#and barely any nathan/patience

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

@monthly-challenge 2024 | 12. Compliments

I used this prompt for my original characters, Nathan and Patience: the story is under the cut.

Word count: 1,085

Patience tied up her hair, squinted at it in the mirror and tried it again. It was still crooked, and didn’t sit nicely, like she’d hoped.

“Do you need a hand?” asked Rhona, as she entered the room. She seemed on the tail end of a laugh, as if there had been something very funny just said.

“I would love one,” said Patience. “I really need about three, one to wield a hairbrush, and one to tie it up, and the third to hold it to be tied in the first place.”

“Let me try it.” Rhona wielded the hairbrush and elastic with expert hands, and presently produced an extremely passable-looking ponytail. “Why do you want to be particularly pretty today?—Don’t tell me, it’s Nathan.”

“Yeah.” She grinned. “We’re getting not-engagement photos done.”

“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me this until just now. You did say not engagement, right? He still hasn’t engaged himself to you?”

“He has not.” Patience laughed and pushed a satin-sleek lock of hair back. “Nor do I anticipate it any minute now.”

“You sure this isn’t actually an engagement photoshoot that he just forgot to mention? Sure he isn’t whipping out the ring during it?”

“Well, if he does, then it’s not something I anticipate at all.”

“Why aren’t you wearing your hair down? It looks so pretty when you do.”

“Don’t flatter me! It’s simply not voluminous enough; not like yours.” “Yours is gorgeous! I’m sure—” She cut herself off. “Never mind, that joke didn’t need saying.”

“Okay, then…?” Patience replied, a little confused. “Anyway, I figured I’d tie it back because then it won’t get in my face.”

“It’s going to be so beautiful.” Rhona removed the elastic despite Patience’s protests, and began to brush her hair. “Should I come with you so you can have it properly brushed just before you enter the studio?”

“‘Enter the studio’… that sounds so frightfully posh.”

“Frightfully,” agreed Rhona lightheartedly. “Terribly. Amazingly.”

“In answer to your question….” She ignored the ribbing and subsequent laughter. “If you put the brush in my bag probably Nathan will brush it again.”

“That sounds awfully romantic.” Rhona sighed softly. “What do I have to do to land a boyfriend as nice as yours, Patience?”

She shrugged broadly, nearly knocking the brush from Rhona’s hands. “Blowed if I know. He just showed up one day and wanted to marry me.”

“Wanted to marry you—!”

“Okay, I may be summarising. He wanted to go out with me, so I said yes, just to see how it worked. Turns out it works real well.”

“You’ve been dating for over a year now, because it was around Christmas last year, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, so that makes it—what, coming up on fourteen months now?” “That’s a long time to be dating, you know.”

“Eh, not so long as you might think?” Patience put on a necklace—a delicate silver thing which had her name on a small silver bar—and smiled perfunctorily into the mirror. “Yes, we know each other a lot better than we used to, but that still doesn’t mean that we’re ready to get married. Far from it, in fact. I don’t think we’d be ready to be married in a year’s time. Though if he asked me, I’d probably say yes, even if it came with conditions.”

“All your best years!” bemoaned eighteen.

“I have plenty of better years to come,” said wiser nineteen.

“Isn’t nineteen the best age to have children, though?”

“Biologically, maybe: socially and all the rest of it, including maturity level, probably not. There’s always an age at which you can be more something, or something else. Ultimately, I’d be not looking to have children immediately if I was to marry now, which I’m not.” She emphasised the last word, smiling at Rhona.

Rhona sighed. “At my age, you were only three months away from finding a steady boyfriend. I don’t see any of that happening anytime soon.”

“And that’s okay,” said Patience firmly, then hugged her younger sister. “Everyone’s timeline is different. I will say that at your age I didn’t expect to find a boyfriend anytime soon either, and it was out of the blue: but also, consider Paul.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” she said, sadly.

“Of course I was! The thing is, dear heart, easy as it may be for me to say (and I know it’s not easy to do), you need to try and be content in whatever stage of life you’re in right now. Having a boyfriend isn’t all kisses and sweet things. There are hard conversations, and you carry the other person’s burdens as well as your own, sometimes. I can’t tell you what, of course, but that’s very much true. Please don’t feel like you’re unwanted, Rhona. You’re very much wanted, despite the fact that no boy has yet noticed this of you.”

Rhona sighed and hugged her. Patience returned the hug. “It’s just hard,” she said.

“I know. And I’ll pray for you.”

“Thanks.”

“The time is such that I should scram,” said Patience, suddenly noticing the aforementioned time. “Cram that brush in my bag, and I’ll skedaddle.”

Nathan was picking her up in his new—secondhand—car, and Patience came in a whirl of blue satin skirts and satin-smooth hair, sliding hurriedly into his car. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she apologised.

“Hence why I left fifteen minutes extra in the planning phase, in case you were,” he said, sparkling-eyed. “You’re looking beautiful today, Patience.”

“Thanks.” She had had a year of acclimatising herself to his compliments, and while they still made her want to retreat inside her shell and freeze him out over it, she was more and more used to just accepting them at face value. For whatever reason, Nathan actually cared about her.

Which was just as well, because she cared about him, too.

“You’re looking very dapper also,” she added, taking in for the first time the sight of her boyfriend in a spotted blue bowtie. “I love your bowtie.”

“Thanks, I love it too. I colour-matched it, even.”

“Impressive. How’d you know I’d wear this?”

“It’s the thing that looks prettiest on you. I thought it was likely enough. Also I bought six others just in case.”

She stared at him. “You’re crazy.”

“I know.” He smiled, charmingly. “And you love me for it.”

“Well, yes,” she admitted, and just before he started up the car again she kissed him quickly.

Tagging @stealingmyplaceinthesun @graycedelfin @pilgrimsofworship@noisette-tornade and @choasuqeen

[ruvviks]

🙈, 🙊, 📚, 🧳, 🌠, 💔, and 💤, for nathan?

nathan asks!

🙈 SEE-NO-EVIL: What’s the worst thing they’ve ever seen? Do they tend to be a bystander or do they intervene?

answered here!

🙊 SPEAK-NO-EVIL: Are they talkative or quiet? Are they the type of person who talks more the more you get to know them?

nathan is pretty quiet and reserved when it comes to regular conversation. he prefers to hang back and listen to others talk, and generally only speaks when spoken to or when something that's brought up prompts him to jump in. however, when it's something work-related, he tends to talk a lot more, since he's good at strategizing and needs to give his input so people will know what his opinion on the matter is

he definitely starts talking more when you get to know him better, slowly but surely feeling more comfortable to bring things up out of the blue rather than wait for others to start a conversation with him instead. though he still tends to be a man of little words; very short and straightforward answers, doesn't like dancing around the point of his sentence. unless he's talking about tech-related stuff, in which case he can talk for hours about whatever code he's been working on

📚 BOOKS: Do they like to read? What kind of books do they like?

nathan isn't a big reader, mostly because he struggles with it and he doesn't have the attention span or the patience to sit through that much text. if he needs to pass the time somehow, he might end up reading some short stories or articles online or in a magazine. he prefers articles about technology or science, and in fiction, naturally so, likes sci-fi, but also thrillers and mystery books!

🧳 LUGGAGE: Do they like to travel? What’s their favorite place to visit?

nathan hates traveling and generally doesn't leave the krimson city area unless he's being forced to (when he was with mobius he'd occasionally have to go to the east coast for business, which he hated, but at least the pay was good). nowadays there's absolutely nothing that can be done to get him to travel anywhere, though he would really love to visit yellowstone national park one day. it's mostly just a daydream scenario more than anything else, though, he doesn't know if he would actually commit to it if given the opportunity

🌠 SHOOTING STAR: If they had one (or three) wishes, what would they wish for?

nathan would wish for financial stability forever (which he sort of gets when ruben gets his job at the research lab because the pay is very good), a chance to get to kill the administrator with his bare hands, and to make him forget about what went down in STEM (but in such a way where he does remember that it happened, but he just doesn't remember all the traumatic events, and he doesn't get curious about it so he won't go digging for it either)

it'd make sense for him to wish that rosie was still alive, and if he only got one wish then he would consider going with that option, but her death also shaped his whole life and he's too scared to find out how different it would've been if she hadn't died; his parents had still hated him, and he wouldn't have had a pleasant childhood either way. and in addition to that, he also doesn't know how his parents would have changed; maybe they would've started hating rosie too at some point, and he really doesn't want to accidentally expose her to any of that. so he wouldn't wish for that at all, just because there's too many uncertainties that would come with it

💔 BROKEN HEART: What would break their heart? What’s the worst thing a significant other or a close friend could do to them?

nathan's heart breaks very easily over the littlest of things, but he knows it's because he's very sensitive especially to stuff like rejection or disagreement. he generally gets over it pretty quickly, so it's never really an issue. if we're talking about irreparable damage, it'd be permanently walking away from him; whether it's done by ruben or any of his friends. he often worries that it'll happen, especially because of his own tendency to just vanish off the face of the earth sometimes because of his episodes, and if people were to walk away from him forever it'd break him

💤 ZZZ: What are their sleeping habits like? Do they snore, move around a lot, etc.?

nathan is a very light sleeper, but he can also easily fall back asleep when woken up by something. whenever he does slip into deeper sleep he tends to have very bad nightmares or gets sleep paralysis due to the longterm effects STEM has had on his psyche, so he prefers to go to sleep in a room with a light on or some music playing so it won't have to get to that point

he sleeps about five to six hours a night on average, which is not a lot and tends to be even less when he’s working on an important project. all of this generally results into him being out of commission during the weekends which he tends to spend in bed for most of the time, albeit wide awake. later on when he gets some proper medication, he starts sleeping a lot more and ends up with an average of nine hours a night, which is more or less the amount he needs to be able to function properly

[nathanrelnor]

Trying the Wise King's patience

Continued from this @sagekinq ---

He nearly jumped out of his own skin when he heard the tapping of Gilgamesh's axe against the ground. His stance quickly became rigid as he rushed to obey the command, meeting the Wise King's stare with his own. "Y-Yes! Yes your majesty! I'll do my best!" Fresh determination flowed through him. Gilgamesh was a harsh task master that didn't accept failure but that was exactly why he'd gone to the wayward caster for help. He wasn't going to get anywhere if his Servants were just going to keep treating him like a toddler after all. He readied the magecraft again, attempting to reinforce the wooden sword that had been supplied to him. It was the simplest of simplest spells that any mage worth their salt could cast without a second thought but Nathan was very far from a proper mage and throttling his od was something he had simply never had to do until very recently. During the Singularities he had mystic codes to do the heavy lifting of casting spells for him but as things were he needed a backup plan just in case he didn't have access to them. Honestly though. How foolish could he be? He'd promised to be less of a burden on his Servants despite barely being of age and he'd decided the best way to fulfil that promise was to go to Wise King Gilgamesh for help. Well. He was going to become a better Master or die trying at this rate.

[kinetic-elaboration]

June 9: Transitive Property Additional Scene

Transitive-Property 'verse, probably taking place between Chapters 6 and 7, with reference to events of Orders Relations Chapter 3 by @riotsquirrrl. But also like.. not really canonical.

Daria & Jane, background Tom/Daria, ~940 words, 36 minutes

More edits than usual on this one including several different versions of the last line (which is still meh but it's better, I think). I... feel uncertain. This was roughly what I had in my head but I feel like the style isn't working. Also I think at some point I had the idea that Jane would talk about Daria being in the middle of her ex-thing with Tom but maybe it's better that that's not in there and remains more unspoken.

[Eta alt ending, but I kept the original for ~transparency and ~historical record. Still not like great but like closer ig.]

*

"That chapter not doing it for you?" Jane asks, and deepens the shadows on the figure she's painting. Daria hasn't turned a page in at least ten minutes. Her eyes aren't moving, which means she's thinking about something, and her mouth is thin, which means it's something that's bothering her. Maybe she's still turning over what happened after the Spiral gig; maybe the one conversation they’ve had about it just sent her deeper into her thoughts. Jane braces herself for hearing anything.

"Why did you tell Tom about that thing I had for Trent?"

Not that.

She sets her paintbrush down, and her palette. This is five-alarm fire stuff, a moment that needs her full attention. When she turns, she sees Daria still lying on the bed with her legs out in front of her, staring up at Jane with that same steady gaze she'd previously turned on her book.

"What are you talking about? I never told anyone about that." She tries to make her voice sound steely, insistent, but it wavers. "Why do you think I did?"

"Tom said so. We were talking about Trent, he mentioned it, and I asked him how he knew. He said you told him."

If it were any other two people—three people—involved in this conversation, they'd be making fun of them brutally. He said, I said, you said, she said.

"Well, I didn't."

"Why would he say you did?"

"I don't know, Daria." She watches as Daria swings her legs over the side of the bed and sits up, then comes to sit on the spot of mattress next to her. "Sometimes people lie." And now it's obvious that either he is or I am, and she's caught in the middle. Where she shouldn’t be.

Daria stares at her a long moment, narrow and appraising. "Then how did he know?" she asks.

Jane shrugs. Better not to say the obvious. "Lucky guess?"

Wrong answer. Daria turns that answer around, mouth open like she might reply, the exhales hard and curls in on herself, her elbows on her knees and her hands briefly passing down over her face. "He barely knew me then. Was I that obvious?"

Yes. But all Jane can really think is that she's right; Tom did barely know her then; and people do lie; and maybe he always had more of an interest in Daria than he let on, maybe he was always attuned to her, watching her, reading her.

She shrugs again. "What if you were? There are worse people out there to be interested in than Trent. Like Nathan. Ethan. Bobby Bighead. The Ruttheimer twins..." Tom, the guy who left her for her best friend.

Daria's still silent, that sort of silence that means she's deep inside herself now, turning something over in her brain. She'll speak it when she's ready, so Jane has patience.

"Did Trent know?"

Jane pulls her shoulders all the way up to her ears, hesitates around an assent, because the question was rhetorical anyway. "He might have guessed. He's pretty good at figuring out stuff like that."

"Because he's a musician?" Trying to make it into a joke, and Jane half-smiles.

"Yeah. Because he's a musician. He's attuned to subtle changes in the atmosphere. Or whatever." She waits another moment, then goes on, "But he never would have judged you for it or anything. And look, I promise, I did not spend all my dates with Tom just spilling all your secrets to him. I would never, ever do that."

Daria mumbles something inaudible and low, and Jane asks:

"Did you really think I did?"

"You used to joke about it in front of Trent all the time."

"Yeah, but those were just jokes. And I'm sorry about them. Actually sorry, that's not just something I'm saying in a deathbed-confessional way."

Daria nods. "Okay. Apology accepted." She's staring down at the toes of her boots, and the air isn't clear, and Jane presses her hands between her knees because she doesn't know what else to do with them, without her paints.

Into the long silence, she asks, "Something still eating you?"

A listless shrug, her eyes darting briefly across the far end of the room. "Just that... I don't think I could stand it, if the two of you were making fun of me behind my back."

"And we didn't. We wouldn't." She has to be insistent about it, because she's thinking very far back in her brain about one time when they sat on this same bed, in the other order, and she'd said I know you would never do anything to hurt me, but hadn't been quite able to mean it, and afterward the whole house of cards had just fallen down. "Maybe he... I don't know, thought it was better if you thought I told than if you thought he guessed." Better for him. Maybe even better for Daria. Not better for Jane, that slight detail.

"Maybe," Daria agrees.

"You know how when I was first dating him, I had all those Tom stories?"

"Hard to forget."

"Yeah, well. I had a ton of Daria stories, too. You were probably half of what we talked about." And the worst part is she doesn't even regret it. How was she supposed to tell him about her life without telling him about Daria? What else could there possibly be to say?

"You don't need to flatter me. I'm not that fragile."

"I know and I'm not." She stands up again. Daria follows the movement, finally looks at her with an open, honest expression about her. "I know you too well to think that.”

ALT:

“Maybe,” Daria agrees.

“You know how when I was first dating him, I had all those Tom stories?”

“I vaguely recall.”

“Yeah, well. I had a ton of Daria stories, too. You were probably half of what we talked about.” And the worst part is she doesn’t even regret it. How was she supposed to tell him about her life without telling him about Daria? What else could there possibly be to say?

“Those Tom stories were really annoying,” Daria says, after a long enough pause that Jane knows she was thinking about that time, that she was finding it imperfect, but something she can live with.

Jane hums. “The Daria ones were even worse.”

[atakeflight]

It had been difficult. Just acting as if nothing was different. Even in rehearsals he had worn that cardigan. He barely took it off. He knew that none of his group were handling it well. He had already fought Christian and that -- that was his friend. He was at breaking point, if even one more thing happened, he would flip and not like the others with tears, but with fists. He knew this next rehearsal was going to test his patience. Nathan Prescott? What kind of twisted joke was that? He had originally planned this with Sammy in mind. They would have to come up with a new plan entirely. Ollie knew he would likely drop Nathan head first on any lift.

" What exactly can you do? Jumps, Leaps, Turns --- I need to choreography this dance again, and I'm not letting you and your ... general self ruin my opportunity. "

@hellaed for nathan. sean is getting one from tara too.

[tctteredwings]

When the glass was placed down, a gentle laugh escaped Nathan and he shrugged his shoulders in reply, pulling out his phone to pay for the drink. "Oh, not at all," he laughed, his brows lifting. He agreed with the sentiment, though, every week seemed to be a long week these days, there was always something going on to test the patience. Once upon a time that was something Nathan had craved for, but it was safe to say he'd sobered a little more as he grew older. "Seeing as I can relate, not about to take my time with this anyway," he answered lightly. He'd barely been there any time as it was, just stopped in upon finishing a shift to grab a couple of quick drinks, soak up the atmosphere a little.

"Of course." Dakota scans the bottles of red wine they have, pulling a classic and a glass, pouring it in front of the man before turning to put the bottle away. He can't help but laugh, giving a guilty shrug as he wipes down part of the bar. "Lil too obvious?" A smile on his face as he goes about some of his duties. "Been a long week, y'know? Kinda just wanna relax a lil bit." He explains further, pausing before adding. "But please, that's a good red so take your time with it, yeah?"

[juicegremlin]

WIP Wednesday (Malevolent AU)

Andrew Minyard does not like big houses. There’s no point to them, not if you don’t have a million children, and Andrew finds himself fundamentally opposed to the idea of parenting most days, anyway.

Wesninski Manor is a big house.

Andrew, predictably, does not like it.

“Jesus,” Nicky whistles, popping the trunk. “How did nobody peg this guy for a serial killer?”

And Andrew, who seldom ever agrees with his cousin, has to make an exception here. The house is as tall as any of the surrounding trees, with a brick exterior and dark gray trim. The railing on the wraparound porch has been thoroughly compromised by creeping vines, long dead.

How, indeed.

Aaron removes himself from the passenger seat and comes around to help Nicky with the equipment. He’s a funhouse version of Andrew: blond and serious, noticeably lean in comparison to Andrew’s bulk. They were more alike when they were younger—more different.

Andrew didn’t used to see dead people.

“They probably had a groundskeeper, dumbass,” Aaron says. He drops a canvas bag into Nicky’s unsuspecting arms. “It wouldn’t be so bad without the weeds.”

Andrew thinks that yes, it would be so bad without the weeds, but doesn’t feel like saying it. He’s watching the charcoal-colored set of double doors and wondering how many bodies have come in and out, if Wesninski used a different door for the dead ones. Andrew has seen pictures of the house—the famous basement. He wonders just how much he hasn’t seen.

“Andrew, a little help here?”

He doesn’t turn at the sound of Aaron’s voice. Instead, he starts towards the porch, thick-soled boots making faint clunks on the paved drive. He ascends the steps to Nicky’s cry of outrage and doesn’t hesitate before knocking four times on the door. There is no doorbell.

It takes a little over thirty seconds for anyone to answer, and it’s a testament to Andrew’s patience that he hasn’t turned and headed back down the drive by the time the door swings inward.

Nathaniel Wesninski. Realistically, Andrew knows that’s who he’s looking at, but his perception is colored by one of two realities. One: Nathaniel was younger, in the pictures Andrew has seen; ten or twelve. His face was not riddled with scars like it is now. Two: Andrew has also seen pictures of Nathan Wesninski—the infamous Butcher of Baltimore—and for a moment, Andrew believes that Nathaniel is the ghost of him. Dark brown hair, corded through with red. Blue eyes that see too much.

“You’re Andrew,” Nathaniel says, and his voice is cool.

Andrew blinks at him. He takes in the loose gray shirt, the blue jeans. Nathaniel could not look any more or less like the house itself.

“Nathaniel,” Andrew replies.

Nathaniel’s expression contorts at the word. He frowns down at Andrew, dark eyebrows pulling together over a freckled nose.

“Neil,” he corrects. “It’s Neil, now.” A pause. “Aren’t you going to help them?”

Without a glance, Andrew knows he’s referring to the two bumbling idiots at the car. He dismisses the question with a light shrug and pushes past Neil, who pivots to let him into the house.

The living room is practically bare. A shallow coffee table sits in the middle, with a plush, elegant couch against one wall. No pictures, no books. The only indication that someone lives here at all is the half-eaten box of takeout on the table.

“I burned most of it,” Neil offers, still standing by the door. “His stuff. I thought it would help.”

Andrew turns back to him. “You don’t get rid of them by getting rid of things. It isn’t like the movies.”

He means the ghosts, but also the memories. The process for purging both is similarly complex.

Aaron and Nicky choose this moment to barge in. Aaron sets his bags down as soon as he’s past the threshold, while Nicky extends a hand in greeting to Neil.

“I’m Nicky,” he says. “We spoke on the phone.”

Neil shakes his hand once before crossing his arms again. “Neil. Thanks for coming out.”

“Like we’d miss this. Mind if we set up in here?”

Neil gives an assenting nod, and Nicky wastes no time in letting his bags drop onto the smooth hardwood. Aaron is already kneeling on the rug, rummaging through various pieces of equipment. He doesn’t bother to introduce himself.

-

-

I watched Malevolent for the first time a little while ago and this was born. Don’t know for sure if I’ll go any further with this, but it was fun to write!!

[spine-buster]

feelings/update under the cut

i've been writing and releasing my two newest stories 'that which we are, we are' ft. nathan mackinnon and 'to sail beyond the sunset' ft. sidney crosby since september after taking a posting break and focusing on my writing. i'm going to be real with y'all: i've written up to chapter 7 for ttwawa, and chapter 6 for tsbts. though i know where the stories are going, i have nothing else written as of now. work has been more excruciating that normal this year (h*gh sch**l english means way more marking) and i basically haven't written anything since october.

i've never been a writer that hung on every note or reblog i got on this site -- i write because i love it, because i have ideas, because things won't get out of my head until they're written in a doc. it's how my brain has functioned for a long time. however, all writers do require some sort of feedback and/or engagement with their writing, especially when it's posted on a site like this (with a long history of that feedback and engagement fuelling entire fandoms), and especially when it's being written for free. to say i haven't gotten the same level of engagement on these stories is an understatement. they're barely cracking 100 notes, when sometimes, like let's say a chapter of 'patience is a virtue', would crack 100 notes by the time i went to bed monday night. that is NOT to say that i am not grateful for every like, reblog, and dm i get in my inbox. it's just that i find that ever since coming back from my posting break this summer when i was travelling, engagement has been super low. way lower than normal. i don't know if it's the hockey players i'm writing for. i don't know if it's the content of the stories.

i don't know if it's my writing.

i don't know if it's me.

in any case, with the christmas break coming up, i am going to try to get more chapters written so i can still post. but this is sort of an announcement to say that during those two weeks, i'm taking another posting break, because, well...i literally have nothing to post. it's nobody's fault but mine, truly -- but...yeah.

i'm very, very sorry.

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

2023, it cannot be overstated, was a terrible year for me. We started out strong with an episode of True Love that turned out in fact to be entirely false and not reciprocated. (I've got over that, finally, but it was awkward... I posted about it a bit at the time, along with a lot of what I'm about to tell you.) Anyway, I also basically didn't eat for two weeks in January: only partially related to that. February was even more terrible, but with one bright spot: the terribleness pushed me to finally seek professional help for my longstanding anorexia. I was finally going to choose to recover and it would never bother me again.

Haha anyway I was also severely depressed and anxious so that happened. I had a good solid try at recovery and it seemed like it was going pretty well for a while, yay. Went back to uni after a year out, in the middle of the year. Ended up living with my brother 'just for the semester and after that you've got to find your own accommodation' (I'm still at his place). Anyway things got real bad and I honestly can't remember most of that patch, but I can still see the scars.

Anyway. You're probably wondering why I'm saying this stuff. In November, December, I can't remember precisely when, the Inklings Christmas challenge got posted.

Severely depressed, barely doing anything, only surviving and waiting for things to get better while doctors assessed me to figure out what was going on behind the major depressive disorder (spoiler: undiagnosed ASD), I said, well, why not. I still had remnants of my previous overachieving nature, so why not write something for all twelve days of Christmas, not just a single short story or scene? And I dug back in my memory for the fragments of a plot I worked out when I was twelve years old, remembered the characters, remembered that the main character was one I'd internally laughed about accidentally making autistic in the past.

So I went, what if I just pretend that the story I'd imagined was five years earlier, pretend that the novel I had never written was actually written, and write a slice-of-life sequel to it, featuring the same characters? I remember going to a session with my psych at the time and telling her about this story, but vaguely and quickly, because we were going to run out of time. I talked like I intended to and expected to finish it, but internally, I was going: I will not finish it. I've already proven that I cannot stick to things. (I have a lot of fragments of writing from that year which I will likely never finish, and which had no deeper structure than whatever occurred to my medication addled brain.)

And I went, what should I name this story? It's got to have the word Patience in there, because her name is Patience and it amuses me and amusement is running real freaking thin at the moment. I tried out several titles, none of which I can remember, and none of them suited. At last, because the word hope had been rotating within my brain for so long, I picked The Patience of Hope, and I drew graphics and titled all the chapters and did research to title them and I can't remember any of it anymore so I don't know why I gave them the titles I did.

I think I scheduled about chapter three before chapter one dropped on Christmas Day. I remember there being author's notes that at least hinted that I'd entirely pre-written it, because I'd intended to do so, when I wrote the author's note for the very first chapter. But most of them I wrote on the day they were supposed to drop.

I don't think anyone read it at the time; I certainly don't remember such a thing happening, though after it was completed people did read it, and do still. (It's still on my website, and also on my ao3 under the title mentioned above.) But I wrote it, this silly little thing that spawned a whole character and series of novellas I haven't finished yet. More than one character, actually; one of the main characters is Nathan, who didn't exist in my original concept at all. And another character mentioned is Hannah, her aunt, whose storyline is deeply personal to me.

I can't remember how long it is. The writing is at times very bad and the storyline vague and choppy. I had no true plans when I started writing that story: not even to finish it. It does qualify as a novella for length, but I forget where in that wide range it comes in. But I finished it.

That... meant the world to me, actually, in the state I was in. I finished it in January, and two weeks later I was being very seriously told by my doctor that if anything got any worse, in any way, I was to immediately present to emergency and request/demand admission. They didn't; I was prescribed medication that, this time, actually helped to manage the whole crisis thing going on, and I haven't been that close to an admission since (nor needed to be, not really).

So The Patience of Hope is very special to me, as you can see, because I completed it at a time I felt so strongly that I couldn't complete anything except - well, I don't suppose I have to elaborate. It's a fun, fluffy little story with underlying angst and stress and grief but above it all, it's cheerful. A romance begins, which surprised me, because I was literally just writing whatever came into my head, and apparently what came into my head was a character who hadn't been previously mentioned or thought of, asking Patience out on a date.

And the way Nathan accepts and understands and loves Patience for herself and not for what he hopes that she will be (if my phrasing seems odd, it's a Carpenters reference - "Love Me For What I Am") was healing to write. The entire story was written between when I started being assessed for ASD and when I was officially diagnosed, and I can really really see in Patience's words what I felt and still do sometimes feel - the hesitation and uncertainty and distrust of oneself. She was the first character I ever wrote who was stated to be autistic, though I'd written ones before deliberately making them autistic in my head, but they never said they were autistic on the page.

I don't remember the timeframe of the next bit, but there was a writing challenge to write a novel from start to finish in - six months, I think? It was a while. - and I saw it and went, oh, I could go back and write the novel about Patience that I first conceptualised.

Which I did, over the next few months. From start to finish, that draft is eighty-four thousand words in its current, unedited form, and I expect it to end up somewhere between eighty and ninety thousand - I always edit down on a sentence level, and up on a scene and chapter level, so it tends to balance out somewhat. Especially the earlier sections, it's pretty sparse before I hit my stride, and I also struggled to finish it in a way that felt satisfying to me, and I need to build up the community aspect more - and introduce her aunt Hannah more throughout.

What's the novel about, you may ask? And don't ask for the title, because I made a working title, and I haven't figured out a proper replacement yet. The novel is about Patience at a younger age, I forget what; early teens, I think, self-isolating and shy and scared and very very rigid. (It's a lot of fun comparing the Patience of this novel to the much more relaxed, but still characteristic Patience of The Patience of Hope five or seven years later. She's the same person, only grown up rather, and in a very positive way.)

In a mechanism I haven't yet worked out properly and will definitely be rewriting, she unexpectedly gains an adoptive sister, Rhona - named after a tea cosy in a pattern book I used when I was eleven or twelve to knit an atrocious and very wonky stuffed dog. Anyway, Rhona is a bit younger, a bit more extroverted, a bit prettier and a bit more new and exciting. And a bit disruptive to Patience's neatly ordered life.

Cue emotional explosions I'd compare to Holly and Lucy in Lockwood and Co., and say it was based on that, if I'd read that before I planned this book out. Rhona is doing her best to fit in to the family, but she's also showing up Patience's inability to fit in, so there's insecurity tying in to it.

Patience spends most of the book hating her with a passion of greater or lesser intensity despite everything Rhona tries to do to bridge the gap. And then, in a move unrepentantly stolen from Jean Webster's Dear Enemy, the house burns down. Oh, the horror! Oh, the shock! Oh, the fact that Patience was the only one within range of Rhona and had to drag her out! Oh, the hospital whump afterwards! *coughs* Forget I said that last one. Anyway Rhona gets off pretty lightly, while Patience... does not get off so lightly. She spends a while in hospital, but luckily, the combination of everything brings her and Rhona together finally, and they all live happily ever after.

Well, that's what the original plan said, anyway. Back when I was twelve and didn't know interpersonal dynamics.

While it's true that the house burning down and everything associated with that does help Patience and Rhona to get along better, that's not the end of the book. The house burns down at the turn between parts two and three, fifty-three thousand words in. Any mathematicians reading this will observe there are still thirty thousand words to go. There are nine chapters in each part.

The last three chapters total fifteen thousand words between them. My original plan calls for three thousand word chapters. Again, the mathematicians are going to observe that this doesn't add up. These chapters average out five thousand words each.

That's because I really wanted to mention one specific character earlier in the novel, who gets a passing and no longer timeline compliant mention in The Patience of Hope. Patience's aunt Hannah, who, yes, I named after myself, and who also struggles with anorexia nervosa.

Chapter twenty-five is titled, "A Will to Live". Originally intended to be about Patience's depression following her discharge from hospital after the house burned down, and then regaining her mental equilibrium, it became a bitter sarcasm that hurt every time I re-read the title while I was drafting it.

(I did cry quite a bit about this, including while actively writing. Sobbing and still writing the next sentence. I hope it comes across in the final work.)

Because Hannah does not win her battle. She is not a success story, or a happy ending, or a triumph. She dies alone in an apartment that hasn't been cleaned for weeks, fridge almost empty: two days before she's agreed to go into treatment. There are three big killers in anorexia: suicide, heart failure and malnutrition. And Hannah Shepherd dies of heart failure, leaving, as I heard in a video I strongly do not recommend, recently, "a bleeding, girl-shaped hole in her family".

It's traumatic and horrible and full of grief, but they manage somehow to go on. Patience is kept in the dark as to what's going on, at Hannah's request; she just knows that she died of some sickness. After all, she's at THE prime age to develop an eating disorder of her own, and even though you'd think someone dying would make you reconsider, unfortunately, eating disorders are mental illnesses and don't discriminate. (Besides, I wrote this story, and Karen Carpenter is a special interest of mine. Doesn't stop me relapsing.)

And then three chapters later (though, realistically, I'm going to rearrange the chapter balance to add at least one more here, since I struggled to fill a few of the chapters in terms of word count), the story's over, and everything is okay - just okay, not good, but with hope that it will be.

The first draft has been finished for - I don't know how long. Looking back to former posts makes it seem like I finished it on the last day of April last year, which would make it eight months and 21 days since I completed the draft. I think that's long enough to go back and redraft, don't you? I was working on continuing to draft Vaniah's story, but given that it's not singing to me right now, maybe I should jump in to editing this and see where I get to - I can always go back to Vaniah and Anneka instead, even though I've left them at a profoundly difficult spot. (While we're on the topic of dying from anorexia? Yeah. Except that is a story of recovery and hope.)

All that to say, you might hear more about Patience, and Rhona, and Jude, and Marcia, and Hannah, and Nathan, and everyone else that makes that story what it is, soon. I've been thinking a lot about it lately, and I really do think Patience's story needs to be refined, so that eventually I can show the world. If anyone wants, I can pull out excerpts too, if I'm brave enough. Please tell me your favourite aspect of this story, whether the novel or The Patience of Hope or whatever it may be. Ask me questions. I can ramble. Please.

[softboywriting]

Surprise | Nathan Bateman | Ex Machina

Summary: You’ve got some news for Nathan and now is as good a time as any. [F!ReaderxNathan] [Pregnancy] [Established Relationship] [No Use of Y/N] 

Word Count: 1k

|Masterlist In Bio|

Nathan is the epitome of a man baby. A week after you arrived at the complex following your trip home for the holidays with your family, he came down with a cold. Statistically it should be impossible for him to get ill. There are no outside sources to contaminate his immune system. Except you. You and your vacation germs, and he is a major cry baby about the whole situation.

"This is your fault."

"No it's not." You lean back on the chair in the lounge while he lays under three blankets across the couch with a cold compress on his head. He barely had the sniffles and he's laid up like a man on his deathbed. "It's your fault."

"How? Do tell me how I contracted a cold from not leaving this place?"

"It's your fault because you kissed me."

Nathan scoffs.

You get up and cross the room to kneel beside him. It's time to take his temperature again. "Am I wrong?"

"No."

"You broke your own rules about staying apart for a week to prevent this because you couldn't keep your dick in your pants." You shake the thermometer and look at the little red bar inside. "Open up."

Nathan glares as he allows you to pop the cold little stick under his tongue.

"While I've got you quiet for a few minutes, I want to say that I've got some news."

He furrows his brow in confusion.

"There's no easy way to say this."

Nathan spits the thermometer out. "What's wrong?"

"You're supposed to keep that in for two minutes."

"I don't fucking care. What is wrong?"

You lay a hand on his blanket covered chest and you can see true fear in his eyes. He is expecting the absolute worst at this point. You've never come to him with such a serious approach.

"I'm pregnant."

He is silent.

"Nathan, I know we didn't discuss that possibility. I am on birth control but I think I missed a few weeks. We got so busy with building Ava and I didn't even think-"

"I fucked you so good I put a baby in you?"

"I- um, yes?"

He lets out a little smug chuckle. "I'm damn good."

"Yeah, this isn't about your bedroom skills okay?"

"You wanna keep it?"

You take a deep breath and sit back on your heels. "I don't...I don't know."

Nathan sits up and runs a hand over your hair. Fingers toying with the ends a bit. "What's your hesitation?"

"Everything." You look around the room, gesturing to the house in general. "I can't raise a child in a research facility."

"You think you'll raise it alone?"

"N-no? I mean I guess I assumed that because you're so busy and everything you wouldn't be interested in chasing a toddler around or changing diapers at all hours of the day." You laugh softly, threading a hand through your hair and tugging. "I'm not going to keep it."

"Put all of that aside. Do you want it?"

"I guess?"

"No you're not listening. Do you want the baby, yes or no?" Nathan says slowly like he does when he's trying to explain something to you for the dozenth time. "It's a simple answer."

"It is not!"

"Yes it is! Do you want the fucking baby or not!"

You tremble, hands balled into fists on your lap. "Yes! Okay! Yes I want it! But I'm scared!"

"What are you scared of?"

"You! Nathan, I'm scared of you!"

He leans back and he looks like you've just knocked the wind out of him. As if you've stolen every word from his mouth and he can no longer speak. He opens his mouth several times but nothing comes out, like a fish out of water. It's as if he never considered that he would be the reason for your hesitation.

You push up from the floor and he grabs your hand, stopping you from getting too far. "Let go Nathan."

"No." He curls his fingers around yours. "No, I won't let you go. Not ever."

"It's fine. I don't expect you to want this child. I just thought it would be fair to tell you since it's yours."

He sits up and tugs your hand. "Come here. Sit on my lap."

"I don't want to."

"Please?" He gives you the softest look you've ever seen. "Let's talk."

You step back and sit on his legs, staring down at him even as he sits up, you're higher. You don't know where to start so you just remain quiet.

"What about me makes you afraid?"

"Everything." You laugh sadly. "I have no idea how you would be with a child. You drink too much. You're lost to your work most days. You've got no patience for things that slightly inconvenience or annoy you. Not to mention how remote we are and how would the child learn, and grow and socialize?"

Nathan runs his hand over your stomach. "Give me a chance. I'll get sober and I'll work on everything else for the next nine months."

"Why? Why do you care?"

"Why do I care?" He scoffs. "It's my child. I can make a hundred robots but none of them are alive. None of them are a human being who is my flesh and blood. My legacy." He smiles and grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips. "A child of my own would be my greatest creation and something I would love unconditionally."

"You're serious?"

"Do I sound like I'm joking?"

"No. You want to do this?" You touch your stomach. "You wanna have a baby?"

"Fuck yeah." He grins and wraps his arm around you, pressing his face into your chest. "Can't wait to meet this little monster."

"Hey!"

"Lovingly of course." He stares up at you over his glasses. "But you know he's going to be a menace."

"You're so confident it's going to be a boy?"

"Absolutely. Guys with big dicks always have sons."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Science." He laughs, kissing your stomach. "Trust me. It's a boy."

You rub your hand over his head and he makes a little growly sound against your shirt. "We're doing this then?"

"One hundred percent."

End

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thank you so much for reading! please reblog and support content creators such as myself :) -A

Header pic by delicate-venus

*****Note: none of my works should be posted anywhere outside of my linked accounts. I do not give permission to repost with or without credit to my accounts. Please notify me of any reposted works.*****

[foxpaws10]

Don’t Forget Me When I Let The Water Take Me

It was the red hair which had done him in. His eye had latched on and for the first time in a very long time he felt his chest lift with hope. But the man had turned, eyes deadened and brown, not blue, and hope had been squashed under disappointment.

He should know by now that he wouldn’t ever see him again. Kept pushing it down down down. There were more important things to focus on than the ghost of a boy.

But as Andrew sat in the trenches, clothes soaked with mud, rain and the blood of his men, his mind conjured up old memories. Perhaps the memories were the only thing keeping him sane. Giving him a reprieve from the constant onslaught of bombs and gunfire, of men screaming and crying, of rats and lice and flies.

He held tightly to the image of the boy - because that’s what they had been, boys - and he closed his eyes against the fireworks of shrapnel in the otherwise dark sky.

He thought of nights spent on rooftops, smoking stolen cigarettes and making up stories about the bright stars above.

He thought of Nathaniel, and Nate, and Abram and Junior - of Neil.

Neil, always Neil to Andrew.

How his mother cursed them and threatened them and warned them. That boy was the son of the devil, the women of the village swore. They weren’t wrong. Neils father was the devil, with his burning temper and iron fists raining blows down on his son, painting him crimson and lilac.

But Neil, he was mischief. He wasn’t the fire and brimstone his parents raised him to be. He was sneaky and sly and a liar right down to his toes. He was a thief and he burned, oh how he burned, but it was life which coursed through him. Life which lit him up brighter than any star in the sky and drew Andrew into orbit.

He remembered the first time he saw him; galloping a chestnut mare across the fields which separated Andrew’s house from the Laird’s. They were both shiny as copper, Neils hair a fiery crown of curls, the horse dipped in blood - all but her muzzle which was a bright white.

Devils son? Well he looked the part. He took joy in the twin curls which curved like horns by his temples when his hair was wet; a consequence of either being caught in a downpour or Andrew dunking him in the river.

The river. They spent most of their days by it. Stealing the Laird Hingston’s fish, swimming in the clear depths, skimming rocks across the surface of the smoother, deeper pools.

The first time they swam, Neil had stripped naked as the day he was born. No shame in his nudity, though cautious about the scars and bruises littering his freckled skin. By the second week, Andrew was down to his underwear and then nothing at all.

They spent hours floating down the flow. Settling in shallow areas where the riverbed pushed up to the surface, keeping them locked in place despite the rushing water. Jumping off the high banks into pools, or swinging off overhanging tree branches.

They’d begun to ride Fox, Neils glorious chestnut mare, down to the river together. She would graze the lush grass along the banks, and Andrew swore she flicked them dissapointed looks every now and again when they were being particularly rowdy. Occasionally she would travel into the water with them, cooling down in the shimmering summer sun. Once, Neil had backflipped off her rear end and nearly had his skull caved in by her hoof.

She was a birthday present from Neils uncle, a Londoner by the name of Stuart Hartford. A strong Irish breed, she was to be used for hunting; covering vast stretches of land and jumping wooden gates and stone walls and deep gulleys. She had a temper worse than Neils some days; her ears would lie flat back against her skull, her nostrils would flare and she’d bare her teeth like a savage while stomping her hooves. Neil had worked through the anger with patience and persistence, and Andrew with a pocket full of sugar cubes.

Despite her bloodline boasting impressive abilities, she was just as happy pottering down country lanes and cobbled streets, loose and relaxed with the two boys riding atop her bareback.

Neil had taught Andrew how to trot, canter and pop a small jump on her. Just in case, he’d said, with a shifty look in his eye.

Andrew liked the speed of her, feeling the unbridled power in her muscles as he pushed her on until her strides swallowed the ground beneath them. Some days it felt like flying, most days it felt like freedom.

Andrew had been tucked into the corner of her stall late one evening, sharing an apple with both Fox and Neil, when he met Stuart Hatford. A man of high class and strange fashion, he was abrupt and rude but entirely harmless. Harmless to the two boys, that is.

Andrew grew to like him, enjoyed listening to him tear apart Nathan Wesninski with whip quick words. Enjoyed even better the day he’d threatened Nathan with his cane, a deadly look in his eye that Andrew had caught Neil mimicking once before.

After that incident they hadn’t seen much of Hatford, but when they did, he was sure to sneak money into pockets and biting remarks into ears.

The last time Andrew had seen Stuart, he’d been sat upon an impressive dark horse. A coat like midnight, shining like stars under a low autumn sun. He had passed Andrew, taking a shortcut through the fields, on the way to peruse the sweets of the bakery. Pulling up beside him, Stuart had made Andrew promise that he would take care of Neil, keep him out of trouble. And had warned that they needed to leave, the sooner the better.

If Andrew knew then what he did now, he would have left that very same day. But he had a brother to look after, one who confessed not long after that he’d knocked up the baker's daughter.

Their mother had been livid, and Andrew had taken the abuse in place for his brother. God only knew what the woman would have done had she found out about Andrew’s own inclinations.

He’d never understood the fascination with girls. Their curves and their high pitched giggles, their swishy skirts and small frames and sweet perfumes. He’d always been drawn to men, their deep voices and strong hands, the lingering musk of sweat and what lay between their legs.

He’d seen two men kiss behind the pub one late evening, when it was safer out in the cold night than their house. Had been fascinated with the hard press of lips and teeth and tongue, how their hands had gripped and tugged and pulled. It was a memory that wreaked havoc in his sleep, leaving him with damp undergarments in the morning and which haunted him on the days he did slide his hand between his legs.

Neil was the first male he ever kissed. Sitting in the corner of Fox’s stall, a puddle of kittens between them. Neils father had ordered him to drown them, but Neil had stowed them away in one of the outbuildings instead. They mewled and tottered between them on stumpy legs, claws digging through their trousers as they climbed into their laps.

Andrew had been sat on his window ledge smoking and watching the last dim light of the sun dipping below the horizon when Neil had stopped below him, wheels of his bike skidding in the loose gravel and dirt. His eyes had been alight with defiance and mischief as he coaxed Andrew to join him. Andrew had learnt early on he wasn’t capable of saying no to that look. It promised mischief and adventure and danger.

Andrew had mounted the bike with Neil balanced on the handlebars, telling him all about his precious find. One of his mothers exotic felines had been caught by a barn cat and given birth to five small kittens. She had hidden them away in a closet to protect them from Nathan and his hounds, but they soon found their voices and she’d been exposed.

They were a grey-blue colour with dark stripes and squashed faces. Andrew marvelled at how small they were, so soft and warm in his hands, with needle sharp claws and teeth. Despite only being a few weeks old they were strong and bold.

He dared a glance at Neil and felt his chest tighten. A bruise was splattered across his jaw, and a half circle of black skin hugged his left eye, but neither could take away from the soft smile curving his lips.

In the flickering lamp light, with the soothing sound of Fox’s heavy breathing and the grinding of her teeth as she grazed from her hay, he looked soft and melting like butter. Andrew wanted to dip his hands into him, to sip from his mouth and feel the steady pulse of his heart.

Neil came from old money produced through blood. He was the heir to the Wesninski estate, but also the Hatford’s. He had wardrobes packed with silks and chiffon, fancy coats and stiff trousers and hard boots. He had a mansion hung with exquisite portraits and oil paintings, curtains which cost more than Andrew’s house, furniture which dated back centuries yet was polished so bright it could have been made yesterday. He had a bed larger than Andrew’s and Aaron’s shared room. He had prospects and future betrothals and a list of universities just waiting to snap him up.

Yet he sat in the dirt of a horse stall, with mud splattered overalls coated in horse hair, a shirt which once might have been white but was perpetually stained yellow from hard work and sweat, boots gone soft and falling apart at the seams. His hair was an unruly uncombed mess atop his head, bright like the sunrise, and his eyes were blue as a summer sky. He smelt like sweat and horse and the Earth. His fingernails were perpetually dirty, no matter what time of day it was. He spent nights walking dark streets or sitting atop rooftops with Andrew, a bastard boy coated in poverty.

Their lives were miles apart, and yet they fit together perfectly. They had the same blase attitude about most of life, a dark humour others shyed away from, and a belief that there had always been something… missing. They had dark days and sharp days and quiet days. But together, they were learning ways to chase away the dark clouds and foreboding shadows.

Neil had been the one bright spark lighting up Andrew’s life from the first day. Everything was on fire, every atom of his being burned and yearned to be swallowed within Neils own blaze.

Andrew could remember, as clear as if it were yesterday, how his stomach had tied itself in knots. How his palms had dampened with sweat, catching the fine hairs of the soft kittens. How dry his mouth had gotten, all the moisture whisked away by nerves.

He could remember the wrinkle of Neils brow as he glanced at him, concern tightening his eyes as he realised something was wrong. The soft murmur of his name, slipping between smooth lips.

Andrew had asked, because he couldn’t bare to be pushed away once he leant in. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost Neil, if Neil looked at him with disgust and swore to never see him again.

But Neil had merely smiled, eyes gone soft and dewy as he set aside a kitten and leant in. His lips were even softer than Andrew had imagined. They were both inexperienced, and yet somehow it was perfect. The fumbling movement of their mouths as they tried to slit together in an even rhythm; the heavy gusts of breath as they tried to breathe and then forgot how to and almost choked on lack of oxygen; the first quick swipe of tongue to dampen the dry stickiness which suddenly turned the quiet kisses loud and sucking; the gut tightening sound Neil made when Andrew lifted a hand to his jaw, careful of the bruising, and tilted him down into the kiss; how they kept trying to get closer, ignoring the mewling and sharp claws of the kittens between them; Fox’s snort as hay dust swirled in her nostrils and she splattered them with wet droplets; how Andrew opened his mouth to breathe and suddenly Neils tongue was on his and it was like the beginning of a universe.

He could remember it all like it was yesterday. As another whizz-bang exploded overhead, he struggled to decide if it was a blessing or a curse. The memories were a warm blanket, a honey soaked film trying to cover the worst memories he’d occurred over the last few years. Where once everything had been bright and golden and beautiful, everything was dark and cold and horrid, leaking blood and guts everywhere. He could slip away for a second, a minute, an hour, and remember the boy he had cherished above all else. But it never lasted.

He didn’t know what happened to Neil. One day he was there, the next he was gone. Slipped out from under his fingertips, stolen on the wind as more bad news about the war blew in.

Andrew had tried to write to him once, but he’d never gotten a reply. He’d tried to find him, but so far there had been no news of a Wesninski or a Hatford in their ranks. Every glance of red hair was a beacon of hope, yet they left nothing but dark disappointment behind.

When the horses passed them, mud splattered and skeletal, he looked for red with a white muzzle. He dreaded the day he’d find it, abandoned on no-mans-land.

A whistle blew further down the line and he heaved a heavy breath before standing, so used to the feel of his clothes stiff and ridged and mud soaked he knew it shouldn’t bother him anymore, yet somehow it still did. He had a team of men to lead, he couldn’t dwell on the past. His brother, a medic now, among them.

Perhaps one day, the war would be over. Today wasn’t yet that day.

They had an advancement planned, a move to gain back what had been taken. A move closer to the enemy. It would be another week before he heard more than whispers travelling down the lines. They had a new battalion joining them in the meantime, due some time tomorrow evening.

Among them, a new translator. Andrew hoped Private Josten would be more help than their last one had been.

{READ ON AO3}

[whencallstheheart]

One thing I really don't comprehend is why Liz picking Lucas was really that much of a shock for Nathan stans. I mean, she had expressed just as much interest in him than she did Nathan, if not more at certain times so why is team Nathan acting like Lucas never existed in Elizabeth's affections and that he was never even a choice?!

I get that they interpreted things in a different way, but I know Team Lucas (TL) wouldn't have been SHOOK the way Team Nathan (TN) was if it was the other way around. I know this because we all resigned ourselves to the fact that they were going to go that predictable route in the penultimate episode and while we had HUGE reservations, we didn't act blind to the fact that it was always kind of a possibility.

Now this merely stems from what I've read and seen on social media, but we didn't ignore the reality of what was happening in comparison to TN. We didn't ignore Elizabeth's chemistry and interactions with Nathan, or the small symbolic gestures they shared or the very intent way Nathan pursued her. However it truly baffles the mind that the other team really went out of their way to ignore every time she ever looked, smiled widely, laughed, yearned and had fun & some real passionate chemistry with Lucas. I mean talk about selective watching. 😂

All Lucas stans hear is how Lucas is shady, but Nathan's enormous lie about Jack is brushed over and twisted into a noble sacrifice, whereas I guarantee had it been Lucas, he would have been painted as an opportunistic conman who took advantage of a widow's pain and loneliness, a man who wormed his way into her life in a completely questionable and frankly dishonest way. The truth is that his one lie is bigger than any lie Lucas or really any other character has ever told Liz and that already set off alarm bells for me personally and is just one of the many problems I have with Nathan's character, however we don't have time to go through all my issues with him.

As for the way the story was told, I'm not sure why certain fans think that TN was inevitable and that his reward for apparently just existing and taking care of Allie would be Elizabeth, who has been having intimate after intimate moment with Lucas. Seriously, she went on more dates with Lucas, she would even make the first move with him like taking his hand or being open to maybe kissing him and it was LUCAS that stopped it. I mean maybe in the penultimate episode when Lucas literally put Liz's happiness above his own, I can understand why TN held out hope but to act like EVERYTHING that happened between her & Lucas before that wasn't an honest appraisal of her feelings is just so odd and it kind of came across as denial.

It is also bizarre how TN could ignore and excuse SO MUCH of what she did or said, how she conducted herself and how she would retreat from Nathan more often than not, how he would keep pursuing her and how she would barely give anything back. I mean, how much can you really just blame her fear of getting hurt on her rejection of him? That's a bit too simplistic, because that fear existed equally in her opening her heart to Lucas, plus it seems that TN care more about Nathan's happiness than whether him and Liz really belonged together and if she truly wanted to be with him. 🤷‍♀️

I mean even reading your analysis, I noticed it was based on how Nathan deserved her after everything, but she's not a prize and while I know you did not mean it that way, it just doesn't seem like a good enough reason for them to be together & nor is Ally. I've noticed that TN just adored the neat perfect family 'appeal' they had because Liz has LJ and Nathan has Allie who ironically Lucas helped him adopt with the money he offered.

However, that is not a sustainable enough reason for two people to build their lives together. They have to have that kind of love, spark and connection that is incomparable and cannot be broken.

I think all three characters deserve partners who truly loved each other for who they are intrinsically and not anything else, not Lucas's money which apparently is the only reason she could ever love him, because she's apparently a spineless gold digger, who couldn't possibly love him for his compassion, his unwavering friendship, sense of humour, loyalty and patience 😂 or rather Nathan's automatic dad appeal and the land he purchased and the complete nuclear family they could have created, which I again could understand because that is a tempting offer also and she already loved Allie so it could have fit her too, had she wanted Nathan in that way.

Don't get me wrong, I don't love how long it took to get us here & I do agree that it should have been concluded earlier in the season & Elizabeth doesn't come off looking great. Although in a way, with everything that she has been doing with Lucas, it could have looked a lot worse for her character to have discarded him too, but I suppose that is all a matter of perspective. I don't however believe that Elizabeth is some kind of monster which is apparently what some of TN have landed on because she rejected Nathan. It's like we've forgotten that a woman doesn't owe love or a relationship to someone just because they've put the time in, not Nathan and not Lucas. It would have also been okay if she had just decided to keep them both as friends, that is her right as a woman. Just because she didn't pick what certain fans wanted, they have dragged her unfairly when she was also really struggling with not only mourning her husband and the life they had, but having to pick up the pieces and carve a new life out for herself, whilst struggling with the immense confusion surrounding her feelings for both men. I don't think the cobwebs really cleared for her until Lucas removed himself from the equation, I think that is when she really opened her eyes to whom she could not, rather did not want to live without.

Anyway sorry for the long rant, you just seem like you love to analyse shows and characters the way I do. 😆

It all boils down to perception.  That’s it.  It also doesn’t help that people were essentially forced to pick sides.  Everything became black and white for people.  If one man was a certain way, the other was the opposite... even if that wasn’t true.  But that’s what we’re conditioned to think.  It’s like politics.  The lines may be more gray but people are going to only believe what they want to believe or are told to believe by others within their party.  Nobody’s gonna listen to the other side because they’re the “enemy”.  That’s not really a great strategy for a tv show largely about community.  The show is so proud of the fandom that was built but yet they actively worked to divide it for the past 3 years.

I think a lot of the frustration comes from the fact that Lucas did get all those interactions with Elizabeth.  He got the dates.  He got the almost kiss.  He got the hand-holding.  Nathan got NOTHING romantic with her even though we were led to believe he would at some point since it was supposed to be a triangle.  If she had picked Nathan, at least Team Lucas would’ve had all those moments to hold onto.  At least they got something along the way.  Team Nathan didn’t.  And because he wasn’t getting much along the way, it made people think that it had to be coming.  That they’re putting him through all of this because it’s going to end in his favor.  It felt like the natural course of the storytelling (but now we know there wasn’t even any planned storytelling... they just made it up along the way???).

The two teams are never going to get along now.  People have made up their minds and they will continue to believe what they want to believe.  No side is better than the other.  You have issues with Nathan so why can’t people have issues with Lucas?  That’s hypocritical.  You have your reasons and others have theirs for believing certain things about the characters.  At some point you just have to agree to disagree because this is how things are now thanks to how it was all written and how it was handled on and off screen.  We don’t need to be pointing fingers at the fans.

[nekojitachan]

Okay, so I think I’m going with ‘the real thing’ for a title. Subject to change of course. But as I sorta promised, more andreil soulmate not fic. Same warnings as before (mention of past abuse, referenced but not described/detailed sexual abuse, Andrew on meds so...).

Part four (previous part w/ links to the OTHER parts can be found here)

*******

Andrew was about to murder his new bestie; it had been three days since Moreau had all but promised to spill secrets, and if Andrew had to wait much longer? The backliner would be spilling blood instead.

Yes, among his various character foibles (he refused to see them as flaws, not matter what the shrinks rudely insisted) was his very low tolerance for patience when he felt that he was owed something. And he most definitely felt he was owed the truth about what was going on with Nathaniel.

Perhaps Moreau sensed his imminent bloodletting because he muttered ‘tomorrow’ to Andrew as they passed each other in the hall on Tuesday, which granted him a temporary stay of execution. Andrew grunted softly in acknowledgement, then knocked his shoulder into Bautista, who’d been staring a bit too long at Nathaniel.

The backliner glared at Andrew once he regained his footing, but all it took was Andrew ‘smiling’ at him and the older Raven averted his eyes and scurried away.

People were slowly getting the message that Nathaniel was off-limits.

Wednesday came and at first started off as a normal day; early as hell practice, Aaron being smug about getting a good grade on their biology test (Andrew kept his better grade to himself), barely staying awake in his classes, then back to the Nest for more stupid Exy practice. Except Riko and Kevin were gone, off to Detroit to play the next two nights for their professional team (who could keep them), which meant that Andrew just had to wait for Nathaniel to be pulled away, too. He gave Moreau a pointed look when they (and Nathaniel) went out onto court to play in a scrimmage, but the French bastard merely returned it with a blank expression.

Andrew may have aimed a ball or two at the bastard during the scrimmage.

He’d just settled on his bed with a new book to read (sent by Nicky) when his phone vibrated with a message from Moreau for him to come right then to the break room in the Black Hall. Part of Andrew wanted to ignore the summons, but his desire to find out the truth won out over his ornery nature so he got up and left his room without saying a word to his partner (not that Ben acted surprised at all to see him leave). There were a few Ravens out in the hallways, but none brave enough to question him, especially when he headed in the direction of the Black Hall.

Very few went there unless invited to by one of the ‘perfect court’; people would assume it was just him getting away from Ben and raiding the ‘good’ break room again while Riko was gone.

Like he wouldn’t raid the break room while Riko was standing in the middle of it.

Moreau was waiting for him with a mug of coffee in hand. “Nat should be busy for a couple hours at least,” he said by way of greeting.

Andrew went to fix coffee for himself. “Translating stuff.” That’s what Moreau had told him the other day. “He do that a lot?”

“Somewhat. He’ll be called up to the East Tower during games to translate for some of the guests up there, or to work on documents for Tetsuji or Kengo.”

“Kengo, Tetsuji’s brother and Riko’s father.” Andrew knew a few things.

“Yes, Tetsuji’s brother.” Moreau gave him a considering look then focused his attention on the door of the break room as if to ensure that no one was out in the hall. “Are you sure you want to-“

“Tetsuji’s brother,” Andrew said to urge Frenchie on. “Tell me about the man, everything.”

Moreau gave him an intent look as if judging how serious he was about things (about Nathaniel) before he sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he resumed speaking. “The truth of the matter is, the Moriyamas came into their wealth by being crime lords – yakuza. Kengo is the current head of the organization and his oldest son, Ichirou, will take over when he dies.”

Well, that somewhat explained how Tetsuji could be such an abusive bastard and Riko treat people like belongings; they clearly believed themselves to be above the law. “So Tetsuji and Riko do whatever they like because they’re mobsters?”

Moreau wrinkled his nose, which had been broken at one point and not properly set, as he sipped his drink. “Not… exactly. Kengo and Ichirou are part of the main branch, the line that inherits the wealth and responsibility of the Moriyamas. Kengo, as the Moriyama lord, was to only have one son, one heir, but his wife bore two.” His expression grew guarded as he glanced at Andrew for a moment. “She died for that mistake, and Riko was disinherited, was given to Tetsuji to be raised as part of the side branch.”

“Funny, but I always believed it takes two to tango.” When Moreau merely shrugged at the comment, Andrew clicked his tongue. “So Riko has no real power?”

“Not… exactly,” Moreau repeated, and glared when Andrew threw a crumpled napkin at him. “Asshole.”

“Tell me something new,” Andrew said with a wide grin. “Oh, wait, that’s what you’re supposed to be doing right now.”

Moreau muttered in French something while he tugged on his long bangs then sighed. “Riko is still a Moriyama, which means he has money and connections, but has nowhere near the power he’d have if he was part of the main branch.”

It sounded as if someone, a certain spoiled, psychotic brat, might have to answer to his ‘betters’. “And where does Nathaniel fit into all of this?”

It was quiet for about a minute as Moreau stared into his mug then huffed. “The same as I do, more or less. We were sold to the Moriyamas by our fathers.” He looked up at Andrew, who stood there… mentally prodding at that bit of information. “No comment?”

“How the hell do you ‘sell’ someone?” He knew the logistics, but somehow it didn’t seem to fit when one applied it to Exy players.

“Well, in my case, my parents owed a debt to the Moriyamas and decided that it was best paid off by offering me to Tetsuji since I knew how to play Exy.” Oh no, Frenchie didn’t sound bitter about that at all. “In Nat’s case… his father is in charge of a large amount of territory on the northeastern coast and reports to Kengo. For some reason, Nat can’t take over from the man, so he was given to Tetsuji.”

“Nathan Wesninski,” Andrew said as he remembered the redhead with the soulless eyes, the businessman with all the ‘interesting’ rumors.

Moreau nodded in a grave manner. “Yes, Nathan Wesninski, the Butcher of Baltimore. He comes here now and then to deal with people who’ve run afoul of Kengo, and often he reminds Nat to ‘behave’.” He shuddered as he rubbed his right hand along his upper left back. “If you think Riko or Tetsuji is abusive, they have nothing on Nathan. He’s responsible for most of Nat’s scars.”

Most, but not all.

Andrew thought about what he’d been told, about someone thinking they owned his soulmate, that they could abuse him with impunity, and ‘smiled’. “No one owns Nathaniel.”

“Including you?” Moreau dared to ask as he set the mug aside, his expression blank as his obnoxiously tall body coiled with tension, coiled as if ready to launch itself at Andrew.

Andrew clicked his tongue at that bit of nonsense. “Did I stutter?” he asked, each word enunciated slowly. “No. One. Owns. Nathaniel. Do I need to learn sign language or that mumbled slurring you call French so you’ll understand better?”

“I don’t want to hear that from someone who grunts out German,” Moreau snapped, as if he couldn’t think of anything more offensive, but he’d relaxed against the counter.

Whatever. If Andrew was a lesser person, he’d be rolling his eyes right then instead of shoving the good granola bars, packets of honey (it was some type of sugar), and energy drinks into the pockets of his hoodie and track pants. “Anything else I need to know? Moriyamas are mobsters and bad, Nathaniel’s father is a serial killer and really bad, and Riko is under the mistaken belief he owns the two of you.”

There was a brief muttering of French again before Moreau shook his head. “That’s it. But be aware that since Riko feels he owns Nat, he probably believes that extends to you.” He rubbed the soul mark hidden beneath the sleeve of his black hoodie, his expression neutral but grey eyes bleak.

Oh, just let Riko try to put a leash on him and lead him around, Andrew would wrap it around the prick’s neck and strangle him with it. He was about to leave the room when something occurred to him. “Does Riko only give Nathaniel out for ‘rewards’?”

He knew the answer as soon as Moreau’s expression shut down, as the backliner wrapped his arms around himself as if to shield himself from someone. “Why do you care?”

Andrew could say because Moreau was Nathaniel’s partner and as much as it galled him, Nathaniel cared about the French bastard. He could say that he knew what it felt like to have unwanted hands and mouths and worse on him, to be used without a care (except he wouldn’t, not to someone he barely trusted). He could say because he needed to know exactly how bad it was with Riko’s power games.

Yet all he did was give the backliner a two-fingered salute before he walked away, well aware that he wouldn’t answer if asked a similar question.

Ben gave him an expectant look when he returned to their room, so Andrew threw him an energy drink and granola bar which his partner caught with a wide grin.

Nathaniel appeared tired during practice on Thursday, but didn’t move as if he’d been injured in any manner. He smiled at Moreau as usual and talked to a few of the Ravens (the ones who didn’t look at him as if he was a piece of meat), and gave Andrew a puzzled look now and then as if he was trying to figure him out.

Good luck with that.

Friday, Aaron bumped into Andrew as they left Biology class and muttered ‘don’t lose, I’ve bet a bundle on you’ on his way out the door, which made Andrew want to lose the game on purpose until he remembered Nathaniel. Nathaniel, who sat in the seat in front of him on the bus as they traveled to WVU for their latest game. Nathaniel, who peaked over the seat to frown at him. “That… doesn’t look like an English assignment book to me.” He motioned to the current wolf shifter ‘romance’ novel Andrew was reading as a diversion.

“It’s not.”

“Okay.” Nathaniel went a whole fifteen seconds (nibbling on his full bottom lip the entire time, which did nothing to Andrew to watch, nothing). “What does ‘omega’ mean?”

Oh no, Andrew wasn’t having an A/B/O discussion with his soul mate on a crowded bus. No. “Going to cheer us on as we defeat the Mountaineers?”

Nathaniel frowned as he ran his long, slender fingers (which Andrew didn’t think about at all, about them on his- he didn’t think of them AT ALL) along the top of the seat. “I wish the Master would have let me play this year, I’m more than ready. And you shouldn’t have a problem tonight, they’re weak on their offense, they act tough but they crumble if you don’t back down in four seconds.”

Andrew listened as his soulmate went over a concise review of the Mountaineers that was better than what he’d suffered through in the past week, mindful to pay attention to the few players Nathaniel singled out. When his soulmate finished up his summary of the other team, Andrew gave him a solemn nod and a quiet ‘thank you’, which made Nathaniel blink at him and a slight blush spread across his sharp cheekbones before he muttered something and ducked back down in his seat.

That allowed Andrew to finish his wolf shifter book (light on the plot, which was why he liked the books – he could finish them in a few hours without much brain cells involved and have a bit of twisted amusement over its ridiculousness).

At least it wasn’t a long drive to WVU, a campus known for its partying which somehow, Andrew doubted the Ravens would be allowed to join in; Tetsuji made sure to segregate the team from the rest of the university as soon as they arrived and set them up to practice on the court once they were in uniform.

Someone had no sense of adventure.

At least he got to watch Nathaniel stretch with the rest of the team (he was still trying to figure out if it was a good or bad thing that his soulmate was so damn flexible) and do drills before he retreated to the sidelines. That was around when Riko and Kevin came back from dealing with the press, and Riko made sure to hold up two fingers to Andrew as he walked past.

Such a shame Andrew didn’t have anything sharp in hand at the moment to shove into the bastard’s throat.

What he did have was a growing clarity as the drug-fueled mania slowly faded away (yet how odd, the urge to kill Riko still remained); he watched the first half of the game against the Mountaineers all too aware of Nathaniel sitting next to him on the bench, lean body twitching each time the Ravens scored a goal or lost possession of the ball. Nathaniel smiled, slight but pleased, whenever Moreau successfully blocked a Mountaineer, and glared when his partner took a rough hit.

He nearly jumped in his seat when Andrew cleared his throat. “Yeah, weak in offense.”

Nathaniel turned toward him, a slight frown on his face, and for a moment Andrew thought he wouldn’t speak. “Most of them. Peters’ being rougher than usual tonight.”

He was the one trying to take down Moreau. “Cheng’s trying to fake out Ivanova into thinking he’s shooting for the top of the goal then going lower.” The striker had done that twice so far, and gotten past the goalie once.

That slight smile appeared once more on Nathaniel’s lovely face (not that Andrew had any real opinion on how the redhead looked or anything). “You noticed that?”

Andrew clicked his tongue and forced his attention back onto the game. “I just spend my time in a painted box waiting for people to throw balls in my direction. Not like I do any real work out there.”

“Of course,” Nathaniel murmured, but he sounded amused for some reason.

The first quarter ended, which meant that Moreau was swapped out for Federov, which also meant that Nathaniel took to speaking quietly with his partner in Japanese until halftime.

Perhaps it was the lack of drugs in his system, perhaps it was knowing that Moreau was concerned about his own soulmate (the fear of Riko finding out who he was), but as he glanced at the two backliners out of the corner of his eye… there was evident affection between them and long familiarity, but nothing to suggest they were in a relationship themselves. There weren’t any lingering touches or glances, nothing intimate or possessive between them.

Yet Andrew still felt a ridiculous urge (which he ignored) to shove Moreau off the bench.

It was almost welcome to be out on the court for the second half of the game, to be away from Nathaniel and the traitorous emotions the bond between them awoke in Andrew. In the goal, his world focused down to the idiots trying to get past him to score a point, which he refused to allow.

(He knew he couldn’t keep shutting down the goal for the rest of the season, but WVU wasn’t much of a challenge.)

Moreau gave him a nod in acknowledgement when the teams lined up at the end of the game, while there was a look of relief on Nathaniel’s face before he schooled it into a blank expression when the Ravens gathered in the locker room for Tetsuji to give them a gruff ‘you did a decent job today’.

Riko caught Andrew on the way to the bus, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes as he blocked Andrew from exiting the stadium. “Impressive job out there tonight. Perhaps there’s something to letting you play… natural.”

“Only so much at a time,” Andrew said as he smiled, his expression exaggerated once again since he’d taken a pill after the game; it wasn’t that long of a drive back to Edgar Allan, but long enough that he’d be experiencing withdrawals by the time they reached campus so he’d went ahead and taken it.

He’d have to wait until next week to have time with Nathaniel as ‘himself’.

Yet the urge to protect Nathaniel as they went to his soul mate’s room, to make Federov and Bautista and the other Ravens who stared at the redhead in a hungry manner glance away in fear was still there, as well as some tremulous emotion when Nathaniel didn’t insult him or run away but walked beside him.

There were a fresh set of sheets on Moreau’s bed when he entered the room.

“Try not to snore so much this time,” Nathaniel said, a half-hearted sneer on his face as he dropped onto his bed.

Andrew gasped as he clutched his hands to his chest. “I have never been so slandered in my life. Never.”

Nathaniel scoffed as he rubbed at his eyes as if he was tired. “Right, that’s the worst you’ve ever heard. Such a sheltered life you’ve led.” Then he dropped his hands and had the grace to look guilty. “Uhm, I mean… that didn’t come out right.”

The press had delighted in going on about his stint in juvie, him being in the foster system and of course him being arrested for beating up the assholes who’d hurt Nicky, not that he’d cared at all. “I know not what you mean, I’m just an innocent babe alone in this wicked, cruel world.” He tried to bat his eyes but wasn’t sure it worked well with the manic grin.

Nathaniel gazed at him for several seconds before he sighed and stood up. “I didn’t see you take a hit to the head earlier so I think it’s okay for you to go sleep,” he mumbled as he went into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Andrew gasped again. “You care for me! You truly do care!” His lips twitched when his ‘dear’ soulmate gave him the finger before the bathroom door slammed shut.

At the very least, someone didn’t quite hate him as much anymore. Who knew, maybe by the time he graduated, Nathaniel might even trust him.

He blamed the drugs for the feeling of warmth in his chest at that thought.

*******

IDK, still working through some things, but lately it’s been... if I post is that a sad cry for attention? Am I being annoying? Maybe I shouldn’t post stuff... but I said I’d post this.

*sighs*

Anyway, back to writing the other fic. Hope everyone is staying safe.

[the-drakeboys]

Come Back to Me - Pt. 1

Summary: For the first time in years, Sam and Nate Drake will be going on a perilous, high-risk adventure without you by their side - a three-day stint in a Panamanian prison. They’re not just the guys you’ve partnered with and been a medic for on dozens of insane jobs over the last few years - Nate has become one of your closest friends, and Sam… well, Samuel Drake is the love of your life. 

Sam just wants to reassure you - everything is going to be perfectly fine. 

It’s a simple job, after all. 

Pairing: Sam Drake x Reader

Word Count: 3,475

Warnings: Just… all of the fluff. So much fluff.

A/N: My first fic in a long time! I sincerely hope you enjoy. This’ll be a 3- or 4-part series… Just can’t get enough of Sam. He’s such a complex character, and I absolutely love him. Thanks so much for reading!

---

"I just don't see why we can't come up with something." Pacing the floor with your hands on your hips, you had both Drake brothers watching you with uncertain eyes. The crimson shag carpeting beneath your feet squished between your toes, and your eyes caught the cryptic motel art hanging on the far wall. "There must be... I don't know. Something." 

"We've been over this three hundred times, y/n. It's not gonna work," Nate sighed, rubbing his hands down over his face. You slowed to a stop behind Sam's chair and set your hand on the back of it. You idly thought about how badly you needed to do a load of laundry - his t-shirt felt utterly grimy against the side of your thumb. "But the boat is an important piece of the puzzle. Immensely important. In fact, I would say it's the most important-" 

"Okay, alright, she gets it," Sam waved off his brother's muttering, glancing up at you over his shoulder. "Darlin', we'll be fine. I promise you. It's a simple plan, in and out. That's it." You stared down at him, taken by the earnest look in his eyes. He meant it; he was confident everything would be completely fine. 

And that's what scared you. 

"Sam..." you started, your mouth opening and closing uselessly. He never left your gaze, managing a small, reassuring smile in the corner of his lips. You sighed, setting your hand softly onto his cheek. He turned his head and kissed your palm, hoping that your jittery nerves would be soothed by it. You felt yourself sink, knowing they were right. "Just... just go over the plan for me one more time. Okay?" 

"Jesus, y/n..." Nate's patience was wearing thin. You sat yourself down in the chair between them, trying to settle yourself. 

"Please. Just humor me,” you pressed. The younger Drake softened at the sound of your voice and gave, clearing his throat and starting up on the plan for the millionth time. 

"Uh... Yeah. Yeah, alright." You sunk back into the chair, feeling the weight of all your worry and stress press down into your shoulders. "So, obviously, we know that Avery and Burnes had a run-in at some point in the late 1690's, and Burnes eventually wound up on his crew, and was definitely present for the Gunsway heist. Then in 1696, he was captured and imprisoned for his crimes as a pirate..." Your eyes carefully followed as he gestured across maps, notes, and letters, recounting all the details for you from start to finish, feeling your heart crumple up as he returned to the part of the plan that had remained a sticking point for you for four solid months.

The jail. 

"...so once we get whatever Burnes left behind, and assuming there aren't any hiccups or anything, we just follow Rafe's lead and head to the boat." 

"And that's where you come in," Sam murmured. "Rafe's guy will drive the boat, and you'll be there to patch us up. Y'know, if... we need it." 

Dazed and quiet, you just nodded, staring at the blueprints of the jail in front of you. Eyeing the lines - all the cells, the maze-like array of boxes and hallways and tunnels. It'd be hell to get out of there on short notice. Sam raised a brow at you, taking in your slumped form and feeling the defeat that came off of you in waves. He reached over and rested a firm hand on your knee, forcing you to lock onto his eyes. "Baby," he started. "It's nothing. We do a job like this in our sleep. You know that. I promise this time next week, it'll be like it never happened. Just me and you, on the beach somewhere, drinkin' mojitos and dancin' in the sunset." 

You cleared your throat and sat up, sighing out a slow breath of air. "That's sweet," you spoke, leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "But that's not what's bothering me." 

"...oh?" he mumbled as you leaned back from the kiss, sitting back in his chair and getting ready to listen. 

Nate took a swig of the luke warm beer that'd been sitting in front of him for over an hour; you hid a smile, pretending you didn't notice the grimace that crossed his face as he sat it back down. "Well... I mean, truthfully, besides the impossible exit strategy - or lack thereof, or the fact that I can’t be there - and yes, I get it, all male prison, yadda, yadda; or even the fact that the person your entire plan is dependent on is Rafe, with whom I wouldn't trust a pet rock, much less my life..." you trailed off, not noticing the look Nathan shot to his brother across the table and the narrowed eyes the elder sent right back, "it's mostly... Burnes. I mean, I hear you, Nate, I really do, a lead is a lead. But just… why Burnes?”

Nate cocked his head at you. “Whatta you mean?” 

You cleared your throat and carefully lifted the 300 year old letter from the table. “I mean… why Burnes? Theoretically, the Gunsway heist took place in ‘95, right? Avery dies four years later - and based on this one letter, we’re supposed to believe that Avery left his monumental treasure of gold and jewels, the culmination of his entire fantastic career as a pirate… to some inconsequential member of his crew who’d barely come aboard just before the heist?” 

A wave of depressed concern flooded both young men. "Well..." Sam started, sitting forward. "Look, it's..." 

You cut him off, “-and not to mention, why would he have wanted his son to ‘find his way in’ to a Panamanian jail? Is there no chance that it was forged by someone trying to lure the son in, maybe one of the captains in charge of capturing and hanging as many of the pirates from Avery’s crew as possible?” 

Nate grumbled under his breath and stood, going over to the mini fridge in the corner. He pulled a few cold beers from the tiny shelf and cracked them open.

You glanced over at Sam, immediately feeling guilt flood your veins at the disheartened expression on his face. “I’m… I’m sorry. I just… I don’t want you two risking so much on such a thin lead.” The brothers shared a look. 

Nate carefully sat down, sliding the two beers to both you and Sam across the cheap wooden table. He gently took the letter back from you and ran his eyes over it. 

“The thing is… you’re not wrong. Okay? It’s thin. It’s definitely thin. But… listen to this. ‘Though my regrets are many, know that I am at peace with my fate.’ He’s… He’s a father, giving peace of mind to his wife and son. Letting them know he’s ready for death. If it was one of the Viceroys, they wouldn’t want to imagine him having any sort of peace, and they certainly wouldn’t want the son to feel peaceful about it, either. They’d want him to feel urgency. To hurry to the jail. They’d give him some sort of date or timeline.” Nate’s passion was evident as he let the words roll off his tongue, and you couldn’t help how it made you smile, how much he reminded you of his brother. 

They both got that look in their eye when they talked about history; when they told the stories of people who’d lived and died so long ago. 

“And,” Sam chimed in, a glint in his eye as he spoke, “he doesn’t just say ‘treasure’. He describes it as ‘the riches of paradise’... That’s a pretty specific line, and given how religious Avery seems to have been... I mean, there are references to paradise all over Avery’s history, and the Spaniards wouldn’t have known that.” 

Okay. you thought. There’s no talking them out of this.

“C’mon… You know it’ll be fine… over before you know it. What’s the worst that could happen?” Sam nudged at your foot with his own, trying his hardest to make you smile.

Your eyes found their way to your overstuffed med pack, sitting fully stocked at the edge of your bed. You’d been there for them through more close calls and near-death experiences than you’d care to admit over the last three years, playing medic to their wild, reckless adventurers since the beginning. And now, without you being able to get into the prison with them, the mere thought of them having to make it in and out of that place without you by their side turned your stomach inside out. 

But they were right. This was the only lead you’d had for months… It was this, or back to square one. And with everything they’d been through, with how long they’d been after this treasure… That just wasn’t an option. 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you mumbled, “Can I at least stock you guys up with some gear, just in case?” 

A wide grin broke out over Sam’s face. “That’s my girl,” he laughed, reaching over and cupping your cheeks in his hands. “We’re gonna be fine,” he pressed a kiss to your lips, “More than fine, actually. We’ll be great.” He turned to his brother then, holding his beer out for a cheers. “We’re gettin’ close to this treasure, I can feel it.” 

You let out a soft giggle, rolling your eyes and lifting your own beer to theirs. Just before your bottle touched Sam’s, you pulled it back. “...Although…”

“...oh my god. What?” Nate huffed with a frustrated laugh.

“...What do I get out of bein’ so cool about this?” you grinned, lifting your feet up to rest on Sam’s lap. 

“What you get? You mean other than your share of a 400 million dollar treasure?” Nathan was beside himself at this point, finally relaxed but still in disbelief at your stubbornness. 

Sam was lost to the conversation, in an awe-filled haze as he watched you start haggling with his younger brother. He softly rested his free hand on your ankle, rubbing the skin there and listening to you throw out ideas - everything from them doing your laundry for a month to a three-day excursion to the Bahamas - and all he could think was just how goddamn lucky he’d gotten; he still couldn’t believe you were his.

“...okay, okay, no, I’ve got it,” you spoke, sure of yourself as a sly grin crossed your face. Nate raised a brow at you, playfully terrified of whatever was to come next.

“Oh god, what is it?” 

You sat forward, smirking at them both. “When you get back, you two finally tell me your last name.” 

“...y/n, the hell’re you talkin’ about?” the younger Drake seemed confused, but you saw right through both of them. 

“Yeah, c’mon. You know, your real last name.” They both immediately began stuttering their way through objections, but you weren’t having any of it. “C’mon, boys, how long did you think I was gonna buy that you just happened to be descendants of Sir Francis Drake? Really? You’re treasure hunters, for Christ’s sakes.” 

Your laughter carried through the thin motel walls, but Sam stayed on target, pressing his fingers lovingly into your ankle as he did, “No, no, Drake is a very proud, very meaningful family name. You’ll see, we’ll uhh… shit, I’ll show you my birth certificate if that makes you feel better.” 

Nate shot him a look that screamed ‘are you fuckin’ kidding?’, but it went unnoticed. There was a darkness in Sam’s eyes and a pang in your gut that told you to let this one go; there was much more to this story than he was ready to tell.

“...mhmm,” you grinned, playing it off and raising your beer once more. “So, uhh… my laundry for a month, then?” 

Nate let out a relieved laugh, glad the discussion was finally over. “Guess I can live with that. I figure it’s worth it for 400 million.”

 Over the clinking of bottles and excited murmurs of cheers, an atmosphere of adventure loomed. 

Sam was right. Everything would be… great. 

“Y’know, I was thinking about the guard that Rafe is paying to get us in, I mean, maybe we can buy him a fruit basket or somethin’ once it’s all done…” Nate began, “Could be a nice way to keep him from asking about what we’re doin’, I mean it could be pretty funny, here’s thirty grand and, y’know, some bananas and pomegranates…” You and Sam listened in amusement, nodding your heads as if any of what he was saying made sense. 

As the youngest Drake rambled on and on about fruit baskets and prison guards and how much of an asshole he knows Rafe to be, Sam found your eyes with his and held them there. A weight lived there between you both, a magnet pulling you to him. He took a swig of his beer, occasionally ‘mhm’ing for his little brother’s benefit; but you were all he was thinking about. A soft smile tugged at your lips, the coy look in your eye driving him crazy, making him struggle not to reach out and touch you. 

“Ahem,” Nate coughed, a brow raised at both of you. You mumbled a ‘hmm?’ at him, turning to face him. Sam didn’t move, gaze still set on you as if he was etching every curve of your face into his memory. 

“I’m uh… I’m gonna go see what’s goin’ on down at Tankhouse. I think it’s ladies night, or… somethin’.” You felt a warm blush come over your cheeks as he stood from the table.

“...you have fun with that, little brother.” Sam’s soft voice and sly, cheeky smile caused a flutter in your stomach, your foot gently kicking his side as you willed him to behave long enough for Nate to get out the door. 

“Sounds good, Nate,” you muttered through your smile, “We’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Night, guys,” he said with a playful roll of his eyes, shutting the door behind him. 

Sam set his beer down and reached over, turning the knobs on the old motel radio that sat against the wall. Old 60’s tunes began to play through the speakers, and he set it to a low volume before turning back to you. “C’mere,” he mumbled, his tone both husky and sweet as you obliged him. You moved to sit yourself across his lap, sighing happily as he brought you into his arms and tugged you close. He captured your lips with his in a slow, heated kiss, one that set you on fire and made your fingers curl around the fabric of his t-shirt. You sunk into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and smiling against his lips. “...what?” he chuckled, his eyes slowly peeling open. 

“Nothin’. Just… you taste… you taste like beer and..tacos.”

“M’not hearin’ a complaint…” 

“Shuddup,” you giggled, still tasting him on your tongue as you leaned back in his hold. There was a long quiet as he stared up at you, eyes lidded and hazy. You dragged your lips in a whisper against his, humming your words into them. “Mmmm, you are gonna miss meeeee…” 

He let out a pained laugh and buried his face in the crook of your neck, peppering soft kisses there. “Ooh, babygirl, you have no idea.” 

“Can you imagine me in prison, though?” you wondered aloud, lovingly threading your fingers through his long, auburn hair and smiling at the happy, peaceful hum it brought out of him.

“...ooooh, I sure can,” he teased, his fingers coming up to give your side a playful squeeze. 

“Oh, stop it,” you laughed, smacking his arm. 

“What? I’m serious. You all dressed up in the orange jumpsuit? Runnin’ the joint, callin’ the shots.” 

He leaned his head back, glancing up at you as you thought aloud, trying to hide your grin, “Y’know, you’re not wrong, I’d probably be some big shot… Get a bunch of tattoos, maybe start collecting teardrops…”

“Now that, that I would love to see,” he laughed, his hand sweetly resting on your thigh and his thumb swiping back and forth. “What about your right-hand man? Do I get a few teardrops, too?”

You cocked your head to the side in thought, twirling some of his hair around your fingers, “Hmm… No, I don’t think you’d be the teardrops type… Too obvious. You’d uhh… I could see you with some birds. Maybe down the side here…” You traced a finger down the side of his neck, feeling goosebumps rise in the wake of your touch. He closed his eyes then, drinking in the moment, loving every second of how it felt to have you in his arms. 

“Mmm… Mhm, I’ll have to do that… Maybe I’ll just get them on this trip. I’ll come back to you all tatted up, lookin’ large and in charge,” he chuckled, still distracted by your fingers running through his hair. 

A heavy quiet fell over both of you, the only sound in the room coming from the radio as oldies classics continued to play. You slowly pulled your fingers from his hair, cupping his face in your palms and meeting his eyes as he peeled them open. “You do that, Samuel Drake,” you whispered. “You come back to me.” 

The fear and stress that played over your face rocked something in him, and every bone in his body ached, knowing just how worried you’d be until he came back to you. 

And in that moment, something in him clicked; staring up at you, his heart racing, his entire body overflowing, he mumbled a single word. 

“Morgan.” 

Your brows furrowed with questions, your mouth opening to ask them, but stopping as realization overtook your face. He repeated it quietly, a shy, scared smile tugging at his lips. “Our name… it’s Morgan.” 

You couldn’t help the joy that poured onto your face, love stretching through you to your fingertips as you closed the small distance between you and met his lips with a full, passionate kiss. He wrapped himself around you, moving his lips with yours, falling harder with each passing moment and knowing in his gut that of all the people in the world to tell about who he really was, the only one that mattered was you. 

As you pulled back from the kiss, you could feel his heart thumping heavily away in his chest. He cleared his throat. This was hard for him; but for you, he would do anything. “When we were kids, I uhm…. There was this one night...” He looked shaken, and your chest ached at the sight. You could see him reliving whatever hell he and Nathan had gone through - you saw it right there in his eyes. “See, Nathan was just a little guy, and I... I almost-”

“-I love you,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his. An emotional smile came over him, grateful for the rescue. 

“Maybe I’ll uhh… maybe I’ll save that one for another time,” he mumbled, relief washing over him. 

“Sounds like a plan, handsome,” you promised. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

There wasn’t an ounce of uncertainty in his eyes, his hand coming up to gently tuck some of your hair behind your ear. “Never doubted it, sweetheart,” he spoke. “In fact-” He cut himself off then, brows raising happily as the radio began to play his favorite - Sinatra. “Ooh… Oh, this is a good one.” He reached over, fingers nimbly turning the radio up as I’ve Got You Under My Skin floated out through the room. “...I have got you,” he started to sing, your heart instantly fluttering at the sound, “Under my skin… I’ve got you, deep in the heart of me…” 

Sam’s smile was infectious as he sang, shifting you in his lap so he carried you bridal style against his chest. “...I would sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake, of holdin’ you near…” He stood then, eyes glued to yours, loving how you listened to him with that adoring gaze, your arms around his neck, swaying from side to side as he held you.

His face was so close to you, his lips hovering above yours, warm breath unfolding over your skin with every word of the song. “But each time I do, just the thought of you, makes me stop, before I begin…. ‘Cuz I’ve got you…” Before he could finish, you took those beautiful few words from his lips with a kiss; one that made you both forget the impending trip to Panama, the jail he’d be stuck in for three days without you, and his partnership with the ever questionable Rafe Adler. It was a kiss full of all the weight of knowing deep down in your gut that you were utterly, hopelessly.. helplessly in love. 

---

Next Chapter

Tags: [tagging the lovely folks who responded to my post re: who’d be interested in a Sam fic. :)]

@lucacangettathisass @ammaliatrici @cassieseraphim @slooshen @wings-0806 @talktothemoon2 @nachochitz @supernaturally-avenging-hannibal @aritipoupi @landoverthemountains @qwertybubbler @raeswrittenrecords @coolnerdreader @s4mdrake @go-youngtrash-things

GIF credit to @bizexualvampire, couldn’t get tumblr to link the gif from the post. thank you!

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

@monthly-challenge 2024 | 2. Long Walks

I used this prompt for my original characters, Nathan and Patience: the story is under the cut.

Word count: 1,083

Patience was playing a nocturne when Nathan stuck his head in the door. “Patience, you busy?” he asked as she paused.

“What does it look like?” she chided him lightheartedly, and he had the grace to look somewhat shamefaced.

“Would you come for a walk with me afterwards?” he asked. “While I’m at it—what nocturne is that? It’s a nocturne, right?”

“Yes.” She turned back to the piano. “Chopin. Thirteenth.”

“Ah,” he breathed softly. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is.” After a moment’s pause, she began to play it again. Her touch was light and delicate, her eyes brimful and the occasional hints of power precisely what the piece needed. He stood and listened, watching her strong slender hands leap from key to key, a smile occasionally gracing her mouth. Once she paused to wipe tears from her eyes. The playing was imperfect, but to the eyes of love that watched her all imperfections were smoothed out and it was better than any master. At the end she held still for a moment while the vibrations gently ceased, then got up. “Did you want to go for that walk?” she asked, in a voice as gentle as the music she had been playing.

Nathan smiled at her. “I’d love to,” he agreed, and held out his arm.

She accepted it, holding herself very primly until he laughed, at which point her own facade crumbled. “Oh, you’d make no good fine lady,” he told her. “You’d be laughing at every little thing.”

“Is there a problem with that?” she asked, with a luminous glance at him. “Surely laughter is good.”

“Laughter is a balm to the soul,” Nathan agreed, and picked up her hand to kiss it. As he did so he made eye contact with her. Letting go of her hand, he continued, “I could wax poetic about it, but instead, we can go for a walk.”

“Poetic enough,” she agreed. “Walking brings out all the poetry in you.”

He smiled exuberantly and skipped like a lamb to the door, trying and failing to click his heels for added effect.

Her laugh was like falling water in the background. “I love you.” Then Patience stopped, paused and took a breath. “I—” She wasn’t about to say she didn’t mean it, because she meant it more than she had meant anything for a very long time.

“You what?” he asked, very softly, and watched her.

Patience squirmed under his gaze. “I don’t know what to say,” she admitted. “But I’m never, never, never going to say I don’t love you.”

“Ah!” he breathed triumphantly. “I had hoped so.” They passed through the door, and his fingers brushed hers. She let him take her hand.

Walking hand in hand was a little awkward, but worth the awkwardness. Her cheeks were flushed and Patience told herself it was because of the exercise they had just begun. After a few minutes of sunlit walking Patience let go of his hand, and Nathan glanced at her and picked up the pace. Today she hadn’t brought her camera, so she was glad to stretch her legs more swiftly than usual. Presently she was breathless.

“Are you all right?” asked Nathan calmly, seeming unaffected.

“Yeah—I’m fine, I’m just a dying asthmatic,” she said, laughing breathlessly.

“Good. Tell me if you need us to slow down.”

“Oh, no—no! I love this kind of speed!” They were quickly leaving the beaten track and heading into an area that was wetter, greener and less populated. There were hardly any people around now, and they walked across grass rather than pavement.

“Shall we disappear into the woods?” he asked whimsically.

“‘Woods’ seems the wrong word,” said Patience. “Woods seems a very—well, a very English sort of word, don’t you think? This isn’t all oaky and bluebells and stuff, this is real Australian bush.”

“‘Real’? This is barely the start of it. Have you been into a real wild area, like the Grampians where there aren’t tracks and you aren’t supposed to go but you go anyway?”

“Nope,” she said regretfully. “We’ve barely ever been to the Grampians.”

“Someday I’ll take you there,” he promised. “We’ll walk up Stapylton and scramble Hollow Mountain and look down all the crevices I was too scared to on my own when I was last there, only I’ll feel safe with you. And we can walk and talk and take all the time in the world, and then we can be up top with the wind in our faces and joy in our hearts. How does that sound?”

Patience was enchanted by his glowing-eyed explanation. “That sounds beautiful. I’ve never been up Stapylton; it was too far away from where we were staying.”

“Halls Gap?”

A nod.

“Yeah, no wonder. There are closer mountains in the Wonderland area. Though Stapylton isn’t that far.”

“True, but as you said, there are closer ones. I wanted to go, but Dad said we’d run out of time, and besides, it was too windy.”

“Got to be careful with the wind; I wouldn’t want you to be blown off or something. You’d love the sandstone caves, though.”

“Would I just! I believe you; I’ve heard good things about them. O-oh, Nathan! When can we go?”

It was his turn to be captivated by her. “Anytime you like. I’d take you there tomorrow if I could.”

“I know you would,” she replied charmingly. “For now we should keep walking.” They had paused, staring at one another. “Wouldn’t want to clog up the grass.”

“You make it sound like we’re something from inside a drain or something,” he retorted, grinning. “Dribbling out onto the grass like forgotten socks the washing machine ate.”

Patience stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing, exclaiming his name as soon as she could speak again. “That’s not what washing machines do!”

“Why do you say that? They might be secretly conspiring to eat your socks. Goodness knows socks go astray.”

“I know they do,” said she, sobering a little, “but they don’t dribble out onto the grass!” Patience covered her mouth, slightly embarrassed by her outburst, but Nathan was grinning.

“Why on earth not? Entertain the idea a moment.”

“I’ve entertained it a moment. Horrifying.”

“You could say that,” he agreed, and grinned again. “Gotcha. One of these days, I’ll make you laugh and you’ll never stop.”

“Listen, I know you meant that to be romantic, but that’s a slightly horrifying idea too.”

“Fair point.”

tagging @stealingmyplaceinthesun @graycedelfin @pilgrimsofworship and @choasuqeen

[pongnosis]

I’m sorry to bother you again but are there any little scenes/headcanons that you never got to add into Devil? What are your favs?

It’s absolutely not a bother! The answer will probably be a little disappointing, though. There were a ton of ideas that never made it in, but the vast majority of them remained a line or two in my notes. Of the stuff that actually got written ... most of what I never got to add in was stuff where the plot took a different turn - things like the bare bones/main scenes of the alternate ending where Alex chose the CIA options, or snippets of an AU where Yassen chose to break Alex and turn him entirely into Orion after Santa Catarina. Bits of some of it got reused elsewhere if possible, and the rest of the discarded scenes are generally stuff that just ... didn’t fit in. It was too slow, too detail-heavy, or just didn’t quite fit the flow of the chapter. Most of the important scenes and headcanons made it in (with the exception, I believe, of the undercover agent on Santa Catarina - that was Nathan, Johann’s bodyguard, who was with the CIA, but it never fit into the fic to mention it.)

If you do feel in the mood for Yassen deciding to break Alex ‘for his own good’, I’m happy to share! It’s less of a rough first draft and more a collection of main scenes that I had to get down in writing before it would leave me alone. It’s somewhere on the discord server, too, but ... way, way back. God knows where. Warnings for Yassen deciding to break Alex through isolation:

Alex wakes up in an unfamiliar room wearing nothing but loose trousers and a t-shirt. His last recollection is leaving Malagosto with Yassen; refusing to stab someone to death, accepting however many weeks in Dr Three's care, and Yassen telling him he won't have to -

- And nothing. Drugs do weird things to memories sometimes; resistance to interrogation taught him that. It could have been days ago. It could have been hours. He has no way of knowing.

There is no daylight in the room, no windows, just the constant, low, artificial light of the lamps. There is no running water anywhere. There's a toothbrush and toothpaste and a sink, but no tap. There's a chemical toilet and disinfectant gel with a horrible, hospital-like smell to it, but nowhere to actually wash his hands. No shower. Nothing but a plastic jug of water and a cup that goes with it. To Alex's best estimate, it's enough to last a day and not much more.

The door is locked. Alex tries it twice, just to be sure. He can probably fit a single sheet of paper between the door and the frame but that's it. The walls are solid and probably soundproof.

It doesn't feel like Dr Three's style, though Alex could be wrong.

He has no idea of the time but he stays stubbornly silent. He won't beg to be let out, he won't talk, and whoever is behind this – Yassen, it has to be – can just go screw themselves.

With no shoes on, he's smart enough not to kick the door.

Eventually he settles down, resting against the wall. There's nothing else to do. The floor isn't comfortable but then, neither is the wall. His mind, already bored, is happy to supply any number of horrific possibilities as to why he's there. Alex is sure that's Yassen's plan in the first place and makes a pointed effort to ignore them.

He starts by mentally reciting every country and capital he can remember. Then he tries in alphabetical order, followed by doing the same in French, Spanish, Russian, German.

He can remember a surprising amount of song lyrics when he thinks about it, which just makes it all the more annoying when there's part of a single verse that he can't recall.

Alex spends a long time trying to remember the first lines to Total Eclipse of the Heart, and considering how many times Jack's played the damn thing -

Alex has just started on his third attempt at trying to remember all of Bohemian Rhapsody when the door opens and Yassen steps inside. Alex is on his feet seconds later, stiff and sore and furious.

Then he takes a closer look. There's something about Yassen's body language that has Alex instantly on edge. Something that reminds him of … he's not sure, but he knows it's nothing good. Gentle, almost.

“Orion,” Yassen greets, breaking the silence.

“Alex.” Probably not the best time to be stubborn, but Alex doesn't care.

There is something in Yassen's eyes – pride, pity, resigned determination – and he touches Alex's chin lightly. “Not anymore.”

Alex sneers. “What, you didn't have the heart to just shoot me, so you'll lock me up?”

“Something like that,” Yassen agrees.

----

Alex gets the point when he lets his anger get the better of him and hurls the jug at the door and calls Yassen every name in the book.

There is no food or water that evening, night, whatever time it is. The floor is still damp but dries fast in the dry, air-conditioned atmosphere. Alex goes to sleep thirsty and wakes up with a mouth that feels like sandpaper and saliva that acts like glue.

He doesn't work out that day, just does slow, careful stretches that won't make him sweat.

He's hungry, too, but the thirst is overwhelming. When the door finally opens sometimes in the 'evening' and Yassen appears with a new jug of water and a plate of nutrition bars, Alex doesn't move.

Yassen doesn't put it down but arches an eyebrow in a silent question, and Alex knows without being told that if he gets it wrong, Yassen will leave again.

A healthy adult can go for a week or more without water. Alex isn't an adult but he knows Yassen will have a good idea of what he can handle, and two days without water probably won't kill him.

Yassen's words to him before his first meeting with the executive board comes back to him, unwanted.

Be respectful, obey, never argue.

Yassen doesn't care that he's the one that locked up Alex. He doesn't care that Alex has every right to be angry and throw a fit. He doesn't care that Alex is a teenager and not exactly known for forethought and rational actions.

Thirst battles with pride. Yassen never moves. Finally the man seems to lose his patience. It's more a minute shift of muscles than anything else, but Alex can read it just fine.

Alex swallows. “- I'm sorry,” he says before he can stop himself, before Yassen can leave, and his words sound hoarse to himself. They make his throat hurt, too.

Yassen nods and holds out the water, and Alex accepts it very, very carefully. He forces himself to drink slowly – there's plenty, but he doesn't want to waste it – and when he puts it down, the plate is on the floor, and Yassen is gone again.

--------

The nutrition bars are vanilla flavoured; the cheap sort that's made of chemicals in a lab somewhere and added to everything from discount candy to the sort of milkshakes that come in plastic jugs.

By day five. Alex is ready to throw up from just the smell of chemical vanilla. It takes longer to eat those bars every day. The only reason he manages is because of hunger and the fact that if he doesn't, the smell will stick.

He dumps them in the chemical toilet in a fit of anger on day six. He gets no food on day seven. None on day eight. By the time day nine rolls around and he finally gets food again, that vanilla smell is the best thing ever.

Alex gets the lesson loud and clear.

Be respectful.

------

Yassen greets him with 'Orion' every time but says little else. He answers if Alex asks, but only sometimes. If Alex gets angry, Yassen will leave. If he stays respectful, he will have company for at least a little while.

Yassen calls him Orion. Alex corrects him. It becomes a habit, though Alex's heart isn't really in it. He's tired and bored and lonely, and it's not like Yassen doesn't know about his objections.

On day eleven, Yassen appears with the usual food and drink, for a given definition of the term.

“Orion.”

Alex wonders why he bothers. For the first time, Alex can't be bothered to correct him, too tired to care.

“... Whatever.”

-------

The reading material that appears is Dr Three's most recent work, a two-thousand page monstrosity on torture.

Alex doesn't want to read it but the boredom has become a creature of its own, gnawing slowly at his sanity.

He opens the book.

It takes him three days to finish it. When he does, Yassen spends a long time testing him, question after question on what he's read, and Alex answers to the best of his ability. It's better than the silence.

There is fresh fruit with his dinner that night; apples, grapes, sweet oranges. Alex forces himself to eat slowly and savour it. He eats everything but the stems and peel – and honest, he even tried a bite of that. At least it's not vanilla.

He loses track of the days eventually. He's not sure how. He got to twenty-something and then … forgot. Lost count. Was it twenty-two or three? His mental calendar break down after that. It's not like that matters, either. He's not getting out any time soon. Maybe never, some deep, dark part of his mind acknowledges.