tried to gather his thoughts, running his hands through his dark hair. “I mean, you know how this is supposed to go. They have families! It’s an important part of the grieving process that their families handle them. Not just that, but some of these kids have families with different religious beliefs. I’m technically Catholic for the gods’ sake! Don’t give me that look,” he gestured to Will who he could feel was staring at him like he had two heads. Why was he surprised, he knew Nico was Italian. “This isn’t right.” Chiron nodded as Nico spoke, taking in his words thoughtfully.

               “Yes, Mr. Di Angelo, I am well aware of the old practices. The border tends to act as a deterrent for inviting mortal parents into the camp,” Nico cut him off.

               “A deterrent can be worked around,” Chiron held up his hand.

               “not to mention that culturally its has fallen out of custom for the kin of the deceased to prepare the body.” There was a few moments of silence between them until Will finally broke it.

               “You wanted us to stop because the families are supposed to do this part.” He didn’t ask a question, simply spoke it out loud to make sure he understood the idea. Nico could see the sheen of tears in Will’s eyes. Will turned his eyes up to Chiron.

               “We need to call Kayla’s dad.” Chiron nodded grimly.

               “I suppose that we could work out some way to at least present the option to the families. I’ll discuss it with Mr. D. I the interim, Mr. Solace, I suggest you speak to your siblings about their own interest in taking part in the process. You are all kin as well.” Chiron turned his attention back to Nico. “Perhaps someone would lend a hand in discussing this with the other campers? I for one would be glad to see a return of old traditions if you think it will help.” Nico felt like a warm little spark was growing in his chest. He hadn’t felt this kind of resolve in a long time.

               “Of course I’ll help.” Will pulled him into an embrace and Nico could practically feel the relief falling away from him.

               “Thank you,” he pulled away and wiped his face, smiling at him. “For the rest of us, thank you.” He held Nico’s hand, squeezing it for a moment before letting go and running off to the Apollo cabin again. Chiron put a hand on Nico’s shoulder.

               “You know, your father doesn’t usually have the same number of children his brothers do,” Nico scoffed, “but you might find it interesting to know that you aren’t the first of his children to take an interest in guiding the living through the process of death.” Nico twisted his ring again absently.

               “I always thought my association with the underworld was off putting.” He remarked. Chiron nodded.

               “Yes, I can see why you might get that idea. Indeed it’s very possible to feed that fear. Or you could do as you have begun, and use your association as a source of comfort and wisdom to those less accustomed to facing the inevitabilities of life and death.” Nico considered the possibility. Could he really be a guiding figure at camp? A sort of mentor? He’d always thought his nature would drive people away but the idea that he could make a positive impact in this time after the battle was won happened to be an idea not so far out of reach. He smiled then and looked back at Chiron.

               “I’ll do my best.”

[slashhinginghasher]

Midnight Star - Chromeskull x OFC - Part 2: What Beneath Lies

Introducing Stabby McSkullface, everyone’s favorite giant dickhead.

This work is also on Ao3!

The local cops had started sniffing a little too closely around one of his warehouses, which was why Chromeskull found himself burying his most recent piggy deep in the woods outside town. College girl in a tight little dress, drinking her daddy’s money away, but she’d sobered right up when she saw the first knife. Body disposal was normally his underlings’ responsibility, but this one had put up an admirable fight and his adrenaline was still running high, so he opted to do the honors himself. He was tossing the last shovelful of dirt over the remains of her face when he heard the roar of a car engine.

His car.

He sprinted through the woods, making no attempt at stealth as he crashed through branches and underbrush. But by the time he reached the road, the car had vanished, not even a trace of headlights. If he’d had a voice, he would have screamed. He settled for driving a knife into the trunk of the nearest tree. Then he pulled out his cell phone. He could have stopped the car remotely, tracked the thief down on foot, and gutted them on the side of the road. But the insult - the audacity - was too great. That dark little thing inside him, usually sated after playing with one of his piggies, snarled to life. He would take his time with this one.

He texted Spann, who promised to be there in 15 minutes with a new car. In the interim, he pulled up the feed from the dashboard camera to get a better look at his thief. Much of the details were obscured by shadow, but he could make out enough to determine that the brat was small, dark-haired... and female.

He grinned savagely behind his mask.

Oh, little piggy, I am going to have fun with you.

***

The bitch was even tinier than expected. Chromeskull doubted the top of her head would reach past his sternum. He’d needed only one hand to drag her from the car after jamming the needle into her neck. The crowbar was unnecessary - he controlled the locks, after all - but he’d wanted to give her the split second of fear before knocking her out. Besides, the car was obviously defective if this scrawny little piggy had been able to break in. Spann, who had wisely remained silent thus far, was leaning against the passenger side of the second car and tapping away on a tablet.

“Someone will be here shortly to take care of the car,” she said. “I can stay here and wait for them. Police activity is less hot around your facility two towns north if you want to take her there.” She gestured at the girl slung over her boss’s shoulder. Chromeskull nodded and dumped the thieving piggy unceremoniously into the trunk. He slid behind the wheel and drove off, mind already racing with plans for the coming days.

***

He could’ve stripped her while she was unconscious, but he wanted to watch the growing horror in her eyes as he slowly removed all of her defenses, starting with those little knives he’d felt strapped to her wrists when he chained her up. He circled her slowly, gleaning what details he could from her unmoving form. Her clothes were dark, plain, and covered her neck to toe. Ragged and cheap except for her leather boots, which were too nice to be anything but stolen. She had a ridiculous amount of thick, tangled hair. It would make an excellent handle when he dragged her kicking and screaming across the floor.

Chromeskull turned his attention to the shabby backpack he’d taken from the passenger seat of his soon-to-be-scrap-metal car. He upended it with a clatter on the long metal table next to the meat hooks. A quick glance showed his little piggy slumped in the same position. Either she was not yet awake, or she was extremely good at faking it. No matter. He had plenty of time.

He rooted through the contents of the bag with a slowly growing curiosity. Four screwdrivers, two of them broken. A wire hanger bent into a hook. A small lock-picking set. A flashlight. Two pairs of underwear and socks, just as boring as the clothes the piggy was currently wearing. A switchblade and a machete, both clearly well-used. A one-liter reusable water bottle and a fifth of vodka. The former was about half full and the latter mostly empty. Chromeskull gave a small smile as he read the top shelf brand on the label. At least the piggy had taste in something, because it sure as fuck wasn’t clothes. He considered taking a swig, but he’d always been more of a whiskey and cognac man. A small, battered notebook gave him a brief pause; he riffled through it, but all the pages were blank, though some had clearly been torn out. He tossed it aside, next to one of those plastic lighters you could buy at any gas station for a dollar.

Conspicuously absent was any form of identification. No phone, no license, not even a library card or a fucking receipt to say who she was or where she’d been. Where were you running to, little piggy?

Impatience made his jaw twitch. Enough waiting. Either the bitch was awake, or she would be very soon. He abandoned his table of toys and sauntered over to crouch in front of her, careful to keep his movements deliberate and controlled. It never did to let his piggies see how eager he was to play with them.

At least, not at first.

A heartbeat passed. Two. Three. He was debating where to deliver a stinging wakeup call via knife when the bitch’s eyes snapped open and looked him dead in the face. Eye, really; the left half of her face was obscured by hair. He waited, as her gaze danced over him, for questions, for pleading, for terror, but she gave him nothing. Just an infuriatingly blank face and an odd light, at once familiar and unnameable, growing in her visible eye. Fucking bitch wasn’t even hyperventilating.

Nice try, piggy, but I will make you squeal.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, typed a greeting, and held it up in front of her face.

HELLO PIGGY

Her expression remained motionless. The only hint that she’d even read the message was a shifting, an intensification of that gleam in her eyes, and damn it if he hadn’t seen it someplace before…

“This is about the car,” she said. Smart piggy. Her voice was thickly accented. Chromeskull raised an eyebrow behind his mask; you didn’t hear a lot of Russians or whatever the fuck she apparently was around these parts. He nodded slowly and reached out to push the hair out of her face-

The fucking cunt bit him.

Hard.

Her sharp little teeth cut through nitrile and skin, drawing blood like a hungry dog. Rage bloomed in his chest like the pain in his fingers. He wrenched his hand away from her whore mouth and backhanded her hard enough to send piggy and chair toppling to the floor. The clatter of the chair couldn’t quite drown out the smack of her face against the concrete, but still she didn’t scream, didn’t cry. Red flickered around the edges of his vision. Wasn’t that just like a whore pig to think she could just flutter her pretty little eyelashes and get away with anything? Chromeskull flexed his bloody fingers and grabbed a fistful of hair, hauling her upright. She wasn’t looking him in the eye anymore, she was staring at the ground, at his feet, because she knew, she knew, she knew… She knew why they needed him, needed his knives, those sluts who thought they could cruise through life with their tits out and their faces painted, thought that slit between their legs entitled them to anything, and that’s why they needed him, needed that reminder that pretty was nothing and flesh was just meat and their power could be cut away in a matter of seconds. Sure, maybe this one thought she was better, was smarter, with that charade of modesty, but underneath the fabric, underneath the skin, way down where muscle met bone and blood pulsed and there was no beauty to be seen except for those tides of crimson, she was the same, they were the same, they were all the same same same…

The piggy lifted her head and spat a wad of bloody saliva at the lens of his camera with devastating accuracy.

And once again she was on the floor, this time with his hand around her throat as he straddled her waist. He’d seen grown men piss themselves with less provocation, but there was still no fear on her little piggy face, even as blood flowed freely from her nose and mouth where the impact had split her skin. She was breathing heavily, at last, but so was he, so it was no real victory. His pulse roared in his ears, and he could feel hers jumping in her throat like a rabbit kicking against a snare. For a moment there was nothing but heartbeat and breath, brown eye boring into blue, and there was something a bit dangerous in the way her knees brushed against the back of his thighs. With his free hand, he unsheathed his knife and slowly pushed aside that stupid mane of hair, pressing the tip in just hard enough to leave a thin line of red in its wake.

Her left eye was a noticeably lighter blue than the right, a starburst of ice radiating from her pupil. And it was surrounded by a web of scars. Silvery lines stretching from cheekbone to hairline, bisecting her eyebrow in several places. The tip of his knife danced over them, catching on a small ridge that almost looked like a tooth mark…

He pulled her upright by the throat, barely waiting for the chair to settle before he slashed the knife through her thin shirt and boring, utilitarian bra, leaving another stinging red line in its wake, but she still didn’t complain, and he wouldn’t have listened if she did, because what lay bare before him was nothing short of a masterpiece.

One of the oldest and deepest scars started just below her left collarbone, curving above her breast and coming to a stop in the valley of her sternum. Three more began near her left armpit and clawed their way down to her right hip bone, jagged and thick and purple like she’d been ripped open by some monster and sewn back together. Two pale circles, one in each shoulder, he recognized as bullet wounds; he had a few of his own. Another deep line, clearly a stab wound, nestled between two of her ribs. And carved deep into the side of her neck, somewhere between a cut and a brand, a single word in Cyrillic.

He traced a bloody knuckle along one of the claw marks, feeling the girl's stomach muscles contract involuntarily and leaving a stark red mark against her skin. A white hot bolt of something zinged down his spine and settled hot in his stomach and groin, danced down his fingers like flecks of lightning. His stone-faced piggy was no piggy after all. She was a map of pain and one of the most magnificent things he’d ever seen. And now he knew, he knew, what that light was in her eyes. It was fury and bloodlust and hunger and death, and he knew it because he carried it in his own eyes like a raging fire.

Well. This certainly complicated things.