#T H R E E - 6 Feet Apart

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Diane & The Deductibles News

Diane & The Deductibles News

Diane & The Deductibles Premiere Lyric Video for Let’s Live on YouTube!   View Let’s Live by Diane & The Deductibles lyric video here: https://youtu.be/ukDFLBYGvhw Diane & The Deductibles have just released a lyric video to their song Let’s Live – The first track on their recently released T H R E E – 6 Feet Apart album. Created amid the Covid-19 crisis, Let’s Live is a celebration of life above…

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By Any Other Name (6)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 7.2k warnings: Brock continues to be the biggest asshole on the planet, the angst begins, that long-distance longing gets a little closer 🌹series masterlist 🌹

A few weeks had passed since you’d found Bucky in your living room in the early hours of the morning, hunched over your very expensive furniture and catching droplets of blood before they stained the satin finish. You’d taken every excuse you could get to check on his wounds, to rewrap them and try to sooth the stinging pain of open cuts anyway, and Bucky was more than happy to oblige.

You’d scrunch your nose at him from across the room, eyes darting down to the pink bandages circling at his knuckles that had been white the day before and you’d quickly turn down the hall to your library, a silent order to follow. Bucky never wasted a second, excusing himself from the meetings that proved to be useless outside of gossip on Rumlow’s business meetings downtown past 2am.

He’d find you waiting on your couch, the first aid kit already unpacked as if you’d prepared for him ahead of time and you’d wordlessly gesture to the spot beside you. The scowl on your face as you unwrapped the bandages and found he’d been careless with applying the anti-bacterial cream you’d given him was enough to make his stomach flutter.

Bucky knew how to take care of his wounds. He was more than capable of tending to his own injuries, but he so preferred the way your hands would cup the undersides of his as you’d closely inspect the damage, how you’d run the tips of your fingers over the half-healed scars with a delicacy he hadn’t known in years, how you’d mutter sweetly under your breath about how stupid he’d been.

He’d flash you a smile until the concern and the frustration slowly drained away with every passing glance and you were only left with a grin of your own and a slight nervous laugh as you’d swat at his shoulder in an effort make him stop looking at you like you were hanging the damn stars in the sky and not just twisting a cloth bandage around his broken knuckles.

If that was what it took for you to hold his hands in your own, to feel you so close, to have any excuse just to be near you like this, he’d beat his fists to a damn wall.

The light pink scarring on his hands were taking longer than normal to heal and maybe if he wasn’t blatantly disregarding your instructions to change the bandages frequently and apply the anti-bacterial cream like he usually did, he would have been good as new a week or so earlier.

There was just something about you going out of your way to take care of him that pushed away any regard for himself out the window. He’d happily deal with a slight stinging and soreness a little longer if it meant you being that close to him again.

Because the thing was, his time was limited with you.

It was easy to forget that he wasn’t actually James Karpov, that this wasn’t his life, but he was damn good at his job and he had been spending months gathering evidence behind the scenes and, well, Fury was impressed.

It was a rarity within the Bureau to see the Director crack a smile, but when Bucky handed him the dozens of scanned photocopies of files he’d made from Rumlow’s office, the left corner of his mouth twitched. Thanks to the duplicate key Sam provided, Bucky was able to obtain years’ worth of back channeled shipment logs and crew listings undetected. It was the most they’d had on Hydra since their inception in the 1940’s.

But it was the intel you unknowingly provided that helped to piece the evidence together into a cohesive picture, strung together with pretty red string.  

Bucky didn’t have to purposefully pry with you or word his questions with a precision that required Natasha and Steve’s help to develop weeks ahead of time like he’d done in previous assignments. No-- you’d become so comfortable with him on Sunday afternoons and late nights curled up in the library that you willingly offered details on your husband without provocation.

Never direct, because you didn’t like talking about your husband much -- especially with Bucky -- but you’d roll your eyes and tell him how Rumlow was coercing you into attending an expensive dinner with the Mayor on Thursday. You told him about how your husband slammed the door coming home late on a Tuesday night and Bucky was able to connect that to the missing crate from the Cerberus shipment from the logs he’d scanned. You’d smile when Bucky snuck his way into the library with carefully steps and slid between the crack in the door, only to tell him Rumlow’s been out on business all day and he wasn’t expected to be home until the morning.

It wasn’t enough to bring him to trial, but it was progress. Fury wasn’t taking any chances when it came to Rumlow’s elite defense team so everything they obtained on the guy had to be concrete, had to be overwhelming and eliminate any traces of doubt.

It meant Bucky would continue under the name James Karpov for a little while longer, and though he’d never tell the Director, it was a relief. It meant more time with you, uninterrupted, untouched by his lies and manipulation. He’d hold onto it as long as he could, because the uncertainty of how you’d handle his deceit when this was over was starting to eat at him.

***

With a heavy sigh, Bucky glanced around the layout of the Lernaean, Hydra’s club that doubled as a front for their shady underground criminal enterprise.

It was loud, the bass of the speakers blaring into his ear and pounding deep into his chest, as neon lights flashed above the dance floor. Bucky wondered if it just might be worse than standing quietly in the corner of Rumlow’s kitchen as he bragged about his latest feminine conquest. 

This was part of the job, though. He’d caught sight of two college aged kids carrying out a drug deal in the back corner of the club, not being as subtle as they thought they were as the flash of bright red powder caught his eye.

Cerberus wasn’t ready for market. It was killing users at a far higher rate than it was keeping them addicted, but it was still managing to get on the streets. Bucky had pushed past one of them, swiped the drug from their pocket without them noticing and emptied it into the dirt outside.

By the end of his shift, Bucky was almost certain he was going to have a raging headache by the morning. He started to make his way to the exit when he felt a vibration coming from his back pocket. Narrowing his eyes, knowing only a few people could have this number, he pulled the phone from his pocket. His team knew better than to reach out to him unexpectedly, but when your name flashed on the screen, the panic still caught him off guard.

Bucky pushed his way out of the club to the back-alley exit, shoving aside intoxicated twenty-somethings and high school kids who never should have been allowed inside, and the rush of fresh air hit him like a wall. Glancing down the street to find no one in sight, he brought the phone to his ear, heart pounding.

“Y/n?”

There was a gasp on the other end, like you thought he might not answer. “James?”

Your voice broke as you said his name. A sniffle. Then, a sharp intake of breath that sounded near painful.

Jesus. You were crying.

“Are you okay? What happened?” His voice was firmer than he ever meant to be with you, but the sound of your voice twisted and aching and laced with fresh tears was enough to rip straight through him. He shoved his free hand into his pocket in search of his keys, warm metal to the tips of his fingers. “Y/n, talk to me. Where are you?”

You didn’t respond but he could hear you trying to muffle the sob that collapsed into your lungs. When you tried to answer his question, he could only barely make out what you were saying through the faint gasps for breath and the gut-wrenching cries stealing your voice. Something about Rumlow, maybe Peter, but he couldn’t be sure.

“I’m on my way, alright?” Bucky said as calm as he could manage despite the rage boiling in his veins. He didn’t even know what Rumlow had done but he was ready to kill him. “Where’s--”

“Not here,” you mumbled before he could ask where your husband was.

His chest was tight. It was on fire. “You in the library?”

You hummed a response.

“Give me ten minutes, okay? I’m on my way.”

You didn’t say anything, but he stayed on the line with you.

As he jumped into his car and threw it into reverse.

As he drove twenty over the speed limit through back country roads, swerving around traffic, blowing past stop signs.

As he raced up the driveway as fast as his legs would carry him and through the front door.

Just listening to your breathing through the crackling tone of the speaker, your muffled attempts to silence the tears before they choked you, the sniffles as you brushed your hand over your nose.

It tore Bucky apart.

***

T W O  H O U R S  E A R L I E R

You were only a few pages to the end of The Handmaid’s Tale when the doorbell rang. It was an unfamiliar sound, a high-pitched tone echoing up into the atrium and spilling into the hallways. And perhaps, for a moment, it didn’t seem so odd, because what would be so surprising about someone stopping by for a visit or a neighborhood kid selling cookies or a UPS driving dropping off a package or a canvasser for a local politician running for office?

But then you realized who you were. And who you lived with.

You didn’t get visitors. Your home was not one that people just came up to the front door. There were gates and security guards and there wasn’t a single neighbor for miles.

The doorbell didn’t just... ring.

Slowly, you set your book down, binding open and page saved by the surface of the coffee table, as you stood to your feet. You made your way out of the library and down the hall, cautious steps carrying you. It rang out again and your pace increased.  

By the time the bell rang for a third time, you were at the front door, staring at it like it was something out of the twilight zone. Brock’s men had never been the type to wait for permission before entering your home. They learned well from their leader, you supposed. They didn’t carry the kind of patience or human decency to seek your consent.

Then, a rushed knocking broke out on the other side of the door and it startled you enough to fall back a few paces in shock. You huffed a fallen hair from your eyes, pushing aside the anxiety churning in your stomach and reached for the knob.

The door only opened a sliver, a short beam of sunlight peering into the room before a figure shoved their way inside and left you stumbling away from the frame, knob still clenched tight in your hand.

“I thought you’d never answer!”

Peter pushed his way past you and your eyes shot wide at the sight of him; ruffled hair, rosy cheeks, the new jacket you’d bought him bunched up by his collar, in your home… the home of your husband, of Hydra.

Peter was grinning ear to ear, taking in the decorations and the extravagance of the mansion as he shrugged off his coat. The entirety of his apartment in Queens could have fit within the living room alone and Peter was looking around as if it was the Taj Mahal, picking up various expensive vases and memorabilia, inspecting it before setting it back down. A circle of dust sat under the slight disparity of where he placed them back on the surfaces. They hadn’t been moved in years.

“Peter,” you choked out, throat dry, “what are you doing here?”

“It’s been years since I’ve been to visit you, Y/n! It’s almost like you’re purposefully keeping me away from this place,” he teased, laughing and smiling because Peter never expected anything but the best of you. It never once crossed his mind that you would be lying to him about who Brock really was, what he’s done, and how your marriage had become a publicity stunt, a political move to obtain your inheritance.

He never considered the truth behind his lighthearted joke.

“Peter,” you urged again, tense, teeth gritted, “why are you here?”

“Brock invited me,” he replied casually over his shoulder and your whole body tensed up. Peter picked up a glass cigar tray Brock received as a gift from the Mayor last year, looking it over with pursed lips and a genuine fascination before he placed it back on the end table.

Meanwhile, your hand was still gripped to the doorknob and you were sure your fingers were locked in place, the metal warping under your hold. You might break the whole damn door from its hinges.

Peter turned to you with a raised eyebrow. “Did he not tell you?”

You tried to part your lips to tell him ‘no,’ that Brock invited him for a reason and springing it on you last minute like this couldn’t mean anything good. You wanted to warn him to leave before it was too late, before Brock dragged him into this world of darkness and monsters but there wasn’t a chance before you heard heavy footsteps echoing down the hall and into the living room.

“There you are, Parker!”

Hairs raised on your neck, on your arms, as you turned to find Brock walking into the room with a smile on his face you hadn’t seen in months, not since he’d been informed of the profit margins Cerberus was expected to generate. It was unsettling, foreign, and you felt bile rising in your stomach as he crossed the room and pulled Peter in for a hug.

“It’s been years,” Brock said, eyeing you as his smile turned to something colder, a dark expression in his eyes, before he slid the mask back on and faced Peter. “Feels like Y/n’s been hoarding you all to herself, doesn’t it?”

Peter laughed a bit, though you could tell it was forced. He didn’t understand the implication, but he was a smart kid. “Yeah, seems like it.”

“Anyway, I’m glad you’ve finally made the trip out to our home. We certainly have enough space,” Brock said, gesturing to the living room.

With a hand on Peter’s back, he led him further inside the house, pushing him along and you couldn’t move. It felt like Brock was leading him to a pit in the backyard only to hand him a shovel. You wanted to scream.

“Been trying to get out here for a while,” Peter replied. “Always told Y/n I could come to her, too, but she insists on meeting me in Queens.”

Brock shook his head, a tsk on his tongue. “Every Sunday, too? She’s always been a selfless one, hasn’t she?”

Your heart was in your throat, stomach plummeting as Peter only nodded, smiling back at you. He narrowed his eyes though, smile fading as he noticed your hands clenched at your sides, nails puncturing into your palms as released your grip from the doorknob, teeth grinding, breath uneven. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what.

Peter was perceptive, but you’d learned how to hide things from him over the years. It wasn’t as easy when the very man you’d been protecting him from for years had his hand on Peter’s shoulder and a look in his eye that left you feeling sick to your stomach. You couldn’t hold the same composure when your nightmare was playing out in front of you.

What scared you the most was you didn’t even know how Brock found out about your Sunday trips to see Peter or when he learned about them. It wouldn’t be outside of his reach to hire someone to follow you. Maybe someone overheard you talking to him on the phone the night before or maybe one of the dozens of drivers you rotated through let it slip.

It didn’t matter, because now he knew. Now, Peter was in your home and Brock had an arm over his shoulders, and he was planning something.

You didn’t dare let yourself wonder if he knew about the time you’d spent with James, too.

“Dinner should be ready in a few,” Brock said, gesturing to the kitchen. “I hope you’re hungry for spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Always,” Peter chimed back, though he glanced over at you, still uncertain.

You only nodded at him, encouraging him forward because what else was there to do?

You followed them into the kitchen as you were met with a sudden influx of oregano and basil and homemade tomato sauce that looked to be on the stove for hours. Peter asked Brock if he’d made it himself and you scoffed. Brock shot you a glare before confirming that, yes, he found the time to cook on occasion, though you knew for a fact that he’d never once laid a hand on that stove. You could spot Clara’s apron sticking out of the drawer where she’d put it away hastily.

“Take a seat,” Brock said, pulling out a chair for Peter across the table from his usual spot.

You slid in next to Peter, despite your place setting sitting on the right of Brock. You grabbed the dish and utensils from across the table and dragged them to you, staring at Brock with a glare that could have burned holes into his head.

“Smells amazing,” Peter commented. He was always a polite kid. He turned to you again because your silence was uncharacteristic and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Your heart clenched when you realized he was checking on you; this protective habit the two of you had for each other.

You pushed out a smile, forced, and it didn’t come near your eyes but it was enough to put him at ease for a moment longer.

The dinner passed by in agonizing pace. After Brock served the table, something he’d never once done before, he and Peter ate nearly two full servings before you managed to take in a few bites. Even the bites you could stand to swallow were impossibly small and despite the intoxicating fragrance of Italian kitchens, you tasted bile on your tongue with every bite.

Brock and Peter were laughing about something you couldn’t quite hear. Brock swatted Peter’s arm from across the table like they were old friends, as if there hadn’t been three years of dead silence between them. It was only after the boys’ plates were clean and you snuck to the counter to dispose of the rest of your meal in Tupperware you didn’t expect to return to later, that Brock focused in on what he’d been planning for the entire evening.

“So, Pete,” Brock started, leaning back into his chair with a glass of red wine in his hand. He downed it in one gulp. “How have things been with you and May down in Queens? You managing alright?”

“Brock,” you warned but he waved you off. Peter tapped your forearm with a soft smile as you sat back into your seat.

“No, it’s alright,” he told you before turning to Brock. “It’s been okay. Tougher since we lost Uncle Ben because Aunt May’s been picking up extra shifts and I… I do what I can. Y/n helps out a lot. More than she should.”

Peter glances over at you nervously, like he was unsure if he should have mentioned that last part, about how you spend money to buy him his books and new coats and sneakers and pay for every Sunday outing together, but that’s not what you're worried about.

“She’s a generous one, isn’t she?” Brock said, smile on his face though his teeth were clenched behind it. He leaned forward, setting the empty glass on the table and your heart skipped a beat. You’ve seen him do that before – in business meetings when he went in for the kill.

You tried to say something, but Brock was too fast for that and you were paralyzed.

“How would you like to make five-hundred a week?”

Peter’s eyes bolted wide, jaw dropping, and you swore, you might have cracked the glass in your hand, the wine nearly spilling up over the top.

“Brock, stop.” Your voice was too quiet, too tense. You didn’t even know if he heard you.

“Wow, that’s—uh, wow,” Peter stumbled around his words. He raked his fingers through his hair nervously. “What would I be doing?”

Brock shrugged, as if he hadn’t meticulously planned this. “I have some packages I need delivered on your side of town and who better to navigate the area than a local? My only condition is that you’re discrete and you leave the packages as is. What’s inside is confidential.”

“Brock,” you tried again, but paid you no mind. You dug your nails into your thigh.

“And this is for the club?” Peter asked.

Brock nodded. “What do you say, kid? You want to step up around the house? I’m sure it would take a lot of pressure off your aunt’s shoulders. I know you want that, don’t you?”

In the shared look between your cousin, who was more like a brother than you ever knew, and the man who had become the source of every demon in your life, you found your voice again.

“Absolutely not.”

Peter turned to you, shocked. “What! Come on, Y/n. You know how much I’ve been wanting to help Aunt May with the bills and –”

“I’ll help her,” you offered tensely, ignoring Brock’s comment under his breath claiming it was his money you were handing over anyway. Peter started to object and you tried again, “I’ll ask the Marselli’s or Neftali down at Café Ramos if they need help. We’ll find you a job if you want one, Peter. Not this, okay? We’ll find something else.”

“Not for five-hundred a week on a high schooler’s schedule,” Peter argued. He was calm in his wording, gentle, because while he didn’t understand the reason behind your objections, he knew you were upset and he never wanted to hurt you.

At a loss, you turned to your husband. He was sprawled out over the chair next to him, arm laying across the back, legs crossed. He was chewing on the ice from his glass. The left side of his mouth curved knowingly and it made your stomach ache.

“Brock,” you reasoned, begged, “please. Can we just talk for a second?”

There was a short moment of silence and for a second, you though he might have an ounce of the compassion he’d shown in the two years you’d been together before he pulled the carpet out from under you. He’d been kind then. You’d loved him once. You always wondered if it was all an act or if maybe, somewhere, there was a piece of him that wasn’t as cruel as you imagined.

But instead, a smirk peered up on his lips as he settled back into his chair. “I think Peter is more than capable of making his own decisions, don’t you?”

You bit down hard on your cheek, enough to taste the cooper of blood pooling in your mouth. Swallowing it back, you pushed your chair out from the table. Tears were burning in your eyes and you didn’t dare let Peter see.

You excused yourself, quickly darting out of the room and you could vaguely hear Peter calling your name and Brock’s voice telling him, “don’t worry about her, champ. She’s always had a flair for the dramatic.”

There was no relief in the living room. The air was too hot, too stuffy and you were crawling in your skin. You knew where you needed to go, the heaviness of your phone in your pocket a reminder of exactly who you wanted to see, but you wouldn’t abandon Peter; not alone with Brock.

Brushing the tears from your eyes and exhaling a heavy breath, you started to make your way back to the kitchen when the door suddenly swung open. Peter bounded towards you and hugged you tightly.

“Please don’t be angry,” he mumbled into the shoulder of your sweater. “You know how much I want to help Aunt May. This is how I can do it. It’s just delivering some packages a few times a week. We’ll still have our Sundays.”

Is that why he thought you were upset?

Maybe that’s what Brock told him, though you wondered why he bothered keeping Peter in the dark at all about what he’ll be tasked with delivering. There was no convincing Peter out of this and you knew that before Brock had even offered him the job. He was young, incredibly selfless and so willing to do whatever it took to care for the ones he loved that he’d overlook dangerous warning signs without realizing it.

There was nothing you could do.

“Okay,” you conceded, patting his head as he pulled away. It drew a smile back to his face, and for that, at least, you were grateful. “Text me when you get home, alright?”

“You got it,” Peter nodded. He turned back to Brock. “Thanks again, man! I’ll see you next week?”

“I’ll be in touch,” Brock confirmed, leading Peter to the door and opening it for him. Peter turned around and gave a final wave before he jogged out into the darkness, coat bundled up and hands shoved in his pockets.

You didn’t waste a second the very moment the door closed.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” you cried out, slamming your hand against the cadenza and causing several priceless gifts from neighboring crime families to tremor for a moment before they stilled again. Your chest was panting, air hot in your lungs. “I asked one thing of you, Brock. One thing! Keep my family the hell away from your shit!”

Brock stood by the door, unfazed by your sudden outburst and the level at which you were yelling. It wasn’t often you’d confront him like this, preferring passive aggressive taunts and blatant avoidance, so this was something new. A challenge. Brock liked challenges.

“Things have changed since then, baby,” he replied with a shrug.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you huffed, arms folding over your chest as you watched him pace further into the room and pour himself a glass of whiskey.

“You used to be quieter, you know that?” he said, swirling the amber liquid and holding it up to the light before bringing the glass to his lips. You raised an eyebrow, the lingering silence passing over while he savored the burn of the alcohol. He sighed, setting the glass back down. “Something’s different.”

“That doesn’t mean you can use my sixteen-year-old cousin as a bargaining chip!” you yelled, tears stinging in your eyes and you no longer cared if he saw you cry. “He’s a kid, Brock! You’re—you’re going to get him killed running product between the Hydra and Asgardian border!”

“Maybe,” he said and you sucked in a gasp that tore through you like shards of broken glass, “but you sure as hell aren’t going anywhere as long as he’s a part of this.”

“What?” you shook your head, pinching at the bridge of your nose. “You’ve already got me here under threat of blackmail. I didn’t think I’d have to remind you of that. Besides, why would you even care whether I’m here or not? You already have my father’s money. You have no use for me.”

“That’s not true, baby,” Brock cooed, swiftly crossing the room and reaching out to run a hand up your arm but you pulled away, flinching at his touch. He didn’t seem to like that because when he tried again, he wasn’t as gentle in his movement and he grabbed a firm hold of your wrist and yanked you tight to his chest, caging you and he pressed your back against him, wrapping his forearms around your waist.

“Let me go,” you warned, but he ignored you.

“A powerful man needs his queen; a beautiful woman on his arm and a body to warm his bed,” he said as he squeezed you tighter, enough to make it hard to breath. His grip on your wrist started to ache. “Not everyone is from the underworld like I am, baby. Sometimes a man in a suit needs to be reeled in with the promise of a legitimate lucrative business, a family man, and a pretty lady. The American dream. I can’t do that without you.”

You scoffed, trying to wiggle out of his hold but he kept you still, trapped in the arms of a snake. “I’m sure you could manage.”

“Don’t be so ungrateful, baby,” he whispered in your ear, breath hot and sticky against your neck. He released you then and you shoved your way out of him arms, stumbling forward a few paces. You turned back to him with a hardened glare over your features, baring teeth and he said, “don’t I provide you with a comfortable life? I give you the world, Y/n! What more could you possibly want?”

You could think of a few things.

Your job back at Columbia with the friends you lost. The freedom to walk down the street without someone noticing you, connecting you to him and running off in fear or blatantly gossiping about you as you walked past. A blue-eyed man with a kinder smile than you’d known in years.

You’d burn this house and your father’s money to the ground if you could have even an ounce of that life.

Brock straightened his back, grabbing his coat from the rack and shrugged it over his shoulders. “You worry too much. The kid will be fine. As long as he makes his deliveries on time and doesn’t look in the boxes, there’s no reason why anything should have to happen to him.”

Your breath caught in your throat, heart pounding as your husband paid you no attention. He’d threatened Peter without so much as a look in your direction, as casually as anyone would have mentioned there was something missing on the grocery list or reminding themselves to check in with their mother after work. So simple.

He’d done it a thousand times before but it was never against someone you knew, someone you loved.

The anger was quickly swept away by fear, by panic, and you stepped forward under shaking legs. “Brock, wait, please—”

There was no reasoning with him. It was already done, but it didn’t stop you from trying, from begging.

“I have a business meeting downtown. Don’t wait up for me,” Brock said sharply, ignoring your pleas. He closed the door behind him without another word and you filched at the impact. The house was incredibly quiet suddenly, so when your phone buzzed in your pocket, it startled you.

Just got home, it read. Aunt May’s got freshly baked cookies again so I’ll save you a few for next Sunday in case you’re still upset with me. You know I gotta do what I can to help around here. It’ll be fine, Y/n. I promise. Love you.

He’d sent an image along with the text; a selfie of him leaning over the table filled with chocolate chip cookies cooling from the oven with a massive smile on his face and a thumbs up. You could vaguely make out Aunt May’s hand in the background trying to swat him away and suddenly your vision was blurring. It was hard to see. Despite the smile on your face, there were tears in your eyes and your heart was racing and suddenly, your legs felt weak, your head too dizzy and you stumbled down the hall to one the place you felt safe.

You nearly collapsed halfway down the hall when your breath was coming in too fast and the painting on the wall were starting to duplicate and sway. You gripped onto the door knob and threw yourself into the library, holding on to any spare surface you could find until you made it to the couch.

Your breaths were coming in too fast, tears choking you, and with shaking hands, you dialed the number of the one person— the only person— that could take this all away.

Consequences be damned. Rules out of the window.

The phone rang a few times before he answered, your name sweet like honey on his voice, though he was surprised, and you could hardly speak. You muttered out his name and before you knew it, he was on his way to you. No hesitation.

You listened to his breathing on the other end of the phone, his gentle reminders that he was still there, asking for you to hold on a little longer, updates on where he was at. He was worried, that much you could tell from his voice and you could hear the engine of his car roaring as he raced down the street.

Everything was numb.

The front door swung open loud enough for it to echo down the halls. It didn’t faze you. Nothing did anymore.

***

Bucky sprinted down the hall. His heart was in his stomach as he skidded in front of the library. He paused for a second, trying to compose himself before he pushed open the door; try to take a deep breath or still the rushing pace of his frantically beating heart, but when he heard the soft sounds of you sniffling on the other side, he quickly turned the knob and shouldered his way inside.

You were sitting on the edge of the couch, stiff as a board, staring off into the aisles of books. You didn’t even look at him as he stepped closer, too caught up in your trance. Bucky swallowed nervously as he made his way to you.

Wincing with every creak of the floor boards under his steps, he knelt down in front of you, and even then, it was like you were staring right through him. Your eyes were red and puffy, lips parted slightly because it was impossible to breathe through your nose, a glaze over you, and your hands clenching and unclenching at the cushions beneath you.

“Y/n?” he called softly but there was no response.

Still, nothing. It was like you didn’t recognize him at all.

His eyes trailed lower and it was then he noticed the red mark on your wrist; slowly beginning to fade to its natural color, but visible enough that he could make out the shape of a handprint etched around your arm in its grip. Bucky clenched his jaw, exhaling a tense breath his nose and doing his best to hide the rush of adrenaline and anger boiling up into his chest.

He tore his eyes away from the mark and searched for your eyes again, though they remained unfocused.

“Y/n, I’m here,” he tried again, voice a little louder now as he inched closer on his knees. “You’re okay. It’s just me.”

Nothing. Your hands bunched against the seams of the couch cushions until your fingers started to shake.

Bucky sighed as he watched you wrestle in the trance. Slowly, he brought his hands up to sit upon yours, hoping to still the constant ebb and flow of tension there. The touch of it seemed to ignite something in you because the very second his hands laid upon yours, covering the entirety and curling his fingers underneath, you gasped; broken and shaky on the sharp inhale.

Blinking a few times, focusing, and then, when you met his eye, he swore the world might have stopped spinning.

“James?”

Your voice broke on his name, tears quickly returning and he only nodded. Before they could consume you whole again, he pushed himself up onto the couch beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and tugging you gently back to him so you weren’t so stiff on the edge of the couch. You fell into him easily.

“I’m here. I’m here,” he soothed, holding you as close as he could manage, your weight resting to his chest, warm to the touch. You sighed into him, sinking further in, curling into the crook of his side.

“Are you hurt? What happened?” Bucky asked hastily, trying to conceal the panic in his voice. He ran his hands along your arms like he was trying to warm you; swift motions along goose bumped skin. He didn’t know why he was doing that because it was warm enough in the room but it had been a long time since Bucky Barnes felt helpless, and you seemed to ease into it, so he didn’t stop.

“He knows,” you choked out and Bucky froze instantly, convinced for a moment that Rumlow knew he’d been spending every Sunday with you for months and sitting beside you in your library for hours on end, or that he might know his real name and what he was really doing here, who he really worked for. It didn’t slip his notice that the concern for his cover came second.

You cleared your throat, sniffling back tears as you turned to him, eyed red and glassy. “Peter was here, James. Brock—he invited him over and I—I don’t know how he found out that I’ve been seeing him every week but he did, and he convinced him to do some kind of job for him but-- but he’s only sixteen, James, he’s sixteen and Brock’s going to get him killed and he has no idea what he’s wrapped up in and—”

“Whoa, hold on,” Bucky cooed, shushing you before your heart started to kick up too fast because your breathing was already heaving in your chest, your words tumbling out faster than you could carry them. You pressed your lips together, taking in a deep breath as Bucky instructed you, guiding it along with a gentle hand on your back.

“Start from the beginning.”

And so you did.

You told him about how you’d found Peter on your doorstep and how you’d been blindsided by your husband inviting him over for dinner. You told him about how Rumlow had put on a charming face and played house for a few hours before he brought up the real reason he’d asked your cousin over to begin with. You told him how you felt your chest tearing open at the table as Rumlow offered this job to Peter, transporting products around Queens on the border of The Asgardians’ territory and how Peter was none the wiser to the illegality of what he agreed to.

“I couldn’t tell him what he was signing on for,” you tried to say in defense, but Bucky understood. He knew the law well enough for that.

“The less he knows, the better,” he agreed. Plausible deniability. It wouldn’t go far but it would be enough to separate him from the other dealers in Hydra’s payroll.

There was a silence for a moment, lingering like thick, uneasy molasses in the air. You closed your eyes, turning away from Bucky.

“He did it to keep me compliant, to keep me trapped here,” you said softly, almost too quiet to hear if he hadn’t been paying such close attention to you.

Bucky had his suspicions, knew that your marriage to Rumlow was essentially a political move, that you’d become collateral in his rise to power, but it was something else entirely when it was coming from you. You didn’t seem surprised, but it didn’t take the hurt out of your words, the grief, the anger.

“I won’t let anything happen to Peter, you hear me?” Bucky said slowly, determined.

A wave of relief, awe, something like adoration filled your eyes and you started to cry again. Throwing yourself back into his arms, clenching at his shirt, Bucky wrapped his arms impossibly tight around your waist and you only seemed to pull yourself closer.

“I’m scared for him,” you cried, and Bucky ran his fingers over your back in soft soothing motions.

“I know,” he whispered. “Nothing is going happen to him, alright? I’ll make sure of it.” He paused, a slight breath before, “do you trust me?”

You stilled, pushing back away from his chest for a moment, just enough so you could meet his eye. Despite the redness, the glisten of tears on your cheeks, his heart still managed to thump a little louder as you reached out and brushed your hand along the side of his face. Fingers tracing over stubble and his wondered if you could hear how loud his heart was racing.

He’d never been this close to you before. Never held you in his arms and he wished desperately that it was under different circumstances but here he was, and here you were, and you fit against him perfectly.

“I’d trust you with my life,” you finally replied, the slightest semblance of a smile pushing at the edges of your lips though it didn’t make it very far. “I trust you with his, too.”

Bucky nodded and you fell back against him, curling up into his side. He tried not to think of all the ways he was lying to you, how little you really knew about him, and hoped that your trust was enough. For now, at least.

“Will you stay for a while?” you asked, voice small like a child’s, like you were nervous he might turn you down, like you didn’t know he thought you hung the moon and the stars and breathed life into his beating heart.

“Of course,” was all he said back because he didn’t trust himself to say much else.

He propped his leg up on the coffee table, grabbed a book off the surface and flipped it open to the page you were on and started reading quietly. You squeezed him tighter at that, nestling in against his chest as the soft vibrations of his voice soothed away the lingering anger and fear your husband had instilled in you.

Lying beside you. A hand tracing delicate patterns on his chest as your eyes fluttered closed. His alternating between flipping the next page and resting gently on the mid of your back, holding you to him just enough to feel the faint thump of your heartbeat in every breath.

He didn’t know if he’d ever move again.

[intoanothermind]

Beauty Queen - Chapter 7

B E A U T Y   Q U E E N

Synopsis: You are the Ice Princess of Narnia during the Long Winter. Your sister Jadis, the White Witch, hates that you’re always helping Narnians escape prision. She decides to hunt you down and you have to run away from the palace. What happens when you find the four humans lost in Narnia?

- Edmund Pevensie x reader

Masterlist

<Chapter 6 | Chapter 8>

—-

C H A P T E R   S E V E N

“Run, Mother!” cried Mr. Beaver, rushing in the dike house, along with others.

“Oh, okay!” she exclaimed, going towards the cabinets.

“What is she doing?” asked Peter.

“You will thank me later.” she said, while getting some groceries. “It is a long journey and the Beaver is in a bad mood when he is hungry.”

“I already am!” He exclaimed.

“Are we going to need jam?” Susan asked, as she and Y/N helped Mrs. Beaver and straighten things out.

“Only if the Witch serves toast.” scoffed Peter.

They heard howls and barks surrounding the house and the wolves started to destroy the house.

“Quick, this way!” said Mr. Beaver, pulling Y/N to a side door.

He opened the door and threw a rope over there in the darkness. Peter arrived with torches and they could see a hole there. When they heard the closest howls, they jumped in there, with the help of the rope that the beaver threw there.

“The badger and I dug it.” said Mr. Beaver, while they ran through the tunnel to save their lives. “Come out near his lair.”

“You said it went out to your mom's house.” said Mrs. Beaver.

Lucia tripped over a protruding root and fell, but soon Susan helped. They heard a distant howl. It seemed to be an echo.

“They're in the tunnel.” he whispered to Lucy.

“Quick, this way!” cried the beaver.

“Quick!” echoed Mrs. Beaver.

“Run!” shouted Peter, as everyone ran panting.

They stopped at a place with no exit.

“I should have brought a map!” squeaked Mrs. Beaver.

“It was the map or the jam!” cried Mr. Beaver, turning to the wall and there climbing through a hole at the top, followed by Ms. Castor.

“Come on, come on, Susan!” cried Y/N, helping to pass through the hole and then going right after.

“Come on, Lucy!” Susan said, helping her out so Peter and the beavers could put a large and heavy barrel to cover the hole.

They turned and saw several small animals turned into stone. Mr. Castor approached one in particular, who had his front legs raised to protect himself. Mrs. Beaver went to help him.

The petrified animal was the badger, a friend of the beaver.

“I'm sorry, honey.” said Mrs. Beaver..

“My best friend...”

Everyone was watching the stone-shaped massacre. They didn't like the scene very much and Y/N felt her heart tighten even more when she imagined that this could be Edmund's destiny. She hadn't known him for a long time, but she knew he had become special to her.

“That's what happens to those who play with the Witch.” said a fox, who appeared at the top of one of the dens.

Peter quickly pulled Lucia behind him and the others took up defensive positions. Except Y/N. She knew the fox, the petrification spell had been undone by her - the one who was the final straw for Jadis to pursue.

“Take another step, traitor, and I will tear you apart!” said the beaver, threatening, but Mrs. Beaver quickly stopped him.

“Relax!” laughed the fox, descending from the top of the hole and approaching with graceful and predatory steps, proper to his species. “I'm one of the good guys.”

“Are you?!” asked ironically the beaver. “Because it looks more like one of the villains.”

“An unfortunate family resemblance.” he said the fox, disdainful. “We’ll talk about races later. Now we have to go.”

“We won’t trust you, fox!” said the beaver.

“We will and we must.” said Y/N, so authoritatively and with leadership, that the three humans no longer doubted that she was the Princess of Narnia. “I helped him out of Jadis’ spell, he’s trustworthy. What do you suggest, fox?”

“Your Highness.” The fox made a brief bow to her. “Go up that tree. This can help to mask your smell.”

Y/N nodded, thanking him, and ran with the others to a large tree. They heard the barking of wolves coming from inside the tunnel. They hurried up, and when they were up there, Y/N stared at the snow a few feet below her. She whispered a few words in an unknown language, and the snow stirred minimally there and below. Minimally, but visible to others.

“What was that?” asked Lucy.

“I turned the snow to take our trail farther.” I replied Y/N, the moment the wolves broke into the tunnels.

The wolves surrounded the fox.

“Greetings, cousins.” said the formally, but lowering the tail. “Did you lost anything?”

“Don't try to fool me!” scolded the wolf seemed to be the boss. “I know whose ally you are. We look for humans.”

“Humans?” the fox joked. “Here in Narnia? That’s a valuable information, don’t you think?”

A wolf advances on top of the fox, sticking its fangs into its neck. Lucy gasped, ready to go down and help her, but Y/N took her and covered her mouth, whispering.

“It wouldn't be good if they found us.”

When Lucy nodded, agreeing, Y/N uncovered her mouth, but she was still holding her firmly around her waist, afraid that the younger one would slip. She looked to the side and saw that the beaver was doing the same thing to his wife.

“Your reward is to live.” said the wolf commander, approaching the fox. “It’s not much...” laughed. “Still... Where are the fugitives?”

The fox sighed and Peter was afraid he would report them.

“North.” the fox sighed at last. “They fled to the North.” and lowered his head.

“Look for their scent.” Said the commander while the other wolf released the fox and everyone ran North. Y/N smiled when she realized that the spell had worked.

When they seemed far enough away that they wouldn't be seen from above, Y/N descended with Lucy, who quickly ran to the fox and helped her stand.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“Yes, thank you.” he replied, a little breathless.

Soon the others went down.

“And what now?” Susan asked.

“We need to get some rest.” said Peter.

“We need to warm up, but how?” Susan asked, rubbing her arm them to ward off the cold.

Minutes later, Peter had already started a fire for them to warm up and they were all around her, eating some things brought by Mrs. Beaver.

“They were helping Tumnus.” said the fox, trying to make a dressing on his paw. “The Witch got here before me.”

The fox grunted when Mrs. Beaver touched a bruised neck.

“Are you okay?” asked Lucy.

“Dogs bark but they don’t bite.”

“Stop moving!” said Mrs. Beaver. “It's worse than Beaver on a bath’s day.”

“The worst day of the year.” joked Mr. Beaver.

“Thank you for your kindness,” said the fox, standing up. “It's a pity, but I don't have more time.”

“Will you depart?” Lucy and Y/N asked at the same time.

“It was a great pleasure, my queen and princess” said, bowing to the two “but time is short and Aslan himself sent me to gather some troops.”

“Did you see Aslan?” asked Mr. Beaver.

“How is he?” asked Mrs. Beaver.

“Well, as we always hear.” said the fox. “It will be a pleasure to have you in the battle against the Witch.”

“But we do not intend to fight the Witch.” Susan said.

“But surely King Peter...” said the fox, turning to look at the sad expression on the blonde's face. “The prophecy!”

“We won’t go to war without you.” said the beaver.

“But they do!” Y/N insisted. “The prophecy cannot be undone.”

“We just want our brother back.” Peter said sadly.

[91percentpynch]

jean moreau + dogs

i‘m combining my two favourite things like ever: jean „the loml“ moreau and d o g s,,, it‘s a mess and kinda long but this made me so emotional and happy

jean gets his first dog when he‘s at the trojans. as he can never be alone and has a lot of issues for obvious reasons his therapist said he should get a dog for emotional support

it‘s a dachshund, her name is chérie which means darling in french

jeremy is quite jealous cause he wants jean to call him that (but that‘s a different post)

okay so jean takes chéreie everywhere - classes, training, nights out with the team

chérie brings back exy balls, jean‘s new favouirte hobby is playing exy with her

jean talks to her when he‘s upset/ sad/ lonely

he will just sit on the floor, softly stroking her, tears running down his cheeks and tell her what bothers him

„chérie, you‘re my only friend. i love you. i just wish someone would hug me and hold my hand. but i don‘t need these assholes, i got you right?“, he mumbles in french, his voice soft, sometimes through a sob. chérie will lick his tears off his hands. jeremy watches from the kitchen and his heart b r e a k s

so with chérie he is doing way better, he makes friends, he opens up, she helps him with his trauma and anxiety and his countless issues

the second dog is his graduation gift from kevin. it‘s an irish red setter. he calls him flamme (which is fire in french)

chérie and flamme are the most important things in his life - besides perhaps his boyfriend jeremy knox

he takes his pups everywhere and every morning he takes them on his morning run with jeremy, each of them holding a dog, soft laughter in the early morning hours and it‘s the happiest moment in jean‘s day

flamme always sleeps on jean‘s torso, he just jumps on the bed and sleeps on his human. chérie sleeps on his feet, as she did since he got her. jeremy just wants to cuddle his boyfriend but the dogs said no and he can‘t hide but smile everytime he sees it. his lockscreen is jean sleeping with the two dogs on him, a soft smile on his lips, hair messy, scarred hands on the dogs

the third dog comes quite shortly after flamme. it‘s a tiny black and white shi tzu. she might look innocent but she‘s like a little tornado, licking everyone‘s feet and hiding under furniture because she is just a tiny little bit scared of this gigantic human and the other dude who comes and goes at what seems random times

jeremy goes pro, jean doesn‘t but that‘s again another post

so jean just sits on the floor for h ou r s calling the tiny dog and he remembers the days in evermore and he u n d e r s t a n d s the tiny little girl

so he calls her lune cause that‘s what jeremy calls him and it makes him think of how strong he is and he get e m o t i o n a l

anygays so he sits at the floor for h o u r s for like three weeks and lune got more and more couragous and eventually she comes out of whatever furniture she would hide under and carefully come to him and he pets her and she lays on her back so he can scratch her tiny little stomach and he does and flamme and chérie come and he‘s surrounded by dogs who lick his face and arms and legs and he gives them so much love and just pets them and they‘re all so in love and he just talks to them

so when jeremy came back that day lune was about to run away but jeremy talked to her in french, very softly and she slowly came back to him and sat next to him and jean told jeremy to carefully come to him and sit down and let her smell his hand and then stroke her and he did and lune stopped being scared

„she reminds me of you mi amor“, jeremy says softly to jean. „that‘s what i thought. that‘s why i called her lune. you used to call me that and it made me feel as if i made it“

jerejean weren‘t lunes‘ first humans, she was with another man before and he used to hit her. that‘s why she hides when your hand comes from a certain angle (my dog does that, lune is basically my dog)

she never loses that habit, even though she knows nothing will happen to her with jerejean and the other dogs

so chérie adopts lune and she‘s really protective of her and so is flamme. on their morning runs jean would hold lune and chérie and jermey would run with flamme, which is funny cuz just imagine 6“5 jean moreau with these tiny little dogs and his boyfriend (5“3 in my head) with this big ass dog and i‘m getting too emotionally attached to that now

so to jean and jeremy‘s one/ two year annivarsary jeremy comes back home form training with this gigantic puppy. and jean looks at him with heart eyes.

„you got another dog?“ jean would say with so much love in his voice.

„look i know they make you happy and i love your smile more than anything and i thought ‚why don‘t we ge the most beautiful man in the entire universe a dog for our anniverssary‘ and just got him. well actually getting him took m o n t h s did you know you have interviews for puppies? apparently this dude here is a very special little snowflake. anyways it‘s an irish wolfhound and those dogs are gigantic, i think they‘re getting 3 feet high? okay i‘m talking too much i‘m sorry i hope you like him because i kind can‘t bring him back“, jeremy started to scratch the back of his head somewhere in the middle of his rant

„i love him, almost as much as i love you“ jean got on his feet and he runs to his boyfriend and he bends down and kisses him and then he takes the dog from him and lune follows him every step he takes and behind her are flamme and chérie and it just makes jeremy feel so much love and happiness

„i only got you this“, jean said, handing jeremy a little portrait of him with a poem on the back. „i made it for you“, jean said, blushing. „jean i love this, i love you and i feel so honored that you d r e w me. oh lord i love you so much“, jeremy starts to cry

anygays jean sits on the floor and introduces the new puppy to the other dogs. he calls him géant (which means giant in french).

so the sleeping arrangments change: flamme still sleeps on jean‘s torso, he‘s just taller and it may or may not become a bit uncomfortable to sleep on his human but he won‘t stop. like ever. and chérie still sleeps on his feet. lune sleeps on his side, always touching him somewhere, his hand on her sides, they are like spooning. and géant sleeps on either above or under lune, as well always touching jean somewhere. jeremy almost doesn‘t fit in the bed anymore.

so the next day they‘re getting a bigger bed. for the dog‘s sack. yes.

so jean spends his days drawing and playing the piano. talking to his dogs. going for walks with his songs. meeting friends, with his dogs. he won‘t leave the house without at least one dog. actually he won‘t leave without all of his dogs.

one day jeremy walked in on him sitting on the floor, the dogs and him sitting in a perfect circle, a tiny tea cup in front of each dogs. they were having tea. on the floor. jeremy took a picture of it and sent it to kevin and andrew. this was his family and he felt so many emotions and he started to cry because it was just so c u t e. there was his tall ass boyfriend, who looked quite scary, on the floor, talking softly in french with his four dogs. and he was just about to leave them be when he said a bit louder „you can join us darling. i left a cup for you on here“ and jeremy just went to his boyfriend and their four dogs and they had tea on the floor in front of the tall windows watching the moon replace the sun

it became kind of an tradition

just like the dogs sleeping in their beds

i like to think that each dogs represents a part of them: chérie is jeremy in college, lune is jean in colllege, flamme is jeremy now and géante is jean now

okay so jean gave up exy in my head BUT he still plays exy with the dogs

jean makes jeremy and him matching jumpers with the dogs in winter

the apartment is full and i mean FULL with pictures of the dogs and jean with the dogs and jeremy with the dogs and jerejean of the dogs, like every wall is full with pictures, every shelf that doesn‘t have drawings of jean is full with pictures of them with the dogs, the piano jean plays on each day when jeremy comes back from training is full of dog pictures, they are literally everywhere. there is even one on the toilet

sometimes when their friends over it gets just Too Much and he has to leave the room and the dogs follow him and he just has to sit on the floor and talk to them and stroke them and everything gets better

jean loves his dogs so much, they are like his best friends, they understand him, they make sure he is never alone, even when jeremy has to leave for away games or interviews and comes home late

jeremy might have put his pieces together but the dogs are like the glue that keeps them together

it also became tradition that jeremy always takes the tall dogs on their morning runs and jean runs with the small ones. when lune and chérie are tired he will carry them

sometimes you will find jean moreau with jeremy knox on his back, lune and chérie in each hand and flamme and géante on each side

people sometimes look funny at him, but he doesn‘t care

the dogs saved his life, made it something happy and bright, like jeremy knox. never did he dare to think jean could be that happy. but now he is in this bright apartement, sitting on the floor, painting a portrait of jeremy, dogs all around him sleeping and he just can‘t help but smile

[myheartrevealedocs]

Untouchable - Ch 7: The Fisher King: Part 2 (S2E1)

Summary:  A Spencer Reid x OC fanfic that retells select episodes, starting in season 1, from the point of view of Lydia Ambers, a forensic scientist.

Warnings: mentions of death, swearing, death threats, graphic injuries

Ch 6 | Ch 8

~ ~ ~

When Lydia got back to the conference room, Spencer was the only one there. He stood directly in front of the whiteboard, murmuring to himself. He’d written ‘Possible Book Titles’ across the top, but so far had nothing listed.

“The rest of the team leave you to figure this out on your own?” she asked.

He startled slightly, not having heard her walk in. “Um, JJ and Morgan are going to interview Rebecca Bryant’s parents… and Hotch and Gideon are interviewing the guy who brought the numbers to Haley.”

“Someone found him?”

“He turned himself in,” Spencer explained. “So, now it’s just me and the evidence boards.”

“Now it’s us and the evidence boards,” she corrected. She sat down and picked up the medication bottle from the table. “Sorry I stormed out.”

“Sorry you were so stressed,” he mumbled. “We didn’t mean to push you.”

“You didn’t. It was important for you to know. I’m just… so done with this, you know?” She stopped herself. “Sorry, of course you do. You were on vacation when you got these weird messages. I was just home doing my schoolwork.”

“Lydia, stop apologizing,” he argued. “This is very stressful, we’ve all been here a long time, and you got a package delivered to your door. I can easily understand why that’d freak you out.”

She shrugged. “I just feel like I should be able to piece together these clues the unsub’s giving us and I can’t.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he agreed, indicating to his empty list.

She looked over the label on the bottle in her hands. There was a patient name, a doctor’s name, drug, and an RX number. Prescription bottles always had more than that. They had instructions, pharmacies, manufacturers, fill dates, expiration dates.

“This number must mean something,” she wondered out loud. “He didn’t put any unnecessary information on it, but there’s a long RX number.”

“Read the number out loud,” Spencer told her.

He wrote it across the board as she went. “3-1-5-1-2-1-2-5-3-2-0-1-5-1-8”

“Okay,” he stepped back. “We can start with the basics. A equals 1, Z equals 26.” He got to work, writing the corresponding letter underneath the number.

C-A-E-A-B-A-B-E-C-B-

He stopped at the zero. “That’s definitely not a word. But some of the letters have double digits, so… let’s see if we combine everything we can combine…’C’ stays the same. The 1 and 5 could be fifteen, which is ‘O’...” He began again.

C-O-L-L-E-C-T-O-R

“Collector?” He stepped away. “That mean anything to you?”

Lydia shook her head.

“Alright. Collector. Collecting things. He’s collecting things.” He snapped his fingers so sharply Lydia almost jumped. “Collector! Baseball cards, music boxes, butterflies, skeleton keys. These are all things people collect!”

“That can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

He shrugged. It was basically impossible at this point to rule anything out.

“Medieval,” she rambled. “Collectable things. Numerical codes. What else have we got?”

“We’ve got this note from the music box?” he offered. “I think I’ve heard it somewhere, but I can’t place it… And I think the book was published in 1963.”

“Why’s that?”

“That’s the year on the baseball card, but it’s not the year Gideon went to all those games. If the unsub knows Gideon likes Nellie Fox because he went to almost all the White Sox games in 1959, why give him a ‘63 card?”

“Okay,” Lydia agreed. “So, the type of butterfly JJ got, that probably means something too, because she collected butterflies, not pale clouded yellow butterflies.

He nodded. “Let’s get Garcia to look up some of these things and see if we find anything.”

She followed him out as he dashed towards Garcia’s office. He was very stiff and awkward when he was in a rush, she noticed, but he refused to run through the office. She was glad for it at the moment, seeing as with her foot, she probably couldn’t keep up with him, but it was almost comical, the way his feet skipped underneath him with repressed anticipation.

Garcia looked up when they walked in, then turned back to her computers. “This guy is infuriatingly good. He routed his IP through major corporations, crisscrossed it through countries, bounced it off satellites-”

“I thought you already tracked the hacker,” Spencer said, pausing behind her and glancing over her shoulder.

“No, I only found what he wanted me to find,” she huffed. “Apartment where Giles was dead. Reid, a hacker capable of getting into my systems is going to have amazingly sophisticated equipment. Did Giles’s apartment have that?”

“He didn’t have a couch,” he responded.

“Exactly. Giles was a smokescreen I should have seen through. But now I have this glorious program I wrote, tracking the hacker through his other identity: Sir Kneighf.”

“Sir Kneighf?” he cried.

Lydia’s eyes widened. “The doctor on the prescription bottle!”

“The what?” Garcia flipped her chair around and Reid leaned over to see the name on her screen

“K-N-E-I-G-H-F. That’s an odd spelling.”

She waved him away. “Do you need something?”

“Yeah, is there a database, which lists all the books published in a given year?”

“Individual publishers have lists, but I don’t think there’s anything like a master one. Plus it would depend upon the year, because the further back you go, the less likely there’ll be any database at all.”

“1963.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, ok, that would be an example of extremely less likely.”

He hummed in contemplation. “Could you do me a favor? Type something into a search engine for me?” She pulled herself back up to the keyboard. “‘Never would it be night, but always clear day to any man’s sight’.”

“Okay, that’s from a poem, ‘The Parliament of-’”

“Fowls!” He jumped in recognition. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah! Chaucer! My-” He hesitated. “My mom used to read me that. It’s widely considered as the first Valentine’s poem.”

Garcia chuckled. “Your mom read you Valentine’s poems? Hello, therapy.”

Lydia smacked her over the shoulder.

“Chaucer. Chaucer. ‘Parliament of Fowls’.” He began mumbling to himself again, trying to fit pieces together. “It has to be at least 283 pages long. Something published in 1963… A butterfly indigenous to Great Britain. Why? Something born. Something from Great Britain… Medieval. Chaucer. Chaucer was Middle English. Middle English spelling of the word Fowls… F-O-W-L-E-S…”

Lydia thought he was losing it, but somehow, this rambling was productive, because he blinked and ran back over to Garcia’s side.

“There- There was a contemporary british author-- Fowles. John Fowles. Will you type it into a search engine?”

“Uh… He wrote The Magus, he wrote The French Lieutenant’s Woman-”

“Anything in 1963 published in Great Britain?”

She narrowed her search and her computer started beeping. “Yeah. The Collector.”

Lydia wanted to scream. Finally, they were on the right path. “Are you serious? The code on the bottle was the book title.”

Garcia clicked on the book and the cover photo showed up, which ruled out any chances of the book being a coincidence. Three objects were displayed underneath the title of the book: a butterfly, a skeleton key, and a blonde lock of hair.

“I’m gonna start calling libraries. We need a copy of that book immediately,” Lydia said, leaving abruptly.

~ ~ ~

“Hello, my name is Lydia Ambers, I work for the FBI. We’re in desperate need of a very specific book to help us on a recent case. We’re looking for a copy of The Collector by John Fowles, but it has to be a copy that was published by Jonathon Cape. Would you have any of those?”

Lydia followed Reid and Garcia to one of the interrogation rooms, to talk to Hotch and Gideon about their findings, but she was thoroughly distracted by her call and ended up stepping on their heels a few times accidentally.

“According to our database, we should have two copies, but it’s going to take me a while to search for them. Can I call you back once I’ve found a copy?”

“Yes, thank you.” She hung up and promptly tripped, falling between Reid and Garcia’s shoulders. She would have run directly into Gideon if Reid hadn’t grabbed her by the arm and held her up steady. “Sorry!”

She shuffled back behind her two friends and let them talk to Hotch and Gideon.

“We know what the book is,” Spencer explained. “The Collector by John Fowles.”

“You sure?” Gideon demanded. They were both clearly on edge. Hotch had his arms crossed which didn’t look comfortable in his suit and Gideon was punchy. She didn’t fail to notice the way he and Garcia avoided each other's gazes, Garcia more than him. He was still pissed at her and she was probably thoroughly embarrassed. And hopefully, a little pissed too, because Lydia believed he’d been way too harsh on her.

“Not absolutely. Not until we see if the code works, but Lydia’s called four separate libraries to search for the 1963 edition published in Great Britain.”

“Well done,” Hotch complimented the group, tiredly.

“Agent Gideon,” a woman called, approaching the group of them, “there’s a call for you on line two. Says it’s extremely urgent.” 

“Is there a name?” he asked.

“Sort of. He calls himself the Fisher King.”

Lydia groaned before she could stop herself. Everyone raised an eyebrow at her.

“Sorry. The Fisher King is the one who guards the Grail. You know, the one that ‘Sir Percival’, over there is supposed to find.” She pointed at Reid, who was grabbing the notepad the woman had in her hands.

“This could be the unsub, guys,” he confirmed. “‘Sir Kneighf’ is an anagram for Fisher King.”

“The Fisher King is at the end of all Grail quests,” Gideon agreed.

They rushed to the bullpen, all crowding around a nearby phone.

“Line two trapped and traced,” Hotch demanded of one of the nearby agents and Gideon put it on speaker.

“Gideon.”

“What I had to do was not my fault,” the unsub replied, his harsh voice unmistakable.

“Excuse me?”

“It was distasteful and barbaric.”

“Who is this?”

“No one else had to be hurt.”

“Call yourself ‘The Fisher King’?” He was trying to throw the unsub off his rhythm. Gideon had been training her to speak to hostile people and profile what responses to give them, so she followed along his game.

This guy had clearly planned what he wanted to say and expected them to shut up and listen. If Gideon made him interrupt the strict script in his mind, he might slip up and give information he didn’t want to or forget his point.

“I told you there were rules.”

“I’m actually more interested in exactly how you got all those burns.” Different tactic. Make the unsub think we’re closer to catching him than he thinks.

“Remember this next time you decide to step outside my instructions,” he warned. “Agent Greenaway did not have to die like that.”

The phone buzzed as he hung up the call.

~ ~ ~

After many attempts at calling Elle, Hotch got ahold of Agent Anderson, who was in charge of taking her home. Anderson explained that Elle had been shot and the ambulance was on its way to a nearby hospital. And then, he and Gideon were off, leaving Lydia, Spencer, and Garcia to work on piecing together this mystery.

“Mrs. Valez, are you there?” Reid asked, putting the librarian who’d just called them back on speaker phone.

“Yes, Dr. Reid. I am. I have a first edition of The Collector, published in Great Britain in 1963.”

“Wonderful.” As they spoke Garcia cleared off room on the whiteboard to copy down the code. “Mrs. Valez, I’m going to read you a set of three numbers. The first is going to be a page number, the second a line number on that page, and the third, a word number in that line. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“All right, the first is page 222.”

“Page 222, got it.”

“Line 23.”

“Line 23. Got it.”

“What is the 16th work on that line, Ms. Valez?”

“The.”

“The,” he repeated. “Great.”

Garcia wrote it up on the board and Lydia suddenly very much regretted not going along with Gideon and Hotch. But just in time to save the day, her phone started going off with a call from the unit chief.

She dismissed herself quickly and stepped outside to answer.

“How’s Elle?” she asked, figuring greetings could be dismissed for the time being.

“She’s in surgery. Ambers, I need you to go to her house and look for any evidence you can find. And if you can, I need you to tell me what exactly happened when she got home. Anderson will meet you there.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get back to you when I have something.”

She quietly signalled to Reid that she was leaving before grabbing her FBI windbreaker and latex gloves and running off to the elevator. She hadn’t taken a company SUV since her first case (after which she learned she wasn’t supposed to be driving them on her own because she wasn’t supposed to be unsupervised while working), but she figured that, if caught, she would be forgiven, given the circumstances.

The street was littered with cop cars by the time she got there and it took a minute for them to recognize the car and jacket she was wearing and let her through. Once she had parked, she ran across the front lawn and inside, looking for Anderson. Right now, the only reason she hadn’t been thrown off the scene was her jacket and until Anderson arrived with his badge and the orders to clear the place, she was at the local PD’s mercy.

“Excuse me, miss,” a man called to her as she walked into the living room. She shut her eyes tightly. Damn it.

“Hi. My name’s Lydia-”

“Ambers,” Anderson greeted her, stepping past the cops to speak to her. “CSU’s on the way, but Hotch wanted you to survey the scene before they processed it.” He turned back to the officer she was just speaking to. “Hello again, Detective Markes. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask your team to leave, as you’re currently on a crime scene under federal jurisdiction.”

As he went on to argue with the detective, Lydia flipped around to make her initial determinations. Elle had lost a lot of blood. Lydia could assume she’d been shot in the abdomen, because it was the only area of the body where she could survive long enough to get to the hospital and into surgery while she was losing blood at that rate. Elle had a comforted seat built into an indent in the wall where the blood trail started.

The coffee table was awkwardly placed in the center of the room, so the paramedics probably moved it to get to her. And from the marks on the carpet, it looks like they had to drag her body onto its back in order to perform CPR. Then, there was the looming note on her wall in blood: RULES.

“Can I do anything to help?” Anderson asked. When Lydia looked up at him, it was clear to her that he’d been crying. His eyes were rimmed with red and his voice was shaky.

“Did the police tell you what happened?”

He nodded, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “There is evidence of forced entry on the back door. The unsub probably broke in and waited for her to get home before he shot her. She dialed 911 herself before she passed out. And her badge and gun are nowhere to be found.”

“She dialed 911 before she passed out?!” Lydia exclaimed. “Unless the unsub let her… but no, he thought she was dead. He was in the room with her and wrote in her-” Lydia took in a deep breath and started to put her gloves on. “Try something with me, Anderson.”

~ ~ ~

“What did you find?”

“CSU lifted a partial print from the unsub’s message,” Lydia told Hotch, driving back to Quantico.

“What message?”

“Rules,” she responded. “This is about the press conference.”

He sighed. “Did they get anything from the print?”

“They aren’t sure if it will be enough, but they’re running it through their systems now.”

“Good. And what did you find?”

Lydia’s breath hitched. “Me?”

“I asked you if you could figure out what happened. How did the unsub get the upper hand and shoot Elle?”

Lydia glanced at her phone, which was on speaker beside her, as if Hotch would be there looking sternly back.

“Here’s my theory,” she began. “We know he broke in through the back door and waited in the house. If he was in the dining room, he would have been able to hear her set her stuff down and lie on the couch. Now with her eyes closed, he’s able to walk into the room and aim a gun at her before she can react. At some point, Elle makes a move off the couch and he shoots her. The blood pattern indicates she was falling when she got hit. That makes me think her gun was on the table across from her. But anyway, she’s shot and is lying on her side, between the seat and the table. Elle has got to have an insanely high pain tolerance, because she was still conscious when he wrote on the walls in her blood. But somehow, she had him convinced she had died when he left. Then, she calls 911 and passes out.”

“Good work, Lydia. When all this is over, we need to talk.”

Her phone beeped to indicate he had hung up and it took everything in her not to pull over and call him back immediately.

A talk? What the hell did that mean?

~ ~ ~

When Lydia finally made her way back to the bullpen, she was exhausted. So, it was a bit of a relief to see Spencer there at his desk, simply toying with a pencil between his fingers.

“Did you go to Elle’s house?” he asked, softly, as she took off her jacket and placed it on her desk.

“Yeah… It’s a crime scene.”

He nodded, understanding what she meant. It was bloody.

“How did the book code go? Did it work?” she inquired.

“‘The path to the end began at his start to find her first calm her long broken heart’,” he recited. “‘She sits in a window with secrets from her knight. Is it adventure that keeps him out of her sight?’”

“Any clue what it means?”

Reid opened his mouth to explain, but Garcia approached and started talking to him. “She’s okay,” she said, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Your mom. Agents picked her up.”

“Your mom?” Lydia startled. “What happened?”

The panic in Garcia’s eyes was evident. “Lydia! Sorry, I didn’t even realize you were back yet.” Her eyes darted between the two of them. “I’ll… I’m gonna go now.”

“No, no, no!” she assured her. “It’s fine. If this is private, I can leave.”

“It’s not private.” Spencer looked slightly amused by the anxiety both girls felt, but it didn’t last long. “It’s… pertinent to the case.”

“Is everything okay?” Lydia asked him, standing up next to Garcia at his desk, so that the conversation didn’t drift around the room.

“She’s flying here right now,” Garcia explained, and Reid nodded, looking down at an evidence bag.

It was the poem they’d found in the music box. The valentine’s one that he’d said his mom read him.

“I forgot she used to always read me this poem.” He sighed. “It’s funny, huh?”

“Funny?” Garcia asked.

“I should have realized this sooner,” he admitted. “I mean, nobody knows things like the fact that JJ collects butterflies except for me. People tell me their secrets all the time. I think it’s ‘cause they know I don’t have anyone to betray them to… except my mother. I- I tell her pretty much everything.”

“I don’t think anyone would mind,” she grinned.

“Do you know that I write her a letter everyday?” he continued.

Garcia’s eyes watered slightly, but her smile didn’t let up. “That’s nice.”

“It depends on why I write her.” His eyebrow furrowed. His demeanor had changed considerably and Lydia started to piece together what she had missed.

This unsub had gotten all this info on them from his mom. Maybe he’d been stealing her letters or just talking to her, but he knew her and that’s why Reid was bringing her to Quantico.

“What do you mean?” Garcia asked.

“I write her letters so I won’t feel so guilty about not visiting her.”

The girls exchanged a look. Reid had just been in Las Vegas. He said he was going home. So, why was he claiming he didn’t visit her?

“Did you know that schizophrenia is genetically passed?” he asked, randomly.

At least, she thought it was random. Until Garcia gasped under her breath. She excused herself quickly, leaving Lydia with the fidgeting doctor.

“Spencer, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she spoke up. She kept her voice low and her town concerned, undemanding.

He was clearly on edge. He wouldn’t look up at her, eyes focused on the poem in his hands. “‘The path to the end begins at his start’... I’m the ‘him’. And my start is my mom. So, she’s the key to lead us to the Grail. ‘She sits in a window with secrets from her knight’. The doctors tell me my mother loves to sit by the window and read my letters.” He dropped the bag suddenly and clasped his hands together. “Lydia, my mom is a paranoid schizophrenic who lives in a mental hospital.”

His knuckles started turning white and the muscles in his arms shifted under pressure. He was getting tense. Lydia knew exactly what he was doing. Normally, when she felt her anger manifest itself physically, she would excuse herself to blow off steam, but something told her Reid wasn’t about to find an empty hallway and start punching the walls.

But even with that knowledge, she never would have consciously done what she did to calm him. Her impulses took over and one of her hands reached out and settled itself on top of his fists. She bent down slightly, not forcing herself into his line of sight, but making it easier for him to turn to her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “That must be hard on you… does the rest of the team know?”

He shook his head, turning one of his palms over to hold onto her fingers. Lydia’s heart sped up, but she swallowed down her feelings. He was looking for comfort, not a relationship. Besides, they weren’t even holding hands, really. He was just grazing his thumbs over her knuckles.

“Lydia,” he began, finally meeting her gaze. “Earlier you left because Hotch brought up your mom…”

Here it comes. She braced herself for the inevitable question.

“...and when you came back, you had bruised knuckles.”

She almost choked on her own saliva. He wasn’t going to ask about her mom? And how had he even noticed that?

Awkwardly, she slipped her fingers out of his grasp. “I wasn’t hitting anything alive, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she informed him, suddenly closing off again. “I just had to let off some steam.”

“Lydia, I wasn’t insinuating anything-”

“It’s fine, Spencer,” she replied, far too quickly. “If you need any help with anything before your mom gets here, let me know. And if I get any updates from Hotch or Gideon, I’ll tell you.”

He spun his chair around in an attempt to stop her, but she was already leaving, trying to look dignified as she walked into the conference room. She didn’t want to make him feel guilty when he was already dreading his mom’s arrival, but she couldn’t have that conversation when there was work to do.

It wasn’t until she was staring at the evidence boards that she realized, there really wasn’t any work to do.

What was she running from?

~ ~ ~

After hours of pacing and repeating the clues the unsub had given them outloud, Lydia had ended up back at her desk, absolutely drained. She pushed everything aside and lay her head down. She’d just been… off today. 

She felt so guilty about abandoning Spencer. He needed more help than she did. His mother was involved in a murder case and probably wasn’t stable enough to look out for herself. And Lydia was just wallowing in her past.

She had no right to do that to him.

So, what was it? As far as she knew, Spencer didn’t even know her mom was dead. He had no idea what the mention of her mother could do to her. He wasn’t pressuring her to tell him about it. And even more so, she’d never struggled to tell anyone her mother was dead before. Her first day in Quantico, she told Gideon and Garcia.

Lydia rarely talked about the cause of her mom’s death. If that’s what the team needed to know, then she could forgive herself for being on edge, but they didn’t. No one had asked her to say out loud how her mother had died. And if they did need to know, Hotch, Gideon, or Garcia could probably tell them. Her mother’s death was definitely in Garcia’s files.

What is it? She asked herself. What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you just-?

“Lydia!” Garcia cried. Her head shot up to watch the blonde woman running by, making a beeline for the conference room.

She ran after her, just catching up as she opened the door and grabbed the attention of Spencer and an older woman with a pixie cut.

“Reid, I got to the end of the IP string,” Garcia started, barely even noticing the other presence in the room. “Sir Kneighf? The Fisher King? His name is Randal Garner. He’s Rebecca Bryant’s biological father.”

~ ~ ~

Once the air in the room had settled, Spencer introduced the other woman as his mother, Diana Reid, before quickly distracting them with work. Lydia sensed that he didn’t want his mother to be a part of the conversation.

Lydia stepped aside to call Hotch, listening to their conversation as she explained to him what they’d found.

“Our file says that Rebecca’s father’s name is Joseph Bryant,” Spencer argued. “Who’s Randal Garner?”

“Rebecca’s mother and brothers died in a fire when she was four and her father was so badly burned that he couldn’t take care of her, so he gave up parental rights and she was adopted by the Bryants,” Garcia informed them.

“Okay,” Hotch responded over the phone, pulling her back to the conversation she was having. “I’ll tell Gideon and be there soon. Find out everything you can on this guy.”

“Doing that as we speak,” she replied, putting her phone back into her pocket.

“I can’t believe she’s real,” Diana mumbled.

The three of them trained their eyes on her.

“What do you mean?” Garcia asked.

“Whenever he talked about Rebecca, he never said she was his daughter.” She said all this directly to her son, her stance nervous, almost defensive. “He said all his children died in the fire. He spoke of a Rebecca, more in the abstract. I really thought she was a metaphor and not an actual human being. An ideal.”

“A grail,” Reid said, confirming her thoughts. This man honestly didn’t see her as his daughter anymore. His daughter had died. And this girl was a prize to be won. “He thinks he’s the Fisher King.”

“Who does?” Morgan asked, entering with JJ.

“Randal Garner, our unsub,” Spencer responded.

“He believes you’re all modern-day knights of the round table,” Diana explained, gesturing around the room.

Derek raised a hand and they could see his question about who this woman was coming a mile away.

“Uh, Derek Morgan, this is my mother, Diana Reid.” Spencer ran around the table to step between his colleague and his mom.

“This is your mother?” He pointed at the woman almost accusingly, but seeing Spencer’s tight smile, pulled back and said, “Ma’am it’s a… it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Finally, the last of their group stormed in, Hotch’s footsteps audible from across the bullpen. “So, where are we on finding this son of a bitch?” he demanded.

“Gideon?” Lydia inquired.

“Hospital.”

Everyone sat down around the table in time with one another.

“I rechecked all the clues,” Spencer began. “There’s nothing that points to an address.”

“The adoption records for Rebecca listed an address of the fire, so I made a call to Nevada, and it’s vacant. No one ever rebuilt,” JJ continued.

“Nevada?” Hotch scoffed. “So we don’t even know what state he’s in?”

“I’ll search the tax records,” Garcia offered. “See if he owns any property.”

“Excuse me,” Diana said, catching the attention of the team. She was leaning forward in her seat in the corner of the room.

“Mom, do you want to wait out-” Spencer started, trying to usher her out of the room, but She was already making a move towards Hotch.

“Just before the agents got me from the hospital,” she fumbled for something in her purse, “a man delivered this to me. It’s a photo of a house with an address on the back.”

She held it up for them to see the scrawl on the back of the card: 1024 Winston Dr., Shiloh, VA. 22485.

“Shiloh, Virginia?” Morgan muttered. “That’s only ten miles from here.”

She flipped over the photo. The house looked more like a castle, with multiple stories and barred windows. It was made with gray bricks and black roof tiles with a circular extension that looked like a tower.

The team filed out quickly, with the exception of Spencer, who was telling his mom to stay put until he got back.

Garcia ran back to her office and Lydia sat at her desk, still unable to go on raids with them.

Almost over, she told herself. This whole thing is almost over.

~ ~ ~

“We’re sending Rebecca to the hospital now and then we’ll be back,” Hotch informed her. “Any news from Gideon?”

“Elle just got out of surgery. Doctors say she’s gonna be fine.” It was already the next morning and Lydia couldn’t wait to go back to her apartment and sleep for the rest of the day. “Randal Garner?”

“Dead,” he responded and Lydia didn’t bother to ask how or why. “Why don’t you start clearing off those evidence boards?”

“Yes, sir.” She put her phone down and walked up to the round table room.

When she got inside, she startled to see someone else there. Spencer’s mom sat on the sofa underneath the window and was writing something in one of the journals she brought with her. She hadn’t seemed to notice Lydia walk in.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Reid,” Lydia started, politely, walking over to the evidence boards. “I forgot you were still here.”

After a second of silence, Lydia got to work, making piles of evidence, pictures, and all the pins they had used. She didn’t take the woman’s silence personally, knowing that schizophrenia could cause dissociation. She figured she’d leave her to her journaling for now.

As she was finishing up, however, the woman looked up at her, an eyebrow raised. “Is it time for lunch yet?” she inquired.

“What?” Lydia asked softly.

“I’m lecturing everyone on Tristan and Iseult,” she explained, scanning her journal suddenly like an analysis paper. “They’re all gathering in my room after lunch.”

Lydia was intrigued. Clearly, Diana was not in touch with reality and Lydia wasn’t sure how best to deal with it, but her curiosity won over her common sense.

She wanted to know who Tristan and Iseult were.

“I’m here to attend the lecture, ma’am.” She smiled and sat down on the floor, like a kindergartener.

“Let’s get started, then.” She went on to talk about the basis of the myth: Tristan was sent to bring Iseult back to his uncle, King Mark of Cornwell, with whom she was to marry. On their journey however, they consumed a love potion (whether or not they were aware had varied throughout history) and fell for one another. They were forced to have an affair behind Mark’s back, despite them both holding a lot of respect for the king, because the effects of the potion were too strong for them to ignore. When the king caught them, he sentenced them both to death, but Tristan escaped and saved Iseult and they ran off together. When King Mark finally found them again, Tristan agreed to give Iseult back to the king and flee Cornwell so long as neither of them would be harmed. And eventually, he found another young woman named Iseult and married her instead.

Diana was just beginning to explain how this compared the Arthurian legend and the love triangle between King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, and Guinevere, when Spencer walked in.

“Mom, we found her. Rebecca’s safe.” The two women turned their heads to the newcomer and Spencer flushed, seeing Lydia sitting quietly on the floor across from his mother. “Lydia! I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Young man, we are in the middle of a lecture,” she reprimanded. “May I ask why you’ve so rudely interrupted us?”

Lydia covered her mouth to suppress a laugh and Spencer looked shocked by his mother’s scolding. “What?”

“I am giving a lecture on Tristan and Iseult,” she repeated, impatiently. “Are you here to attend or do you want to just keep standing there and gawking?”

He seemed to understand his mother’s headspace, but his confusion returned when he remembered Lydia. She gestured for him to sit with her, smugly, and turned back to Diana. “You can continue Mrs. Reid, he was just late.”

“Has he read any of the material?” she asked, suspiciously.

Lydia raised an eyebrow at Spencer, teasing him despite the fact that she definitely had not read whatever it was that Diana would have previously assigned.

His face was gentle, almost unsure, and slowly he sat down besides Lydia. “I’ve had them read to me.”

Lydia knew he was talking about his mother. He’d grown up listening to her read valentine’s poems and old mythology. It was honestly really touching and she wondered if she should leave them to have a moment together but couldn’t bring herself to get up.

“Wonderful,” Diana sighed. “That’s the best way, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am. By far.”

They sat there for a few more minutes, listening to her thoughts and analysis of different versions of the story. Lydia would glance over at him at times, checking to see if he was still smiling, which he always was. Sometimes he’d catch her in the act and they’d share a look of amusement before turning their focus back to their temporary teacher.

Unfortunately, it had to come to a sudden end when Hotch walked in.

“Ambers.” His tone was serious. “I was worried you’d left. I need to speak with you.”

Lydia could see Diana’s frustration at yet another interruption, so she quickly stood up.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Reid,” she apologized, shuffling out behind her boss.

He nodded for her to follow him to his office. Was this about what he said earlier? They needed to have a talk?

She wondered if it was possibly the fact she took out an SUV again despite being informed not to after the last time. Or it could be about her harsh comments that morning towards Gideon and around Haley. Or even worse, about her mom and how she stormed away.

She sat across from him, waiting for his exasperated voice to come through, but it didn’t.

“Lydia, I think we need to have a discussion about your future,” he started, unexpectedly. “I created an internship into the team for you because we’ve never had the need for a forensics expert before, but for these past several months, you’ve been an incredible help. You’re knowledgeable in crime scene analysis, lab work, and, as you proved today, profiling. So, I’ve brought you here to tell you that I’ve discussed with Chief Strauss the possibility of giving you a full-time job in the BAU and she has agreed to speak with you and myself about creating you a position as a government contractor. You can’t apply to be an agent until you’re 23, but I want to be able to lift the restrictions on you and have your help on the cases I see as necessary. If Strauss likes you, you’ll be allowed to make calls for yourself, carry a badge, take the gun qualifications tests, and work without agent supervision, which if she asks, you haven’t been doing already. Would you be interested in such a position?”

She blinked, completely floored by the offer. “Agent Hotchner, I… wait, ‘proved today’?”

It was not what she wanted to say in the moment, but it had thrown her off slightly.

“Today, you walked onto a crime scene and told me an hour later exactly what had happened. You could identify when and from where the unsub entered the room, how Elle was positioned when she got shot, and what happened between then and her call to 911. Yes, I asked you to go there as a scientist and to look for evidence, but when I asked what you thought had happened, you became a profiler and you’re clearly fit to join the team. Again, you becoming a profiler is something we can discuss but not act on for another year, so hopefully contracted work is okay with you.”

“Okay with me?” she laughed. “That sounds amazing. So, just like I’ve been doing in the past, I’ll only be called in when you want me on a case and not for any office work?”

He nodded. “This is dependent on Strauss’s approval, but yes, that’s what we discussed.”

Lydia grinned. “So, how does one get Strauss’s approval?”

~ ~ ~

Lydia didn’t get back to her apartment until around 6 AM and promptly slept for most of the day. She was startled awake by her ringtone in the early afternoon and prepared herself for Hotch to ask her to come back in, but it wasn’t him. Interestingly enough, it was Spencer whose name popped up on her screen.

“Hello?” she answered, sitting back against her headboard.

“Hey, Lydia. Sorry, I’m sure you’re still exhausted after everything. I would have waited a few days to call you, but if I don’t do this now, I’m not sure I ever will.”

Her eyebrows knit together. “Is everything alright, Spencer? Did you make it to Las Vegas okay?”

By the time she’d finished talking with Hotch, Spencer had left with his mom and she’d heard that he was planning to fly with her back to the sanitarium, because she had a fear of planes. After everything, she expected him to stay with his mother for a few days, so she hadn’t thought she’d be hearing from him anytime soon.

“Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be back in DC tomorrow. But I have something to admit to you. I didn’t realize this earlier, but I know why Randal Garner sent you what he did.”

Lydia’s breath hitched. “What do you mean? Have you… did Garcia tell you?”

How did he know? Maybe he’d just guessed with the whole scene she made about the bupropion. Garcia had told her that she wouldn’t spill any of her secrets. But would Hotch or Gideon tell him what happened to her mom?

“What? Garcia didn’t tell me anything. I think you should wait for me to explain, so that you don’t accidentally tell me something you don’t want me to know.” His tone was joking, but there was a wavering nervousness that she could hear over the line. “Lydia, when you worked that poisoning case… on the jet back the whole rest of the team was asleep and you had a conversation with Hotch. You said that seeing an orange prescription bottle made you angry because it reminded you of your mother… I overheard that.”

She waited a minute for him to go on. She thought for certain he was going to say he’d figured her whole past out. He was going to tell her that he’d profiled her fidgets and glances and found out every last detail of her mom’s death, but he didn’t. That was all.

“That’s okay, Spencer,” she reassured him. “It wasn’t… I’m not keeping secrets from the team, I just don’t really like to talk about it.”

She faintly heard him huff, frustratedly. “No, I mean, the unsub got all this information on us from my mom. From all the stuff I’d tell her about my team… I told her about you,” he admitted. “I told her about how I’d overheard that conversation and I’m so sorry that you had to go through all this because of me.”

Lydia’s fingers ghosted lightly over her face as she processed this and shut her eyes tightly. It didn’t bother her as much as she’d thought it would, in fact, she didn’t seem to mind at all. The only thing on her mind when he said that was her stupid crush and the fact that he’d been writing to his mom about her.

She shook it aside. He talked about the whole team. It wasn’t a big thing. But… the unsub had, in his fantasy, assigned them two characters who were in love…

“I really appreciate the thought Spencer, but this isn’t your fault. I never said anything to Hotch about the bupropion, so you couldn’t have known about that. The unsub probably just did some research on me or looked through my files. Even if he chose the bottle because of your letters, he had everything else to torment me. Please don’t put this on yourself or your mom.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t hate me?”

“I can change my mind if you’d prefer,” she laughed.

He joined her for a moment, but fell silent far too fast. Lydia suddenly racked her brain for whatever she’d done to cause him to freeze, but hadn’t come up with anything before he spoke up again.

“Hey, Lydia? When I get back to DC, do you, uh… want to get something to eat?”

Lydia’s heart stopped. She wasn’t a profiler and definitely not an expert on asking people out, but she wasn’t about to let this crush rot in her brain. These past few days were torture enough. “You mean, like a date?” she prompted.

Bad move on her part. He flipped suddenly trying to deny it and she had to interrupt him before he hung up on her in mortification. He was so flustered she wasn’t even sure he was speaking English.

“Spencer. Spencer!”

He tried to mumble a quick apology, but she wasn’t about to let him close off just like that.

“Spencer, I’m not going to get food with you unless it’s a date. I don’t play mind games like that.”

“You wha- So, you’d like to- I’m sorry, it’s just… Mind games?” he finally spit out.

He was a funny one. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen so quickly for some dork. When she was a kid and all the other girls would ask her ‘What do you want your future boyfriend to be like?’ she never recalled saying, ‘A real mess. Just a true goof.’

“Yes, Spencer,” she responded. “Mind games. Getting food together could easily be misinterpreted as a date and I want to go on a date with you. But if we’re going to do that, we need to both be on the same page about it. If we go get something to eat, will it be a date or are you just suggesting it to be nice?”

“I would like that. I mean, yeah… it’d be a date. If you want! I don’t wanna pressure you or- are you sure that a date is-”

“I’m still fairly new to the Virginia-DC area,” Lydia interrupted, knowing that if he wasn’t able to form a complete sentence, he’d just keep starting new ones. “Is there anywhere in particular you want to go?”

“Um… well, what do you like?”

A grin graced her face, glad to hear him finally calming down. “I’m sure whatever you like I’ll enjoy as well.”

This was it. She’d scored herself a date with the bumbling boy genius.

[loganarmstrong]

B A S I C

NAME: Logan Mayumi Armstrong

NICKNAME(S): Lo

AGE: 29

DATE OF BIRTH: 5 February 1992

GENDER: cis male

PRONOUNS: he/him

F A M I L Y

MOTHER: lyra armstrong, nee karingal

FATHER: michael armstrong

SIBLING(S): sean (older brother), mason (older twin brother)

P H Y S I C A L

FACE CLAIM: darren criss

RACE/ETHNICITY: english, german, filipino, spanish, chinese

NATIONALITY: american

HEIGHT: 5 feet and six inches (5′6)

WEIGHT: 152 lbs

BUILD: slender, skinny, will often describe himself as scrawny

SCARS: inside of wrists, one above eyebrow

HAIR: black, curly

EYE COLOR: hazel

DOMINANT HAND: left

ACCENT: american (though rarely speaks)

PHYSICAL DISABILITIES: none, though needs glasses

MENTAL DISABILITIES: autisim, selective mutism

ALLERGIES: shellfish

DISORDERS: anxiety, depression

FASHION: prefers soft fabrics, often wears with overalls and doc martens

NERVOUS TICS: wringing hands together, fidgeting

L I F E S T Y L E

HOME ADDRESS: bridgeport, somerton, maine

RESIDES: medium sized loft apartment

BORN: conway, new hampshire

RAISED: conway, new hampshire

VEHICLE: range rover suv, black

PHONE: iphone xr

LAPTOP/COMPUTER: macbook pro, ipad pro

PET(S): service dog, northern inuit named ella

HIGH SCHOOL EDUCATION: kennett high school

COLLEGE EDUCATION: the institute of fine arts, nyu

MAJOR: fine art

MINOR: illustration

CAREER: head baker

EMPLOYER: golden flour bakery

DIET: vegetarian 

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: panromantic

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: pansexual

MARITAL STATUS: single

CHILDREN: none

LANGUAGES: english, american sign language

PHOBIAS: loud noises

HOBBIES: art, reading, journalling, soccer, video games

SOCIAL MEDIA: inactive on most, privacy settings high due to ex partner

F A V O R I T E

LOCATION: the reading nook in his apartment

VIDEO GAME: skyrim, animal crossing, horizon zero dawn, spyro, stardew valley

ARTIST: vincent van gogh

MUSIC: varying

SONG: radio gaga - queen

TV SHOWS: the umbrella academy, the witcher, friends, stranger things, doctor who, sherlock

MOVIES: the addams family, my neighbor totoro, jurassic park, hook, forrest gump

FOOD: asian

COLOR: yellow

C H A R A C T E R

MBTI: infj-t: the advocate

ENNEGRAM: six

TEMPERAMENT: melancholic

WESTERN ZODIAC: aquarius

CHINESE ZODIAC: monkey

PRIMAL SIGN: dolphin

B I O G R A P H Y

tw suicide attempt, self harm, abusive relationship

Logan Mayumi Armstrong is precisely three minutes and forty two seconds younger than his twin brother, Mason, and six years younger than his oldest sibling. He was a quiet baby who hardly ever cried and mostly kept to himself, even as a toddler. None of the family knew anything was wrong with Logan until he was five years old. The Armstrong family thought that maybe Logan was just a quiet child, or even a late bloomer. But soon enough, every other child in his play group could speak and Mason was already stringing together full sentences. Logan hadn’t uttered a single word and was taken to see a doctor, put through weeks of testing until finally, a result came through.

Logan was diagnosed with selective mutism. He had the ability to speak - the tests showed he had the physical ability, but he was unable to do so. The Armstrong family learned sign language in an effort to help their youngest son communicate and it was something he appreciated - he could actually ask for things now! More tests followed and eventually Logan was given a diagnosis of autism. He didn’t fully understand it, not when he was young, but he understood enough to know it made him different. He struggled to make friends in his class and often spent recess alone. Mason on the other hand, was confident and never shy of any friends. He was always around people, always out playing with his friends and happy.

Logan tried hard not to let his differences bother him. People didn’t understand him, that was what he told himself. He focused on the things he enjoyed instead, such as art. For Logan, it was a way of expressing himself without the need for words and he spent hours practicing, filling sketchbook after sketchbook. Art became his outlet, how he showed his feelings although most of his work he kept to himself. He didn’t want to upset anyone with his difference. He’d heard his mom crying when he was first diagnosed as autistic and understood being different made her sad. He’d heard his father say they could get through it and at least they had his siblings who would be able to lead “normal lives”. Those were the words his father had used and it hurt, to know he wasn’t normal. He’d known he was different, sure, but the thought of not being able to live a normal life hurt.

Logan never told either of his parents he’d overheard their conversation. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear it but he was sure it wouldn’t be good if they knew. He began to withdraw even more than before, stopping using sign language and only used simple, one-word answers to questions. Logan was battling with himself. As he got older, he realised he was even more different to his peers than he thought. Everyone started getting girlfriends when he entered high school and Logan wasn’t really interested in that. He thought girls were beautiful, sure, but Logan thought guys were too. He told Mason one day who seemed taken aback by the confession. The people in their school found out that Logan wasn’t quite straight and things only got worse. He was already picked on relentlessly for his lack of speech and being different but with new fuel to the fire, they made Logan’s life miserable.

The most difficult thing for him to accept was that no one wanted him around. He felt isolated, more alone than ever and didn’t know who to turn to for help. What could he do? He struggled with communication at the best of times. His parents were concerned at how withdrawn he’d become and heard from Mason how the bullying had gotten worse at school. They took him to a doctor and Logan was diagnosed with depression. He refused to take his medication and hid the pills from his parents - he didn’t need another thing wrong with him and he didn’t want the medication. He was careful though and everyone thought he was taking them when he was supposed to, believing it would just take time for him to get better.

Death wasn’t something that scared Logan. He wasn’t afraid to die and it was something he’d welcome. He wasn’t really sure what spurred his decision; he hadn’t been on his medication since his diagnosis and he was gradually getting worse. He couldn’t think of any other way to deal with the mess that was him. So when Logan’s mother found him on the bathroom floor, barely conscious and in a pool of his own blood, no one had expected it.

Logan was forced to stay in hospital for three months after that. Physically he was fine, merely left with deep scars marking the insides of his wrists. But mentally, Logan wasn’t okay. He was forced to take his medication, made to attend counselling and managed to tell his therapist everything. It took a long time, what with his lack of communication, but eventually, they understood the reasoning behind it and Logan began to recover.

He finished the school year in between his home and the hospital, Mason bringing the work home to him and helping him set up his online classes. Logan managed to graduate with a respectable grade. He wanted to pursue college, wanted to take his art further and make a career out of it. His parents were terrified to let Logan travel so far away. But they understood and after a lengthy conversation and the promise he would keep in contact with them, Logan was off.

He flew to New York City to study Fine Art and Illustration. It was a new sense of freedom for him. He still wasn’t okay, but he made sure he took his medication and stuck to a strict schedule for himself. It helped him focus and Logan was able to enjoy himself, even make a couple of friends and get a job as a barista in a local coffee shop. It was in this coffee shop that he met the person who changed his life.

Matthew was a kind and caring man at first glance. He didn’t let Logan’s lack of speech bother him, continuing to visit the younger man every day with a bouquet of flowers until Logan agreed to go on a date. Things started off well - Matthew was patient with Logan’s difficulty communicating and he made him laugh. Logan thought he could actually be happy and was excited when after a few short months, Matthew asked him to move in with him.

But that was when things began to take a turn for the worst. Matthew seemed to lose the patience he had before. He grew frustrated at Logan’s inability to speak and would fly into a fit of rage more often than not. The first time he hit him was one of the worst. Logan told himself he’d leave him, he wouldn’t let himself be pushed around like this. But Matthew had broken down, told Logan he needed help and said he wouldn’t be able to survive without him. He told Logan he’d been suicidal in the past and he would die if Logan left. So Logan stayed, forgave Matthew each and every time he was hit, when he was shoved or when he was beaten. Matthew told him this was what he deserved and Logan started to believe it. The bruises were always carefully hidden and Logan accepted that this was what his life would be. He was afraid no one would believe him if he told the truth so he kept quiet. Even after he finished his degree, he stayed with his boyfriend. Months turned into years and still, Logan was too afraid to leave.

The sixth time he was hospitalised from his injuries was the breaking point. But it also provided Logan with a way out. Matthew was arrested and Logan discharged himself from the hospital before he recovered fully and ran. He managed to scrape some money together and left the city, travelling as far as he could.

He settled in Somerton, Maine, a town he’d heard about often growing up. No one knew him there and he’d be able to start again, that was the main thing. He was still terrified Matthew would find him, especially as Logan fled without giving a statement against him. But he settled into life, got a job at the local bakery and kept his head down. It was just him and his faithful Ella now, his service dog. She kept him grounded and he knew he owed a lot t her presence. The residents of Somerton were nice and didn’t ask too many questions, for which he was grateful. Now all he had to do was hope he stayed safe.

[illuminatcd-arch]

* 𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐬 / 𝑶𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑽𝑰𝑬𝑾

         all things ted     &&.     interactions                                       visage     &&.     musings                                                                              graphic ©

B A S I C

NAME: ted mullens. NICKNAMES: none. FACE CLAIM: dustin milligan. AGE RANGE: twenty nine (29) to thirty four (34). BIRTHDAY: 11 july. SPECIES: human. GENDER: cis man. PRONOUNS: he/his. HOME FANDOM: schitt’s creek universe, canon. AVAILABILITY: open for plotting. more below, subject to change depending on verse.

F A M I L Y

MOTHER: cheryl mullens. FATHER: james mullens. FAMILY: happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city. SIBLINGS: none canonically, verse dependent.

P H Y S I C A L    A T T R I B U T E S

RACE/ETHNICITY: irish, scottish. NATIONALITY: american. HEIGHT: 6 feet and one inch (6′1). WEIGHT: irrelevant. BUILD: muscular. HAIR: short, well presented. HAIR COLOR: brown. EYE COLOR: blue. DOMINANT HAND: left. DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: none. SCENT: eros, by versace. ACCENT: american. PHYSICAL DISABILITIES: none. LEARNING DISABILITIES: none. ALLERGIES: peanuts. DISORDERS: none. FASHION: smart casual. NERVOUS TICS: sweats.

L I F E S T Y L E

HOME ADDRESS: 1 bed apartment. RESIDES: schitt’s creek. BORN: schitt’s creek. RAISED: comfortably. VEHICLE: that damned motorbike, also 2012 kia optima. PHONE: iphone. LAPTOP/COMPUTER: ipad for home use. PETS: borrows some of the animals from the vets from time to time.

HIGH SCHOOL EDUCATION: graduated. COLLEGE EDUCATION: graduated purdue university. CAREER: veterinarian. EMPLOYER: self employed, owns the vets.

POLITICAL AFFILIATION: democrat. RELIGION: attended church growing up, not any more. BELIEFS: feels guilty if he says he doesn’t believe, but isn’t sure. MISDEMEANORS: none. FELONIES: none. TICKETS AND/OR VIOLATIONS: none. KNOWN ALIASES: none. DRUGS: has partaken in the occasional edible. SMOKES: never. ALCOHOL: socially, but not that often. DIET: eats what he wants.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: undetermined. SEXUAL ORIENTATION: undetermined. MARTIAL STATUS: single. CHILDREN: none. AVAILABILITY: available. LOOKING FOR: some appreciation.

LANGUAGES: english, high school spanish.

PHOBIAS: bats - he can do any other animal, but bats freak him out. HOBBIES: making puns. TRAITS: charming, witty, funny, impatient, attached, impulsive. SOCIAL MEDIA: will stream videos of the rabbits to any platform.

F A V O U R I T E

LOCATION: the local national park. SPORTS TEAM: indiana pacers. GAME: scrabble. MUSIC: will happily listen to anything as long as you’re happy. SHOWS: supervet, the goldbergs. MOVIES: nothing too sad, or else he might ‘get something in his eye’. probably shrek. FOOD: tacos. BEVERAGE: honestly just water, but beer’s up there. COLOR: green.

C H A R A C T E R

MORAL ALIGNMENT: lawful good. MBTI: infj. ENNEAGRAM: type 2 - the helper. TEMPERAMENT: sanguine. WESTERN ZODIAC: cancer. SONG: girlshapedlovedrug - gomez.

IDEOLOGIES: puppy cuddles can fix just about any sadness.

[anthearose]

B A S I C

NAME: anthea rose thomas

NICKNAME(S): thea

AGE: 25

DATE OF BIRTH: 26 april 1995

GENDER: genderfluid

PRONOUNS: she/her but doesn’t mind they/them

F A M I L Y

MOTHER: dawn eddwards

FATHER: richard thomas

SIBLING(S): unknown

P H Y S I C A L

FACE CLAIM: cara delevingne

RACE/ETHNICITY: english, welsh, 

NATIONALITY: english, has american citizenship

HEIGHT: 5 feet and six inches (5′6)

WEIGHT: 112 lbs

BUILD: slender, toned

SCARS: inside of arms from drug taking

HAIR: dirty blonde, medium length

EYE COLOR: blue

DOMINANT HAND: right

ACCENT: english

PHYSICAL DISABILITIES: none

MENTAL DISABILITIES: none

ALLERGIES: nuts

DISORDERS: none

FASHION: wears mostly black, has a ‘grunge’ style

NERVOUS TICS: lip biting 

L I F E S T Y L E

HOME ADDRESS: evergreen dock, somerton, maine

RESIDES: small two bedroom apartment with roommate layla ferguson

BORN: london, england

RAISED: london, england

VEHICLE: chevy silverado, black

PHONE: iphone 11

LAPTOP/COMPUTER: macbook pro

PET(S): none

HIGH SCHOOL EDUCATION: dropped out at 16, sat ged aged 20

COLLEGE EDUCATION: none

MAJOR: none

MINOR: none

CAREER: exotic dancer

EMPLOYER: dark sensations strip club

DIET: vegan

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: panromantic

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: pansexual

MARITAL STATUS: single

CHILDREN: none

LANGUAGES: english

PHOBIAS: isolation, enclosed spaces

HOBBIES: video games, guitar, reading

SOCIAL MEDIA: uses twitter and onlyfans mostly

F A V O R I T E

LOCATION: the beach

VIDEO GAME: call of duty, left 4 dead, gta v, mario kart (she will fight dirty)

MUSIC: varying, listens to a lot of rock music 

SONG: rebel rebel - david bowie

TV SHOWS: friends, stranger things, how to get away with murder

MOVIES: labyrinth, the shining

FOOD: everything

COLOR: she’ll swear its black but it’s actually pink

C H A R A C T E R

MORAL ALIGNMENT: chaotic good

MBTI: enfp-a, the campaigner

ENNEGRAM: seven

TEMPERAMENT: sanguine

WESTERN ZODIAC: taurus

CHINESE ZODIAC: pig

PRIMAL SIGN: wombat

B I O G R A P H Y

tw for non-con & underage sex, prostitution, drugs and violence

Born and raised in the bustling city of London, Anthea, or Thea as she preferred, never really had it easy. Her father had left her mother long ago, only keeping in contact with his daughter through the occasional letter and birthday card. He lived in America and as Thea understood, he had some big fancy job with a large company. Thea always daydreamed about the day her father would burst through the door, scoop her up and rescue her from her miserable life. She dreamed of what it’d be like to live with him in his home and not have to worry about where her next meal was coming from. Of course, that never happened. Her mother was barely home, always out looking for ways to fuel her various addictions. It usually meant prostituting herself and for a long as Thea could remember, her mother would bring strange men home and be locked in her bedroom for hours at a time. 

It didn’t take long for her to work out what was going on - by the time she was seven, Thea understood, especially when the men made advances towards her. But she knew how to look after herself, even at that age and every time they tried, she either replied with a biting comment or, more often than not, a sharp slap to the face. It was usually enough to get rid of them and send them sulking back to her mother so they could pay what she was owed before taking their leave. 

Despite her unconventional home life, Thea got by. She often stole from local supermarkets to get the things she needed, but she cooked her own meals and appreciated the roof over her head. She wouldn’t say she was happy but she survived. Her mother spent her days sleeping with people for money or getting high in their tiny apartment. 

When she was fourteen, her life changed. Her mother pulled her from school and gave her an outfit to change into before taking her to an apartment block she’d never been to. Thea was frightened, told her mother she wanted to go home but she was only led into a grimy apartment by a group of unfamiliar men while her mother waited outside. She heard her daughter’s pleas and cries for help but did nothing to stop what was happening. It was only when there was a fat wad of money in her hands that she took Thea out of the apartment and brought her home, telling her this was her life now. She told her Thea would have to get used to it or starve because she was leaving. 

And just like that Thea was left alone, fourteen years old, no money and no job. 

She was able to contact her father after several weeks. He immediately flew her to America, had her sign some forms she didn’t really understand, and told her she’d be living with him from now on. She was enrolled at a local high school and told to keep quiet about what happened in England. She didn’t understand why, not really, but made sure not to tell anyone. She kept her head down as much as she could. Life with her father wasn’t quite what she’d expected either. His job was different to what she’d imagined when she was younger. He didn’t work in a fancy office, he worked from home and had several people coming and going, purchasing things from him for a large amount of money at a time. It only took her a few weeks to realise her father, the man she’d always imagined would be her hero, a knight in shining armour, was a drug dealer. And an addict himself. 

Thea stopped paying attention in school and in just two years since she moved to America, she was more depressed than ever. She dropped out of high school, even started taking drugs herself and fell in with what could be considered the wrong crowd. Maybe this was what she was destined to be. Maybe this was all there was for her. When her father was arrested for dealing drugs, she was placed in foster care. That had only lasted a couple of weeks before she ran away. Selling her body wasn’t really something she ever intended on doing but it was the only way she could get by. She had no education, no money and needed to do something. It was all she had left, the only thing she had any experience in. Granted, she hadn’t exactly been a willing participant back then and her mother had gotten the money, but it had happened. Thea had nothing left to lose. 

She began to sell her body for sex. Thea hated every minute of it, but it paid. She had enough to rent a tiny apartment in an unpleasant neighbourhood, but it was hers. Sure, she still was hooked on drugs but she got by. It continued like that for several months when she was approached by a different sort of man. The people she usually slept with were often older, other addicts she was sure, and just looking for five minutes of fun. But this one was different - younger, kinder.  

Thea didn’t trust him immediately. She had been looking after herself for as long as she could remember and her previous experiences told her men only wanted one thing. But she went back to his hotel room, unable to turn down the amount of money he was offering her. Thea was even more surprised when the young man didn’t immediately want her body and offered her food and a glass of wine. 

She learned his name was Anthony and he told her he was planning on opening up a new business, a brothel of sorts. It was going to be legitimate, according to him, although not entirely legal and all of “his girls” would be well looked after. At first, Thea refused. She wasn’t stupid and she wasn’t prepared to put her life in danger for some fantasy that sounded far too good to be true. If she accepted she had no doubt she’d be trafficked and sold on the black market for unspeakable things. 

As time went on, the man continued to visit Thea and slowly gained her trust. She met with someone who already worked for Anthony several times too and in a matter of weeks, she accepted his offer. Without a glance back, Thea left and moved across the country to work. Anthony helped her get off the drugs, showed her what there was to actually live for, and her life changed. Her every need was catered for - her new home was the brothel itself and rent came straight from her earnings. All her groceries were provided for her and she was able to decorate her personal quarters however she pleased. 

Usually Thea was fine when working. Most men just wanted a quick fuck and they didn’t care about anything else. Some of her clients wanted more unconventional things but Thea didn’t shy away from these, knowing they earned her more money. She didn’t care though - sex was just sex to her, and it paid. For the next three years, Thea lived and worked in Anthony’s brothel. Her regular clients bought expensive gifts, the brothel itself had armed security for the safety of the workers. It was the perfect job. 

Well, almost.

Thea had one problem, and that was in the three years she’d been there, she’d fallen in love with Anthony. It was an unspoken rule in the business - don’t fall for the boss. He had a girlfriend, Courtney, but she rarely visited the brothel. She didn’t like to associate herself with the girls who worked there, which was just fine with Thea. She kept her feelings to herself and thought everything would be fine. She was usually the one who brought Anthony his morning coffee but on one particular morning, things were different. She noticed he seemed tense and was pacing back and forth in his office. There was something about his expression that had Thea stopping in her tracks. She was almost frightened. But then he’d stopped and grabbed her, holding her against the closest wall to kiss her. 

This was everything she’d ever wanted and Thea gave herself to him easily. She wasn’t naive and didn’t really believe in happy endings but there had always been a part of her that had hoped Anthony would somehow realise her feelings for him and return them. Thea had fallen head-over-heels in love with him and had hoped he would get her out of the prostitution game for good. She didn’t want to sell her body anymore, not now she knew Anthony wanted her. Maybe she could help him run the brothel. She was nineteen and she knew the business well enough, right?

Wrong.

That night it was like it’d never even happened. Anthony didn’t look at her when he told Thea her clients were arriving. She was still in his bed and here he was, telling her to return to her room so she could work. Thea was confused but she assumed maybe it was due to Anthony’s relationship with Courtney. He couldn’t let anything be too obvious, right? Not if he was still in it, and maybe he was looking for a way of ending things with her before he swept Thea off her feet. She’d just have to wait. 

What Thea didn’t know was that Anthony had been filming for weeks. He filmed the two of them in bed together, filmed Thea with her various clients and posted the entire thing on the internet. It wasn’t until one night, while she was with a client, that she found out. Courtney had burst in, grabbed Thea’s hair and pulled her straight off the bed, uncaring that she was naked. Thea was thrown against the wall and Courtney screamed at her. It was like she was throwing every insult under the sun at her. 

Thea couldn’t remember much of the attack. Only that her client had left quickly and that when she woke, everything ached. Thea was still in her room, still naked, and beaten black and blue. She’d pulled on her robe and staggered to Anthony’s office to seek help. The sight that greeted her when she got there nearly made her throw up - Anthony taking Courtney on his couch, much like he had with Thea just the day before. They were celebrating something and when they saw Thea, both started laughing at the sight of her. 

Thea learned of the videos Anthony had secretly taken and that the whole thing had been a set up. Courtney had learned of Thea’s feelings for him and together they had hatched a plan of revenge. Anthony had seduced her, recorded everything and uploaded it to the internet. The second attack was worse than the first. Thea wasn’t sure if it was because she was already so injured or whether it was because Anthony joined in. She’d blacked out at some point and this time when she woke up, she was in an unfamiliar alleyway, her belongings in a battered box beside her. 

She was in hospital for several weeks recovering. Unemployed and now homeless, Thea knew she had to do something. She wouldn’t go back to that life. She wasn’t sure she’d survive a second time. So she left, moving from town to town, doing odd jobs here and there, stealing food to survive once again. She reached the small town of Somerton in Maine just before her 20th birthday and got a job at the local strip club. Although how she got the job, she wasn’t quite sure. In her interview she had been exhausted, fed up with rejection after rejection and when she was asked the typical “Why do you want to work here?” she had been a little too honest. She told the interviewer she had worked as a prostitute since she was sixteen and knew what it was like to be at rock bottom so if she could just serve drinks to the customers here, she’d be thankful because at least she wouldn’t feel disgusted with herself. 

Somehow, it had landed her the job. For the first couple of months she served drinks behind the bar but she got to know everyone who worked at the club well. It wasn’t until one of the dancers told her that they were in complete control she began to think about what it’d be like to be one of them. She had been exploited for years and some may say this job was no different. But Thea saw it a different way - she was safe here, she knew that. And if these random men wanted to give her hundreds of dollars just for showing her body and dancing in skimpy outfits, then she’d argue they were really the ones being exploited. Not her. 

That was how she got to where she was now. Five years had passed since she arrived in Somerton and she was settled. She had an apartment right on the coast, a roommate that she liked hanging out with and a job where she was in complete control. No one pulled the strings behind the scenes, no one was controlling her or took a cut of her money. She was safe, she was happy and Thea could only look forwards. 

[sarah-snook]

di’s masterlist

main ❀ ko-fi ❀ ao3

♡MULTICHAPTER♡

«Burn, Crash, Romance (I’ll Take What I Can Get From You)» AO3 ↬ word count: 2919 | rating: E | WIP - 1/8 chapters | collab with @richietoizer

Richie didn’t know Eddie very well, not that he would want to, and even just looking at him now, he knew that Eddie Kaspbrak was exactly all the things that Richie had tried to tell Stanley that frat boys were. His brown hair flopped into his brown eyes, pressed down by some red snapback worn backwards and beige khaki jeans that looked glued to his legs. He was hot and the smirk on his face showed that he knew it.

«How to Bring Someone Back from the Dead» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 6496 | rating: T | WIP - 3/5 chapters

He finds it in the library. The book is tucked between a couple of self-help books that Mike told him he should look into reading. It’s out of place—doesn’t belong there—but the title peaks his curiosity. How to Bring Someone Back from the Dead. He grabs the spine of the book and gently holds it in his hand, inspecting it. There’s no author, no other information, just a title and a short dedication of sorts on the first page. “For those that have hope still lingering in their hearts…” He looks around, making sure no one is watching him before he swiftly hides the small book in the pocket of his jacket.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

♡ONESHOTS♡

«Brave» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 809 | rating: T

He was trembling. Despite the darkness surrounding them, and the shitty dim light of the flashlight he was holding, Richie could tell that Eddie was trembling with fear. He wanted nothing more than to reach out, touch him, hold him. He wanted to tell Eddie that everything would be alright, that they would get through this.

«Coffee Shop Angel» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 2218 | rating: T

“Wow, I’ve never been called a literal angel before.” He’s no longer laughing, but his smile is wide and his eyes were still bright.

“Baby, that should be considered a damn crime,” he sighs, shaking his head in disbelief. “You deserve to be worshipped.”

«Cold November Rain» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 1512 | rating: T

He was an idiot. A stupid, cowardly jerk. Why had he run away? That kiss had been everything he could have ever wanted. It was soft, tender and loving. Richie had put so much emotion behind that kiss. So much, that it had scared Eddie. Scared him so much that he made himself believe it was all some kind of joke.

«Don’t Monkey Around With My Heart» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 1228 | rating: T

«Forget the Past, I Want You In My Future» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 3477 | rating: T

He quickly pulled on his coat, making his way through the radio station with a smile as he waved to everyone who greeted him. ‘Keep smiling. You’re almost out of here. Just a couple more steps.’ Richie thought to himself as he pushed open the front doors and stepped outside, cold air hitting him and a chill running down his spine. He hugged himself, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, trying to warm himself up.

He made his way down the stone steps of the station entrance, fishing through his jacket pocket for his car keys. The last thing he thought, as his fingers made contact with the cold metal of his keys and his foot slipped on a slippery patch of ice, was how much he really fucking hated Christmas.

[or: radio DJ Richie Tozier slips on ice and has to spend Christmas in hospital, with trainee Doctor Kaspbrak looking after him.]

«Habeas Your Corpus» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 6654 | rating: E

A beautiful blond between his legs was not the direction he thought his Monday would be going, but he wasn’t going to question it. Even if a part of him knew that doing this in a courtroom, where anyone could walk in on them at any moment, was a horrible idea. Then again, Richie wasn’t known for his good ideas, much less for his common sense, and so he shrugged away any lingering doubt as he surrendered to the feeling of Eddie’s hands.

«Held In Contempt» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 3044 | rating: E

Richie and Eddie resolve the sexual tension between them after arguing about one of their cases.

prompt: “okay but reddie au where they’re rival lawyers and court is really tense bc eddie goes by the books and richie is Richie and ofc they end up fucking after a particularly heated case…or 6…”

«How to Know If You’re On a Date With Your Best Friend» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 2213 | rating: T

He could see the way Richie looked at him with furrowed eyebrows, eyes slowly widening as he realized Eddie was coming over to sit next to him. Plopping down on the seat, he pushed Richie further into the booth, making himself comfortable. Without breaking eye contact, he placed his straw in Richie’s milkshake glass and asked, “Are we on a date right now?”

«Kiss Me By The Firelight» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 1247 | rating: T

“Alright trashmouth, truth or dare?”

He looked over at Beverly, who had plopped down next to him, with a weary expression on his face. He studied her, the mischievous grin on her face not going unnoticed by an already alert Richie.

“Dare, obviously. Only pussies choose truth.”

«Kissed the Mark» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 3975 | rating: E

“Sorry, but you’re gonna have to tell me more than just your name before I let you put your hands on me.” Eddie jokes as he nods his head at Bev in thanks for their drinks. “I’m not that easy.”

“Oh ok, hmm let me think…” Richie says as he pretends to think about what he’s going to say “I like long walks on the beach and being the little spoon, plus I’m a total bottom.”

Eddie flushes at this, turning his head to avoid eye contact with Richie, and takes a sip of his beer. Richie continues to look at him, enjoying the way he continuously makes the other man blush. “What about you?”

«Love Me (If That’s What You Wanna Do)» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 1286 | rating: M

It was hard to say who exactly started it. After all, both of them were slightly tipsy the night The Kiss happened. All Richie could say—as his hand slowly slid down Eddie’s back, causing him to let out a faint whimper—was that he was very happy with the outcome of it all.

«Make It Up To You» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 4612 | rating: E

Maybe it was a little fucked up that he took considerable pleasure in watching his boyfriend of almost ten years cry as Richie denied him what he wanted most, but he couldn’t bring himself to care so much. If Eddie had caught on to his little guilty pleasure, he never mentioned it to Richie, and if he had an issue with the way Richie teased him in bed, he would have definitely called him out on it by now.

«Snowed Inn» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 4612 | rating: E

Richie and Eddie are carpooling home from college for the holidays but a snowstorm hits on their way there and they have to stay the night at a b and b.

«The Future Freaks Me Out» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 932 | rating: T

“I’ll tell you one thing and one thing only spaghetti. I don’t want to think about a future where you’re not in it. I don’t want to think about you being on the opposite side of this country from me. I don’t want to think about any of that because I love you and it hurts. So please, shut the fuck up about college applications already!”

«Until I Hear It From You» AO3 // tumblr ↬ word count: 1599 | rating: T

“M-my parents sucked.” Bill said as he choked back a sob. “I mean… my own father hit me with his fucking car and then barely batted an eye. I’m terrified that I’ll fuck this up, Eddie. I don’t want to be a bad father, I want Ellie to have all the love and attention that Georgie and I never got growing up. You and Rich have two adorable daughters that have everything they could ever want…That’s what I want for Ellie. Please, Eddie, tell me how to be a good father.”

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

♡PROMPTS♡

Hanslon ↬“I finally found you”

Reddie ↬ 🎉👄🤒 ↬ 🐿🍌👙 ↬ “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” + 2. Road Trip AU ↬ “H-How long have you been standing there?” ↬ “You’re sick, let me take care of you.” ↬ “You make me want things I can’t have!” ↬ the gang is playing a drinking game and Eddie wins, and he wants a lapdance from Richie ↬ “You know you don’t have to try so hard with me, right?” ↬ “Are you jealous? That’s cute.” ↬ “Oh, God. We broke it–dude, he’s gonna be so pissed! This is all your fault–it was your idea!” + “… Is that my underwear?” + “Shut up and kiss me, you idiot.” ↬ “they said that broken mirror equals in 7 years of bad luck”? ↬ “It’s three in the morning!” ↬ “just because i love eds it doesn’t mean i want to be with him,” eddie heard richie say. «2» ↬ “you know I love you, right?” «2» ↬ “Do you want me to?” «2» ↬ “And what exactly do you think you’re doing, my love?” ↬ You’ve literally dressed as __ for __ years, shouldn’t you change it up? ↬ You drank the punch at the halloween party and made yourself sick so I’m taking care of you ↬ excuse you, i will never be too old to go trick-or-treating and i hear the house down the street gives out full sized candy bars ↬ In the bedroom + Confessing feelings ↬ in the snow + relief ↬ claws - as an apology here’s something I wrote for you ↬ Okay but like Richie finally comes out by writing his first comedy special on his own as like therapy to work through what happened and the whole thing is about the dumb annoying hypochondriac that he was in love with as a kid. “He put his feet in my face and kicked of my glasses and I said to myself he’s the fucking one.” ↬ ficlet for my moodboard based on “he knew well enough” ↬ “I may be short, but you could at least try to make kissing you easier!” ↬ “One baby won’t hurt.” ↬ “I could spend hours just looking at you.”

Richiepat ↬ “you asked me out and I didn’t have time for dating between a full-time course load and my job(s), so I know it’s two semesters later but I’d really like to take you up on that date” + “we always end up eating alone in the school cafeteria at the same time, so when you ask me if you can join me, I’m surprised” ↬ chaotic best friends (platonic with stanpat/reddie) ↬ “My hoodie looks comfy on you.” (platonic with side reddie)

Stanpat ↬ you’re obsessed with my homemade soup that I serve at my cafe and I’m too embarrassed to tell you that I’ve only been trying out new recipes to see you get excited for the soup of the day.

Stanpatchie ↬ “a kiss as a promise”

Steddie ↬ “I catch you yelling at the printer in the library for not working and I don’t mean to alarm you since you’re clearly stressed, but I think you accidentally unplugged it”

Stozier ↬ “some idiots decided it would be funny to mess with peoples’ laundry so now we’re sorting through our dryers and you’re holding up my pink underwear” ↬ “I know you’re mad at me, but will a kiss change your mind?” ↬ “Nothing is going to happen to you.” ↬ can we talk about how “it takes hours to look this good richie” is followed by richie winking at stan

Streddie ↬ A cat followed me home and won’t leave me alone even when I put a little hat on it so I guess I have a cat now AU

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

♡HEADCANONS♡

↬ Ben // The Sims ↬ Reddie // Sunflowers ↬ Reddie // Chapter 1 End Scene ↬ Stozier and Reddie // Stanley and Richie dated at one point

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

Mount Everest Ain’t Got Shit On Us (Fezco x fem!reader, Part 17.) - The Final Problem, Part 3.

Description: You were always told that your life will be as you wish it to be if you’ll study enough. That it will pay off if you work hard. And some people were given you like a scary example of what will happen when you don’t obey. But sometimes it feels good to disobey.

A/N: Based on the song All For Us (Labrinth x Zendaya) playing in the last minutes of the end of the season. 

Warnings: One of the main character’s manor injuries, murder, PCP hallucinations, drug usage, smth like cartel wars? Idk.

Word count: 2.2 K

Read the rest here, babe:  PART 1  PART 2  PART 3  PART 4  PART 5  PART 6  PART 7  PART 8  PART 9  PART 10  PART 11  PART 12  PART 13  PART 14  PART 15  PART 16  

Masterlist and declaration: H E R E

Tagging: @charmed-asylum, @jeyramarie, @pantherxrogers, @analia-analia-analia​

Sometimes, you can acknowledge you were wrong when a long time passes from the moment someone tried to say you that you¦re doing something bad. Especially when you’re going through puberty or when you are an actual teenager. But most of the time, you feel like you are the only one who knows what to do with your life. But usually, you are the most delusional one from all of them.

Everybody is the hero of their story, isn't that right? Even the villains are usually the heroes in their own perception of the world around them. But you do not need to be a villain to do shitty things. 

Something it just fucks up on its own, without you even trying to do something. Some trips can be way worse than the previous ones, sometimes you know that there is nothing that could be done to save you. 

And sometimes it can cost you more than your dignity. It can cost you the ones you love, it can cost you your health and sometimes when the shits really turned out as the biggest shit of your whole life, you can lose your mind or your life. 

It was a game. It always was just a game. A lottery which most of the people had lost. A lottery that can only be played without knowing the rules or predicting the future. Nobody could one hundred percent sure told that you will be alive another day.

It could be applied to everything - every car ride, every shot of booze, every cigarette or every drug trip or operation. Who could promise you that you would be safe? Even you couldn't know. 

And this time, the lottery came to an end for you. This was just a Russian roulette you played and the bullet had to come after you one day.

There was a slight pain as your feet fell down to the ground. Glitter from your morning make-up was moving down off from eyelids with the bright violet color as you cried; you were walking around in a milky white mist and you were scared of it because you couldn't see three feet ahead of you. This trip was bad. Like real bad. You were scared for your dear life, you felt like somebody's watching you and there were moments when you stopped because your feet hurt too much. 

But the spiders were after you, almost breathing on your back.

Your arms felt cold even though the sweater Fez had landed you, your feet trembled more and with every single step you took and the ground was cold and slippery. That night was too dark for you. You tried to call for him, for Rue or for Jules, you tried even Maddy’s and Cassie's name, but no one answered you. You slowly realized that you are all alone in this. You could feel that the thing is coming to an end because the life inside of you started to slowly disappear. 

Meanwhile, Rue ran into Fezco’s apartment and watched him crying, not being able to say a word. Ash had called them just ten minutes prior; and when they had heard what happened, they freaked out and immediately left to Fezco’s place. They didn't ever before try to be faster.

“Fez, Fez, look at me.” - She took his face to her palm and tried to look him in the eyes, meanwhile, Jules found Mouse on the ground. She was one hundred percent sure she was dead, the blood made big circles on the carpet. She jumped in shock and almost threw up, her hand in front of her mouth and her closed because of how watery they became. - “Homeboy, tell me in which direction she went and what did he give her. We need to find her. It is not safe out there this night.” 

Rue took the gun out of his palm and put the fuse back into its place, making sure that it’s safe. As she watched her best friend/drug dealer crying, she felt the urge to cry too. Her lips began to curl into one tight line and her eyes watered. 

“Fez talk to me, I beg you, please.” - She pleaded, but Jules felt Rue's voice trembling and breaking. Rue bugan to cry as well. She was afraid about Y/N. She could be anywhere at that point. 

“PCP. That bastard made her do PCP even when I told him she ain't ready for that kin’ of shit, Rue. She made her do it.” - Fezco cried out and sobbed, slowly cycling his body into a tight, small ball. Fezco was broken - Mouse broke him apart. - “Than she opened up the fuckin’ door, she left and her pupils looked like fuckin’ balloons, he tried to shoot, I shot him and before I could look, she has gon’ out of my sight. I can't leave a fuckin' deadman here.”

"Okay. Okay. Okay..." - Rue was seriously panicking at that point, crying and she was highly disoriented. Jules needed to come to the frame and hold her shoulders to bring her back to reality.

"Go after Y/N - the later will you go, the freezer it becomes outside. I will stay with Fez and we'll call the police. We'll tell them about Mouse drugging an underage kid and Fezco acting in self-defense. Go. Run for her life." - Jules kisser her lips for a long time before pushing Rue or of the door. Rue was really clueless.

Mouse gave you PCP which was a seriously strong drug - so you could only be in a radius of one mile if you weren't used to that shit. She stopped and thought. When you saw the shit you saw on methamphetamines, you were basically done for. You were locked in a world inside your head and you barely saw the world that was real. You would not be walking fast or in one direction, so you had to sit and crawl from time to time.

Rue thanked God she had such a personal experience. She walked within a direct direction from Fezco's house, tried to play what must've happened to you in her head.

The air was getting colder and colder with every passing moment just as the mist got more and more intense.

On the ground, she found a footprint of your Vans shoes - it was not more than twenty minutes older. Maybe even less.

"Y/N?! Y/N, babez, are ya there?" - Rue yelled with a loud sob full of pain, trying to catch any sound you could make in your current state. But it was silent as a graveyard, only the wind whispered in the distance. When she ran down a small hill, she felt like throwing up. There was a road. Cars drove there. And she knew that pavement is something that drugged people ignore completely.

"Y/N?!" - She yelled for the last time. And there you stood in the middle of the road with your make-up smudged, your face bloodless and pale, Fezco's shirt tore apart at some played.

You saw her coming from the mist as a beautiful angel lightened up with heaven's light. Rue had her long curly hair in a bun and she had a long white shirt along with huge wings on. She was offering you her strong palm with a smile full of love and grace. She felt warm and more and more shining with every passing moment. - "Rue..."- Was a single whisper that came from your lips before something push you few meters away and made you fell on the ground. At the moment the reality just turned off and you laid there, completely lifeless, your eyes closed and your body not moving.

Rue was yelling your name, she was offering you her hand, but you ignored. She was afraid to step in the road and you were holding your hand out to a light source somewhere in the darkness. You were whispering her name again and again.

"Yep, baby, it's me, come ’ere." - She begged, but you were mesmerized with something. Rue was afraid of touching you - every time someone touched her, she snapped, the visions turned the person as an intruder and once she almost killed a guy. You were really dangerous at that point. But you continued on walking. - "Please, please, baby girl, come to me. We'll make it work. Come here."

But what happened in the next minute she was not expecting at all. The breaks and car pneumatics made a high pitched noise at the driver tried to stop the car, but it was too late for that. The car hit your fragile body with all of its speed and power and you just flew away for five and more feet.

She was in shock, watching you laying on the ground in an unnatural pose, looking dead. Blood started to concentrate under your head and your eyes were closed, one of your legs was certainly broken.

"Call the ambulance! Hurry up!" - A woman screamed at Rue, she got off the car and went to you, checking on your functions. Rue did call the ambulance, but it was more an automatic pilot then actual Rue talking with the operator.

Then she got onto her knees, she held one of your wrists and kissed it slowly with pain coming through sobs out of her body. She was certain that you're dead. Rue was falling into a hysterical state. Her voice was loud and painful to listen to as she screamed and moved forward and backward. You truly were a part of the family for her and Jules. They loved you like a fucking sister and just moments ago, she saw getting hit by a fucking car.

The emergency came under three minutes, but Rue was afraid that it's too late. She was holding your palm in hers as she watched the lights making your pale face stand out even more. Your skin was dirty, bloody and bruised. The blood under your head was sticky and warm, but your body was colder and paler with each passing minute. 

Men from emergency gave you a machine to help you breathe, they checked on your pulse and the temperature of your body, they measured your pressure as they slowly helped you onto the bed, carefully tying up your body to it. 

They took you to the hospital, letting the hysterical crying Rue not leaving your side all the time, just entwining your fingers with yours in a tight embrace, kissing every one of your knuckles lightly. She almost started yelling when they tried to separate her from you. When you got to the hospital, the lottery was most likely to go pretty bad for you. She called your parents in a quiet, sobbing tone as she watched how they dropped your body onto the second, clean and tried to stop the blood running out of the back your head.

Rue stood there with tears streaming down her cheeks, she had a long brown coat on and just watched the hall in front of her. It was so clean, everyone was dressed so clean, in white and light green; only you lied there with your body covered in mud and blood, with your leg broken and the bone protruding outta your left knee. 

It must've been something similar when they got her to the hospital with her OD. At least you weren't choking on your own vomit, just as Rue was that day. For the very first time in her whole life, she could feel what her mom and her sister were feeling at that moment.

She could feel as the blood was freezing up in her veins because of how scared she was, the surroundings were unnerving with their cleanness and the hall looked like the most neverending one in the whole history. Her eyes slowly started to smart and her head was spinning because of the nerves. 

When your family ran there with the horror written down deeply in their faces, Rue wasn't even able to tell something meaningful to them. She just shuttered, but that was understandable. Her whole body was falling into a deep shock while you fought for your whole life. 

It felt like nobody could say a single word in the sequences of the things that happen, it felt like forever before Fez and Jules finally made it from the police station. There was a long way for them to go through. The police wanted to investigate everything deeper when both Jules and Fezco will be more able to cooperate with them. 

“Don't worry.” - Jules whispered when Rue hugged her, crying into her neck, holding her tightly without the intention to stop. - “I took care of it. They will have nothing on Fezco. We can talk it out.” 

The last sentence Fezco said that night was a one which Rue knew that she'll never forget. It was just impossible to get out of her head. She stood there next to Fez, holding his hand in hers, both of them with a painful look on their faces. They were watching you while you were sleeping, all tubed inside out, the machines around you monitoring every little thing that happened inside of you.

Just as doctors said, you were stabilized - which meant you had equal chances of daying and staying alive.

And Fez looked at Rue, his eyes completely emotionless, flat and cold as he watched her next to him.

"I did 't all for us, ya know, Rue? I did it all for love."

[gannonwyatt]

⌜ •° ✦ °• — HEY!! is that SEBASTIAN STAN? no, that’s GANNON WYATT, hanging out in BROOKLYN. they’re THIRTY-FOUR years old and use HE/HIM/HIS pronouns. what do they do here? they’re A RECORD STORE CLERK (RETIRED NAVY SEAL - HONORABLE DISCHARGE FOR INJURY) and they’ve lived here TWO YEARS. their favourite thing about the city is THE MUSIC SCENE, but they hate FICKLE PEOPLE. they pride themselves on being ABLE TO SLEEP WITH HIS EYES OPEN. - ── ( vera. 31. she/her. cst. )

( A E S T H E T I C )

dust motes & lamp-light & empty cans of ipa. windows yawn open, stirring lonesome strains of pipe smoke into seemingly meaningful patterns. it was the same dried leaf his grandfather smoked, and the scent eases the pain that splinters his bones. into his 2nd floor studio comes the constant whirring drone of the living, brooklyn streets below. cool night air twists drab curtains and shuffles stacks of unopened mail. a vintage pioneer record player and a scuffed kenwood amp work with pristine edifier speakers to combat the world outside with song. zeppelin, ulver, jackson browne, hank jr., massive attack, shostakovich, jefferson airplane. inside, he contemplates alphabetizing by surname, era, genre, instrumentation, chord progression. the wave-like sound of sorting sleeves is where peace lives.

( P A R T I C U L A R S )

✗. birthday: aug. 23 (virgo)

✗. middle name: havor.

✗. myers-briggs: intp (introverted, intuitive, thinking, perceiving) - the logician

✗. favorite book: suttree, by cormac mccarthy.

✗. favorite album: (currently) lurker of chalice, self-titled

✗. height: 6′.

✗. marital status: single.

✗. sexuality: demi.

✗. positive traits: patient, organized, strategic, calm, logical, observant, honest, strong-willed, brave.

✗. negative traits: harsh, perfectionist, critical, cold, withdrawn, aloof, damaged.

( H E A D C A N O N S )

i. gannon grew up in a single parent home. cora wyatt was a widowed irish immigrant who worked as the head waitress of a little diner in bayonne, new jersey. she was a loving, hardworking woman who encouraged gannon’s independence at an early age out of necessity. he prepared his own meals and got himself to and from school without any issue.

ii. without a father-figure of his own, gannon found himself seeking out the presence of guiding figures. by the time he was fourteen, he had quite a collection of archetypes — from the bookish science teacher to the rugged mechanic on his block, he was in no short supply of those from which he could learn something useful. fred auerbach, however, was his favorite. he’d met him on the ferry by chance, having sat right next to him. from a pair of walkman headphones, gannon heard his first muffled strains of pink floyd’s dark side of the moon. his inquiry into what he’d heard, tinny and garbled through small, sony speakers was the catalyst for a life-long love affair with music. fred, a middle-aged composer and cellist for the new york city philharmonic, was receptive of a wide-eyed protege, so he lavished his knowledge of music upon gannon and, eventually, his love of collecting music. it was refreshing to find a young mind open to exploring music at such depth. their friendship was an odd one, but one they both treasured greatly. on gannon’s eleventh birthday, fred gave him a walkman. on his thirteenth birthday, a pioneer record player. on his fifteenth birthday, season tickets to the philharmonic. for graduation, a gibson les paul classic.

iii. gannon worked in the garage on his block until graduation, enough money to buy a new record a week and help his mother with the bills. it wasn’t glamorous work, but it came naturally to him — picking things apart and understanding how they worked — plus, he could listen to music as loud as he wanted while he worked. 

iv. while gannon was gifted at math and science, his long hours at the garage kept him from performing as well as he might have otherwise. without any scholarships being offered him, he was prompted by jack, the garage owner, to take the asvab. he scored a 99.

v. barely a year into his first tour, he was selected for navy seals, special forces. gannon excelled in a military environment, exceeding the expectations of his superiors. he proved a level-headed if reluctant leader, quick on his feet in dire situations, and able to make difficult decisions under the gun. by the time he was 25, he’d earned respectable rank among his peers. 

vi. the next year, his mother succumbed to cancer. he was granted a month of leave to wrap up her affairs. upon returning home, he ran into his high school friend, rachel. she helped him through the loss, and he allowed her to get closer to him than anyone before. by the time he was called back for duty, they were engaged.

vii. the next five years were a blur. gannon found himself entrenched in military life. he returned home to his fiance when he could, but the demands of his post were overwhelming. most of his comrades were without attachment, and it was easy for gannon to forget the home whence he came and those that were awaiting his return. 

viii. at 31, gannon’s career ended when he lost his right leg and right eye to an IED. he was honorably discharged and sent home.

ix. rachel attempted to help him through the loss, but the severity of his ptsd proved too much for her nerves. after a few years of struggling to navigate his grief with him, she gave up, leaving him alone.

x. once again, it was fred auerbach that turned gannon’s life around when he looked his young friend up on a whim. having bought a fine storefront in brooklyn for a record shop, it occurred to the old man there was only one person he could trust to run his investment with any integrity. gannon was reluctant at first, too blinded by his own grief to see any potential in anything but his own suffering, but once he saw the bowing wood floors and the art deco chandelier hanging in the store’s window, something bloomed within him that he’d thought long-dead: passion.

xi. fred’s vinyl resting place would become a cornerstone of the music culture in brooklyn, nyc. not only did it boast an enormous collection of vinyl, cds, and tapes, but a burgeoning basement venue for exclusive, intimate shows by artists, new and established. locals enjoy a PBR at beer:thirty when browsing the endless aisles of rare and popular presses, or while listening to a local act’s new release. though fred’s growing older in years and not able to man the shop anymore, he’s left it in capable of hands. gannon manages the bookings, inventory, and two employees with ease.

xii. gannon spends a lot of time alone, though he keeps busy. his nights are interrupted by nightmares, so he gets very little sleep — choosing instead to pace around stacks of records in his flat, attend shows, or fool around with his guitar. 

xiii. he has an artificial right leg, and it begins just below the knee. while he can get around without issue most of the time, sometimes his joints ache — when it’s cold or raining. in those instances, he must use a cane, and he hates it.

xiv. few know him well. those that don’t think he’s an asshole because of his quiet, detached nature, but he’s very kind and would give a stranger the shirt off his back.

xv. he has begun restoring a honda nighthawk 750 in his spare time at the garage in bayonne where he worked as a kid. he hopes to have it running by the fall.

[lilibetts]

The Gryphon Queen and her brave Hellcaster...

She tosses the harness on the bed, and then the black dildo next to it. He feels the faint bounce across the mattress from the weight of it, and swallows. Betty stands before the bed with her feet shoulder-width apart and hands on her hips. The look in her eyes promises complete mastery.

“Because I’m disappointed in you, baby, and clearly I’m going to have to fuck some sense back into you.”

(Or: the one where Betty returns home to find her husband absorbed in the latest conspiracy theory and decides he needs to get pegged.)

Available on AO3

Riverdale Events Kink Week, Themes 1 & 6: D/S, bondage, facesitting, and pegging.

[adposto1]

Gulberg Residencia Islamabad New Updated Maps Released

Gulberg Islamabad has finally released the latest maps of all blocks at Gulberg Residencia. All plot files without number or without map have been given plot numbers on the revised updated maps. New blocks have been added to the Gulberg Master Plan, while some old blocks have been redesigned.New blocks include A Executive, AA1, AA2, P1, P2, P3 and P4. Block A has been expanded and many new plots of A extension have been added to the existing map. A Executive block is placed between Gulberg Greens D Block and Gulberg Residencia A Block. 5 Marla IB employees’ plot files have been adjusted in AA1 and AA2 blocks, so you will find many 5 marla plots in these blocks. These new blocks are expected to be placed near P block where they society has acquired some land. Block T has been reshuffled and revised with new 7 marla plots. Similar reshuffle of plot locations has also been done in various other blocks.P block has been entirely changed, and it has been split into various sub-sectors of P block which includes files of P Extension. Older location has been slightly changed, and new location goes down to Japan Road. 7 marla and 10 marla plot files of J block have been included in the new map, and C block has been expanded to adjust new plots. Following are the new and revised maps of Gulberg Residencia:

Prime Location

Gulberg Residencia is located about 6 to 7 KM off the Islamabad Highway. A 220 ft wide Gulberg Expressway connects Gulberg Greens with the project through a bridge that is under construction at present. Residents of Gulberg Residencia enjoy the privilege of being close to the twin cities: Islamabad and Rawalpindi. The distance between the society and the cities is around 20 kilometres from Aabpara, 15 kilometers from T0Chowk Rawat, 8km from Koral Chowk and 20 kilometres via Gulberg Expressway and Islamabad Expressway. Further, Gulberg Residencia has its main gate at Chak Shahzad and Naval Anchorage, saving a lot of travelling time. Therefore, investors are attracted to its ideal location. Landmarks surrounding Residencia include: Lake View Park (25km away), Kachnar Park, Shakarparian, and Mohammed bin Qasim Park at a drive of 20-25 minutes from Gulberg Residencia. Cine Gold Plex in Bahria Town is also part of the nearby amenities. The snapshot of google map shows the prime location of Gulberg Residencia Islamabad. About the Project: The project is spread over 15000 kanals of land comprising of 10,000 residential plots. The project is divided into 21 blocks from A to V, excluding U, D, which are the commercial blocks of Gulberg. It consists of standard residential houses (200-1000 Sq.Yds),  and Luxury Apartments & Condominiums. Located in a prime location, it offers convenience of public transport. You can find a bus stop near Judicial Colony, Airport Society, PWD, and Koral Chowk to commute. Moreover, IBECHS realizes the growing demand for malls and has been constructing many shopping plazas in its area. Not to forget though, that Gulberg Residencia can easily access Ghauri Town Phase 7’s mini market, Madina’s Yousafzai market, mini marts in Naval Anchorage. There are also many educational institutes located outside the society, such as The Smart School in Airport Employees CHS, Siddeeq Public School in Madina Town, Islamabad Model College for Girls (IMCG) in Kirpa, Bahria Foundation College and Bahria College in Naval Anchorage, and FC Group of Colleges in Ghori Town. For healthcare, hospitals and clinics are under construction which include a 600-bed  equipped buildings with the latest technologies. Additionally, United Bank Limited (UBL), MCB and HBL. Allied Bank and Summit Bank are in close proximity to Gulberg Residencia to ensure an uninterrupted possibility of daily transactions. If you are finding a house apartment and plots in Islamabad Click now. 

    PLOT SIZE                                               PLOT PRICE     5-Marla                                                 PKR 1.9 – 2.2 Million                                                               7 Marlas Plot                                         PKR 2.7 – 7.5 Million                                                               10 Marlas Plot                                         PKR 3.5 – 12 Million      1 Kanal Plot                                         PKR 6.5 – 17 Million Demand Trends in Gulberg Residencia

Gulberg Residencia’s demand for plots has faced an upward trend due to the launch of D-Markaz and the speed at which development is taking place in various blocks. Currently, Blocks E, Block F, Block H, Block I, Block J, Block K, Block L, Block R, Block P, and Block Z are in high demand. because they are closer to D-Markaz. Hence, its not a surprise that all the plots in block D sold out soon after D-markaz’s launch. Another cause is the development status of these blocks, IBECHS is constructing the infrastructure of the area at an applaudable pace. In fact, the development work on commercial plots have already started in some blocks. Hence, demand trends in Gulberg Residencia have remained fairly high and continue to attract more investors. If you are finding a house apartment and plots in Islamabad Click now. The Mission of Gulberg Islamabad

Gulberg Islamabad is on a mission to revolutionize the way people live and give them a comfortable and luxurious way of living. The location is ideal for both the residents of Islamabad and Rawalpindi as it is located on the main Islamabad Highway and has a central location. The project is approved by the Capital Development Authority and is further extended to Gulberg Greens and Gulberg Residencia projects. The project promotes green living by offering a clean and green living surrounding. It is a step towards preserving natural resources and making them a part of human life. This green living will help the residents to gain optimal health as the project has about 80 percent of its land covered with greenery. To emphasize their goal of green living in a better manner, they have dedicated the land to a wide range of fruit trees, plants, and flowers, all of which add to the beauty of the project. A refined balance between maintaining the quality of life and staying in touch with the latest technology and development is one of the defining qualities of Gulberg Islamabad. It has a high-tech infrastructure, complete with a network of wide roads with an approximate width of 220 feet. To add to the functionality, the city will have a signal-free drive that will be supported with an underpass. An underpass is an absolute must to control and manage the influx of traffic and Gulberg Islamabad has strong plans of adding this important aspect into the project’s building structure. It will ease the commute between the twin cities and the people will not have to wait in endless traffic lines. Besides the residential and spaces for greenery, the project has carefully planned spaces that are meant to accommodate multiple businesses. Furthermore, it also aims at providing a nearby residential option for the people working in those companies. Since Gulberg Islamabad is a project of IBECHS, it is a trusted name and people are investing in this mega project. For booking and other details, please contact the main office. If you are finding a house apartment and plots in Islamabad Click now.

[trndsttr0961]

Dark Avengers - Chapter Three

P L A N E T :  X A N D A R ,  1 9 8 6

S T E P H E N

- - - - - - - - - - 

All he could hear were the screams of the Xandarian people as loved ones were torn apart and separated into two distinct sides. 

They had been taken by surprise, and had no choice but to seek shelter in the small shack outside of their small house and hope it would be enough to conceal them from the Titan’s wrath. 

Sarah Rogers wrapped her son up in her arms and held him close to her chest. She silenced his short yelps with the palm of her hand, making sure they wouldn’t be given away.

Sarah felt tears trickle down her cheeks as she imagined what the madman had done to her beloved husband. The last time they’d seen them was when he was distracting The Titan’s soldiers by fighting back, killing a few of them. 

Sarah let out a silent cry in anguish as she heard the love of her life yell out in pain as he was viciously stabbed through the chest, over and over again, until he was dead. 

Her poor son had no idea what was happening, and he wasn’t aware that his father just died, but he was terrified nonetheless. He lay in his mother’s arms, panting as he prayed and prayed for the bad men to just go away, but sadly, his prayers were never answered.

He was confused at first when he saw the startling blu color seep underneath the door. Steve heard his mother inhale sharply and cover his eyes as the dark blue stream grew closer and closer until the smell hit him.

Blood.

His father’s.

Then he made the worst or best mistake of his life, he screamed. 

His mother was too shocked by the blood seeping under the door of the shack, that she didn’t cover his mouth in time. 

It was silent.

Then, something ripped the door off of its hinges, and the next thing he knew, his mother was ripped away from him by a dark grey creature, and he was thrust into the arms of another one. 

He screamed and cried for his mother, but the last time he ever saw her, she was struggling in vain to free herself from her captors to no avail. 

“STEPHEN!” Sarah screamed at the top of her lungs until it hurt too much to do so.

The last time she ever saw her son, he was at the far end of the court, his back facing her. A large purple hand was clasped firmly on the frail boy’s shoulder, and it appeared as if he was admiring something. She strained her neck to get a better view, and she only got a glimpse of...

A shield.

- - - - - - - 

“MOTHER! MOTHER! MOTHER, WHERE ARE YOU?! MOTH-” Stephen was cut off by a hand clamping his mouth shut and another grabbing his arm and hauling him away from the screaming crowd of Xandarians.

He clawed at his captor’s hand, and tried to get free, but to no avail. Finally, he was able to wrench himself free after he bit down hard on his strangely colored creature. 

He heard the alien screech in pain and lunge at him in attempt to drag him back to his master, but Steve was too quick.

The young Xandarian may have been sickly and frail, but he was quick on his feet. He ran through the crowds and yelled for his mother, but there were too many other people in the crowds. 

He didn’t see her.

Suddenly, a bluish grey alien grabbed his arm harshly, albeit gentler than his prior captor and thrust him into one of the screaming crowds of Xandarians. He was instantly swallowed by the crowd, and could no longer tell which direction was which or who he was even standing amongst.

Stephen tried to run away and out of the crowd after he was thrust right into the heart of it, but there were too many others around him. 

But he never gave up.

He tried and tried, and became frantic once the guns were pointed straight at him. He closed his eyes and waited for the guns to fire, and for him to be killed. 

The frail boy amongst hundreds upon hundreds of Xandarians prayed for his death to be quick, and that his mother hadn’t wound up in the same crowd as him. 

He could feel the breath leave his mouth, and he imagined it being the last on he’d ever take, when a booming voice pulled him out of his trance. 

“Not this one.” The Titan himself said, pointing at the young boy.

Hastily, two of his soldiers grabbed him by his skinny arms and dragged him through the remainder of the crowd and to the large leather-clad feet of the madman.

- - - - - - - 

All he could feel was shock.

Why him? Did the universe finally answer my prayers? What about my mother?

This last question caused him to come out of shock, and begin resisting the aliens dragging him to the best of his ability. 

But Steve was a sickly child, and these soldiers were strong grown warriors and his futile attempts to escape only irritated them. 

When they thrust him in front of the Mad Titan, he could feel his tiny body trembling, not in fear, 

but rage.

With newfound bravery, the young boy stood up shakily on his two small feet and looked the Titan straight in the eye. 

“What’s wrong, my boy?” The imposing figure asked the shaking child. 

“My mother. Where is my mother?” Stephen boldly demanded of the Titan.

The huge man only chuckled, his eyes filled with amusement.

The huge man kneeled down, so he was closer to the golden haired child’s height.

“What’s your name?” The Titan asked.

“Stephen. Stephen Rogers.” The young boy answered.

“You’re quite the fighter, Stephen.” The Titan complimented the boy.

The Titan offered the brave boy his callused hand, and to both of their surprise, he took it.

Stephen let the intimidating man lead him away from the screaming crowds of Xandarians, and to their sacred temple where they worshipped their High Priestess.

The Titan knelt down once they were away from prying eyes and tortured screams. He reached behind his back and pulled out a round shield with a single white star surrounded by blue painted in the center. It had red and white stripes surrounding it, and it seemed huge to the small seven-year old.

“See this?” The supposed madman asked the child as he handed the shield to him. “Strong, isn’t it?” 

Stephen expected the shield to be heavy, but to his surprise, it was quite light. 

The Titan pulled out something else from behind his back, from who knows where and clasped it onto the young Xandarian’s wrist.

“What does it do?” The curious boy asked, forgetting about all his worries from before.

The Titan chuckled. 

“This, my boy can be used to summon the shield to your arm in a matter of seconds by scanning brain patterns. It’s magnetized as well, see,” The Titan gently took the shield from the young boy and hovered it above the cuff on his forearm. It instantly attached, leaving the young boy speechless.

Stephen had never seen anything quite like it, since he was merely a civilian and didn’t have the privilege of living anywhere close to the High Priestess’ castle or court. As he looked down at the shield magnetized to his forearm, he felt an unfamiliar feeling.

Power. 

“You see, my boy, there is only one star with an even amount of stripes surrounding it...

It’s perfectly balanced, as all things should be.” The Titan finished with a smile on his face.

A look of awe crossed Stephen’s face, and he yearned to hold the spangled shield once more. 

The Titan must have seen the fleeting look on his face, because he used his sheer strength to remove the shield from the magnetized cuff. 

“Here, you try.” He held out the shield to Stephen, and the young boy eagerly accepted it. 

He carefully placed the shield on the ground, and focused as hard as he could on summoning the shield to his arm. 

But it was hard to focus with all of the screams in the distance that would forever haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. He turned his head to look, but the Titan gently pushed it back towards the shield. 

“Concentrate.” The Titan instructed him. 

Stephen’s eyebrows scrunched up, and his eyes narrowed on the round body of the shield. All of the sudden, he heard a faint whoosh and the click of the shield connecting with his forearm. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much kickback, so he didn’t immediately fall over.

“There! You’ve got it.” The Titan gave the young boy a small grin and clapped gently on the back.

“But, I do have one question,” Stephen averted his eyes from the intimidating figure. “Where did you get this shield from?” 

“Well my boy, you’re not the only young child who’s caught my attention these past couple of years. One of my children, Anthony, has quite the gifted mind. You see, he’s the one who designed and forged this shield clasped on your arm right now. I’m sure you two shall enjoy each other’s company.” The Titan finished, pride clearly evident in his voice. 

Stephen smiled. He’d never really had any friends before, besides Bucky. But his former best friend had died a few years ago in a tragic mining accident led by none other than Stephen’s own father.

But then Stephen realized what the Titan was saying. 

The infamous intergalactic warlord wanted Stephen Rogers to come live with him on his gigantic warship.

Just the very idea of it almost made Stephen laugh, before he remembered who was in his company. 

Once again, The Titan held out his large hand for Stephen’s smaller one to take.

“Come with me, my boy. Together, we will conquer many planets and people alike. You can become powerful. You can help me save the universe!” The Titan encouraged him. 

“Together?” The young Xandarian asked.

“Together.” Replied Thanos.

With one final glance over his shoulder, Stephen saw the pile of corpses and knew that there was no future here for him on Xandar.

So with his red, white, and blue shield in one hand and Thanos’ large purple one in the other, Stephen Rogers left the only life he’d ever known and started all over again.

But he never forgot where he came from.

[nowitsdarkfic]

chapter one (the last day of recording)

January 6, 1989. Rochester, New York.

“Power trip,” I mutter to myself, closing my eyes. “Power trip. Power trip. Power fucking trip.” I have the headphones over my ears and my hands crammed into my pockets as I'm standing before the microphone. Right in front of me is a pane of glass, and behind that is Lars and Kim, the latter of whom flew out here to lay down a couple of guitar tracks for me. He took a few takes but he managed to get it down for me on the tapes here at Music America.

Lars has his finger resting over the playback button. Even though it's not particularly cold in here, he's got on that big heavy overcoat and that lush vest underneath it. He finally shaved off his beard on New Year's Day, but now he's got kind of a stubble already growing in. He, like me, also neglected to brush his head before he and I drove over here this morning in my piece of crap car.

I need to my act together, on this song here in particular. It's been almost a week, six full days. Lars managed to book me two weeks after New Year's Day and once he told me about it, I found myself itching to perform. I am in dire need to sing my heart out again. The memory of having sang so hard in Seattle is still etched fresh within my mind and my slim belly, but I have to do this for myself. I don't know any other way to do anything else and I can't picture myself doing anything else for myself.

Lars plays it back for me. I focus on the words I had written down on that notepad and then memorized. I rinsed out my mouth with a shot of white wine vinegar and a glass of water before coming here. The back of my throat is clean and clear as a bell. It's all there. I just have to do it.

My voice trembles a little bit, but it's my song, I've always loved to perform, and I've been doing this for years. Why am I so nervous?

No. I needn't be so hard on myself. I relax the muscles in my chest and down within my stomach, and let myself breathe. I have the music in me. I need to coax it out. I need to do what I did in New Orleans and Boston and just let it dance with me. I'm the leader here.

I almost want to grip onto the microphone as I feel myself letting go even more. But I know if I do, it'll mess up the recording.

Instead, I remain standing there with my lips before the head of the microphone, and my eyes pinched shut, and my hands in my pockets.

I'm doing it. I'm recording my album, this thing that says Joey Belladonna, and not just a short, abrasive demo like what I did in Seattle.

It's just me. Lars and Kim need not apply here now.

“SHUT! YOUR! MOUTH!”

I let out this wail that came from somewhere inside of me, and I don't know if it's a relic of everything that's happened up to this point but it almost surprises me. Never thought a skinny little boy could be so soft, and never though a skinny little boy could have such a raging beast inside of him.

“SHUT IT! SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!”

I don't know where this is coming from. Where is this coming from?

Ohhhh, I think I know where this is coming from.

I was left out in the cold by my old band mates.

I found a girl who was bound at the ankles laying in a storm drain who's been abused and is lying to me about something, maybe everything.

My best friend is in the hospital right now and has some kind of monstrous cybernetic bullshit literally sprouting out from his body.

There might be something sinister lurking about in the background and I don't have a clue what it is or what it wants from me and Lars. It might want to kill me.

“POWER TRIP! POWER TRIP! P O W E R T R I P!”

I feel myself straining and closing up. My stomach is aching me again, but I don't care. I've got it. I've got it! I've got it! I've got it!

“SHUT! YOUR! M O U T H!”

And then the playback ends once I finish out that final note.

“WOW!” I hear Kim shout on the other side of the glass; this is a sound proof room, too, it's amazing I can hear him say that. I take off the headphones as he and Lars stand to their feet to give me a standing ovation. I rub my eyes and my face, and then run my fingers through my black curls before stepping away from the sound booth. I'm sore again and I need some water.

I step out of there and meet up with Lars and Kim at the sound board.

“That was unreal!” Lars declares, giving his long hair a toss back from his broad shoulders.

“I can't remember the last time I sang like that,” I confess to them, my voice hoarse. “Good thing we got that, too. Did you?”

“I did, yes!” he says with glee. “We can use this next week to master and mix it, too.”

“God—I don't think Chris ever sang that hard,” Kim admits to me, returning to his seat there next to Lars.

“Sang so hard that he lost his voice?” I ask him, feeling my voice break some more.

“Not at all. He has hit some pretty intense notes in the past, like when Soundgarden was starting out, but nothing of your caliber, though. That just—holy shit, dude.”

“Can I get some water here?” I ask them, clearing my throat.

“I'll get it,” Lars offers me. He stands to his feet and crosses the room to the door. He disappears for a moment, only for us to hear a familiar woman's voice out there in the next room.

He then returns with a little paper cup of cold water and a Sonia right behind him.

“Sonia! What're you doing here?” I greet her as Lars hands me the water. “I thought you and Marcia were in Portland.”

“A little bird told me,” she begins, adjusting her kinky dark hair, “that Joey was singing his heart out and recording an album near mine and my sister's upholstery place, and I don't have classes on Fridays, so I just had to fly out here to check it out. I also wanted to invite you boys to a stage production I'm doing in a couple of weeks back home.”

“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows at that as I bring the cup to my lips.

“Yeah, A Midsummer's Night Dream. I'm playing the part of Titania, the Queen of the Fairies.”

“Oh, well,” Kim smartly notes, “your Highness.”

Lars and I bow our heads towards her and she giggles at us. I then turn to him.

“Anyways, you got the tape?”

“'Bout to lock it up in a safe place for you, my Indian friend. It is five thirty after all.”

“Holy hell, is it really?” I gape at him.

“Yeah. You've been singing for almost seven hours. You've gotta be beat or at least hungry.”

“Beat or hungry, but not both?”

“Okay, beat or hungry, or perhaps both.”

He ducks behind the sound board to fetch the tape.

“I'm gonna put it in a place where both you and I can remember it well enough,” he tells me, closing the door.

“Sorry, what were we talking about?” I couldn't help that.

“Joey!” he scoffs.

“What? I lost my voice and you're both my partner in crime and my producer—I'm entitled to a joke once in a while, Jesus Christ.”

Meanwhile, Kim and Sonia both chuckle at us.

“You guys,” she quips at us.

“It's like me and Chris,” he joins in.

“It's like me and Marcia,” she adds. “Anyways, shall we go over to Snarky's?”

“Bit of a drive, though,” I remind her, “but—it's a nice evening right now and we're not supposed to get snow for another couple of days. I don't see why not.”

I take one final drink of water when I hear the jingle of some keys.

“Oh, boy, I get a lock and key!” I declare. Lars stands to his feet from the far right side of the sound board.

“Belladonna is in a safe spot,” he tells me, running his fingers through his hair. And then he rubs his hands together. “Okay, now let's get loaded up into the car—I assume we're taking your car, Kim?”

“I don't see why not,” he replies with a shrug. “Unless Sonia has one with her.”

“Nah, I took a cab over here. Let's get loaded into the car.”

“Alright, we're gonna get loaded!” I declare again and that coaxes a laugh out of Lars. “Okay, I'll stop now.”

We head out of the actual studio into the front room, the last nugget of warmth for a little bit. I can make out the final rays of setting sun from through the glass in the front door: the sky has painted itself a rich indigo color. I close the lapels of my peacoat at the sight of it, but I also regret not wearing my leather right now. Before we step outside to the frigid cold clear evening, Sonia turns towards me with a mischievous smirk on her face.

“What?” I ask her, clearing my throat again.

“It almost amazes me how strong your voice is,” she remarks in a low voice.

“Well, it kinda has to be,” I point out, “you know, if I'm gonna be going at this whole thing by my lonesome. I need my voice to be able to slice through steel.”

Lars pushes open the front door first and we're greeted with an onslaught of that cold left over from the snow and the freezing rain. I'm the last one out of the building but surely I can't be the first one to catch a glimpse of the glimmers of neon hovering over the towering apartment complexes. I recognize those smooth metallic sides, even in the fading sunlight. I count four of them.

So Maxwell Industries has drones floating around in the Rochester skyline now, which is experiencing the first sprouts of blue neon.

I can only hope one of them isn't carrying a nuke.

***************************

A/N: by the way, go check out and support Joey's solo work if you haven't already! He has four albums (Belladonna, Spells of Fear, 03, and Deadly Nightshade) and a collection of demos titled Relics

[bananafishdaily]

About the ask you got with feeling weird for Ash being shirtless: I feel kind if the same way, because he's obviously much more fragile when it comes to his trauma than everyone assumes. He cries in hies sleep e v e r y n i g h t. Eiji said it more than once i believe. And yes, the majority of people get out of such a trauma feeling like he does, but i personally know someone who got out of it the other way around. She now is very likely to be seen as a sex-addict and can't live without it :/

I am really sorry to hear that!! This remind me of a manhwa i read lately called See You Again one of the mc got out of the trauma the other way around it was really ;-; So it must be tough but i hope she pulls through it like how the mc did near the end. 

Anyway back to our boy Ash, giving the life he lived after his trauma it didn't allow him to heal he had to put on front because of the world around him, if he tried to take a break he will be dead as he mentioned when Jessica wanted to ask him if he was r*ped by Foxxwhen he told her yes he was. She said to him "How can you be so calm about it? It took me 6 months to get back up on my feet." and his reply was "I would be dead long before now if it took me that long." this just rip your heart apart! to not be able to take a break to deal with the feelings that you go through because of the trauma is just.......Ash is really really strong i mean when his dad talked about what happened to him, Eiji said "But even after all that, he still isn't broken." AGAIN HE IS SO STRONG ;-; I mean he was 7 for god sake but after one year of this hell he still pulled through and killed the fucker so ya, but still that haunts him since he didn't get time to heal! 

So ya bottom line its valid feelings and its okay to feel like that even for a fictional character.