#and now my mind is a litany of apologies

[kiryoutann]

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TRIGGER WARNING: NARCISSISTIC MOTHER, DEPRESSION, emotional abuse, manipulation, cognitive dissonance, undiagnosed mental illness.

My mother was a good mother.

When she walks through the threshold, she carefully places her heavy bag on the table before settling into the chair next to your bed. You're unsure of the reason for her presence or what to say, given how heated things were the last time you spoke. So, you bide your time, waiting for her to speak first, like the obedient daughter she wished you had always been.

You wonder how she feels—if she sees herself mirrored in you. This bears parallels to that day in the past, except the roles are reversed now. You stepped into her shoes, while she takes on the part you once played at the age of eleven, or perhaps twelve.

At that time, you didn’t judge her; you just stared at her, face filled with curiosity and a little bit of sadness. With questions yearned to be satiated. But it remained unspoken—those endless strings of "why." Why did this happen? Why would Mom do this? Why couldn't Mom talk to you? Why didn't Mom tell you anything? Why did Mom want to leave you? The litany of unanswered queries clamored at the tip of your tongue, yet you stubbornly refused to let them slip past your lips.

You wait for her anger, your body gearing up in case she starts to raise her voice. But instead, in an almost hesitant voice, she asks, “Why did you do it?”

The question stops the gears of your mind. You sit there stiffly, waiting for her lashing out—for the usual barrage of insults that typically follow. But instead, what greets you is the sound of a choked-back sob. Hesitantly, you look up and see her head hung low. Like a sorrowful soul.

“Sabrina… she.. she called me,” she managed to say between gasping breaths. “She said you were in the hospital, that the doctor said it was… poisoning.”

Within the four walls of this monotonous room, your mother sobs, tears seeping and painting her jeans dark. However, all you feel is confusion—questions about the authenticity of her sadness because all your life, you’ve known your mother to be a great performer. The last thing you want to be is someone incapable of empathy, but you can’t help the ripe doubt trickling down your throat. You want to be able to choose the person you are; yet, someone has shaped you into a human full of distrust.

“If you had… if you…” Mother lifted her head, trying to regain control of her breathing. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

Hearing that, all you can do is sit with a tense stillness in your spine. Déjà vu. You catch a glimpse of your twelve-year-old self sitting in that very chair, expression blank because Mother hates somberness. In the past, she had too pondered that—of what she would have done. It wasn't just the world's overwhelming vastness that scared you as a young teen. Rather, it was more like the realization that the world would be so dark without a mother. What would you have done if Mom had taken more pills? You didn't want that. You loved her dearly.

“I’m sorry,” is what you manage to say. An apology. An apology for putting her through what she put you through.

Mother's shoulders shook again as she took a quivering breath, tears clumping her eyelashes together—you could almost remember your own state before you arrived here. She took another deep breath, and as she exhaled, her eyes finally settled on you. Instantly, you shrank beneath the weight of her gaze, feeling like an alien—a deformed creature whose shape and form she was criticizing.

“Did it ever cross your mind how much it would hurt me? The shame it would bring our family?”

Shame? Of course. Shame. To have a child so troubled that they would kill themselves. If you ended up dead, there would be whispers, judgments. There would be comparisons. People would talk. They'd wonder what drove you to it, and they'd compare Mother to Joyce in the same way that Mom often compared you to Sabrina. How was it possible for one to be blessedly wedded while the other took her own life?

There was always a search for blame. Had the fault been in how Mother had raised you, leading you down a path towards God's malevolence? Or have you been carrying hamartia since childhood, which has led you to this tragedy?

You remained silent, molars dully digging into the inside of your cheek. You had just survived suicide. Mother had asked if you hadn't considered how much it would hurt her—how much shame it would bring the family, she had said. Repeating it over and over in your mind, you furrowed your brows, feeling like something was off. But, as usual, you swallowed the words on the tip of your tongue and spoke only in a small voice.

“I… I didn’t think about that,” you admitted. “I wasn’t thinking about anyone else.”

It was half a lie, as you did think about Mother at one point—though not in the way she had hoped. She crossed your mind but didn't deter you from swallowing the pills. You didn’t know why, and each time you were unable to rationalize or provide an explanation for whatever you did, you hung your head in shame.

“Why did you do it?”

Why? She repeated her first question, expecting one reason when your "why" was far more complex—it was a tree with roots that had plunged deep into the earth, spreading in every direction, creating a tangled web of intertwining reasons. There was never just one answer to the question "why" for you. When confronted with such demands, you begin to question whether you have taken your 'solitude' for granted all along.

And yet, despite how suffocating it feels under the weight of her stare—your self-consciousness reaching a peak as you worry about the outline of your face, your anxiety about her opinion of your features (the possibility of her commenting how your nose is not “small enough” like hers), your unease that she will point out any perceived imperfections in your skin, and your fear and hyper-awareness of maintaining an acceptable expression to avoid disapproval—she is the only one who bothers to visit you in this foreign place.

Mother had come all the way here from San Francisco, had dropped everything, just to be by your side – the disobedient daughter who failed to live up to her expectations.

“Did you do it for attention?”

The accusation should have stung, should have filled you with indignation. You had been desperately grasping at any way to make yourself feel better before you attempted. You had tried to shut your eyes and will yourself to sleep before you got up and popped every pill you could find into your mouth and chased them all down with alcohol. There were several reasons why you did it, but the primary one was because you were lonely. Alone. You didn’t hesitate to leave anyone because you had no one left.

You had no one left, so you never considered expecting anyone's attention. That night, you just wanted to die.

“Of course not.” you answered without hesitation, quick and certain. Yet, when you lifted your gaze to meet her eyes, a sudden flicker of doubt crossed your mind.

Did you do it for attention?

Despite knowing you didn't, what if it looks that way to others? What can you do to change a mind that isn't yours? The nagging thought of being misunderstood gnawed at you, fueling your frustration and annoyance. Which part of you makes them perceive you this way? Is every perception they have of you who you truly are? Like a spineless reptile, you long to shed your skin, to become someone new—to redefine yourself and escape the allegations people placed on you.

Alas, no opportunity presents itself. You are forever bound by the perceptions of others, and with time, the line between who you truly are and the misinterpreted image of yourself becomes increasingly impossible to distinguish.

“Why did you do it?” She repeated the same question but never begged for an answer. Your mother kept her ego intact. It sounded more like a demand—this was more like her. Demanding, never begging. “Was it because of that man?”

You pause for a moment. “I was just tired.”

The words sound hollow but familiar, like a mimicry of a scene from the past. Mother had uttered something similar once, when it was you sitting in the hospital chair, staring at her pale face after a near-death experience of her own making. You wonder if she remembers it—if it left the same impact on her as it did on you, or if it was simply another Wednesday in December. Your roles were ironically reversed; did she realize this?

“Was it because of him?”

Like Mother’s other questions, there is repetition. It makes you wonder – was it out of genuine concern, or was there something she wanted to prove?

How would she feel about your answer? It's almost as if there's a common theme that binds the women in your family, passed down to you, from your mother, from her mother—a lineage of suffering that seems to revolve around the men. Would her heart ache at the thought of her daughter following in the doom of her predecessors? A paradox of contrasts and twins.

Or… will your mother feel a twisted sense of vindication? Will she look at you and say, “I told you so,” with her all-knowing stare and a smug smirk? That you are here because you ignored the warnings she repeatedly demanded you remember. Even now, you don’t know which is worse: being pitied or being cursed.

Fortunately, unlike your mother, you do not like repeating yourself, nor do you intend to meet her gaze. The silence stretches between you in this hospital room. Your mother, out of the kindness of her heart, allows it. Another déjà vu descends upon you. You remember very well how your conversation with Mother ended that day—on a Wednesday in December. That role-reversed version.

You lied a tremendous deal to the psychiatrist. Do you regret it? Of course, you do. Would you do it again given the chance? Most likely. Throughout the entire session, you waited for her to call out every lie you told, but it seems that psychiatrists don't possess polygraphs in their minds. You should feel relieved. Yet, you know that each unchecked lie is another burden you must carry with you for life.

When you came out of the office, Mother was still sitting in the chair where she had been waiting for you. She asked you a few questions, and while you didn't answer them all, you did tell her that everything was alright. Satisfied, the two of you walked the sidewalks of the city once more, beneath the somber, cloudy London sky.

“What should we have for dinner tonight?”

It seemed almost surprising when the question effortlessly rolled off your tongue, sounding more natural and lighter than it had in the previous days. On the day of your discharge from the hospital, the conversation between you and Mother felt unusually stiff and guarded—at least on your part. There were no arguments, but a palpable tension hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, filled with unspoken expectations and hidden demands.

Now, it felt like no time had passed. As if you were simply picking up where you had left off, back in the days when your relationship had been strained but still intact.

“Well, I was going to cook something for you, but it’s getting rather late,” she replied. “I know there’s nothing in your fridge, so we should probably go out and grab something instead.”

“Where do you want to go?”

Mother shrugged. “I don’t know. You know this city better than I do. You choose.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Anything is fine.”

You settle on the first Italian restaurant you pass by. Despite not being the fanciest establishment, the casual ambiance and soothing jazz music mixed with the chatter of other patrons create a cozy vibe that draws you in. One of the four walls is painted in cool crimson, adorned with black-and-white photographs and a few framed sepia-toned prints that hint at the restaurant's family-run history.

The waitress who tended your table jotted down your orders and whisked away, leaving you alone to wait for your food. Leaving you alone with your mother.

This, you realize, is the closest you’ve been to her after a long time. Throughout her visit, you spent the majority of your time together in the hospital ward, with nurses constantly entering and leaving the room. Once you were discharged, Mother spent her time meticulously cleaning your apartment to her specific standards, while you avoided conversation by switching on the television and keeping her occupied with her favorite shows.

In the air floated the combined aroma of garlic, tomatoes, and hot oil. As you looked up at your mother, you found her sweeping a critical gaze around the surroundings. Resting her head on her hand, you spotted the fine details you had never noticed before: the gold ring on her middle finger, her medium-length, almond-shaped nails painted a deep red, the pronounced structure of her digits, and her wrinkled knuckles. The dichotomy between how she seemed exactly the same as you remembered and yet bore changes underscored the silent distances that have grown between you.

Mother's gaze drifted to the window. “This place is so depressing,” she muttered.

You gaze in the direction of the object of her observation, searching for clues about what prompted her assessment. Is she referring to the cafe, the street outside, the city as a whole, or the table where you both sit? As you search for answers, you're also desperately searching for a positive quality to highlight so she gives this place a chance, so she doesn't contemplate packing her things and bolting out the door as she has done before.

Turning her attention back to you, she said, “It’s better back home.”

Thinking she was talking about your apartment, you had to disagree. Despite spending most of your time at home, you'd rather be anywhere than there.

“There’s a place like this in Polk Gulch. You know, the ones with the stars, what is it called…” She made a vague gesture with her hands, searching for the word.

“Michelin stars?”

“Yes, exactly. The ones with the Michelin stars. Now, those are the kinds of places we should be going to. Back home.”

The word was received in a strange way by you, but you did not comment. Mother read this as another turn for her to continue the conversation.

“Your favorite places are still there, you know,” she said. "Don't you miss it?"

“Sometimes,” you admit quietly. And it’s true. There are nights when you think about San Francisco, about the places you used to visit—places you grew up in and some fond memories they hold. However, there are also the seeds of something rotten there, ones that you know may find you even in your dreams.

San Francisco, the city of your attempted self-dismantlement. Your attempt to strip away all that you were and repair the creation you have become. It failed miserably, so you fled to London. For a new beginning, for a new you.

And yet, somewhere along the way, you’ve inadvertently turned London into a second San Francisco. What should have been a fresh start has now turned into an echoing cycle. The same demons you sought to escape from have followed you here, infusing their putrid influence into the foundation of your carefully constructed dream life. Now, you're unsure how to salvage any of it.

Sometimes. Your mother cocked a brow, her expression unreadable except for the downward tug at the corners of her lips. Before she could say anything else, the waitress placed your orders down in front of you, the aroma of Italian cuisine wafting across the table. You hoped the food would be good enough for her.

Mother was unusually chatty on the way home, words flowing freely in a pleased tone. It must have been the wine that the server had offered to you both. At first, you expected Mother to decline, as she often does, muttering about the harm of alcohol once the man was out of earshot. However, it took you by surprise when she accepted it without question, and you wondered whether she had changed.

The feeling of lightness envelops you, even in the presence of unfamiliarity, as you listen to your mother chat away. You exhaled as Mother continued to talk about whatever, each laugh and random comment eroding the tension that had been weighing on your shoulders. The heaviness that once defined your interactions now dissolves into fission. She sounded like somebody new, and you treat her like somebody you don’t need to tiptoe around.

“It wasn’t bad,” she said, talking about the food.

You tucked your chilly hand into the warm protection of your coat pockets as you gazed at the ever-glistening street and the passing cars. “It was good,” you replied.

 “Well, I wouldn’t say it was that good, but it certainly wasn’t bad.”

The two of you continue walking, and as you make another turn, the opera building's well-known shape comes into view. Your heart clenches in panic, realizing you have been unconsciously leading yourself down the path you always take when returning home from rehearsals. Not wanting to draw attention to it, you remain silent, but your efforts are in vain as Mother quickly notices the distinctive neoclassical structure.

“Isn’t that your ballet place?” she asked, her manicured finger pointed at the building.

“Yes,” you replied simply, hoping she would look elsewhere before she sees it, before—

“Is that you?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the large illuminated poster in the front window—the bold-lettered title “Swan Lake,” and your own face staring back at you, radiant and poised like a girl who has earned her place in the world.

“Yes,” you reply, throat constricting as if bracing for something.

But instead of whatever you were expecting, your mother's expression shifted, the crease in her forehead accentuated as she turned to face you. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” She asked, and the hurt in her tone took you aback.

Before you could formulate a response, she had already crossed the street, so determined that she didn't bother looking both ways. She headed straight toward the poster, the click-clack of her heels on the street accompanied by the howl of the wind. You hesitated for a moment, but ultimately decided to trail after her, heart pounding in your chest.

You watched your mother pull out her phone, snapping a few quick photos of the poster. She then held the phone close to her chest, gazing at the image wordlessly. You wondered what was going through her mind. Was she proud? Disappointed? Indifferent? Your mind replayed the last discussion you both had on your ballet career.

“This is… this is something,” she said—the click of her heels sounded again as she took quick, tiny steps toward you. “You made it! The lead role!”

“It’s called the Swan Queen, the role.”

"The Swan Queen…" she echoed, turning back to the poster, the silver light reflecting on it allowing you read her expression more clearly—a proud smile stretched across her face. Proud. “I always knew you had it in you. See? I know you so well; you’re my daughter after all. It’s a good thing I brought you to that ballet class when you were a little girl, isn’t it?”

You let out a chuckle, feeling the warmth spread from your sternum.

To your further surprise, your mother reached out and cupped your cheeks, aligning her eyes to meet yours with a tenderness you nearly forgot she was capable of.

“Oh, my little girl,” she murmured.

And you… suddenly want your mother again, and hope for her to want you back. You remember the times when you both sang to your favorite songs in the car, driving under the iconic Golden Gate Bridge as the dying sun from the west caressed Mom's crow's feet. Belting out something of Mariah Carey, although not quite matching the skill of the original singer, but making up for it with an equal amount of enthusiasm and love.

(I will never be anything without Mom.)

In the present day, you find yourself leaning into her palm, like a fawn finding its loving mother. Your past arguments seem so far in the past, and you are big-hearted women forgiving each other and creating excuses to keep this moment lasting. Perhaps somewhere in those past conversations, you had overreacted, or you weren't good at understanding her words.

Because your mother would never intend to hurt you. She is a good mother.

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[double-u-qed]

10k words of sheer jazzprowl fluff. enjoy! ao3 link here. [which i recommend, seeing as none of my formatting transferred over here and i'm a tiny bit lazy]

Jazz doesn’t think he’s ever been so nervous before; his fingers keep tracing over each other, rubbing patterns into the metal. He trails them along the plates, tugs on some of the exposed wiring — a habit his mentor scolded him for often, always redirecting his attention to something else in an effort to make him quit it. But none of his mentors are here right now, haven’t been for a long, long time, so his fingers stay picking and pulling.

He’s never been to Iacon before, despite it being the capital city-state — the head of operations, so to speak. Home of the Primacy and Senate. It’s a hodgepodge of culture, mechs from far and wide settling down, so you’d think a mech like Jazz would have been there before.

But nope — never been.

So why the hell was the Prime himself of all people requesting his presence?

It didn’t make any sense. Well, it did, but — Jazz was just your regular ol’ cultural investigator, nothing special. It was just a fancy, self-given title as well; a way of saying he went to many places and dabbled in the various cultures, researching them (word to be used lightly). He had to make shanix somehow, and the music by itself wasn’t cutting it; it only made sense then to make a career out of what he likes to do best. It paid enough to keep traveling, to keep experiencing a little bit of everything, and that was what mattered to Jazz most.

How Sentinel Prime of all mechs caught wind of him and his work, he hasn’t a clue. If anything, he would’ve assumed the Prime would hear about him from his skirting of the rules before anything related to his work. He hasn’t exactly crossed that line just yet, but he’s not ruling out the possibility, either. Point is, he had trouble believing it when the message found its way into his inbox.

But as much as he tried, he couldn’t find any sign of forgery or tampering with the letter. It definitely looked legit — enough that, well. Here he is: surrounded by a bunch of fancy city mechs not paying him a lick of attention, optics glued to their screens even as the train halts to a strut-breaking stop. All in all, it’s pretty typical, but Jazz can’t help the nervousness he feels all the same.

How was one meant to conduct themselves in front of the fragging Prime? Closest Jazz has ever gotten is a Senator or two, and even then, it was mostly in passing. He hasn’t the faintest clue as to proper Iaconian etiquette. A smooth, charismatic talker he may be, a mistake is a mistake and would still be all too easy to make.

Too bad he doesn’t have more time to agonize over it. The train eventually reaches its station, the doors opening and mechs beginning to shuffle in and out. It’s a hectic mess, really, all kinds of pushing and shoving happening simultaneously. Jazz is just thankful that he manages to make it out in one piece, squeezing between two doorwingers, a litany of apologies on his lips as he wiggles his luggage through the swarm.

After wandering around lost for longer than he’d like to admit, he does eventually find his hotel. It’s not too shabby, but definitely… gaudier than it has any right being. The berth has little hanging crystals attached to it, strips of silver lining the sides. Jazz can’t help wondering if it’s all a show for tourists; give them a little feel of what it’s like to be so close to the Big Building (name pending) where the Prime resides. The streets were lined with his image, after all.

Thankfully, Jazz didn’t bring too many things with him, making the unpacking process easy enough. Unfortunately for him, that also means he has nothing left to occupy himself with; nothing to keep his mind off the fact his presence is expected real soon — less than a joor, his HUD ever so helpfully supplies.

As limited as Jazz’s knowledge of Iacon is, he’s heard plenty of rumors about Sentinel Prime and the company he keeps close to. (All in hushed whispers, of course; it’d be considered heresy to so loudly denounce a mech chosen by Primus Himself).

Sentinel’s… vain. Lazy. The type to shirk his responsibilities onto someone else, most meetings being conducted by his Right Hand more often than not. From what he’s heard, Jazz feels sorry for the poor mech, even if he was constructed during Zeta’s time for the sole purpose of being an attendant. Can’t be easy being stuck to a mech that doesn’t seem to take anything too seriously.

Speaking of which… slag. The Prime’s personal attendant had plenty of rumors surrounding himself too, none of them too kind. He was apparently a real stickler for rules and regulation, no doubt a fault of his pre-programming. He was detail-oriented, a go-getter, the type where nothing escaped his notice. He operates in the limelight and shadows both, the true iron fist of the Primacy.

If the rumors are to be believed—and they often are to be in Jazz’s line of work—then he’ll more than likely be working closely with the Right Hand for… whatever it is they want Jazz doing.

He was seriously screwed, wasn’t he?

“Oookay, Jazz-Meister; you’ve got this. Nothin’ a little sweet-talking can’t get you out of. Hopefully. I’m sure it’s nothing that important. They’d have the dogs on your trail and at your door in seconds flat if it was like that. Probably.” Thinking on it, there was no telling whether or not they weren’t scoping out the area for him already. Unlikely, but Jazz has long since learned to trust his instincts at the first sign of trouble.

It’s just that — they haven’t detected anything. And it’d be rude, maybe even enough for a court-martial, to ignore the summons even more than he already has.

Whining some more to himself, spark set on a path of shaky, nervous revolutions — he sets off for the biggest building of them all.

It’s… no better than his hotel room, adorned in gold and the shiniest of metals, the archways crystalline. Reaches straight out to the sky, proud and — intimidating. Foreboding and imposing, and any other words to say that it was fragging distracting as all get out. Two larger-than-life statues of Sentinel himself sat in the courtyard, of which is fenced off and surrounded by guards no doubt armed to the nines.

Jazz swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth, hands fluttering at his sides as he steels his resolve. They haven’t done anything, so surely that’s a good sign, right?

“’Morning,” he greets them, giving a nod. “I have an appointment with the Prime? Or one of his attendants, I’m not too sure, the letter didn’t specify.”

The guards stationed directly in front of the gate don’t move, but their optics do slide over to each other at the same time. Turning back to Jazz as one, they simultaneously ask, “Designation?”

Unnerved, Jazz stumbles over his words. “Uh, Jazz. Jazz of Staniz.”

“Designation acknowledged. Permission granted. An escort will be with you shortly; proceed.”

Thoroughly creeped out now, Jazz just flashes them a smile and pretty much scurries away, glad to be gone from their penetrating gaze.

True to fashion, the escort practically pops up out of nowhere, suddenly at his side and taking him by the elbow, leading him further into the—palace? It was practically a palace, all regal staircases and spacious rooms to host plenty of mechs in power. The front room alone was bigger than any place Jazz had ever stayed in, that was for sure.

“Wait here,” the small, red bot dragging him around says once they enter a conference-esque room. “Sentinel Prime himself will be here in a moment. In the meantime, do help yourself to any of the refreshments provided.” With that, they give a small bow before leaving.

“You call these refreshments?” Jazz asks no one in particular as he takes a seat. The treat in his hand is a spiky little thing, brittle and dusted with something he doesn’t recognize. Whatever it is, it sparkles and emits a soft glow. “How does a treat manage to be so flashy?”

Chucking it back into the bowl, Jazz leans back a bit, eyes roaming over the place. “Better yet, is everything just like that here?”

Somehow the place didn’t feel very lived in. It was personalized all right — you couldn’t take more than a few steps before running into various things with Sentinel’s image memorialized — yet somehow empty and devoid of life. Maybe that was just how rich mechs lived, with their big, fancy places.

Either way, it sure did make Jazz feel sorely out of place, shifting around awkwardly in his seat. Primus, was it ever quiet here. There was too much junk to make the noise echo, but the sound of his fingers tapping out a little diddy against the table still sliced right through the silence. Not in the good way, either, his fingers curling back into his hand after a mere klik or two of making noise. That left bouncing his left up and down and humming to himself, but even that got old soon enough.

The boredom was about to kill him when the door finally opened again, the mech of the hour and another strolling on through. Strange — Jazz would’ve expected more personnel to be by Sentinel’s side.

Ducking his head a bit to avoid Sentinel’s gaze as the larger mech seats himself across from him, Jazz’s attention is captured by the other mech that came in. He’s on the shorter side — still taller than Jazz, though. His posture belies his caste, all elegant and proud. His paints consist of white and black, his face covered by a full battle mask, and his doorwings fanned out behind him.

Now, Jazz may not be able to see much of the mech’s face, but he can make out the way the mech visibly hesitates for a moment when they make eye contact, doorwings going unnaturally still as he looks at Jazz. And he’s — glaring. He’s glaring, not just staring. His optics are furrowed, his hands suddenly being clasped together behind him as he stands by the door, turning his head to the side sharply, practically severing the contact.

Ah. The rumored personal attendant.

His behavior wasn’t too odd, then; Jazz was well aware of how he looked. His paint hadn’t been redone in a few orns, chipped and dulled all over. Public transit had never really been Jazz’s thing, deeming it a waste of good shanix, making both his modes rather susceptible to pieces of small debris scratching the surface.

Strangely though, Sentinel seems bothered by his Second’s hesitation, raising an optic ridge in his direction. He even eyes the mech up and down before rolling his eyes with an exasperated huff of air when his attendant failed to say anything. Huh.

Turning back to Jazz, the Prime is quiet for a moment. A long moment, actually. Too long. Uncomfortably long. Jazz just hopes his face isn’t giving away his building restlessness.

Sentinel places an elbow on the table, hand to his face as he finally says, “I’ll make this quick — I’m a very busy mech, after all. I need your expertise for the gala I’m hosting tonight. We’re attempting to establish better relations with one of our distant colonies; it’s said you know a thing or two about their customs. I’m sure you get where this is going.”

That — wasn’t quite what Jazz envisioned. He blinks. “I- yes? I think so?”

“Great!” The Prime gives the table a bit of a slap—Jazz can’t help his flinch—splaying his hands out as if to say problem solved. “Glad that’s been taken care of, I hate having to give long explanations. Always admirable, a mech that’s quick on the uptake. Now — you’re to remain here for the foreseeable joors until this whole thing is done with. Direct any of your questions to Prowl over there.”

That takes the other mech—Prowl—just as aback as it does Jazz. Only difference is the amount of exasperation the other manages to exude while somehow keeping his tone reasonably respectful. “You won’t be staying, Sir?”

Sentinel snorts. “Primus, no. You’re the one who recommended this mech to help us; you debrief him. I have a whole day spent agonizing over which of which looks better despite them being the exact same. This is why I hate galas so much.”

Unlike the Prime, Prowl doesn’t seem as keen on acting so lax and improper around an outsider. His words are carefully—and rather pointedly—chosen. “I’d hate to waste your time any further, then. Do take care, Sir; I’ll handle things from here.”

The Prime just raises his hand in a rather dismissive way of parting, the mech continuing to grumble to himself as he exits the room.

If Jazz was a lesser mech, he’s sure his jaw would be on the floor. As it stands, he whips his head around to stare at Prowl, disbelieving in what just happened. It- it all happened so fast. Jazz said less than a sentence! Sure, he was told that Prowl would be handling things, but that — that was just inconsiderate!

Undeterred, acting as if such a thing was a regular occurrence, Prowl takes a seat in the now abandoned chair, unsubspacing a datapad. He glances up at Jazz after a moment of simply scrolling, and it’s — tense? No, that’s not quite right. It’s… it couldn’t be. Could it?

Just as quickly, the doorwinged mech looks away, attention resolutely on the screen of his datapad as he begins to fill in Jazz on the full set of details.

“As Sentinel informed you, tonight is a crucial event for the establishment of our ties to other ruling colonies in the area. Any information you can provide would be deeply appreciated, seeing as we have had little contact with those a part of this colony ourselves.”

The cultural investigator tries to listen, giving his input here and there where needed, but his mind keeps wandering. He’d almost believed for a moment that the look from before had been timid, almost shy, but as the more time passed, the more he was certain he must’ve been mistaken. The rumors, as well; Prowl wasn’t nearly as cold as they made him out to be. He was just awkward if anything.

Only…

Prowl takes him all around the building, never once losing his rigid stance, doorwings not even so much as twitching. The most damning thing of all is his outright refusal to look at Jazz head-on. He’ll get close, their optics almost locking, before settling his gaze on something just a little above Jazz’s eyes. It’s puzzling if Jazz has to be honest.

But you didn’t get to be a cultural investigator without accepting the fact some people act in ways you might not initially understand, so he just chalks it up to being how Prowl normally is. Or maybe it’s a custom from wherever he’s from. That would make sense, actually. Ah, wait — did that make Jazz rude for trying to get the other to look at him? It probably did, didn’t it.

Feeling thoroughly chastised even though it’s just himself he’s arguing with, Jazz puts the matter to rest. He’s here on business, after all.

That’s why he is most definitely not staring when the other suddenly pulls up his mask in the middle of talking, revealing icy-blue eyes and a thin, narrow face. It just — surprises Jazz is all, considering he seemed adamant about wearing it the entire time before.

It’d be rude to stare, so he turns away.

Catching his eye, Prowl lowers his gaze, looks up at the lip of the mask still hanging overhead, casting shadows on his face, then stops walking, prompting Jazz to stop as well. “Standard procedure,” he explains, gesturing to his face. “It’s a safety precaution. Forgive me for not taking it off sooner; I have a tendency to get wrapped up in my thoughts to the point of being negligent of my surroundings. I didn’t realize it was still there until my fans pinged a warning about overheating.”

“’S all good,” Jazz is quick to assure, tapping a finger on his visor. “Just didn’t know if it was something cultural or not, didn’t want to assume or cause offense.”

Prowl seems to consider that in that silent way of his Jazz was beginning to pick up on. It wasn’t obvious that he was updating his files, if not for the way his focus seemed to dim, returning with a couple of blinks. Then he’s all nods, and they continue on their way.

The Prime’s attendant is once again in the middle of explaining something when he suddenly goes quiet, words trailing off. A frown mars his face, minuscule as it is. It’s contemplative, a stylus tapping against the screen of his to-do list. He closes his eyes as Jazz twists his body around to step in front of him.

“Something wrong?” asks Jazz when the silence stretches on.

“Not wrong, per se… Just.” Prowl’s face screws up, the most emotion Jazz has seen on it so far. He taps two of his fingers against his lips. “Sentinel decided most events of the banquet would be left to you.” Blunt, precise. “The event planning itself will mostly be done by himself, but matters are to be overlooked by you before being approved. It’s a lot of work.”

Those icy eyes bore into him, his words seemingly ending there.

Jazz stares back into those unblinking eyes, noting the way Prowl’s grip on his datapad has tightened.

Feeling brave and a little risky, Jazz asks, “Sentinel not trust your word on such matters?”

A bit of pride makes his spark spin a little faster when Prowl actually looks relieved, doorwings lowering a bit. “No,” he says, voice still monotone but holding a little mirth. “He doesn’t. Says a mech constructed cold wouldn’t know a thing about foreign matters, least of all me.”

That gets Jazz’s attention. “How so?”

“Lack of experience,” Prowl says, shrugging. “I was made with the purpose of helping out the Primacy shortly after Sentinel was added to their ranks. I’ve never had the time to experience anywhere but Iacon, really.”

“Not even Praxus?”

“Petrex, actually,” Prowl corrects, bobbing his head a bit as if he was used to having to say it. “And no, I’m afraid. So as you might imagine, there is some truth to Sentinel’s words.”

“But you have something to say anyway, I’m guessin’. Well, let’s hear it,” Jazz says, happily relinquishing some of the control and order over to the other. Planning’s never been his thing, and honestly, this entire thing has left him dizzy. It’s just a little too surreal to be real, no matter how often he bumps his leg against a wall. “Not like I have a completely clear idea of what I’m doing.”

He thought that was encouraging, but if anything, Prowl looked slightly distressed and put off by his words. He glances around them, chewing on a lip.

“Sentinel won’t like it,” he weakly tries to argue. “He doesn’t take too well to some of my ideas, despite leaving most of the work to me. I’d hate for you to be blamed if it doesn’t go over well.”

“You don’t stay as acting attendant for so many vorns without knowing a thing or two.” Jazz grins a Cheshire grin, gently tugging one of those white hands free of its death grip. “C’mon, I won’t tell. I’m sure that big brain of yours has already concocted a whole list of ideas on what to do, so tell me. I trust ya. Pretty pleeeease?”

The attendant stares openly at their clasped hands, making Jazz falter a bit in his enthusiasm, dropping it a little awkwardly. It’s — well, it’s not like he could read the other’s field before this, but now he can’t even get a single hint of what’s going on with him. His face is so impassive as he gives a small nod.

But even as everything seems all fine and business again, Jazz’s hand remains feeling a little cold, his stomach clenched in apprehension.

The gala comes and goes, miraculously being pulled off in the haphazard bit of time they had to spare. It’s not the worst party Jazz has ever been to, either. The foreign guests are a delight, laughing at his jokes and sharing bits of their culture with him that he commits to memory. The band Sentinel hired even lets him play for a bit, even if though it’s a less fancy and richly prestine song than they’re probably used to hearing.

It’s a good time overall, every mech looking happy. Even Prowl.

The battle mask is on once again, obscuring most of his face. But he’s so relaxed as he chats with his company, doorwings moving, even laughing.

He looks so… at home. So peaceful, elegant. Not at all stiff and awkward, adverse to any and all attention.

That is, he’s perfectly at ease until Jazz comes by, wanting to thank the mech for all of his help. Then, he’s a mirror of before; doorwings pulled up high, unmoving, face blank, but eyes furrowed behind the tinted glass of his mask. Jazz would almost think he’s concentrating, if it weren’t for the way his plating is pulled in tighter, tense.

It makes Jazz slow down a bit, his smile slipping. He’s not used to being hated — because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Him being hated. Prowl had no problems looking the other mechs in the optics, didn’t seem to care when one of the governors from the distant colony put a hand on his arm, tugging on in as they told a story. The only explanation then is that Jazz has done something to upset him. But he came over here for a reason, and he intends on seeing it through. It’d be rude of him not to.

“Thanks,” he says, getting closer. “Never did get to ask you why or how you chose me in particular for somethin’ as big as this, but — thanks. It was fun, if a little hectic. Not what I’m used to usually helping out with.” He chuckles a bit, hoping to ease the tension a bit.

The other’s words are much more clipped, precise and to the point. “I was only doing my duty. It pays to know who is skilled in what is required. You were a big help tonight, so it is I, who should be thanking you.”

Despite himself, Jazz can’t help grinning a giddy grin. He attempts to play it off, hiding it behind the rim of his drink, pretending to take a sip from it. He doubts he succeeds. “Skilled, huh. Didn’t think I was skilled enough for the Prime’s Second to know of me.”

It’s minute, barely there, but Jazz swears the mech manages to just — stop altogether, a little hiss of air being pulled in through teeth. No doubt, it only means something bad, Jazz’s posture slipping back into something only half-relaxed, all cheeriness gone.

“Yes, well,” Prowl’s once again not looking Jazz directly in the face, “as I said: it pays to know. As the one who oversees most of Sentinel’s duties, it is my job to keep track of any names that come up often in conversation.” Now he’s staring down at his own drink, scuffing his peds against the ground as his fingers fidgeted against each other. “Senator Shockwave speaks fondly of you,” he mumbles.

That surprises Jazz. “Really? We’ve only spoken a few times, though…” None of those times particularly stood out, either.

Prowl nods a little more eagerly than before. “Fleeting as it was, your interaction left an impression on him. He was quite impressed with your endeavors and accomplishments, awed with the amount of places you’ve been to.”

It looks like he wants to say more, subtly shifting his weight. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything more at all, merely dismissing himself politely with a bob of wings. It doesn’t escape Jazz’s notice that his doorwings only raise once he’s on the other side of the room, swept up in the crowd of mechs dancing.

And like that, Jazz sees no more of him for the rest of the night.

The next time Jazz met Prowl, it was long after Sentinel Prime’s reign. He’d almost forgotten about the mech entirely, but then, the war happened and things changed. Jazz changed. Mechs kept getting hurt, places kept getting bombed and raided. It hurt, seeing the people and planet he loved be torn apart. It was dying, their planet. Slowly poisoned and unable to sustain itself the way it used to, public transportation lines in ruins and whole cities demolished.

No longer could he safely travel from place to place, playing songs of old and new. There was simply too much death, too much destruction, no matter how much the newly-appointed Prime tried to avoid it.

He was a good spark, Optimus. Enough that Jazz felt sure in his sudden decision to enlist in the faction he had formed. He doubted there was much someone like him could do, but hey; it didn’t hurt to try. If he was truly so knowledgeable of their planet that even Sentinel Prime had paid some notice, he wanted to put those skills to use. People always did say he was a mech of the people, and maybe that was needed right now.

So here Jazz is, lined up and waiting for inspection. His application had already gotten him through the preliminary round, so now it was time for the real test to begin.

As he expected, Prowl himself was the one conducting the inspections, even though it was rather tedious, menial work. Not really something befitting of a mech perfectly constructed for a broad variety of political work. The sight of him and his datapad is enough to make Jazz’s lip quirk in a half-baked smile. Working with the mech even just once had taught him how important control and certainty were to him, down to the very last detail. Though in the case of Sentinel, that was probably more out of a necessity than anything else. Vorns of that kind of work probably left Prowl a little more than distrustful of their new Prime.

All the other mechs in line are nervous, some even mumbling rather profane things about the Second in Command, glancing at him from above cupped hands. Cowards are too afraid to say it any louder than a whisper though. What they didn’t seem to get, however, was just how sensitive a Praxian’s doorwings can be. Careless fraggers didn’t seem to notice the subtle twitches in Prowl’s wings, making Jazz’s smile turn into a smirk he had to hide behind his hand.

Staying in Praxus and other city-states predominately populated by door-winged mechs on more than one occasion had made him rather familiar and acquainted with the various tells of a mech’s doorwings. And boy were Prowl’s wings expressive if you knew what to look for. Jazz was pretty sure he was even cursing behind that stoic demeanor he seemed to be pre-programmed with, attention on his datapad as he cussed them out. Dignity and keeping up appearances were perhaps the only things keeping him from saying such things out loud.

When the Praxian gets closer to where Jazz is, the ex-cultural investigator sees the exact moment the other truly notices he’s there. Disappointingly, not much has changed. Only this time, Prowl doesn’t have a battle mask to properly guard the small changes in his expression.

His optics flickered to where Jazz was, his lips slackening a bit as he blinked. He tilts his head a bit — more when Jazz flashes him a million-watt smile with a coy little way. It’s hard to tell what, but Jazz sees him mouth something to himself before he—rather stiltedly—turns back to the mech he’s meant to be inspecting, blinking a couple times more. Jazz can’t help snickering.

It’s still pretty obvious he’s staring whenever he can, though, as much as he wants to act like he’s fulfilling his job perfectly. Not quite in an apprehensive way, it’s almost — curious? A little wide-eyed and innocent, even if the corners of his mouth are pulled in tight, riddled with stress, straining.

Maybe Jazz hadn’t been mistaken in thinking that night hadn’t been so bad between them, after all.

“Jazz,” Prowl says, bowing his head a little in greeting once he’s standing right in front of him. It’s the very definition of polite, if it weren’t for the datapad he’s ever so intentionally hidden behind, pretending to look busy.

Jazz can’t help the way his spark sinks a little at that. Try as he might, he can’t think of a single thing that would have the Praxian reacting like this in his presence. Sure, he probably wasn’t exactly Prowl’s typical cohort, nor first choice of company, and the mech didn’t seem very social by nature, but…

Whatever. One way or another, Jazz wasn’t going to-

“I see that you expressed an interest in covert operations. Special Ops. May I ask why?” Those icy optics pin him in place, glowing bright as Prowl’s eyes go a little wide, tiny rings of lenses rotating as he studies him.

“That’s not the type of question you’ve been asking the others,” Jazz notes, confused and a little shaken off course, something he isn’t used to. He’s always been known to blurt out rather careless things when nervous, which is exactly why he doesn’t do nervous, not in things like this. “Aren’t you supposed to like, ask about combat training? Background? How serious I am about this? Things like that?”

Oops. Was that insubordination? It sure sounded like it, no matter the fact Jazz wasn’t enlisted yet and this wasn’t his superior. Yet.

Jazz might even be fooling himself, but he swears Prowl’s death grip on his datapad tightens even further. The mech lowers his gaze, raising his datapad a little higher, hiding behind it. Perhaps subconsciously, he puts a bit of distance between them, as if literally trying to un-step over some unseen boundary. “Yes, that is normally the case. My apologies.”

That… that felt wrong. Prowl was in way too high of a position to be apologizing to him so — so submissively. It felt weird, not at all fitting in with the paradigm Jazz had shoved the other mech into. Plus, it’s not like he was offended or anything, he just wasn’t sure what to do with that outlier of a question.

In a rush, he struggles to get the other to stop subtly slipping away, to stop curling away from Jazz. “No, no, it’s- it’s fine… Just a lil’ confused, is all…”

It’s awkward. Primus, take him now, it’s so awkward. Why were things always chock-full of silences and the oddest of surprises when it came to this mech? Jazz never has trouble talking! Socializing is what he’s all about! He loves meeting new people, but this guy — somehow this guy takes everything off-course, which is a rather amazing feat for someone so structured.

Shifting on his peds, Jazz tries to spare the mech who has now begun glaring at some speck over his shoulder, looking… ashamed? Hell, was it ever hard to get a read on this guy. “I guess — I just thought somethin’ like that would be a good fit for me? Dunno if there was really a reason behind it. I know a lot about different frametypes, different people. Figured it’d be helpful in pulling off stealth missions to have a mech onboard that can give a few pointers like that.”

“An acceptable and admirable answer.” The way Prowl says it is careful, as if there were a million things he was trying not to suddenly blurt out. It almost sounds like the words were forcefully pulled out from between clenched teeth. It really didn’t suit him, nor the constructed image of him Jazz had once again formed from the many press conferences shared on the news. He always seemed so regal, so poised in those clipped, reciting lines like a mech made for the job.

From there, the rest of the inspection carries on pretty normal. Jazz even manages to impress the Praxian with his scores on the physical tests, even if he doesn’t say as much. It’s only the barest hint of a swooping motion in his doorwings that gives him away, and that probably only happens at all because Jazz is so far away — most wouldn’t have caught it from this distance.

Really, what does it take to get on this mech’s good side? The other mechs around seemed to be thinking something similar, elbowing Jazz and demanding to know what he’d done to get such a reaction. It’s all light-hearted, but Primus does it make Jazz feel a little miserable. They acted like this measly morsel of attention was the holy grail when, to Jazz, it was hardly anything at all. He’d seen what a relaxed Prowl was like, what he was capable of emoting.

Sitting on the sidelines as the inspections carry on, Jazz observes Prowl. None of the strange behavior is present when he interacts with the other enlisted Autobots, face light while his doorwings say all kinds of things. Some of it manages to get Jazz to smile. It’s a dry kind of humor and wit, the insults he says in everything but words. He’ll tilt his head slightly when someone asks a question he deems dumb; will close his eyes and stand up even straighter when disappointed in someone’s answer to his question.

A few times the Praxian glances Jazz’s way, unmoving as Jazz flashes him a smile just for the sake of being a little annoying. It’s there that Jazz decides he wants to understand this mech a little bit better, wants to make him shed that standoffish nature that seemed to have only gotten worse in the tides of war. He’s just so fascinating, not at all like any other Praxian Jazz has met before.

Inspecting his newly added badge in a mirror, he supposes he’ll have plenty of chances and many things to try.

More vorns go by, and Jazz’s progress is… well. It exists if you know how to look at it.

Prowl has clear, practically visible boundaries with the way he declines offers and separates himself in his office, and the last thing Jazz ever wants to do is cross those in his attempts to befriend the mech. So he starts slow, merely leaving cubes of energon on the other’s desk, nothing more. It’s a bit of a peace offering too, giving Prowl the chance to decline it and make it clear he has no intentions of becoming Jazz’s friend. If so, the saboteur will gladly back off. He might not be used to being hated, but he knows you can’t force these things.

Surprisingly, Prowl always takes him up on the offer, not quite smiling but tilting his head downward in gratitude, not really lifting it all the way back up until Jazz is gone.

His relations with the other Autobots weren’t terrible, but Prowl still didn’t seem particularly close to anyone. Solitude was what he preferred, though the line between voluntary solitude and pure negligence was a thin one. Mech tuned out the entire world when he became focused on something, snapping at anyone who dared pull him away. Not in an overtly aggressive way, mind you, but sometimes if someone pushed a little too far it got to that point. He was always like that when it came to solving any sort of puzzle or fully understanding something that caught his attention, and it didn’t matter if you were friend or foe.

It was rather odd; then again, maybe friendship was just defined differently in Prowl’s book as a whole. It was clear Ratchet, Optimus, and Red Alert all adored him in their own ways, and Prowl both respected and appreciated them in turn.

Ratchet would gently prod and nag at him, but treated him with kindness all the same, never raising his voice. He seemed to get that Prowl didn’t do well with loud noises, easily overwhelmed when there was too much stimuli to keep track of. It’s what made the medbay so hard for him, with its extra bright lights and thrumming machinery. Plenty of medics would try to get Prowl to come in for maintenance, but so far, only Ratchet had a record of succeeding.

Red Alert and him were cut from a similar cloth, meticulous and a little overbearing when it came to their work and protecting everyone. They understood each other without having to say anything, making each other’s jobs easier in a way that even Jazz struggled with.

As for Optimus… Optimus loved everyone, accepting their flaws and all. But he truly valued Prowl in a way that Sentinel didn’t never had, Prowl practically beaming in that subtle way of his whenever Optimus looked to him for input.

Why Jazz seemed to be an outlier remained unclear. And it continued to be murky, until the whole Earth thing.

Everyone got closer to each other the second they came back online and understood their situation, homesick and so small in numbers. They were all they had left of home. They were busier too, trying to maintain their fickle relationship with the humans in power at amicable status. Prowl in particular became swamped with work, prompting Jazz to increase his efforts to get the mech to just relax.

Thus lay the issue — mech didn’t seem to know the meaning of the word, continually rigid, words dismissive and solely professional when it came to Jazz.

“Is it just a Praxian thing? Or does the guy really hate me that much?” Jazz asks, voice pitching up into a whine as he drapes himself over Smokescreen’s desk, giving a big, feline-like stretch. “He hates meeeee… Wants me deeeeeaaaad.”

Looking up from his online game (which was a total violation of on-duty protocol), Smokescreen gives him a confused look of pinched face plates. “Who? Prowl?”

“Yesssss.” Jazz sinks further into the desk, becoming one with it. His words come out muffled, face pressed into the surface. “Talk about mixed signals. One moment I think he might like me decently enough, the next I’m certain he wants me dead where I stand. Is it me? Am I the issue?”

Smokey’s silent — too quiet. It makes Jazz roll over a bit, raising an optic ridge (not that Smokescreen can see it). That was a perfect opening for his friend to say, ‘always, Jazz. You’re the biggest nuisance I know.’ Smokescreen wasn’t one to pass on such openings, either, hence the confusion.

Smokescreen looks… full of mirth? His gaze is up to the ceiling, a hand covering his mouth, shoulders shaking a bit.

“Have you, I don’t know, tried asking him directly?”

Okay, that definitely sounded like stifled laughter in the other’s voice. Like the tone of a mech that knows more than he’s letting on.

Still, Jazz is feeling miserable, so he’ll gladly bite if it means getting the chance to vent a bit. “No,” he says glumly, kicking a ped against the desk for the added effect. “I thought about it, but it didn’t seem right. We’re Prime’s Third and Second, y’know? It’d be awkward, laying it all out. Can’t risk damaging morale if it ends up ugly. And he really does dislike me.”

No, Jazz wasn’t imagining it; Smokescreen snorted, pressing the hand a little tighter against his mouth.

“You’re… really not used to that, are you?”

And, well. That was a problem Jazz was trying not to address. Having it said so bluntly makes him pout a bit. “Maybe not before, but now it’s a little more common.”

Smokescreen sobers up a bit, field twinged with sympathy. “Oookay, that’s an issue you and I are gonna have to sort through at a later time. But what I want to know is, why do you care? What makes Prowl such an outlier you feel the need to sit here and whine to me about it instead of taking action?”

“I don’t know!” Jazz exclaims, plopping himself back down, raising his arms up to Primus Himself. “Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t try to hide it?”

“Hide what?”

Jazz scowls. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Yeup,” Smokescreen says, leaning back and grinning. “It’s annoying, isn’t it? Me making you admit that you’ve got a problem you don’t know how to fix.”

“I hate you.”

“Then get out of my office.”

“No,” Jazz says, all the world’s petulance in his tone as he settles back down on Smokescreen’s desk. “Your desk is a lot comfier than mine. And you’ve got games. Lots of them.”

“Am I at least an added bonus?”

“Not when you’re yapping and pullin’ my leg so much, no. Not even a little.”

“You wound me, Jazz,” Smokescreen dryly retorts, turning his gaze back to his handheld. When there’s the telltale death jingle, he merely sighs, putting it aside as he studies Jazz a bit. It makes the saboteur squirm, that level of scrutiny. More so when Smokescreen’s got that psychiatrist look to his eyes.

Giving up the charade, Smokescreen smirks, leaning in close enough to poke Jazz in the nose. “Oh, you cannot be serious. Who knew you of all people could be so dense.”

Jazz frowns. “What do you mean?”

But the junior tactician wasn’t listening, muttering under his breath, “Hate you?” He shook his head a bit, chuckling. “Jazz — the mech practically trips over his own peds whenever you enter the room. He’s a real bumbling idiot when someone so much as says your name, suddenly all eyes and ears like some kind of organic pet being brought food.”

The saboteur sits up straight, not caring at all that he manages to knock a pad clean off the desk. He ignores Smokescreen’s indignant little ‘hey!’ when it clatters to the floor. “No, that- that can’t be right. Prowl doesn’t—”

“Do romance?” His friend finishes, raising an optic ridge. His grin was still there, but it seemed slightly forced now. It’s that look he gets sometimes whenever he’s stepping on rough terrain, knowing a little too much about the bots on base. “Listen, Jazz — I know that you’ve technically known Prowl longer than I have, but you don’t work directly under the mech. And apparently, you’re fragging oblivious to what’s been obvious to us all.” When that only gets him a blank stare, he shakes out his hands for emphasis. “The wings, Jazz, the wings!”

“W-“

Jazz doesn’t get to finish, the door suddenly opening, stealing both of their attention. And low and behold, there was Prowl, nose stuck in reports as he swiftly made his way through, none the wiser.

“Smokescreen, have you looked over the governor of Oregon’s request yet? I-“

He pauses once he notices said person is in the middle of something. It doesn’t escape Jazz’s notice the way his gaze flicks to him, the way he’s seated, before going back to Smokescreen. It could be an illusion, but Jazz swears the mech takes a small shuffle backward, trying to shield himself partially with the report in his hand. His faceplates looked slightly darker too, optics giving a small flicker, in, out.

“Is… this a bad time?” He’s addressing Smokescreen when he asks, making a point of avoiding looking at Jazz. But his wings — those fucking wings!

Jazz’s jaw could hit the floor. It’s — it’s barely there, barely anything at all, but when you’re actively looking it for, it’s rather obvious; Prowl’s doorwings droop a bit as he says the words, his left foot pulled back as if to pivot on out. His helm is lowered and — yep; he’s sneaking glances at Jazz out of the corner of his eye, nervously tapping his fingers against the side of his datapad.

Oh, Primus — it really was rather obvious, wasn’t it? Like, really, really obvious. The mech was shy. Ridiculously shy. Prowl! That had to be wrong, right? Prowl didn’t- oh. Oh. He didn’t do romance because Jazz was there and not romancing with him. Prowl was rather old-fashioned in everything, so why not this as well?

Snickering quietly, Smokescreen gives him a hard clap on the back that makes him stumble and almost fall off the edge of his desk. He ignores the glare Jazz sends his way, his tongue sticking out. Turning to Prowl, he’s all smiles and politeness, cheeky fragger.

“Nope, not at all, no worries. Jazz and I were just discussing some business, nothing important. And as for your earlier question — yep! Looked it over and ran the numbers myself. Should be all good to go.”

“That’s…” Prowl purses his lips a bit, face pinched and crinkled in thought. It looked… pained. Like he didn’t really want to say the words coming out of his mouth. “That’s good. Thank you.”

“I- uh.” Jazz points towards the door, because it’s clear Smokescreen has no intention of helping him out. “Go.”

That same, little droop. “If it’s because of me-“

“Nah,” Jazz says, cutting him off. And it isn’t. Not completely. Just — not for the reasons Prowl might be thinking. “Like Smokey said: it wasn’t that important. Just a little banter. Your report, on the other hand…”

The tactician looks down at said report, almost as if he had forgotten why he came into the room at all. Again, his face screws up into something rather odd. Indecisive. “It-“

-can wait. But Prowler’s always been a logical, by-the-books kind of mech, never selfish. The words die there, his lips pursed as he stops himself, blinking harshly as he lowers his gaze.

It almost gets Jazz to stay. Almost. His head’s a little too full of discoveries for that, needing some space to simply breathe. Primus. How long had everyone on base known? And why didn’t they tell Jazz? It’s not like he was some serial dater or anything! He wouldn’t react badly!

But… how does he feel about Prowl? He doesn’t know. He’s never had to think past his own wounded ego before, so fixated on the fact the Praxian seemed to only treat him differently.

Maybe. Maybe that was part of the problem. If Prowl was really that shy, no wonder nobody wanted to spoil things for him.

Jazz pauses.

The mech had been flirting with him from the beginning. All those times he would suddenly blurt out an unrelated question, sheepishly apologizing when questioned about it. He was trying to get to know Jazz better.

That. That changed some things — a lot of things. It answered some things too, but that seemed rather trivial right now.

Prowl — Prowl had a crush on him. Him.

A hand comes up to rest against Jazz’s mouth, his head turned and making eye contact with his own reflection. He didn’t remember making it make to his hab, nor entering his washracks.

He was even more startled to find himself smiling.

Valentine’s was. A holiday. A great holiday, even. Jazz was always stoked for it, showing his appreciation for everyone on base in the little things, such as giving them little pieces reminiscent of their home back on Cybertron. From treats to playing music — he had it all. It reminded him what he had loved about being a cultural investigator so much, his spark full and warm whenever people thanked him.

This year… It wasn’t like Jazz was any less excited, far from it. The problem was…

“Woah, either you’re really deep in thought, or you want to kill Blaster right now. Which is it?”

“Thinking, so go away before I catch your disease.”

Smokescreen, damn him, only presses in closer, making an utter mockery of Jazz’s threat. “Hmmm, I don’t doubt that—the thinking bit, just to be clear—but it really does look like you want to tear Blaster apart right now. Last I checked, he was your second best friend—with me being the first, of course—so now I need to know why. Though,” he chuckles, “I might have a guess.”

Jazz sighs, focus thoroughly ruined now. “I’m not jealous.”

“Sure you’re not. Blaster just conveniently happens to be chatting away with your not-so-secret admirer that you may or may not have similar feelings for, all whilst you’re glaring at him. I’m believing you so hard right now.”

“Knock it off,” Jazz says, giving him a shove. “It’s genuinely not like that. I think-“ He hesitates, knowing the words will be very real once they leave the sanctity of his own head. “I think Prowl’s planning to actually confess soon.”

“Oh.” Smokescreen’s blink is audible as he turns back to study Blaster and Prowl from the other side of the room. “What makes you think that?”

“He’s been acting more skittish than usual, almost acting guilty anytime I walk in on the two of them talking. Mighty embarrassed too.”

“Okay,” Smokescreen says, slowly and giving an even slower nod. “I’ll pretend to understand the thought process here.”

Exasperated, Jazz huffs again. “Prowl doesn’t get embarrassed unless it’s something to do with — y’know. This.” He waggles a finger between himself and where Prowl stands. “Which, considering Blaster’s title of second place bestie—soon to be first, if you don’t stop poking me—makes me think he’s plotting something. Something big.”

“Ah.”

It’s quiet then, both of them just staring as Prowl eventually leaves the rec. room, wings a little higher than normal. In unison, their heads turn to follow him out, mouths pressed into lines.

Watching Blaster soon leave as well, Smokescreen drums a finger against Jazz’s arm, humming. “You gonna do anything about it? You want to do anything about it?”

“That’d be mean though, right? He’s obviously trying so hard…”

Suddenly serious, Smokescreen sits bolt upright, grasping Jazz’s arm a little too firmly. Urgently. “Jazz. Jazz, Jazzy, Jazz-meister. You don’t have to reciprocate or do anything if you don’t want to. I know I teased you a lot-“

“What? No.” Jazz wriggles out of his friend’s hold, raising an optic ridge. “I’m not- ah, slag. That’s not what I meant, Smokes. I just meant I don’t wanna rush him by letting him I’ve caught on or anything. It’d spoil his fun, right?”

Smokescreen studies his face some more, likely trying to parse through his words and link them back to his body language. When he’s satisfied, he smiles, leaning out of Jazz’s space once more. He taps all fingers against both knees obnoxiously. “Well, you might be right about that. He might curl in on himself and die if he feels like he’s made a fool of himself.”

And then, he’s wearing that professional, clinical look. He looks over to Jazz out of the corner of his peripheral view. As much as he is Jazz’s friend, he’s also the glue holding this base together, and—in his own way—Prowl’s friend as well. “I know it’s been a long, long time, but he isn’t used to — sincerity, I guess. He’s a little slow when it comes to processing emotions and putting them in the right little boxes he’s made up. Sentinel… had a lot of fragged up ideals, you know. Didn’t approve of being so affectionate with others and other junk.”

The tapping continues.

“Now, imagine living a life of seclusion, hidden away and made to perform only one task and having no other opportunities. The only person that pays you attention is someone who treats you like slag, though not as harshly as you know other people are capable of being. It makes you lacking in social skills, harsh and cold because you were programmed to be as such and nobody has given you anything more than diplomatic pleasantries. Suddenly, that’s gone and you’re surrounded by new, unpredictable people. They care about and appreciate you, but you were convinced such things weren’t yours to have. It goes on for years and years, and while it gets a little easier to believe, you’re still stuck being standoffish and a little alienated. How would you react if someone told you outright ‘I like you’ before you get to do it yourself?”

Jazz is silent for a long, long time. He thinks about it — really, truly thinks about it, hands clasped together, elbows pressing down into the armor of his knees.

Eventually, “I wouldn’t believe it. I’d think it’s some kind of joke to get a reaction out of me.” And Prowl is a very, very logical mech in all areas, except for feelings. There, he’s illogical as can be, as emotional as the best of them.

The Praxian clasps his shoulder. “Good.” Approval dyes his words in bright hues, a small smile on his face as he stands up with a groan, twisting. “Definitely sat there too long,” he grumbles under his breath, wincing as he rubs at his back.

It makes Jazz laugh, which might’ve been what Smokey was really aiming for all along.

He’s turning to leave when Jazz makes a grab for his hand.

“Thanks,” he says, meaning it to a degree words can’t convey. “And don’t worry.”

“Who said anything about being worried?” Smokescreen retorts, so gooey and fond.

Jazz has been avoiding the rec. room tonight, every revolution of his spark loud in his head. He can’t remember ever being this nervous before, practically giving himself a spark attack with the way he’s both giddy and filled to the brim with anxiety.

He can hear the sounds of the party going on even in his room, loud and positively thunderous, making the ground shake a little, depending on where you are. It’s exactly the scene of life he’s always loved, feeling at one with the beat and energy. It makes him remember days of a little town of nowhere, one small mech clinging to a pillar hidden in shadows as they watched a live performance. They were never meant to be there, having snuck in.

Every bit of it was worth it though, the music resonating and positively singing in his spark. It was heavenly bliss, enough for him to get lost in it, forgetting his place.

He expected the musicians to be upset at having discovered a little stowaway taking up their time. Instead, they had been delighted with how enthusiastic he had been about their music, jumping up and down.

It was the entire group that had given him a new designation then and there, taking him along and raising Jazz as their own.

The rec. room practically beckons out to him, but — he’s unable to stay still, so sickeningly worried. What if he’s wrong? What if he’s right?

Prowl was special to him — that much became so blindingly clear the moment he discovered the Praxian’s crush on him. It only made sense for him to be bothered when he thought the mech seemingly hated him — he wanted his attention! He just. Hadn’t realized that at the time. But now it’s so painfully there, squeezing his chest and pressing down until it hurts.

Lovesick — that’s what Smokescreen had called it. Kinda embarrassing, considering Jazz’s age. He’s much too old to be acting like a youngling having their first crush, writing away in this datapad and swinging their peds.

But here he is, virtually doing that very thing.

In, out. Round and round the air goes, flustered hands constantly in motion, checking all over himself for any unseen imperfection.

He wants this to be perfect. He wants-

Prowl. Wants to hold him and kiss him — eventually. He doubts the Praxian’s the type to move so fast, but hey, he’s surprised Jazz before.

All Jazz has to do is go out there and see. He’ll never know if he stays in here all night. Would Prowl be crushed if he did? He would, wouldn’t he. All assuming Jazz’s suspicions are right, of course, and Prowl really is planning something tonight. Primus. Jazz could be so very, very wrong. Prowl didn’t go to parties, what has him so convinced tonight will be any different?

But it’s also Jazz’s party and, well. He’s sorta obligated to show up no matter what.

Right.

Steeling himself, Jazz makes the oh so very scary decision of finally leaving his room, gradually approaching the ruckus of music, streamers, and a little bit of high-grade. Just a little.

The whole room is dyed red, many mechs dancing and laughing, loud, loud, loud. Too loud and totally not Prowl’s scene, Jazz really should just — he’s already said hello to like, five different people, surely — half of them were drunk off their afts already, they wouldn’t even notice-

Where is Prowl??

Jazz doesn’t even notice he lifted himself up to the tips of his peds until he’s lowering himself to the floor in disappointment when he’s unable to spot the mech he’s been both hoping and dreading seeing.

A shame, really, because Jazz really thinks he’s outdone himself this year with the amount of heart decorations and streamers. It’s practically a whole store’s worth of things.

Yeah. That’s the only reason he feels sad right now. The only reason at all.

He tries, he really does. He smiles, he waves, he even dances a bit. Does the things expected of him, acting like nothing’s wrong, nothing at all.

It doesn’t last, not completely. He doesn’t think anyone notices or questions his sudden departure, halfway out the door without anyone stopping him. But he does — stop, that is.

Down the hall, he hears it: a song he hasn’t heard in a long, long time.

Following the distant sound of music, Jazz finds himself in a more secluded section of the Ark, away from prying eyes. It’s not a very spacious room, but nor is it crowded like the rec. room. It’s quiet, save for the red boombox perched up on a small ledge.

“Blaster…? What’s going on?”

Blaster, predictably, doesn’t answer.

“I asked him to, considering he’s the only one with records of this song.”

Jazz whirls around and — there — there’s Prowl. Smiling that smile that he’s so fickle about sharing, saying it makes him look untrustworthy. Which was really just a fancy way of saying he didn’t like it, which always made Jazz sad because — it’s cute. Ridiculously so, the way it’s lopsided and shows a little teeth.

“Hey,” Jazz says.

“Hey,” Prowl echoes.

“What’s,” Jazz gestures to the small bit of heart streamers he’s only now noticed, “all of this?”

“What does it look like?” Prowl says, flashing more teeth as he playfully pokes Jazz’s arm. “Surely you of all mechs recognize a party?”

“I- I do, but-“

Oh, Primus. He really hopes he still looks put together right now.

“It’s my song,” he says, voice nothing more than a choked up whisper packed full of love and shock. “It’s the song my mentors played and re-named after me. I didn’t- I’ve never played this song for anyone before. How did you…?”

“Rewind,” Prowl answers, holding out one of his hands. And Jazz — he takes it. It doesn’t even occur to him why until they’re dancing. Not a formal dance or anything like that — it’s Polyhexian to its core. “He’s got a recording of practically everything, you know. Even of your mentors’ older performances.”

“And the — and the dancing?” Jazz asks, grinning like mad as Prowl leads him through the motions of a song and dance he knows by spark. He thinks he should be more shocked by this entire affair, maybe stuttering and disbelieving. But he knew Prowl a little better than that — knew his subtle cues and spark better than most.

Everything about this was so very Prowl; down to the way it’s a moment between them, and them alone. Minus Blaster, but ah well. Blaster was always good at keeping a secret.

“Blaster. I — apologize if it isn’t any good. I’ve never done anything more than the formal dances expected at political events.” And the thing was, it — well, it was awkward, the movements stilted and a little clumsy. Less than Jazz would have expected from Prowl, convincing him that it’s more about the dance itself than the action as a whole.

Funny, how Jazz wouldn’t have it any other way.

“It’s perfect. Just — perfect. You’re perfect.”

That makes Prowl — stop. Stop like Jazz had always interpreted as being a sign of discomfort.

His eyes go wide, mouth forming a little ‘o’. He ducks his head, trying to hide it in the crook of his neck.

“Aw, c’mon, none of that,” Jazz teases, putting his hands on either side of the Praxian’s face, turning him back forward. “I wanna look at’cha. I don’t get to do it this close, this often. I like looking at such a handsome face.”

“I’m assuming you knew, then?” Embarrassment twinges in Prowl’s field, twined with mortification and a bit of loathing. All making Jazz’s smile turn a little sympathetic, but above all else: full of love, love, love. Adoration for this shy weirdo of a mech he’s come to know and appreciation.

“Took me a bit,” he admits. “But once I caught on — oh boo, all subtly was off the table. You’re so transparent, but that’s something I love about ya.”

Prowl’s eyes are zeroed in on Jazz’s hands, sliding his own up until he’s clasping them. He rubs small, little circles into the palms, voice a little husky and shaky as he says, “Can I take this as a yes, then?”

“Yeah, Prowler,” Jazz whispers, voice equally shaky now, leaning his helm to rest against the tactician’s. “You can.”

[electric-guillotines]

In The Wake of Fire - Pt.1

"Genesis"

WandaNat x F!OC Summary: It's been three years since the Avengers stopped Ulton's genocidal plan to wipe out all life on the planet. Bonds have strengthened, relationships have flourished, and the organisation continues to expand and evolve with an ever changing world.

On a cold morning in Boston, the world changes again in a flash of light that decimates five city blocks.

Thousands are dead, more trapped and missing under the rubble, and at the centre of the blast stands a young woman with lightning in her veins and a sword hanging over her head...

Content: Opens with Pietro death angst, then domestic avengers fluff with WandaNat, closes with an explosion from the perspective of the person at ground zero Words: 5 ,657

Can also be read over on [Ao3]

Taglist: @bishovapls

Index || Forward> | End>>

She felt it keenly like a scalpel splitting her open, the moment the bullets connected and made his racing thoughts stutter and slow as if caught in tar, the pain cutting through him like a shock of cracks through glass.

Fear swelled fast and brittle, fear of the consequences, fear of the the pain and the cold seeping into his body, stealing all the energy he was so used to having.

He wasn't used to being so still, so incapable of movement. All he could manage was a last little utterance to Barton's shocked face.

He was scared, the last words through his mind a litany of apologies because he knew she could hear him. He didn't want to leave her alone, no longer scared for himself but for her, and he hoped she wasn't angry with him but Barton was carrying a boy, a child just like them once, terrified and alone in the middle of a warzone.

He couldn't just watch and let it happen.

This time he could change it. He could be the protector they had so desperately needed when it was their turn to cower and cry and contemplate death at too young an age.

He collapsed, his body giving out as his mind fizzled out in a flurry of dying thoughts.

He was scared and fading and trying to hold on and he loved her so much, he was so sorry to do this to her, and...

And then there was nothing.

Nothing but the deafening silence where her brother used to be.

. . .

Manhattan, NY 6:02am

Wanda jolted awake with a strangled sob in her throat.

She scrambled to sit up and tear the sheets from her body as if to escape the memory, her hands glowing in the darkness, but a pair of strong arms held her firmly in place.

The sound of someone gently hushing her made Wanda freeze and the thundering of her heart abated just enough to actually hear what was being said to her.

“It's okay, it's just me, lyubimaya (beloved). Just Natasha. You're not alone.” Natasha's voice was gentle and firm, low enough not to startle but impossible not to hear when she was pressed so close.

Wanda latched on to it, grasping at Natasha's arms and allowing herself to feel the weight and warmth of her girlfriend right there with her.

Natasha asked her, “do you hear me?”

Slowly, she nodded, the urge to flee fracturing as her shoulders caved and her vision blurred.

Natasha pressed a kiss to her head. “Good, just listen to the sound of my voice,” she said, and gently eased Wanda into lying back down. She held firm as Wanda trembled and shook, murmuring soft assurances and reminders, soothing all the jagged edges she knew Wanda turned on herself at times like this.

Natasha didn't need to be told what the dream was.

Almost three years had passed since Pietro Maximoff's death and while Wanda eventually managed to drag herself out of her grief and find her footing again, it would resurface as the time of year grew closer, and it seemed this time would be no different.

For all her deadly skills and strength, Natasha felt almost helpless the first time Wanda woke sobbing and panicked, all she could think to do was hold on, try to ground Wanda in the present, and thankfully that seemed to be exactly what she needed. And so, that was what she did now, with unwavering patience and a gentleness reserved for no one else, Natasha anchored her beloved witch to the here and now, to their shared space and the sound of her voice, reminding her that she wasn't alone and never would be again.

She hated seeing Wanda so small and wounded, and Wanda certainly didn't like falling apart, but Natasha would never let her feel like a burden, like she wasn't allowed to feel.

Wanda was always there for her and Natasha reciprocated gladly—they were partners. That she had to remind Wanda of that whenever the nightmares rendered her fragile enough to question it was not a chore, but a pleasure, a promise, an oath.

It took much longer than Wanda would have preferred to calm down, staring into the darkness and struggling not to see the ghost of her brother in every shadow, demanding to know how she could keep going without him.

Rationally, she knew that was a spectre conjured by her own guilt and Wanda knew it was always going to be like this when the time of his passing came around, when it came time to realise another year had passed since she was ripped in half.

Sometimes she hated him for it. Those moments were short-lived, fizzling out as the regret and grief poured back in, and Wanda knew there was no making peace with death. It could happen to suddenly, so unfairly, to survive all that they had only for death to snatch him away on the cusp of a better life—death was cruel.

Yet, life went on, and he would want her to live, to find happiness and joy and yes, all the things that reminded her of him. It just meant she had more to talk to him about the next time she visited his grave.

When the last of her nerves finally faded, Wanda exhaled shakily and wriggled around to face Natasha.

“Hey,” she whispered.

Natasha whispered back, “hey.”

Reaching out, Wanda drew her into a soft kiss, cradling her face with the kind of care one would use to handle spun glass, not a deadly super soldier with more blood on her hands than most could even fathom. Natasha was more than that, and Wanda didn't much care how many lives the arms that held her in her darkest moments had ended—she only cared that they held her.

Parting, Wanda murmured, “I love you.”

Natasha smiled, easy and warm. “I know. And I love you.”

The smile tugged her lips and Wanda sighed, letting her brow rest against Natasha's. “I know,” she answered back, affirming that she heard it and accepted it as true.

Natasha leaned up, kissing her brow. “What do you want to do?”

She sighed, biting back the urge to answer 'nothing' because that would get her nowhere. The best thing to do was to get up and use the restless energy pooling in her gut to do something productive even if her body was still sore from the recent mission.

Humming thoughtfully, she propped herself up on her elbows to check the alarm clock on her bedside table, the numbers glowing a soft green in the low light. “I doubt I'll be able to sleep again,” she said. “We could sit with Gomez before everyone else wakes up, then I can make breakfast and see where we go from there?”

Natasha nodded, already getting up to help make the bed. “Of course, rodnaya (dear).”

It didn't take long at all to get dressed and head up to the lounge, elevator doors opening to a Manhattan skyline still shrouded by the strange in-between twilight of early morning. Everything felt still, only the faint hum of ventilation and electronics keeping it from total silence.

Natasha went to brew the tea and Wanda settled on the middle-most couch, quietly turning on the TV to find something light-hearted and easy.

A mass of black fur emerged from under the coffee table with a sleepy trill, hopping up on the couch beside her.

Wanda smiled, leaning back to let her visitor decide if he was going to grace her with his presence or not. “Hello, Gomez,” she said, offering her hand.

He didn't even bother to sniff first, bumping his head into her hand with a mewl like a cat who had never known affection before that very moment, so neglected was he in a household that needed a white board in the kitchen labelled 'Was His Majesty Fed Today?' because not a single person in the Tower could be trusted to resist his plaintive little face.

Technically, Steve was supposed to be his person. The papers had Steve's name on them, Steve was the one who made the executive decision to adopt the little menace when he somehow kept finding his way into the Tower despite all attempts to relocate him.

And yet, Wanda was the one he behaved best for. She was the only one who could trim his claws unscathed and give him medicine without more than a token meow of protest, and as he readily displayed, hers was his lap of choice, so after a few gentle scratches around the ears Wanda was quite happy to let the distinguished little gentleman get comfy.

Natasha brought over two cups of fresh tea and sat down next to her, the smoky aroma of lapsang souchong wafting through the air. An acquired taste as teas went, like a bonfire in a cup the heavy notes of wood, pine, and smoke were off-putting to many, yet Wanda found it comforting and Natasha learned to appreciate it, if with slightly more honey.

Wanda murmured, “thank you, mila (sweetheart).”

They settled into an easy silence, Gomez purring away and making biscuits on Wanda's lap, the familiar shenanigans of Brooklyn Nine-Nine playing out in the quiet. Wanda could lose herself in simple, light-hearted silliness and heart-warming moments for as long as it took the weight to fully slip from her shoulders. She hardly even noticed when Gomez stood with a chirp, arched his back in a dramatic stretch, and decided Natasha was his next resting spot.

With a sense of clarity, Wanda rose from the couch and picked up Natasha's empty mug with her own. “Coffee?”

She watched with amusement as Natasha opened her mouth to protest and insist that she would get it instead, only to look down at the little prince currently loafing on her legs.

Sighing, Natasha nodded. “Please, thank you.”

Kissing the top of Natasha's head, Wanda made her way to the kitchen, ready to brew some coffee only to stop as she entered.

“Morning,” said Sam, fighting to get the word out around a yawn and clearing his throat to try again. “Morning, Wanda,” he smiled. He was leaning against the kitchen counter with a tall glass of water, fizzling with the remains of an effervescent tablet.

He wasn't usually the first one awake since Natasha and Steve were the lightest sleepers of them all but he had his own quirks so she couldn't say she was surprised to see him up. The sun was shining, that was reason enough for him.

She smiled and moved to rinse out the mugs. “Morning. How did you sleep?”

“Not the best but could've been worse. What about you?”

“The same, I suppose.”

As she went through the motions to fill the coffee machine with fresh grounds, she felt Sam watching her.

Casually, he asked, “bad dream?”

Her hands stilled, her throat tightening.

Swallowing a tangle of thorns, Wanda nodded and continued with the coffee. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“That's alright.”

She tapped in the command and the machine began to burble and hiss, slowly filling the coffee pot with much needed fuel. The rest of the team would be awake soon, she could focus on making breakfast, making sure the people around her were taken care of.

It's what he would have wanted.

Leaning on the kitchen counter, she kept her back to him as she quietly asked, “is it?”

Sam sighed, walking over to lean against the edge beside her. “You know I'm not going to force you,” he said, warmth in his eyes when she looked at him. “I just think it's worth reminding you sometimes that the option is there.”

Rationally, she knew talking to a professional about it was the healthier option. If that particular wound didn't feel like touching a cattle brand she would be probably be more open to it, but as it was she gave the tiniest shake of her head.

Sam was used to dealing with trauma, how it affected different people, how it affected him, and one of the first things he did upon officially becoming an Avenger was talk Stark's ear off about making mental health services accessible to the Team. For some of them it would be pretty bad if they broke, for others it had the potential to be catastrophic. Better to get in front of it now than wish for it later.

Still, help couldn't usually be forced onto someone. They had to want it.

With an understanding smile, Sam nodded.

He turned to open one of the overhead cabinets and handed her a bottle of cinnamon syrup; he knew she liked it in her coffee because Pietro did.

Something tender and bittersweet coiled in her chest and Wanda accepted the bottle with a a weak smile of her own. “Thank you, Sam.”

His eyes softened “Don't worry about it.”

His lips curled mischievously and he leaned closer as if to conspire. “What we should worry about is fixing some breakfast before Jughead Jones wakes up to eat us out of house and home.”

The laugh sneaked up on her.

They got to work prepping the kitchen and soon enough the rest of the team began to trickle in with sleepy 'good mornings' and easy routines. Even Natasha was able to join them once Gomez released her from lap duties.

Once everyone congregated in the kitchen, making breakfast together just fell into place. Steve made banana waffles, Tony made green smoothies, Sam and Clint set the table, and Natasha helped Wanda by whisking eggs, chopping vegetables, and fetching seasoning. The communal effort made it so easy and comfortable, banishing the darkness Wanda started the day with and leaving instead the sensation of floating on the surface of a placid lake.

Doubtless, it would storm again and she would be pulled under, but with so many hands to push her back to the surface even that inevitability felt just a little less daunting.

After breakfast, no one seemed in a rush to be productive after spending the last few days fighting a madman in Antarctica, so they all found themselves in the lounge like a pride of dozing lions, only half paying attention to the romcom that was playing and talking about far more domestic concerns.

Clint had gotten Steve into house-flipping of all things. 'I know a man who likes to work with his hands when I see one,' he'd said, only realising how that sounded after Natasha raised a silent eyebrow at him

Still, Wanda enjoyed seeing pictures of Steve's latest project in the team's group chat. He liked finding places he could strip back to their vintage charm, repairing and polishing until until the hardwood gleamed as much as the updated utilities, and he'd sometimes even send her texts asking for her opinion on something decorative, including her in his downtime.

“You two ever thought about finding a place?” Tony asked, craning his head to look at her and Natasha.

Wanda nodded. “We've thought about it,” she said, squeezing Natasha's hand and getting a coy little smile that Natasha deftly obscured behind her hair with a tilt of her head. “A nice town house here would be lovely but I would miss this too much.”

“Oh, don't tell me,” Clint said from the other end of the couch, hand splayed across his chest. “You like us?”

Wanda narrowed her eyes at him. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Barton," she smirked. "It's nice having someone clean up after we cook.”

Laughter bubbled out of everyone and Clint blew her a theatrical kiss, which she made a show of catching and hiding in Natasha's pocket.

They could have spent the rest of the day like that if not for FRIDAY's voice interrupting the latest movie they were watching, some science-fiction thriller Clint put on.

“Emergency Alert. All Avengers must report to the conference room immediately by request of Director Fury. Repeat, all Avengers must report to the conference room immediately by request of Director Fury, this is an emergency alert.”

If she wasn't used to it by now, the mood change would have given Wanda whiplash. Instead, she hurried to get up and make her way to the conference room on the floor above, everyone filing into the elevator with practised calm, the air tense.

It would have been nice to have a few days off but Fury wouldn't contact them with something trivial so soon after a long mission, it had to be something big.

Once they entered the secure room and gathered around the table, Fury appeared to them via video call. His face was a stone mask, hands clasped behind his back.

“What's going on, Nick?” asked Steve.

“We just lost five city blocks in Boston.”

The air left the room.

Nick continued, stern but calm, precise. “There was an explosion. As far as we can tell it wasn't a conventional bomb but some kind of energy blast we've yet to identify. All we can say for certain is that it didn't come from space. This was on the ground. There have been no further attacks yet, and no sign of who pulled this off. No one's claimed it. ”

Steve slowly nodded, his jaw tight as he took in the information. “So it's a search and rescue operation?”

It made sense, if there wasn't an active threat for them to chase down the next logical thing to call them for was disaster relief.

Nick gave a curt nod. “Your task is to get over there, assess the situation, find out what you can, and support first responders. Agent Hill is briefing the Compound, they'll be en route shortly.”

. . .

45 Minutes Ago

Boston, MA 1:00pm

Just one more package and she could stop for lunch.

Kassidy briefly considered the new burger joint near Boston Common but with an internal groan her delivery took her down-hill all the way to the end of Garden St and she did not feel up to navigating Beacon Hill on an increasingly empty stomach.

Running through her her mental map of the city, she knew there was a café nearby—she'd settle for a sandwich and a coffee. Her wallet would thank her.

Free-wheeling the last dozen feet or so, Kassidy pumped the brakes and dismounted with ease, leaning her bike against a lamppost. She double-checked the address on her phone and slipped the duffle bag off her back, pulling out a football sized box.

Ringing the doorbell, she straightened herself up and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Kassidy sighed and rung the doorbell again.

Her stomach growled and she turned her attention to her surroundings for a distraction, taking in the beautiful red brickwork and gently swaying trees stretching out of the street as if in defiance. She loved Boston, the history was fascinating and the architecture always drew her eye, especially the older buildings. Had she continued with her old life she probably wouldn't have gotten to see so much of it, learning its streets, shortcuts, and hidden corners, the quiet spaces full of beauty and secrets.

Every city had its darkness, of course, there were areas she didn't like delivering to but there were worse cities to work as a courier.

She was about to ring again when the door opened just enough to reveal a middle-aged man in dishevelled office clothes, his face flushed. He almost seemed to hide behind the door, looking at her in utter confusion.

“What?” he snapped.

“Delivery,” she said quickly, her tone flat and polite. “I have something for a Mr Matthew Woods?”

“Yes, I'm Mr Woods but I didn't order anything, there's nothing scheduled for today.”

“Are you sure? It's the right address, 23 Garden St, black door and all.”

He scowled. “Yeah, I'm sure. I'm working on something important today and didn't plan to be interrupted by anything, nothing was set to be delivered. That clear enough for you?”

“That's plenty clear, sir, but—”

“But what? It's not mine.”

Kassidy chewed the inside of her cheek. She took a breath to reign in her annoyance and forced a placid smile. “I understand that, sir. There seems to have been some miscommunication but I assure you the name and address matches so if you didn't order this delivery then perhaps its from a friend?”

His face darkened. “I don't have friends.”

He said it so coldly that Kassidy couldn't help but swallow, feeling a chill crawl up her spine.

The man fixed his attention on the box in her arms. “No, if I didn't order it myself I don't trust it. Get it away from me.”

“Sir, I can't just—”

“I said get it away from me! Are you deaf?”

Kassidy nearly jumped back when he yelled, rattling her brain and freezing her gut as memories of a different voice tried to claw free, just as angry and masculine with an accent like her own. She clenched down on all of it, schooling her face into neutrality.

Carefully, she said, “alright. Not to worry, sir, I'll be going now.”

He watched her back away to her bike before slamming the door.

Kassidy sagged against the lamppost, exhaling a long, shaky breath as she tried to understand what the hell that was about. She'd had unpleasant encounters before, anyone who worked in a public facing job could fill a library with horror stories, but she had been lucky so far not to get anyone violent.

The way that man looked at her just then made her wince, like feeling a bullet whip overhead.

Trying to dispel the shake in her hands, she stuffed the package away and pulled out her phone to call her boss.

George could be a hard-ass sometimes but he wasn't unreasonable and he looked out for his couriers, so it wasn't difficult to tell him what happened.

She confirmed the address with him.

“Fuck, I'm sorry that happened, kid. I'll check with the client. She was so anal about making sure we had the right address too and then this? Go get a coffee or something, I'll call you back.”

With the wind knocked out of her sails, she walked her bike down onto Cambridge St where the sprawling facilities of Massachusets General Hospital loomed large. She tried not to think about what was on the other side of the Charles River, how easy it would be to cross Longfellow Bridge and wind her way towards a place that was no longer hers.

She longed for it, of course she did, but it would be so easy to find her there. It was an obvious place to look and watch and wait.

Kassidy had no interest in being caught.

Shaking those dour thoughts from her head, she found her way to a simple, modern cafe & bakery on the corner of an intersection, choosing to sit outside so she could enjoy the chill breeze. The sun was out and spring was slowly starting to show itself so she savoured the cold while she could.

Her nerves slowly dissipated at the taste of an indulgent almond frappe and once she could text without her fingers trembling, she quickly reported the incident to the group chat.

It didn't surprise her when Zach responded first;

Zachary: That's wicked bad, man! What crawled up his ass??? 😤🔪

Blair came soon after;

Blair: Glad to hear you're okay! Has George gotten back to you yet? :(

Kassidy smiled, letting them know he had yet to call her back and asking them about their days while she waited, slowly making her way through a cheese and turkey sandwich. Thankfully, both of them seemed to be having better luck than her, Zach hadn't needed to put out any fires in the workshop and Blair reported a quiet day in the lab.

She was almost done with lunch when a call notification flashed across the top of her phone screen.

Unknown caller.

Frowning, she wiped her hands off on her cargo pants and answered with a polite. “Hello?”

“Hello, is that Miss MacGrath?”

The voice was an older woman's, it creaked and scratched on the way out but there was no fragility, nothing soft to it. It was as firm as iron even as she spoke in a polite tone that complimented her upper-class English accent. She sounded like a southerner.

Realising she was asked a question, Kassidy cleared her throat. “Yes, sorry, that's me. Who is this?”

“Wonderful, I just got off the phone with your boss, Mr Anderson. You tried to deliver a package for me today and ran into a spot trouble from what I hear.”

“Oh! Yes, I'm so sorry, I never got your name, Miss?”

There was a soft chuckle. “Jäger. Monika Jäger. Why don't you tell me what happened in your own words?”

The strangest sense of serendipity rippled through her at the name. Her mother's maiden name was Jäger, and her maternal grandmother's name was Monika.

Shaking off the feeling, Kassidy relayed exactly what happened, encouraged by the occasional prompt and query from Monika's end.

When she finished, Monika hummed thoughtfully. “Well, that is a shame. It was meant to be a gift, mending broken bridges and all that but I suppose I should've been more direct.”

“What would you like me to do with the package?”

“Keep it.”

Kassidy blinked. “What?”

Monika laughed, the sound cool and almost empty, like she had to force it. “That was rather abrupt, wasn't it? But yes, if he won't accept it then you have it. You went to the trouble of delivering it for me at such short notice and had to deal with a disrespectful little man, consider it a thank you, or a tip. Tips are such an American fixture aren't they?”

“Ah, you can hear that, then?”

“Of course. Let me guess...Belfast?”

Despite the slightly odd, stilted nature of the interaction, Kassidy found herself laughing. “Good ear, yes. My da moved us to Boston when I was about 10.”

Monika chuckled, a little warmer this time. “It's been a long time since I visited. I keep meaning to but work keeps me too busy.”

“About the package—”

“Oh, don't worry about it, my dear. There's no point letting it go to waste and I've already sorted it out with Mr Anderson. You can throw it away if you like but I'm letting this one go. I need more direct measures to get what I'm after.”

Kassidy eyed the duffle between her feet. “Okay, if you're sure...?”

She could hear the smile in Monika's voice. “I've never been more certain, Miss MacGrath,” she said, her voice becoming oddly gentle. “I hope you appreciate what it represents more than he did.”

Click.

The call ended, leaving Kassidy with a whirlwind of questions. Blinking slowly, her gaze flitted between the bag and her phone. She quickly pulled up the chat with Blair and Zach.

The response was immediate;

Zachary: Dude, what the hell? Open it! I wanna see! 👀

Blair: Not to rain on the parade or anything but are you sure this is legal? Can you just open someone's packages? :/

Kassidy: Normally, no, but she spoke to George about it, she had my name and number. Why would she lie? 🤔

Zachary: Was this the client who asked for you specifically? This is so weird. 🤯

Blair: She did what? Kass, is that normal???

Kassidy: Happens more than you'd think 😅 Clients like it when you're reliable so they ask for the same person to handle their business. Guess I came recommended by a friend or something because I've never seen her name before. 🤔

Zachary: Dude 👀 Zachary: You should totally open it 👀 Zachary: What if its like... a faberge egg? 😇✨

Kassidy: Doubt it, but let's see 😅

Blair: Okay, please be careful but I can't deny I'm also curious... >.>

Zachary: Ha! One of us, one of us 😎

Blair: :P

Unzipping her bag, she turned the package upright and used a box-cutter to open it, revealing a metal object about the size and shape of a rugby ball. She blinked, snapping a quick picture of it in the box for her friends before she pocketed her phone and reached into the box.

It was heavier than expected, not so much she couldn't lift it but weighty, and it looked like some kind of art piece, a fancy paperweight some rich executive could preen over.

Though it made her think of a rugby ball at first, there was nothing round to its shape, it was more like a long octahedron, each face an intricate metal plate with a wave like pattern on it that reminded her of Damascus steel. The poles at either end were flat rather than pointed and she adjusted to hold it horizontally, twisting and turning it between her hands to see if anything was different or if each plate was identical—the latter.

Kassidy couldn't begin to fathom what such an item was meant to represent, monetary, spiritual, symbolic, nothing jumped out to her.

A blue glow came to life between the plates.

She could barely frown at that development when the shell split open and unfolded around her hands, locking them in place with the item between them.

Kassidy jolted, thrusting her arms out as she tried to throw it away to no avail, it was locked in place.

The inside was even more intricate, a dense lattice of wires, coils, and crystalline plates, all of which connected to a glassy centre, pulsing with a deep blue light. There was something inside the glass, something shifting, something moving, something alive, and she could feel it waking up as a heavy static prickled the back of her neck.

The glow was getting brighter.

Heart racing, Kassidy stood from her chair fast enough to send it clattering and pressed her foot against the device, trying to leverage it off her hands. It wouldn't budge, not even when her hands started to bleed and her shoulders felt like they were going to pop.

A low, cascading whine started to build with the light.

It was working up to something.

Her mind raced, thoughts of terror attacks and cults and alien invasions and superheroes flashing through her mind in frantic snapshots, trying to find an answer.

Her hands were tied, she couldn't call for help and even if she got someone else to do it who knew how long it would take for police to arrive. Short of cutting her hands off she wasn't getting free any time soon and at the rate the device was lighting up Kassidy had a sinking feeling that time was not something she had any more.

Parks were too far away, so was the river, the nearest parking lot was always packed this time of day.

Impulse pushed her up to the table where she raised her arms above her head so anyone who looked could see the device glowing between her hands. “Bomb! There's a bomb! Get away! I have a bomb!”

It was all she could think to do, so she kept screaming it, bellowing threats and holding her arms high as the glow became blinding and the whine deafening, making her wish she could plug her ears against it.

The sight of it and her words were enough to start a panic. People began to take notice, calling out that there was a bomb, running away, warning people inside the cafe so they ran too. Some took out their phones as they went, calling what she hoped were emergency services because whatever happened next was going to be bad even if by some miracle she was the only one hurt by it.

She lowered the device, staring up at the sky as it dawned on her that she was about to die. Tears stung her eyes. Kassidy screwed them shut.

The whine stopped, and the world turned white.

An overwhelming roar of sound drowned out everything, even her own scream. Every nerve in her body lit up like white phosphorous, engulfing her in pulsing waves of agony she would never have the words to articulate fully, burning through her again and again as if they were rebuilt after every wave just to be incinerated.

Slowly the roar abated into a horrid cacophony of terror and pain in every direction, laid thick with the choking chemical stench of ozone, the oily burning stink of hair and skin.

Through the phosphorescent glare of energy, Kassidy barely made out the skeletal shape of her hands, stark and silhouetted, still trapped in place, regaining thickness and muscle and skin only to fragment and break and burn to the bone.

She would have vomited if she wasn't so busy screaming.

The world snapped back into place like a radar pulse returning to sender. The white glare faded, the burning remained, and whatever still held her upright finally gave out.

Kassidy's smoking body collapsed to the shattered ground, the device tumbling from her hands and clattering out of sight, out of mind as she stared into the middle distance, unable to focus on anything but the faint glow of electricity skittering down her arm as it lay stretched out and limp on the broken asphalt in front of her.

It occurred to her that she wasn't breathing.

She tried to inhale and immediately choked, coughing up a spray of dark red blood. Every little movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her body and it drained her completely. All she could do was lay there waiting for it to end, vision fading in and out.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed when she heard footsteps calmly approaching her. It didn't feel long, and it wasn't the hurried gait of a first responder or the clumsy kindness of a regular person trying to help another survivor, and when it stopped just short of her Kassidy barely picked up the sound of a metallic scrape.

A sigh.

She felt someone kneel over her, and barely had enough awareness to blink at the voice of Monika speaking to her. “You know, I never thought I was capable of something like this,” she said, wistful. “This isn't the life I thought I would have. But we don't get to choose that, not with so many lives at stake, not with so much responsibility in our hands, Miss MacGrath.”

With that, she felt the cool press of fingers against her pulse points and Monika quietly counted, humming when she was satisfied.

That clinical touch withdrew, and as unconsciousness finally claimed her Monika's last words rang in her mind. “The stage is set and the actors rush to fill their roles. See you soon, Kassidy.”

Index || Forward> | End>>

[hunzzzzz]

Save me (Bsf!Rafe x Thornton OFC): part 4

TW: mentions of sexual assault, drug use, cocaine, guns, blood, violence, non consensual drugging, dark themes, suicidal thoughts.

Masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Sam stood at the gates of the graveyard, the rain pouring. Even the universe was weeping.

With no home anymore. Nowhere to return. Her house was a ruin, a tomb, haunted by the ghost of her father’s absence. And she stood there, at the threshold of his final resting place, for a long time, gathering the tattered remnants of her courage.

She hadn’t visited before. After the funeral, she’d fled, seeking oblivion in the numbing embrace of drugs and alcohol, anything to silence the screaming in her soul. She’d gotten so high she couldn’t feel her heartbeat, couldn’t feel her lungs expand and contract.

She’d been numb for so long, adrift in a fog of apathy. What had happened to her, to her family, to her life , hadn’t seemed to matter. Sometimes, a flicker of anger would pierce through the haze, but mostly… mostly she felt nothing. A vast, empty nothing.

But now, months of denial and avoidance finally crashing down around her, with no one else to turn to, she found herself here, at her father’s grave.

At least he was here . This was his home now.  A chilling thought crossed her mind, a dark whisper in the howling wind: Maybe it should be my home too.

Each step she took towards his grave felt like a physical struggle, as if an invisible force was pressing down on her, crushing her. With each labored breath, she trudged forward, the rain beating down on her, a relentless punishment for all her regrets.

She finally reached it. His headstone. “In loving memory of Craig Thornton, loving husband, loving father.” The inscription, so simple, so final, felt like a punch to the gut.

The sleek marble, polished to a high sheen, was cold and slick beneath her trembling fingers. He would have hated this , she thought. What if he’s cold, like the marble? A wave of irrationality washed over her. Maybe he needs a blanket.

Sam fell to her knees into the unforgiving gravel. She lowered her head, resting it against the cold, unyielding marble, as if she was giving her dad one last hug, the hug she’d never gotten the chance to give him, the hug she had selfishly denied herself. A sob wracked her body, a sound of pure, unadulterated grief. 

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so fucking sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking, lost in the vast emptiness of the graveyard. She was alone, utterly alone, at the edge of the world, reaching out to touch nothing but cold, unyielding stone.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’ll—I’ll never forgive myself. I’m so sorry.” The apologies tumbled out of her, a litany of regret that she knew would haunt her until her dying breath. Maybe that was why she drank, why she chased oblivion in the haze of drugs. She wanted to see him again, she wanted to be with him in the abyss. She wanted to apologize, to beg for his forgiveness, to tell him how much she loved him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you, Dad,” she cried, banging her head gently against the headstone, a small, futile act of self-punishment.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t—I couldn’t lie to you. I just couldn’t look at you as you were dying and pretend… pretend everything was okay. I couldn’t. You deserved better than that. Better than a daughter who lied to you, a wife who was having an affair while you were on your deathbed. I’m so sorry, Dad.”

The memories crashed down on her in waves, pulling her under, drowning her in a sea of grief and guilt. The last time she’d seen him, his eyes… she couldn’t even remember. Had she told him she loved him? Had she held his hand? Had she even been there? 

She couldn’t deal with the fact that there was a last time for everything. There was a last time she sat on his shoulders and there was a last time he tucked her into bed. The last kiss he pressed on her forehead. 

“I miss you. I miss you so much, and… and I’m not doing well. I’m really not. I wish you were here,” she choked out, “and you’d tell me everything's gonna be okay. But right now… right now it doesn’t feel like that. It really doesn’t.”

She banged her head harder against the cold marble, the pain a small, insignificant counterpoint to the ache in her heart. She was letting herself feel it now—everything, all at once. Months of buried emotion, of carefully constructed numbness, were finally breaking through. This was just the beginning. The long, agonizing process of grieving had finally begun.

She lifted her head, preparing to strike the stone again, when she felt a hand on her shoulder, gently pulling her back.

She looked up, shielding her eyes from the relentless rain. It was Rafe, kneeling beside her, his hair plastered to his forehead, his clothes soaked through. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the rain a curtain between them.

His eyes softened, a wave of tenderness washing over his face as he took in the sight of her trembling in her thin shirt, her chest shaking with sobs, her eyes filled with a raw, desperate longing.

He didn’t say a word. He just pulled her into his chest, holding her close as she wept. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his jacket, as if he were the only solid thing left in her world, the only anchor in the storm raging inside her. 

Rafe had spent the entire day searching. After the chaos in his mind—Peterkin’s death, the blood on his hands, Sarah’s disappearance—he couldn't just sit at home and wait. Not when his head was such a mess, not when the image of Sam, so broken from last night, haunted his every thought. He was driving around aimlessly, when he saw it. Her bike. Sam’s bike, the one with the pink ribbons she’d put on it when she was thirteen. It was hers. It had to be.

He took off his jacket, wrapping it around her shivering form. “Let’s go,” he said softly, trying to gently lift her from the ground. “Let’s go home.”

She looked at him, her eyes hollow, her cheekbones sunken, her skin paler than he remembered, as if she hadn’t seen the sun all summer.

And it was then, seeing her so utterly broken, so completely lost, that the full weight of his own failings crashed down on him. He’d left her. He’d abandoned her when she needed him most. He’d allowed his own pride and anger to blind him to her pain. He’d done this to her. And the guilt was a crushing weight.

“I don’t have a home,” she whispered, her eyelashes heavy with a mixture of tears and raindrops. 

She wanted to go home. She always wanted to go home. Even when she was home, she longed for that feeling of belonging, of safety, of everything finally being okay.

She yearned for the simple comfort of seeing her dad’s bedside lamp glowing in the window on a cold night, the relief of leaving a party she wasn’t enjoying, the solace of being sent home from school when she felt sick, the security of calling her dad when she was upset at a sleepover. She wanted her dad to come get her. She wanted to go home. But home was gone.

Rafe gently guided her back to his car, opening the door and helping her in, his movements careful, as if she would crumble into dust at any moment, her spirit broken beyond repair.

He reached over to do her seatbelt, but she flinched away, her movements jerky and defensive. 

“I got it,” she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper. She bit her lip to stop it from trembling, her hands shaking as she fumbled with the clasp. Rafe held his hands up in a gesture of peace, his eyes on her, cautious and concerned.

She was shivering violently, her teeth chattering. Rafe cranked the heating up to full blast, the warm air immediately filling the car.

“You’re gonna get sick,” he scolded her. “Seriously, what were you thinking, sitting in the rain, in barely a crop top and shorts?” He ran a hand through his own hair, squeezing out some of the water.

Sam turned her head to look out the window, watching the raindrops splatter against the glass, a million tiny explosions of water against the cold surface. She seemed detached from her surroundings, lost in her own world of pain and misery, a mere shell of the girl he knew once.

“You want me to drop you home?” he asked and Sam shook her head in response.

Rafe pursed his lips, unsure of what to do. He wanted to help her, to comfort her, but she was so closed off, so unreachable. “Do you want to come back to mine?” he offered tentatively. 

She just shrugged, still mute, her gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window, her expression unreadable.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

16th April, 2019

The last house party Sam went to before everything went to hell—before her dad’s diagnosis, before the bonfire night. She was wandering around aimlessly, searching for her friends, only to discover they’d all paired off and left without her.

She huffed, stepping outside into the chilly night air, hugging herself tightly, trying to ward off the cold. Rafe, standing in the front garden with his friends, spotted her and waved.

“Why do you look so grim? Lighten up, it’s a party. You never let loose!” He broke away from his group and walked over to her, running a hand through his hair, slicking it back with practiced ease.

“I can’t let loose because I need to wake up early and study!” she huffed, crossing her arms.

Sam was laser-focused on her academics. Alcohol was out of the question. Nothing was going to derail her from her goal: getting into the best college. She had interviews lined up for after summer with prestigious universities. That was her priority, not getting shitfaced and flunking her classes.

“Oh yeah? Then you should’ve stayed home and spent the night studying too,” he teased, flicking her shoulder playfully.

“Sarah forced me to come! But I’m leaving now,” she snapped, brushing past him and walking briskly towards the gate.

“Hey! Hey!” Rafe jogged beside her, matching her stride. “Come on, ease up. I was joking,” he laughed.

“I don’t care. I’m leaving. Topper and Sarah disappeared, and so did everyone else. So I’m going home.”

“Aww, are you feeling left out?” he snorted.

“Shut up, Rafe!” she retorted, whipping around to face him, shooting him a deathly glare.

“Okay, okay,” he held his hands up in mock surrender, a faint smirk lingering on his lips. “Come on, I’ll drop you home,” he offered.

​​“I can’t go home,” she groaned, stomping her foot like a petulant child. “My mom said I wasn’t allowed to go out tonight, so I told her I was having a sleepover with your sister.”

“So?” 

“So?” she repeated, her voice rising in exasperation. “Take a look around. Do you see Sarah here with us?”

“Sammy, you know me and Sarah live in the same house, right? Or did you sneak a few shots tonight?” Rafe gave her a lopsided smirk.

She lashed out, smacking him across his toned arm. He laughed, unphased, which only triggered her further. She hit him a few more times, harder this time, the force of the blows stinging her own hands.

He eventually grabbed her frail arms, pulling her body towards him, her back against his chest. “That was cute. Really, it was,” he said, letting out a breathy laugh in her ear as he held her now-restrained body.

“Let go, Rafe,” she said, trying to sound firm, but a hint of a smile crept into her voice. She struggled against him as he steered her towards his car.

He finally released her and opened the passenger door, bowing dramatically. “After you,” he gestured with his hands.

Sammy smacked his hand away and climbed into the jeep. “Fuck off asshole,” she muttered.

“Yeah, the asshole.who drives your ass home every time Sarah and Topper ditch you,” he muttered under his breath, slamming her door shut.

Rafe hadn’t planned on going home early. He’d intended to stay out longer. But being with Sammy… it wasn’t even a decision. It was instinct. He would always choose her.

“What was that?” she glared at him as he got into the driver’s seat.

“Nothing,” he hummed innocently, a smirk playing on his lips.

They reached Tannyhill and crept upstairs quietly. Rafe ushered her into his room. It wasn’t unusual for her to be there. It was practically her second home. Whenever she slept over, and Sarah, predictably, fell asleep early, or decided to sneak off to see Topper (with Sam covering for her, of course), Sam always ended up in Rafe’s room. 

Their late-night rituals were familiar and comforting: whispered conversations that stretched until dawn, fierce games of Uno, secret trips to the only gas station open at that hour for junk food and movie marathons. But when the sun rose, Sam always went back to Sarah’s room, slipping under the covers as if nothing had happened.

It wasn’t that no one knew how close she and Rafe were. Everyone knew. And everyone also knew better than to mess with Sam. Crossing her meant dealing with her brother, Topper, and, perhaps even more intimidating, her best friend, Rafe, who was seemingly even more protective of her than Topper was. 

Their closeness was obvious. They were always together, their friend groups seamlessly intertwined. But they also had their own private world, a space carved out just for them, usually found within the walls of Rafe’s room late at night. Or, sometimes, the reverse. 

Some nights, it was Rafe who’d sneak in through her bedroom window, their shared laughter echoing softly in the darkness. Their connection was a constant, unspoken understanding, a bond that transcended the usual boundaries of friendship. It was something deeper, something that everyone around them recognized, even if Sam and Rafe themselves never explicitly defined it.

Rafe shut his door quietly, the click of the lock a familiar sound between them. “You want some clothes?” He opened his dresser, rummaging through it before throwing her a sweatshirt and his basketball shorts. He grabbed some clothes for himself too.

He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside, pulling a t-shirt over his head. “Seriously?” He looked at Sam standing behind him in the mirror, already pulling his oversized sweatshirt over her head. It swallowed her whole, the hem reaching mid-thigh. “You got anything in my size?”

“Yeah, sure, go wake Wheezie up and ask her for some Hello Kitty pajamas,” he retorted, rolling his eyes as he pulled off his jeans and tugged on his sweatpants.

“I look like Adam Sandler,” Sammy muttered, peeling off her denim shorts and pulling on Rafe’s basketball shorts over her tan legs.

Rafe, watching her through the mirror, his mouth slightly agape, caught a glimpse of red lace underwear peeking out. Had he seen that right? He’d never seen her wear anything like that before. They’d changed in front of each other countless times, their comfort level bordering on oblivious familiarity, but she’d never worn anything so… sultry. A wave of unexpected jealousy washed over him. She was wearing that for someone else.

Sammy, oblivious to his sudden shift in mood, hopped onto his bed and burrowed under the covers, arranging the pillows to her liking. “What should we do?” she asked. “And before you even say it, I’m not playing Uno with you again, okay? You’re such a baby when you lose.”

Rafe finally turned to face her, hands on his hips. “Hmm… I have an idea,” he countered, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Well, are you gonna tell me, or just stand there?” she asked, a playful edge to her voice.

He sat on the bed and inched closer to her. “I was thinking…” he began, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “tickle fight!” And then his hands were on her, running across her skin as she thrashed around, trying to push him off while simultaneously trying not to laugh too loud.

“What were you saying about a sore loser?” he grinned manically, his fingers dancing along her neck as he straddled her waist, pinning her down.

“Rafe!” she shrieked, laughing, trying desperately to push him off, grabbing his wrists as he continued his tickle attack.

She eventually managed to flip them over, pinning him to the pillow, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her hair was disheveled, falling into her eyes. She blew a puff of air to push it away. “Gotcha now,” she muttered breathlessly.

Rafe just smirked up at her, his eyes sparkling. “Please,” he said. “If I really wanted to, I could flip your weak ass over. But I was just going easy on you.”

Their faces were inches apart. Sam, hunched over him as she held his wrists down, her gaze drifted down to his lips. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension. 

She quickly straightened up, smacking him playfully across the chest. “Shut up,” she rolled her eyes as she got off him and settled back under the sheets.

“Fine, what movie do you wanna watch? I’m not watching another Netflix original teen rom-com. My eyes almost bled last time,” Rafe grumbled, rolling over and grabbing the TV remote, scrolling through the seemingly endless selection.

Sammy woke up as the sun peeked through the curtains, a soft, golden light illuminating the room. She was entangled in Rafe’s arms, his body warm and heavy against hers. She carefully peeled his arm off her and slipped out of bed, tiptoeing towards the door. She crept into Sarah’s room, her heart pounding in her chest. 

Thankfully, Sarah was back and asleep in her own bed. Sam slipped under the covers, letting out a silent sigh of relief. Just as she was about to relax, Sarah shifted, rolling over to face her.

“Hey?” she questioned groggily. “Where were you?”

“Went to get a glass of water,” Sam mumbled, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“You weren’t in my room when I got back,” Sarah persisted, her eyes still half-closed.

Sam was now in full-blown panic mode. She didn’t want Sarah to think she’d been in Rafe’s bed. Not that she had anything to hide, exactly. But she knew no one would understand her friendship with Rafe. They were purely platonic. Weren’t they?

“I got in late,” she mumbled, avoiding eye contact. “Rafe let me in because you were already asleep.”

“Is that why you’re wearing his clothes?” Sarah was more awake now, her eyes watching Sam suspiciously.

“Yeah, yeah, it was dark in here, and I didn’t want to turn the light on and wake you up just so I could shuffle through your closet!” Sam said, letting out a nervous chuckle.

“So…” Sarah looked at her with a smirk. “Did you sneak off with Kelce last night?”

Sarah knew all about Sam’s crush on Kelce. It was the main reason Sam had been so easily convinced to come to the party. It was why she’d put on that matching red lace set. But things hadn’t gone according to plan. She’d seen Kelce kissing some other girl by the pool, a scene that had effectively killed any romantic feelings she might have harbored.

“Yeah, yeah. But we just talked,” Sam lied.

“You better hope Topper doesn’t find out.” Sarah teased.

But it wasn’t Topper she was worried about. She could handle Topper. It was Rafe. Rafe, who was so fiercely protective of her. Rafe, who had interrogated the first guy she’d ever gone on a date with. Rafe, who had almost beaten up some random guy at a party for dancing too close to her. Rafe, who occasionally showed up to pick her up from school when she had no ride and didn’t want to ask anyone else. Rafe, who always made sure she had a ride home from every party, often driving her himself if no one else was available.

If he were to find out that she was harboring a crush on his friend… she didn’t even want to think about what he would do. The thought sent a shiver of fear down her spine. It wasn’t a romantic fear. It was something else. Something more complicated.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Rafe parked the car in the garage, then turned to look at Sammy. She hadn’t spoken a single word during the entire drive. He opened her door, leading her into his room. But it wasn’t like before.

She was on edge, her anxiety radiating off her like heat. He could see it painted across her face—the way she hesitantly entered his room, glancing around nervously, as if expecting someone to jump out at any second. As if she felt her safety was compromised, even here, in his space.

She sat on the edge of his bed, pulling her feet up onto the frame, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. Rafe went to lock the door, a routine gesture to ensure privacy from Wheezie, Rose, and his dad.

“No!” Sam’s voice was sharp with terror, her eyes wide with panic. “Don’t.” It was the most emotion he’d seen from her all day.

He immediately released the lock, holding his hands up in front of him, like he was trying to take a particularly scary bull. He crouched down in front of her, his expression gentle, but she eyed him with undisguised hostility.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, reaching out a hand towards her. She flinched, pulling her hand away abruptly, clutching her hands tightly to her chest. Her eyes squeezed shut, as if she was trying to block out something—or someone. “Sammy? What’s going on? What’s going on with you? What—what is this?”

She sat there, breathing heavily, trying to regulate her ragged breaths. She couldn’t bear the thought of anyone being in her personal space anymore. It wasn’t something she could control; her body was on high alert, in fight-or-flight mode, desperately trying to protect her.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, finally opening her eyes, trying to calm her erratic breathing.

“I know you’re not,” he sighed, his voice laced with concern. He was about to reach out and gently push her damp hair out of her face, but the raw panic he saw in her eyes stopped him. He pulled back, rubbing his palms over his own eyes, a gesture of frustration and helplessness. “I can see you’re not fine. A blind person could see it too.”

“How could a blind person—” 

“Sammy, it’s me ,” he pleaded, stabbing his chest with his fingers. “It’s me, okay? It’s Rafe, your best friend, okay? Just tell me what’s wrong? Why are you so on edge?”

“My best friend?” she repeated, a bitter laugh bubbling in her throat. She thought he was joking at first, but the way he wiped at the corner of his mouth, the unwavering intensity of his gaze, told her he was serious. He was making a mockery of the word ‘best friend.’ 

“We’re not best friends, Rafe. We’re not even friends.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “You made sure of that.”

He hadn’t spoken to her since the funeral, which was the day after the bonfire. His condolences had been brief, formal, almost perfunctory. He hadn’t messaged her, hadn’t checked on her. He’d acted as if she didn’t exist, as if their years of friendship meant nothing. 

She’d lost her father, gotten violated in the backseat of a car, in the same night— all while he was hung up on her not reciprocating his feelings.

And the truth was, she hadn’t even thought about how she felt about him. She hadn’t given herself a sober moment to even unpack the tangled spiderweb of emotions that churned inside her.

And even if he had said he loved her… it didn’t mean anything. Saying the words and actually feeling the love were two entirely different things.

If he’d loved her, he wouldn’t have walked away that night. If he’d loved her, he would have picked up his phone, would have called her back after she’d left him twenty-nine missed calls. Twenty-nine desperate pleas for help that he’d ignored.

The bonfire night. What happened after he walked away from her… he didn’t care enough to find out. He didn’t care about her . And she certainly didn’t need him to care now.

“What happened to us, Sammy?” His eyes, still locked on hers, were filled desperation. “What happened to you ?”

What happened to her? That was the million-dollar question, the one everyone kept asking. She even asked herself, the question echoing in the grooves of her brain. How could one night, one stupid, drunken, terrifying night, change her so fundamentally?

A night she hadn’t even wanted to be a part of. She hadn’t wanted to go to that bonfire. But her mother had told her to find Topper. And that one decision, that one seemingly insignificant choice, had irrevocably altered the course of her life.

“What happened to me ? You wanna know what happened?” she snapped, her voice rising, her eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and pain. “Let me break it down for you, Rafe. My dad died . My dad stopped breathing that night. I was looking for my brother, and… and you . I needed you . I needed you to be my best friend then. That was when I needed you.”

“Sammy…” His voice was heavy with despair, his eyes softening. “I didn’t know that then. I didn’t know about your dad. I found out the next morning. If I did, I never would’ve—”

“Left me there?” she finished the sentence for him, her voice laced with a heartbreaking finality. “But you did.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words ragged with regret. “I’ll say it a million times. I’m fucking sorry, Sam. I’m sorry I was an immature asshole. I’m sorry I let my pride get in the way. I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry. Okay?”

She held her hands up as if to ward him off. “Just fucking stop with this bullshit. I don’t need your apologies. I never needed them. You had all summer to say this shit.”

“I was hurt,” he said quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“And I wasn’t?” she whispered, her voice cracking with pain. “Did you think for a minute about me ? Or were you just focused on yourself? You can paint me as the villain in your story. I’ll haunt your nightmares, no problem. But just don’t sit here now and pretend to care! Because I don’t need it anymore.”

“I know, I know I fucked up,” he said, his voice rising in frustration. He stood up, pacing back and forth in front of her. “I know I fucked it all up. But, I’m here now, Sam. I’m here now . I’m all you’ve got.” He reached for her hand, taking it in his, holding it tightly between his own.

“Let go, Rafe,” she screamed, inching back from him, scrambling further back on the bed.

“What? What? Sammy? What is it?” He inched closer to her, his face etched with concern, but she recoiled further. “What are you so afraid of? Me ?” He sounded defeated, his voice laced with confusion and hurt. 

He moved away from her, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, his back hunched over, his head bowed. He was more confused than ever. What had he done? What had he not done? What had happened that night, after he’d left her on the beach, to make her fear him so deeply?

Sammy didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t even want to think about it. The memories were a relentless tide, threatening to pull her under. The bonfire. The fight with Rafe. The overwhelming grief. The desperate need to numb the pain. 

The fragmented memories flashed before her eyes: the struggle, the terror, the desperate pleas against the leather seats. Every sober moment was consumed by it. Every breath she took, every time she closed her eyes, it was all she saw. She curled up into a ball on top of the covers, cocooning herself in a futile attempt to shield herself from the flashbacks, from the shame, from the all-consuming fear.

Rafe felt utterly useless, paralyzed, watching her retreat into herself. He was desperate to help her, to soothe her pain, but he was afraid to move, afraid that any gesture of comfort would only exacerbate her agony. It seemed as if his very presence was causing her more pain.

“Sammy,” he said softly, his hand hovering hesitantly over her shoulder before he stopped himself. “ Sam , talk to me. Please . Just let me help you.”

“You can’t help me now. You can’t,” she croaked, her voice more broken than he’d ever heard it, a sound that physically hurt him. “You can’t take away the pain now. It’s done. What’s done is done.”

“Is it because of me?” Rafe rambled, the apologies tumbling out, the thought that it was all his fault making him want to grab his gun and put the next bullet through his skull. “Sammy, did I do this?”

“No,” she wept, her voice rising in a crescendo of pain. “I called you—I called you twenty-nine times that night. And if you’d just picked up your fucking phone…” she got out between broken sobs. “I called you so many times, Rafe—I just—I was praying. I was praying you’d pick up.” Her words were barely coherent, her cries wracking her body.

She hadn’t articulated the extent of her trauma aloud before, and now, the floodgates were open, the memories crashing over her, suffocating her. Her mind was trapped in a hellish loop: the backseat of the car.

“What happened, Sammy? Tell me what happened,” Rafe’s voice rose with hysteria, his own panic escalating. “Topper said you weren’t home that night? Did you go to Barry’s? Did something happen? Because I’ll kill him… I swear to you, I’ll kill him.”

Sam couldn’t get any more words out. Her chest tightened with each breath, her cries dying out in her throat, a choked, desperate sound. Her vision blurred, the room spinning.

“You need to breathe,” she heard Rafe yell, his voice cutting through the fog of her panic. He pulled her to sit up, shaking her shoulders gently, trying to break through to her.

“Sam! Breathe, please!” He was full-on panicking now, screaming at the top of his lungs. But all she could do was gasp, clutching a hand to her chest, her oxygen dwindling. Her eyes were wide, glazed with terror, protruding out of their sockets.

Rafe grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand, splashing it over her face. She finally let out a choked sob, a release that seemed to unlock something inside her. He pulled her shaking form close, her face buried in his neck. She was letting him hold her.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, cupping the back of her head, his other hand running soothingly over her back. “I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re okay. I’m not leaving. I’m never leaving you again.”

He pressed the bottle of water to her lips, gently forcing her to take a sip. Once she had calmed down, the worst of the panic attack subsiding, she inched away from him, crawling back into her shell, hugging herself tightly, creating a safety net of her own making.

“Sam—” he began, not Sammy anymore. He only called her Sam when he was serious.

“I’m not okay,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on the bed. “I’m really not.” She sighed, biting her trembling bottom lip. “And I—I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”

“Yes, you will. You will be okay, because I’m here, Sammy. I’m here. And I’m gonna fix this. Whatever is going on with you.”

She met his gaze, her bloodshot shot eyes burning. His words didn’t bring her any comfort. She had given up a long time ago, resigned to the fact that she would be broken for the rest of her life.

“You called me twenty-nine times that night…” Rafe’s voice was tight with barely suppressed anger. “Sam, you called me twenty-nine times. And then you didn’t go home. So I’m asking you, what happened? Did something happen…… to you?”

He had a pretty solid theory in his mind now, one that, no matter how dark and ugly, just wouldn’t go away. He needed to hear it from her. He needed her to tell him it was a figment of his imagination.

Her lip trembled uncontrollably. She bit it harder, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth.

Before she could say another word, they heard the shattering of glass and raised voices down the hall. Rafe jumped to his feet, Sam close behind him, both rushing to find the source of the commotion.

They found Ward in his office, kneeling on the floor, his head buried in his hands. Shattered glass from a broken vase, or perhaps something more precious, lay scattered around him. 

“Dad?” Rafe approached him cautiously. “What’s going on?”

“She’s gone,” Ward whispered, his shoulders trembling with the force of his grief.

“What are you talking about, Dad?”

“Sarah… the boat. They went straight into the storm.” Ward’s eyes were haunted, filled with a despair that mirrored the emptiness Sam felt inside. Then, his gaze shifted, moving past Rafe to find Sam standing in the doorway.

“Sammy, honey,” his arms reached out to her, a silent plea for comfort. And Sam, drawn by an invisible thread of shared sorrow, found herself on the ground beside him, as he pulled her into a tight embrace. “Our Sarah’s gone,” he sniffled, his grip tightening. “Oh, she’s gone, Sammy. She’s gone.”

Ward was her second father, her dad’s best friend, a constant presence in her life. In his arms, she felt a fleeting sense of security. She knew he was safe. He was familiar. He was a connection to her dad.

Ward had lost a daughter today. And Sam… Sam was almost like his daughter, too. He’d watched her grow up alongside Sarah, their lives intertwined. Now, with Sarah gone, he clung to her, a desperate attempt to hold onto something, anything, that reminded him of the family he’d lost.

Rafe, meanwhile, stood back up slowly, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. He turned and walked out of the room. It was all too much. He needed to process it, to make sense of the chaos that had become his life. But he didn’t know how.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Sam walked back into the room to find Rafe hunched over a desk, snorting cocaine. She held out her hand, and he wordlessly passed her the rolled-up note. She cut a line for herself, swiftly inhaling the powder before collapsing onto the bed on her back. Rafe laid down beside her, leaving a considerable gap between them.

“Your dad went to the police station,” She said quietly, breaking the heavy silence. Rafe turned his head to look at her, his eyes impassive, unreadable.

“Are you okay?” Her fingers brushing tentatively against his hand, hesitant to make full contact.

“Sarah’s gone… presumably dead…” he muttered.

“That’s just what Shoupe said, yeah. But that doesn’t mean…” she trailed off, taking a shaky breath. “That doesn’t mean she’s dead .”

Sarah. Her best friend. The girl she’d pushed away all summer. Now, she was caught up in something terrible, something bigger than all of them. And this… this was the first Sam was hearing of it. Presumably dead. The words echoed in her mind, cold and terrifying.

She shifted onto her side, turning to face him fully. Rafe stared at the ceiling, his face blank, his chest rising and falling slowly, rhythmically.

“Rafe,” she tapped his hand lightly.

He looked at her, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. There, you have my attention. Now what?

“Sarah’s gonna be okay. They’re gonna find her.”

“She’s not okay,” he snapped. “She’s been with those Pogues. John B’s got her brainwashed. She’s not Sarah anymore.” He shook his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “She picked them over her own family. Her own brother . She broke my dad’s heart, and he’s still crying over her? Mourning her? Like she didn’t try to tear this family apart limb by limb.”

Sam sat up, her brows furrowed in confusion and concern. “It’s still Sarah,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “That’s your sister. That’s my best friend.”

Rafe sighed in frustration, getting up and cutting another line. “You’ve been out of it for a while, Sam ,” he gave her an almost disgusted look. “You’ve been in your own world. But the rest of us have been living in the real world this whole time. You don’t know her anymore. The Sarah you knew—she’s dead. She’s gone. She’s a filthy Pogue now.” He leaned down and inhaled the line, the harsh reality of his words hanging heavy in the air.

The truth stung. Sarah had run away with John B? What had happened with Topper and Sarah? When had that happened? Sam had been so detached, so consumed by her own pain, that she’d missed everything.

“I’m sorry,” Rafe said, wiping his nose, a flicker of remorse crossing his face. He realized he’d been harsh, but the words, once spoken, couldn’t be taken back. “But shit is different now.”

“Sarah might be dead, Rafe,” Sam said, her arms folding across her chest. “Your sister might be dead. And you don’t even care ?”

“She was already dead to me,” his voice was cold, his gaze averted. A flash of hurt, quickly masked, crossed his face. “She did that when she chose the Pogues over me .” His jaw clenched and unclenched, the muscles in his face tight.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Worship | Divine

Hiiiiii Is it too soon to ask for another part of Worship? (<-- the silly who requested both the other parts) I'd love to see more of Roman and Virgils developing relationship, I'm also so intrigued about Remus if you wanted to expand on what he's up to? Does he have any worshippers? Or maybe he could meet Virgil and cause some (easily sorted) chaos? (Just throwing out ideas you absolutely don't have to use <3) Whatever you want to write I will GLADLY read it this au has me in a chokehold and I absolutely love your writing <33 – anon

Read on Ao3 Part 1 Part 2

Warnings: none

Pairings: prinxiety

Word Count: 1484

Remus arrives.

1.

He has a nightmare. A nightmare so horrible he would wonder if it were a message from his god, that he need learn a lesson or know this pain or something, for all that he wakes up with a sore throat and a burning chest, tears failing to dry on his cheeks. But his god is there, Roman is there, wrapping arms around him and pressing kisses to his keening throat, his shaking shoulders, murmuring words of comfort and promises that he is safe.

Don't fret, he says, when Virgil tries to stammer out any word he can to explain, apologize, praise, do not fret, shh, hush, hush, just let me do this.

This turns out to be a lovely combination of soothing his frenetic mind with pleasant sensation and filling his ears with soft stories, descriptions of places meant to cradle and comfort and actions to compliment them. When he can bear to be apart from him for more than a few seconds, Roman brings him a cup of warm drink, holding it to let him ease his throat and soothe his chest. He keeps one hand on his bare back, skin to skin, words still murmured and pressed into the crook of his shoulder as he calms.

There is no cause for you to suffer like this, he whispers when once again, Virgil attempts to thank him, you are an ardent worshiper and a good man. There is every reason for me to care for you in this moment of distress.

The night is young, still, despite the violence of the nightmare, and Roman has no qualms about hoarding Virgil's vulnerabilities deep in its cloak of darkness. His voice never wavers, his words never slow, a gentle litany of soft sweet nothingness stories meant only to ease him back towards a more peaceful sleep. He spins tales of wonderful foods, of gentle skies, of kind touches and warm caresses that he mimics in kind across Virgil's palms, his arms, the slightly damp skin of his chest. He kisses his jumping pulse when fear seizes him once again, holds him close when he sniffles, promises to be here this time, every time from now on, that this will never happen again.

Why…why did it happen?

And here, Roman falls silent. I believe it was my brother.

2.

Remus, that is Roman's brother's name. The dark god, the god of chaos, the one whose motivations Virgil should not attempt to puzzle. And yet it is this same god that stole Virgil's night from him for…reasons he could not hope to fathom.

His god tells him that Remus is not a god of single-minded vengeance, that there is nothing so horrible that Virgil has done to earn his wrath. No sin he has committed to offend, no crime for which he must atone. Instead, his god remarks that perhaps his brother is bored, or wondering what it is that has stolen Roman's attention.

He's quite the hog for it, attention. Perhaps he is jealous of you.

A god, jealous of me?

Roman had laughed. Don't be so surprised at the notion, Virgil. Surely such a story is not altogether strange to you.

It is not, but neither is that fact reassuring. Most tales of gods growing jealous of mortals has the mortals suffering some terrible fate for daring to exist, even if they had no intention of sparking such jealousy in the first place. He thinks of the talented craftspeople cursed to some hideous forms for having such high quality of work, he thinks of the warriors enslaved with their wills broken beyond repair for having the courage to stand for what they believed in, he thinks of the innocent lives left battered and ruined for daring to draw a god's eye.

He does not want to spend a lot of time thinking about what it would be like to draw the ire of a god of chaos.

Roman notices his fretting, because his god knows how to read the stories people tell without realizing it and takes him in his arms.

My brother will not be the end of you, Virgil. That is not how your story goes.

3.

Virgil holds his book in his hands. It is the only thing in his house not drenched in a viscous green slime.

He sets it carefully inside his leather satchel, latches it shut, and place it on a rock high above the ground yet hidden underneath a nearby grove of trees. He steps warily into his house and pokes at the liquid with a stick. It collides with a sickening squelch and does its level best to suck the stick into itself.

Splashing it with water does nothing except wet the part of his floor still free of the slime. Trying to scrape it off with a shovel only loses him part of his coat and dents the shovel's handle where he tried to yank it free and slammed it into the door frame. Even a desperate attempt to set fire to the vacuous mass ends in failure, though perhaps that is for the best.

His god arrives to see him on his knees, staring hopelessly at the mess that his home has become, and for a moment, his face darkens. Without saying a word, he covers Virgil's eyes and something loud crackles next to his ear. When the hand is removed, the slime is gone.

I have to leave for a little while, Roman says that night, I must have a word with my brother.

Will you come back?

He softens, as he always does when Virgil worries. Of course I will, as soon as I can.

And what if…something were to happen while you are gone?

Roman's face darkens ever so slightly, but not at him. Not when Roman's gaze is directed at something over his shoulder. It will not.

How can you be so sure?

Why, Virgil, he says lightly with a tap under his chin, haven't you learned not to question your god?

4.

The bed is cold.

His house has never felt so large.

His skin has never felt so thin.

His chest has never felt so tight.

His notebook has never felt so heavy.

His words have never felt so feeble.

His stomach has never felt so weak.

His eyes have never felt so useless.

His worship has never felt so desperate.

5.

His notebook goes missing.

+1.

Wake up. Wake up, Virgil, shh, don't cry, don't cry, it's alright.

He thinks he's still dreaming again, with soft kisses on his cheeks and a hand tangling in his hair. He thinks the murmured words are some terribly tempting memory, designed to taunt him, until he hears the other voice.

You really are whipped for him.

He bolts upright.

There is Roman, already slipping his hands around his shoulders, fitting his palms to the curve of his back. And there is another figure, in dark clothes and bright green light, almost painful to look at, staring at him with such an intensity that it's difficult to hold his gaze.

R-R—

It's alright, Roman says gently, he's not going to hurt you. Nothing is going to happen to you.

He's all shaky. Do you do that?

Remus. Behave.

I could. But it's so much more fun if I don't.

Remus.

…

…

…

…irgil? Virgil, it's alright.

I think you scared him, Roro. The other figure steps a little closer, the light dimmed slightly. Virgil blinks.

Roman's hands are gentle, his voice back to the softer one he's been using for Virgil. Virgil leans into the touch, still watching the other god carefully. He tilts his head. The other god tilts his. He does it the other way. The other god laughs like crackling fire and tilts the other way too.

He's kinda cute.

He's very cute.

I see why you like him.

Two gods are discussing him as though he's a pet. He wishes he could say he didn't expect it. He swallows, lets Roman help him out of bed, and stands face to face with Remus.

Are you hungry?

Remus grins with a mouth full of teeth. Roman lets out a warning noise and they visibly shrink. I hear you have excellent bread.

Bread. He can work with that.

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[anxious-witch]

So a continuation of this soulmate poly! JO au

So! Again, this is not my usual high quality stuff, isn't beta read or edited and I have been feeling kinda eh about writing lately so...yeah. Be warned before going into it. But so many of your wanted some sort of conclusion so I had to give you one. I hope it's at least somewhat satisfying.

This needed a warning for vomitting not the last one my bad, also TW for Bojan's general low self esteem

Bojan wasn't feeling well. And it wasn't only because he was hungover from the whole spiked drink yesterday. No. It was also due to the fact that now they all knew that he was their fifth soulmate.

He woke up surrounded by three of them. Jure was curled around his right side, with Kris' arm thrown over both him and Bojan. Bojan was snuggled in Jan's chest and Jan's hand protectively hovered over his head.

Nace was probably already up. Bojan laid there fir a moment. Soaking in the warmth. For once, his soulmark didn't ache but instead hummed pleasantly. 

It felt so natural, it was hard to remember why he was so scared of it. 

Then a sudden nausea hit him and he had to practically launch himself from the bed. Jan stirred and sleepily called out to him, but Bojan didn't turn. He ran to the bathroom, just in time to throw up in the toilet.

He wasn't sure how he ended up on his knees and gripping the toilet. He also wasn't sure when Jan joined him by sitting on the floor and rubbing his back. 

Only when he stopped throwing up for more than a few seconds did he lean more into the comforting touch. 

"Aren't you supposed to be angry at me?" Bojan mumbled tiredly.

"Oh, I am furious," Jan said easily, "I just don't see the point of having this conversation until you feel better."

Bojan made a pityful sound, closing his eyes. His head hurt, his stomach hurt, his soulmark ached. He just wanted to die.

"You might as well. I am feeling miserable anyway. We can go for full physical and emotional destruction."

Jan sighed and gently ran his head through Bojan's hair. 

"Kris went to make you tea and Jure to dig out some painkillers. Nace will probably make something to eat when he comes back from his run, if he hasn't already."

Jan scratched his scalp, like he was a dog. It was pleasant though and Bojan couldn't help but let iut a sigh and lean into it. 

"I don't deserve you guys."

The fingers in his hair froze. You said something stupid again, Bojan's mind hissed.

"We'll talk about that too."

"I'm sorry."

Jan continued stroking his hair, but didn't reply. Bojan's soulmarked burned like a brand. He hates you, he hates you, he will never forgive you-

Kris arrived at that moment, taking in their state. His eyes softened as he watched them.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like shit. I don't know if you are asking physically or mentally, but the answer is the same."

Kris crouched down and gently put his hand on Bojan's forehead. His eyes fluttered shut at the gesture.

"You don't have a temperature," he mused, "which means just a bad hangover. You should come back to bed. I bought a bucket if you are sick again. And there is tea and painkillers. Nace is making pancakes too."

Bojan felt a sudden pressure of tears. Why were they all so nice? So considerate? Shouldn't they be yelling and demanding an explanation? He felt like he'd prefer that. It was what he deserved.

"Bojan, hey, what's wrong? Does something hurt?"

Kris gentle voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he realized he was crying. He shook his head and covered him face. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Why wre you all being nice? Why aren't you yelling at me? Why-"

"Shhh." 

Kris hugged him to his chest and Bojan's body shook im his embrace. He kept a litany of apologies through the sobs.

"Jan, go tell Nace to finish pancakes later. I will get Bojan to the bedroom. I think we all need to talk first."

Jan probably nodded, because Bojan heard him get up and step out of the bathroom. Then Kris gently picked him up. Bojan didn't even complain, simply buried his face in Kris' chest. 

He carried him to the bedroom.

"What happened? Is he alright?"

Bojan's heart squeezed at Jure's worried tone, but he didn't feel capable of answering. Which was why he was thankful for Kris.

"I am not sure. He started apologizing and then burst into tears. I think everything is hitting him just now. And you know how the bond can be overwhelming at first."

When he put Bojan on the bed, Jure curled at his back. Bojan reached out with one hand to him. 

And Jure took it, interlacing their fingers. His and Kris' presence calmed him down slightly. Enough for him to stop babbling apologies at least, if not stop crying yet. 

"Oh, Bojan," he heard Nace say from further away. 

Then two more bodies joined the pile. Bojan could recognize each, despite having his face buried in Kris's chest. 

That slowly made him calm down enough to stop the tears and carefully pull back from Kris' chest.

Kris didn't let him go far, gripping his waist when he tried to. Which was ridiculous, because they all surrounded him. He cleared his throat, blood rushing to his cheeks.

“Right. Can we just…get this over with, please?”

“Get it over with?” Jan hissed.

Bojan flinched a bit at his tone, ducking down to hide in Kris’ chest again.

“Jan,” Nace chastised him from somewhere behind his back, “Let's try and do this calmly.”

Jure squeezed his hand and then Jan swore, almost as if someone elbowed him.

“Fine.”

“Bojan, could you sit up, please?” Nace asked.

Did he have much of a choice at this point? Bojan sat up, suddenly much more aware of four pairs of eyes watching him.

He stubbornly stared into his lap.

“Tell us what happened,” Jure urged gently. 

“I was at the bar, I was flirting with a guy. He drugged my drink.”

Jan sighed loudly, but it was Kris who spoke up.

“That's not what we are asking. We want to know why you don't want us.”

That made him snap his head up, staring at Kris in disbelief. Kris, who was biting his lip and looked incredibly close to tears.

“What? I never said that!”

“You made it quite clear.”

Bojan felt as if he'd been slapped. He could take them being angry, or even saying they don't want him anymore, but he couldn't take them thinking he didn't want them.

“That's not true at all! Of course I want you!”

Kris did not look particularly convinced, hunching in on himself. Bojan met Jan's eyes instead.

“Then why didn't you say anything? Jesus, Bojan Kris knows you for a decade.”

“Because by the time I realized, the two of you were already together! And then I couldn't say anything because I thought that if you had each other, why would you want me?”

Jan took in a sharp breath and Kris paled noticeably, but Bojan wasn't done. He turned his eyes to Jure.

“So I kept silent, until Jure came along. And then he fit right in. Not just in the band, but with the two of you. And I thought, fuck, I'm too late. So I didn't say anything again. By the time Nace came into the picture, I-I had no idea what to do. Besides, we all know I would ruin this.”

Jure crossed the distance between them in a second, practically launching himself towards Bojan and pulling him into a hug. 

“Never,” Jure said vehemently.

Bojan felt a sudden wave of love wash over him. It took him a second to realize it wasn't coming from him, but from the Jure's side of the bond.

It was enormous and overwhelming and Bojan was completely unprepared for it. Which made panic seize his chest. 

Then, Nace was there, putting a hand on the back of his neck.

“Breathe. I know it's overwhelming at first, but just breathe through it. Jure, back up a bit he isn't used to the bond yet.”

The sensation eased up a bit, even if Jure didn't let go of him. Bojan took in a shaky breath. 

“Why do you think you'd ruin it?” Kris asked after a moment. 

Feeling their emotions in tandem with their words was new. Even without prying, he could feel hurt and worry from Kris. Bojan realized with a pang that that meant they could feel the turmoil of his emotions, too.

This was exactly what he wanted to spare them from.

“Because of this! I am difficult to deal with. I know all of you know it, because you had to deal with me. But that's different from being in a relationship with me. Kris met like, all of my girlfriends, he can testify.”

Jure's arms tighten against him, paired up with a slight pang of annoyance. Bojan bit his lip to stop himself from apologizing. They should be aware of what they were getting into.

He expected Kris to look angry or maybe defeated, but instead he looked thoughtful. 

“From what I remember of that, the biggest issue was you putting us and the band in general before them. Which wouldn't be a problem here, would it?”

Bojan stared. He never thought of it like that. 

“That's still not a good idea. I am difficult to deal with. You'll get tired of me.”

Jan snorted and Bojan turned to glare. Jan met his gaze calmly.

“Right. Because before this we never took care of you being sick every two to three weeks? Nace didn't calm you when you got panic attacks? Jure and I don't regularly feed you because you are unable to cook more than two meals? Kris doesn't have your schedule memorized and reminds you of what you need to do?”

Bojan felt as if Jan's gaze was burning through him, right into his soul. He ducked his head. Except, Jan reached out and Jure moved, curling at his left so Jan could tilt Bojan's chin up. 

“Look at me.”

So Bojan did, a zing of electricity going down his spine as he did so. Any rational argument he had got thrown outside of the window.

“You borrow our clothes and you cuddle with us and we are all together almost 24/7. Why the fuck would that change if we were in a relationship with you?”

Bojan opened and closed his mouth several times, feeling as if Jan had just knocked out all the cards from his hands. Like all the insecurities that held him back were insignificant in the face of Jan's argument.

His head suddenly started hurting even more and he closed his eyes.

“I don't know.”

“Alright. Postponing the rest of this for later. Bojan, go brush your teeth, we'll bring tea and painkillers in the meantime.”

Leave it to Kris to organize everything in a second. 

“Can't I get a coffee?” Bojan asked, peering at him and pointedly avoiding Jan's gaze.

“After we are sure you won't throw up again. Do you need help getting up?”

Jan finally let go of his chin and Bojan tried not to feel disappointed. He never kissed any of them properly, it was always something for the cameras. 

He wondered what it would be like to kiss them for real. 

That thought scared him enough to jolt him into action and he quickly got up from the bed. Too quickly, since dark spots began to dance in his vision.

Nace swore and reached out to steady him. 

“I'll go with him-”

“No,” Jan interrupted, “you go finish those pancakes. I got him.”

Bojan tensed. It wasn't that he didn't trust Jan, because he did. He trusted all of them with his life. The thing was, Jan seemed the most angry out of all of them and he didn't sugarcoat anything. Bojan wasn't sure how being alone with him would go.

No one protested though, Kris simply exchanged a long look with Jan and then nodded.

Bojan wondered if that simply cane with sharing a bond for so long and then he suddenly felt very, very lonely.

So he didn't protest when Jan took Nace's place and led him to the bathroom. He took his toothbrush and brushed his teeth. Jan walked closer and took his own, so they both brushed their teeth and Bojan tried not to think about how domestic that felt.

That distracted him enough for him not to notice that the toothbrush was the exact same one he had at home until after he finished.

“Since when does Nace have everyone's spare toothbrush?”

“Since we all started dating?”

Bojan started at Jan through the mirror. Jan calmly washed his mouth with water. 

“I haven't been dating you.”

Jan sighed as he stood upright again and put his toothbrush back where it belonged.

“No. But even before the soulmark, you were always considered welcome. I think…on some level we all knew.”

Bojan swallowed against sudden urge to cry again. 

“I should have known. The way you looked when we saw Nace's mark, I-”

“Don't say that. You didn't know because I didn't want you to. It's not your fault.”

Jan gave him a wry smile, shaking his head.

“Isn't it? Maybe if we figured it out sooner, you wouldn't think you were unwanted. For seven years, apparently.”

Jan's emotions were more guarded than Kris’ and yet, Bojan could practically taste the bitterness and hurt pouring from him. 

Bojan couldn't help but reach for him, but as soon as he touched his arm, Jan tensed. 

“I'm sorry. It-it's not your fault, okay? I promise.”

Jan pursed his lips.

“If you say so.”

He stepped closer then closer again, until their chests were almost touching. Jan didn't stop him, but also didn't make any moves towards him, either.

Bojan cupped his face and pressed his lips to his anyway, trying to pour all his mixed feelings into it. Then Jan moved, pinning him back against the sink. Bojan gasped and Jan took that opportunity to deepen the kiss.

There was so much longing in the kiss, Bojan kept trying to pull him closer, making a protesting noise when Jan pulled back.

“This is a bad idea. We need to talk this through first.”

“Oh.”

Jan was probably right. It was not a good idea, especially with the mess of emotions Bojan was feeling. Still, it was difficult not to feel a pang of disappointment. He felt…rejected.

He nodded and hung his head low.

“Fuck. Bojan that isn't-Hey.”

Jan lifted his chin once more and Bojan shivered. Something about the gesture made Bojan feel very small in comparison. 

“I am not rejecting you. This is just because I don't want to take this too far before you feel secure in the bond, okay?”

Bojan swallowed and watched and Jan's eyes traced the movement.

“Okay.”

Jan took in a deep breath and then took a step back. Then he extended his hand out to Bojan.

“Com'on now. The others are waiting.”

Then he was tugged back into the bedroom. Jure and Kris were sitting on the bed and talking quietly, while Nace still didn't return. They went quiet once they entered and Bojan tried not to fidget.

“Don't stop on my account,” he mumbled, trying to get under the covers.

Perhaps he could suffocate himself under the blankets.

“Wait! The painkillers!”

Bojan stopped halfway, and Kris handed his the painkillers and the water. He tried not to make a face at being treated like a child. Firstly Jan with pulling back and now the rest of them eith treating him like he was fragile. They cared and objectively, he was aware he scared them last night.

So he took them and handed the glass back to Kris. Then he got under the covers and buried his face into a pillow.

“Why is he sulking?” Kris asked, directing the question at Jan.

“He kissed me and I said I don't want things to escalate until he feels comfortable with the bond.”

“He wasn't too happy about that, huh?”

Bojan was about to snap at them for talking like he wasn't there, but then another person shuffled under the covers and pulled him closer. Jure.

Jure's emotions were always on the surface and Bojan could feel them much easier than Jan's. There was a sense of deep contentment that he didn't expect.

Jure pressed a kiss into his hair and Bojan felt his annoyance begin to dissipate. Kris shuffled closer and began petting his hair and-yeah, okay, he could get used to that.

He was starting to drift when Nace came back, announcing that the pancakes were done. Bojan groggily got up, rubbing at his eyes.

“You can eat later if you are tired,” Nace said with such a soft look, Bojan felt the need to squirm.

“But I want pancakes,” he protested.

Jan laughed.

“Just let him eat. Maybe that'll wake him up.”

Bojan glared.

“Maybe now I won't go exactly because of that.”

Jan smirked.

“Well good thing we can all carry you then, no?”

“No-”

Nace crossed the room in a few steps and picked him up as if he weighed nothing. Bojan squealed. He knew Nace could pick him up, but actually being picked up was quite different.

He wrapped his arms around Nace's neck, even if he was pretty sure Nace wouldn't drop him.

“Rude,” he mumbled in his neck. 

He was lulled once again into a feeling of contentment that simply radiated from the bond. Was it supposed to feel like that? Did it always feel like that for them? 

Nace gently dropped him in a chair at the dining table. Bojan absent mindedly reached for the pancakes while the others all took their seats.

“Does it always feel like that? The bond, I mean.”

Kris cocked his head.

“How does it feel?”

“Content. Calming. Like…things clicked in place.”

Kris’ gaze softened. 

“Not quite. There was always something missing. Like the connection flowed between the four of us and then it just…hit a wall.”

“Oh.”

Bojan fidgeted with his knife before anxiously taking the jam and smearing it over the pancake. He wasn't sure what to say.

“We have been waiting for you,” Nace added softly.

And this, this was exactly what Bojan wanted to avoid. He covered his face, willing himself not to cry again.

“This is why I didn't say anything. I don't-I can't complete you.”

“You already do.”

He began shaking his head, but then Kris was gently pulling his hands away from his face.

“We already acted like you are a part of this relationship, excluding kissing and sex. You already cuddle and steal all of our clothes. You hate being alone so you are in one of our apartments half the time. You already act like you are our boyfriend, this is just a confirmation you belong with us.”

Bojan felt speechless again. So he did one thing he could think about at that moment. He kissed him.

This kiss was much softer than the one he shared with Jan. Kris kissed almost hesitantly, as if not believing he was real. When Bojan tried to press harder, someone cleared their throat and Kris pulled away.

Of course it was Jan.

“Still not a great idea Bojči,” he reminded him.

Bojan stared at Kris, who was still kneeling by his chair, looking a bit dazed.

“Maybe not such a bad idea, if it'll help convince him,” Nace said, shrugging, “But we should wait until after breakfast.”

Bojan's brain came to a screeching halt.

“C-convince me?”

Jure sighed.

“That we want you. Obviously.”

Bojan swallowed. Don't think about it. But Kris was already kneeling and-

“Kris, go sit in your chair before Bojan has another crisis. And let's just finish eating first, yeah? Then we can discuss other things.”

He felt his cheeks heat at Jan's words and Jure chuckled. Kris simply rolled his eyes and went to take his seat.

They all began to eat and Bojan just tried to take everything in as they fell into easy conversation like nothing had happened.

His world tilted on its axis and…kept spinning, almost exactly the same as it had before. And surely, this would change things. Perhaps even his fears would be confirmed with time.

But for now, Bojan sat with four of his soulmates that he loved more than anyone else and simply let himself breathe.

Bojan was born with four stripes on his stomach. Yellow, red, purple and blue. And for the first time, his pink joined into the rainbow it created.

[verona2314]

Hello dear readers, new chapter available!

CHAPTER 29!

hope you enjoy this chapter! Don’t hesitate to leave your comments. They help a lot as motivation!! Have a nice day!

(Dont forget you can also read de original spanish version.)

Aaaand, as always......Here’s a little snippet!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alastor

        “What are you doing here?,” He said sternly, as his trembling hands tried to hide the photo in his coat, “What the hell do you want now?

        Victoria hesitated for a moment, her eyes fixed on his own. He couldn't help but feel exposed and decided to avert his gaze, feeling annoyed and irritated.

        “I didn't mean to interrupt you,” she said softly. Her tone of voice lacked that usual assurance. Her gaze fell on the gramophone, still spinning in its litany of broken silences.

         “Then don't do it,” he answered her with a sharp smile. He could not understand why he was being so cold to Victoria. This course of action was counterproductive to his ends. It was totally inconvenient to antagonize the judge.

        She frowned, the spark in her eyes returning with energy. Victoria exhaled and finally entered the recording studio.

         “Angel asked me to deliver this letter to you. That's why I came. It's in your name, but there's no return address.

        Alastor stared at the envelope in his hands, but at that moment, he couldn't care less. He needed to tear from her lips how much she had heard, and her attempt to change the subject was not well received.         “How much did you hear?” he asked bluntly. Victoria looked at him, a little embarrassed. He had never seen her like this. A sense of satisfaction mixed with the irritation and discomfort he was feeling. It was confusing, overwhelming, but also gratifying.         “I apologize, Alastor. It truly wasn’t my intention to eavesdrop. But when I opened the door and heard your voice, I couldn’t help it. You sounded... different,” the envoy of the limbo replied with a gentle, kind voice filled with curiosity.         His blood ran cold. An emptiness formed in his chest, choking any attempt to respond immediately. His jaw tightened.         “How much?” he asked, each syllable filtered through clenched teeth, the threat implicit in his tone.         “Just enough,” she admitted, with some hesitation.

        Alastor’s anger transformed into a dry, joyless laugh. A desperate attempt to control the situation, to regain mastery over his emotions. His mind, usually sharp and always a step ahead of everyone else, felt trapped in a flicker of vulnerability. He forced himself to smile, but he knew it didn’t have the same edge as usual.

        “Enough, huh?” he repeated in a mocking tone, though his jaw remained tense. He watched her cautiously, analyzing every little detail of her expression. Her eyes, which were usually filled with certainty, now reflected something else... Compassion? No. He didn’t want compassion. Not from her. It was humiliating. “Well, my dear judge, what a delight it must have been for you to hear a piece of forbidden history. Do you feel more enlightened now?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

And... the old taglist that I had forgotten about. I'm really sorry about that.

@slytherin4ever

@empressofashed

[chantsdemarins]

This Year’s Enigmatic Plus One🪅🎉

Part 1: So Much for Talking...

Words: 2,574

Summary: Loki returns to your life after a 10-year absence. The moral of the story, some Loki’s turn into trees, and others drive Porsches and escape from the 9th century just to torment you.

Smut rating: Yes 🔥🔥🔥

Plot rating: There is a plot hidden in the weeds of ⭐️ smut.

Oh man, I can’t believe it has taken me so long to get back to writing! But I’m back! This story is silly 🙃 but it got me ready to write my next big story that should be arriving soon! I hope 🤞 it’s at least decent!! It might be rusty!

These folks might want to read! I am missing people I know. So please let me know if you want to be tagged in new projects.

@ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @thomase1 @mcufan72 @caffiend-queen @fictive-sl0th @muddyorbsblr @gigglingtiggerv2 @anukulee

@mischief2sarawr @mochie85 @sailorholly @lokisgoodgirl @shambelle97 @lokischambermaid @eleniblue @smolvenger @wheredafandomat @hiroyukinasukawa @meowmeow-motherfucker @latent-thoughts @buttercupcookies-blog @kingwwend @coldnique

“I’m hard underneath the table, just in case you wondered.”

He had sauntered into the café just barely two minutes before and this was one of the first things he could think to say. Loki’s innate smugness still took up too much of his face, you could barely see the handsome man behind the wide grin.

You were trying to maintain a façade-you weren’t going to give in so quickly.

Shifting your weight slightly in your chair, not to appear too eager or too unbothered. You were so cool-you could be the frost giant.

You scuttled your water glass closer, perhaps an instinct to grab something. Your eyes narrowed.

“I wasn’t wondering,” you took a sip, placing the glass back down with a dull clank.

You continued, “I guess no need to explain yourself or apologize first. No need to tell me where the hell you’ve been.” The litany of words flew faster out of your mouth the longer he kept smiling.

It had been 10 long years. Loki’s expression changed to slightly sheepish. Maybe he had been too bold. Too presumptive. He tried to back pedal a little.

“Dove, I can’t help it. Sorry if my expletives were jarring.”

“More like degrading.”

He couldn’t just wander back into your life like this. You had questions. You needed answers.

For example, you’d aged, he hadn’t. You were now in the throes of everything breaking and falling, loosening from the bones, readying for some easy mortal grave. Loki on the other hand was resplendent with eternal tightness and no doubt, hardness.

On the upside, you were much wiser. The sparkle in your belly from men like Loki was now your own fire. He wasn’t the only way the flame could ignite. Just a rather fast one.

But you knew he was not lying about being hard. So now your mind was glued to his inseam.  

Had you the presence of mind and the reach, you’d find your hand barely able to hold his cock. It was always too much and not enough.

You had known that on Earth we learned from our stupid mistakes, and Loki being some eternal ballerina didn’t necessarily have to. He could just dance away to another stage, another production.

Unless of course, something had occurred to change from the scorned prince you used to fuck and then regret. If he would just explain himself, maybe you could decide how quickly this was going to be over.

“Where have you been Loki?” You croaked out.

Not missing a beat, he continued. “You want to see?”  

“What? No Loki! Not here! We are in public!” Your face was turning three different shades of vermillion.

“Woman, no I don’t mean my impossibly hard cock, I mean do you want to see a picture of what I have been doing?”

“Shit.” You took a long drink of your water, so long in fact your glass was emptied.

“Thirsty?”

“No, no not really, I mean it’s fucking water, Loki you are supposed to drink it! Didn’t they have water on Asgard?”

You shouldn’t have mentioned Asgard.

You instantly regretted it but couldn’t find a way to apologize, you were too startled by him. It had taken three valiums, four episodes of 90 Day Fiancé, and two phone calls to your bestie between Monday and today to even say yes to possibly meeting him.

His body went from loose to more restricted, brushing a stray obsidian lock of hair behind his ear. He opened an old looking bag and pulled out a photograph. It was strange he didn’t have a phone or some other advanced technology.

Now that your eyes could focus, he did seem a little primitive, his outfit was simple, no fanfare, no announcing his royalty or his esteemed place in the cosmos.

“No cell phone?” you had to say it.

“No.”

“Okay, this must have something to do with where you’ve been.”

You looked down at the tabletop, Loki laid out a single picture. It was him wearing what looked like a knight’s armor.

“You are acting now?” you said with a giggle.

He laughed. At least he could still laugh.

“No pet. Not acting.”

“Why do you look like you might have been at King Arthur’s court?”

Loki’s impossibly blue eyes smiled along with him as he dared to explain more. “You are a smart one aren’t you. Close.”

“You traveled back in time?”

“Let’s just say I am Loki, but I am not exactly the Loki you remember.”

You looked closely at the picture. He better be able to explain why he had a camera in 800 CE. The horrible thing was-he looked fucking hot as a knight or whatever was going on.

“Intrigued. Continue please.”

“You’re apt to believe me?”

“Why wouldn’t I believe you Loki? You are a god and last I knew you had repented for almost blowing up New York City and then your ancestral home was completely destroyed. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what role you played in all of that. I had five years of therapy because I was fucking a being that might have destroyed an entire realm. Yeah, no biggie.”

You had devolved in your speech, covering more ground than the question of believing him. Your face grew hotter if that was possible.

“Well gods don’t do things small, you know that. If I recall correctly that is why you were ‘fucking’ me as you so crassly say. You like ‘big things’, or my ‘big things’.”

You were on the verge of crestfallen. This conversation was terse at best. Not going so well. You kept reloading arrows from your imaginary quiver.

“Fine, then I’ll send you my therapy bill if I ever figure out how you’d possibly pay it.”

“I’m insulted by the idea that I wouldn’t pay your ‘therapy’ bill, whatever that is.”

“Never mind,” you scoffed.

You took your eyes off him for a moment and in that nano second, he grabbed your tiny hands in his stupidly big ones.

“Darling, you asked where I have been, can I tell you.”

“Fine.”

“Great, but let’s leave this terrible café, the artwork is grinding my gears, as you Midgardians say.”

“Loki, I have to be back at 4:00 to catch the ferry,” you were trying to keep this punctual.

“I have a New Year’s Eve party I am invited to, I told you.”

“Oh yes, that silly thing.”

“It’s not silly!” you retorted.

“I guess for us timeless beings, another year is like a sneeze,” he smiled, his teeth almost fang-like in the light. Quickly, you both got up and left the café. You had pondered his frost giant form, and how his current Asgardian visage sometimes seemed almost transparent. It was like something of his true self could never really be hidden.

“What are you looking at?” Loki asked, noticing your gaze as he checked his reflection on a parked Tesla as you walked.

“Nothing,” you replied.

“You saw something,” he insisted, his vanity apparent.

“I didn’t see anything, Loki. No red eyes, no blue skin, no lines on your face.”

“What? How dare you,” he grimaced.

“Okay, Loki, we can end this now—I’ll catch the 1:30,” you declared, testing him.

“I didn’t come all this way to fight,” Loki implored, reaching out with his enveloping presence. He was still all legs and arms. Today he resembled a surly black widow spider.

“Let’s not pretend we don’t want this,” Loki said, just before he slightly tripped on the sidewalk.

“Holy Fuck,” he exclaimed, barely saving himself and his drink from a spill. Clearly flustered he slowed his pace.

“I see you’re still agile,” you noted, and he shot you a glare back. Maybe it was better to be in a private place or at least somewhere with better artwork.

“Do you have a hotel or something, Loki?”

“I don’t, but I have this human car,” he replied, showing off the Porsche’s flash with a clicker.

“How did you fit in this thing? I thought you said gods liked big things, to match their um big things,” you teased.

Staying mad 0 points, being cheeky 100 points. You were failing. You looked at your Doc Martens and pretended to study the scuffs.

“Just get in, pet,” he urged, holding the door open for you.

“That’s interesting Loki, you never held the door for me before.”

“I didn’t?”

“No.”

Once inside, you inquired smugly, “Where would be we going? You came from somewhere?”

“We don’t have to go anywhere. We can just get warm and continue our conversation here,” he suggested, his grin widening once again.

“No…No…No…,” your thoughts raced, considering the implications.

“Are you saying you want to get warm? Like, turn on the heater warm?” you questioned, hoping for clarity.

“No.”

“Then what did you have in mind?” you pried.

“My lips can be warm,” he said, his voice persuasive Shakespeare.

Shit, again.

Just then he moved his head a touch to the left, the damn car was so small all it took was this movement and his indeed warm lips covered yours. Kissing Loki was always the beginning of something, never an isolated act. If he had been earlier to arrive, say at Christmas, you could have reenacted the “Baldur scenario” as he used to call it.

According to Loki, Baldur was some relative or something, accidently killed with a branch of mistletoe by him, apparently an honest mistake. Instead of having that terrible image seared into humanity’s memory he “changed” the story to have mistletoe be an excuse for kissing not killing. Leave it to Loki for creating something so inane.

Yet kissing him was one of life’s true pleasures. His mouth engulfed yours. 10 years apparently produces a lot of feeling. His hands raked through your hair holding your head as he continued to press himself deeper into you. The fire. It was burning.

Fuck all where he’d been. He could have been shacked up with Marjorie Taylor Green for all you cared. Okay, maybe you did care about that. He better not have been.

He slowed down, nipping your lower lip. Giving you just a second to slide your body on top of his. By now the windows were completely fogged, hopefully giving any onlookers a laugh and an impetus to hurry along. Your body just barely fit on his lap.

One of his long arms pushed his driver’s side seat back with a jolt, you had a little more room, but it mostly just landed you squarely on his now very clearly hard cock with a thud. Your moan was partly concealing what could have been tears. When he was inside you it felt like it was a short flight to your heart. You hated that fact even more now that you were matured.

“I thought you were being cautious,” he whispered into your ear, prompting you to snap out of it.

“I was.”

“Oh, I see. Just a bit of positioning from me, and all your reservations vanish. Converted so easily,” he observed, his breath warm against your skin.

“Not quite, Loki, but if you don’t... I can’t even...” Your words trailed off as you grappled with your thoughts.

“You won’t what?” he prodded, distancing himself slightly to unzip his pants.

“I won’t call you.”

“I don’t have a phone,” he chuckled lightly as he maneuvered his pants down, supporting you effortlessly with one arm. That cock he was bragging about earlier was making what would surely be its penultimate appearance.

You noticed the absence of his underwear and couldn’t resist commenting, “No underwear, huh? Prepared, are we? That’s unlike you, Loki. I thought you enjoyed the ritual of undressing.”

He glanced down with a feigned innocence, “I wear underwear?”

You paused, meeting his gaze, “Yes, you do.”

If you hadn’t been seconds from plunging down on top of him, you’d put these pieces together more carefully, used your journalism chops to understand these subtle changes. You studied him. He seemed slightly like a different version of himself.

It was like the way the wine snobs spoke about different versions of the same wine. Now it seemed like he was perhaps less oak and more peach. Chalkier minerality, less green apple. A glitch from the time apart perhaps? You wondered. Maybe you didn’t remember him like you thought you did?

Your introspection was halted when he fucked up into you with a velocity that brought your hands to the roof of the tiny car, trying feebly to steady yourself. Noticing your struggle, Loki grabbed your hips, moving them. Forcing you into the cadence of his pleasure for a moment until you could gather your wits and your strength. You were not some coy maiden for this space man to bed anymore. His eyes were closed, his fang teeth biting his lower lip, as if saying okay fine, have your way with me.

You could barely hear his whispers; they were just beyond audible. Something about the best...’something’ he’d ever felt, and to “ride him” like St. Michael’s horse. Whatever that meant.

Every single time he told you that you were the best, you believed him. That was the problem. You wondered if he’d even be able to pull out, there was no room in the minuscule Porsche, it had you pinned together permanently it seemed. If you got pregnant, you would blame Loki’s bougie taste.

“Loki,” you said his name with a shudder. Your bodies slowly going limp. You had come at least twice. You wondered if he had as well.

“Was that worth waiting 10 years for?” he asked, a smug satisfaction in his voice as he emerged from his trance. His own face slightly flushed.

Hopping off his lap with a wince, you wanted to answer him but couldn’t. It was worth it of course but you couldn’t tell him that.  

“Are you ready to talk now? Now that we got that out of the way?” he inquired.

“You still want to talk…what?” you asked, your disbelief evident.

This really wasn’t the Loki you remembered. You expertly wiped the condensation from the window, just like someone who always had sex in tiny sports cars, but a noticeably displeased official face appeared gazing back at you.

“Oh no, I guess we didn’t go unnoticed,” you muttered as you pointed to the officer.

“We better go,” Loki said, starting the car and clearing the window more with his scarf.

“Loki, I have my New Year’s Party. I can’t go with you!” you protested, trying to compose yourself.

“It’s either stay with me or talk to ‘Mr. Blue Coat’ there,” he presented the options with a hint of urgency.

“I would be the last person to make fun of blue things if I were you,” you shot back with a mix of frustration and humor.

He actually looked nervous. Maybe you were past giving him a hard time, maybe because he had just given you a really good hard time.

“Okay, fine, drive, but I better not be your hostage, if you still do that sort of thing,” you barely conceded.

“You made the correct choice,” Loki said with a breathy chuckle, the car pulling away swiftly seemingly ignoring your hostage reference.

“It was either join me or explain our...activities to the police. Not much of a hostage situation if you ask me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Hostage to your whimsy, maybe.”

“And what about that picture?” you asked, motioning to the image of him in medieval armor now on the dashboard.

Loki glanced at the photo. “Ah, that’s what we need to talk about. Let's just say I’ve had some... historically significant adventures.”

“Historically significant, huh?” You leaned back, processing his words and their implication.

This car ride better "come" with some more answers...

To be continued!

[scripts4dreamers]

Warm fuzzies

AN: My brain is infected by werewolves in love. My sincerest apologies to anyone who isn't submerged in World of Darkness lore. I also wanted to pay homage to the old WoD Litany with regards to werewolves not being allowed to bone one another. Characters: Patrick Hodge, Elton Dey, Ashley Nin, Melodie Palys Warnings: Mention of suicide, Spoilers: None

First, it’s important to keep in mind that Patrick Hodge doesn’t care about the Litany…much. The old werewolf laws are just that; old and laws, neither of which are exactly his forte. He’s respectful of the spirits of the Wyld, wherever he finds them, because that’s just common fucking sense, and he keeps his werewolf shit secret because he doesn’t want to get silver bulleted by some harebrained hunter with a god complex but, outside of that, he leaves the Litany to the philodoxes and minds his business. So, imagine his surprise when, at the first lurching of his heart, when you reached across his body to grab…something - he doesn’t fucking know - and he caught a whiff of your apple scented shampoo and just melted, his mind went straight to the old rules.

It had been years since he’d really thought about his initial…education? Initiation? Crash course? Whatever, it had been years since he’d taken the time to remember that first conversation with Graynail, when he was just a snotfaced, rich problem child who had been headhunted by the Broad Brook Caern. He remembered the old wolf’s face, all deep lines and stormy eyes, serious as a heart attack as he talked Podge through everything from tribe selection to pack etiquette to who has the right to speak at a moot and, of course, the golden rule:

No werewolf on werewolf action.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t quite the golden rule. It wasn’t even technically part of the Litany anymore, more of a general guideline for members of Broad Brook, but it had been the one that made the biggest impression on the teenage boy - hopped up on rage and puberty as he was. He’d thought that was funny. Werewolves are real, he’d thought to himself, vampires and witches and ghosts are real. Gaia is being destroyed by malignant forces of eternal destruction and he was supposed to fix it with his anger management issues, and there was a rule that was like a real world counterpart to that viral YouTube video about a world where straight people are the minority. Would a straight werewolf technically count as a diversity hire?

Haha. Funny werewolves and their funny rules. He had bigger things to worry about than women, he had a world to save.

Less funny now. Less funny when he’d spent the last several years in a kind of self imposed isolation (first because he was fed up with how the Silver Fangs treated Bone Gnawers and then, later, because his whole pack was dead) and, consequently, could barely remember the last time someone had touched him gently. Less funny when you were throwing him a shirt and helping him fix the buttons and your sheer proximity made his skin tingle and his knees get so weak that he’d nearly fallen into your arms. Less funny when you were pulling on your clothes after shifting back into human form, still half covered in monster blood, and he couldn’t stop looking at the way the moonlight caressed the curve of your thighs.

No, it turns out that twenty year-old Patrick Hodge found the whole deal a whole lot less humorous than his dumbass teen self had.

He watched you as you worked, ignoring the prickly, uncomfortable aching in his chest as his wolf howled to be let out. You hated this stupid little coffee shop but it helped you make enough money for the pack to get by and your boss gave them yesterday’s pastries for free, so you stuck it out. The fluorescent lights would’ve been unflattering on anyone else but, as Podge was quickly learning, you were the exception. Your hair shone, your smile was radiant and warm. You looked like any other student working a part time job in a shitty town, but you were so much more than that. He could almost see the wolf beneath your skin, all tawny fur and bright yellow eyes, faster than the wind with senses no one in the pack could hope to match. You were a creature of power and rage and no one in this dingy little fucking place even knew it. It was a tragedy.

Ug, look at him, getting all poetic and patriotic over a girl. He was so fucked.

Nin elbowed him in the ribs, “You’re staring again, Podge.”

“Am not,” he replied, wincing but not looking away.

“You are, and it’s getting pathetic,” Melodie chimed in, twisting a thick lock of her auburn hair around her finger as she scanned the cafe for threats.

He fought back the urge to snarl, tearing his eyes away and focussing them on Melodie, “Okay Mrs Harvest King, considering that, without me, you would be food for an evil spirit by now, I’d be careful who you call pathetic.”

Melodie’s rage flared and she leaned forward but, before she could snap at him, Elton intervened.

“That’s enough of that, I think,” he said, always the voice of reason, “if you two act up, Pembe might fire Y/N and then we’d all be screwed. She and I are the only two members of this pack with steady employment, if you’ll recall.”

Podge and Melodie protested half-heartedly, unwilling to give Elton the impression that he was winning the argument but also unable to counter his logic. Nin chuckled, enjoying the show. Podge leaned back in his seat and tried to not be conspicuous.

“Seriously though,” Melodie eventually said, her tone more even as she looked at Podge with clear sincerity, “you know you can never go there, right?”

“Why? Because of the Litany?” he countered with his usual mocking tone, always more comfortable letting Melodie think he was an idiot who didn’t care rather than risking being truthful with her, “Some old men from a billion years ago said I can’t fuck my roommate?”

Melodie rolled her eyes. Elton sighed as though just being near Podge was draining him. Even Nin shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“You know that’s not it,” Melodie said, “there are reasons why Garou don’t get involved with other Garou.”

“Kathrine and Elton got involved,” he reminded her, idly wondering why he was pushing this at all considering he kind of agreed with her.

The truth was, he understood and had always abided by the rule, even when others had decided that the risk was worth the reward. His logic was as follows; Patrick Hodge was an ahroun - a warrior amongst a race of warriors - his rage was always closer to the surface than it was with others of his kind. While theurges and philodoxes and galliards could probably get all emotionally wound up in one another without tooooo much issue, the risk was just higher with him. It had always been higher. It would always be higher, so he’d turned his gaze from his fellow wolves and focussed on the human world, for all the good that did.

Still, he watched you wiping down a counter with your hair brushing the back of your neck and he wanted. All he seemed to do these days was want you and want you and try to stop wanting you and end up wanting you more. He had kind of hoped that living together might quash his ridiculous little crush but that hadn’t worked. The more he saw of you, the more time he spent by your side, the more he wanted. What was worse is that he was fairly sure you felt the same. A silly little unrequited fondness he could handle but when your eyes lingered on his chest for just a second too long, or when you went out of your way to make sure he was alright after a fight….well, werewolves aren’t exactly known for their patience and restraint.

“Katherine and I are - were - both theurges,” Elton chimed in.

“You and the cub are both ahrouns,” Melodie continued, “do I really need to tell you what a colossally bad idea it would be for two hot headed murder machines who live together to throw sex into the mix?”

No, she didn’t.

“Yeah, maybe I do,” he prodded, sitting forward in his chair again and locking eyes with Melodie, “please, oh great and wise Silver Fang, educate this poor ignorant Bone Gnawer on the error of his lustful ways.”

Melodie pursed her lips. Nin let out a burst of laughter and even Elton had to hide a snort. The room started to close in on them. Podge could feel his beast’s claws scraping against his ribs, the rage simmering just beneath the surface just itching for an excuse to come out. Melodie could feel it too. She could sense the bait and, judging by the battle in her eyes, was fighting hard to not rise to it. But, she was a philodox and he had just asked her to explain a rule to him. What was a Garou to do?

“Well, first off, you would destroy that little cabin you two stay in.” she started.

He shrugged, “It’s a piece of shit anyway.”

“Second, she’s a cub so I’m pretty sure that would make you some sort of predator. She doesn’t even have a tribe yet. You might influence her and stifle her spiritual growth.”

“She’s five months younger than me,” Podge countered, rolling his eyes, “and she’s been talking to North Wind and Stag already. No chance of me poaching her over to Rat.

Elton frowned, “North Wind and Stag? Strange pairing. I would have thought she’d go with Gorgon as her back up.”

“Yeah, well, she’s full of surprises,” he said, cringing at how obviously proud and fond he sounded.

Melodie crossed her arms and leaned back, triumphantly, “Plus you might accidentally kill her.”

Ah.

“Or, she might accidentally kill you,” Melodie allowed, “the point being, with so much rage in one house, the two of you are already one bad day away from double homicide.”

Podge picked at his napkin, hating the sickly feeling her words brought up in him, “We don’t fight.”

“Now.” she corrected, sensing victory, “Because you’re roommates. Roommates don’t fight. Couples fight. Couples who are hopped up on rage and battle adrenaline fight hard, and often. Can you say with absolute certainty you wouldn’t end up ripping one another apart?”

He gave her a annoyed look, “Fuck you, Silver Fang.”

“So, no,” she replied correctly.

“So what’s your solution then?” he pressed, unwilling to back down, his wolf urging him to bite back harder, “We just inflict ourselves on regular people who have no chance of fighting back when we do lose our shit?”

Something shifted in Melodie’s eyes, subtle but unmistakable. Was that grief?

She sniffed, tightening her arms over her chest and forcing an air of nonchalance, “The only honorable thing we can do is remove ourselves from the equation entirely.”

“Suicide?” Elton asked incredulously.

Melodie shot him a disgusted look, “The romance equation, Elton, obviously.”

Nin shrugged, “I kind of thought you meant suicide as well.”

“Thank you, Nin,” Elton replied, vindicated.

The tension loosened its hold. The wolf simmered down as Podge felt a rush of something uncomfortable, like pity, flood through him. Melodie was steadfastly avoiding eye contact with him, focussing on the passing humans instead, but he could see the tension in her. So that’s what Melodie believed. He thought of her alone in the earthen barrows, tending the bones of her dead family, removing herself from the equation. It wasn’t quite an admission of anything, but it showed the Silver Fang in a new, clearer light and he had to admit, he felt a little bad for her.

“I guess we know why you’re so damn uptight now,” Podge finally said, injecting lightness into his tone, “you need to get laid.”

She didn’t smile, but it was a close thing, “Fuck you, Bone Gnawer.”

Just then, you appeared at the table, stopping by to collect empty plates and mugs and steal a few moments of conversation. Embarrassingly, Podge felt his heart leap into his throat and he straightened up in his seat like an excited dog. You noticed, which would have been mortifying if it didn’t make you smile fondly at him. Podge flushed with warmth. He would endure almost any embarrassment for that smile.

“You guys playing nice?” she asked, “The customers got a little antsy there for a second.”

“Just a friendly debate,” Melodie assured, “the value of the Litany, our relationship to the mortal world, you know how it is.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes sympathetically, “Don’t get me started, my day’s been shit enough already. Are you guys heading out?”

You transferred the big black tray you were carrying to your hip and rested your hand on Podge’s shoulder absentmindedly. It was nothing, a casual gesture of comfort. If you had been standing next to Nin or Elton you probably would have done the same. Still, he practically vibrated with pleasure. Fuck, he needed to spend time with people more. He didn’t used to be like this.

His packmates clocked the change in his energy with varying levels of disapproval, but you seemed oblivious.

“In a moment,” Elton replied, “we were just finishing up a chat.”

You nodded, giving his shoulder a squeeze as you made to move away, “Well, I’ll see you for dinner this weekend, yeah?”

The others made various sounds of agreement and he felt you relax as you headed back to work. Weak to his own impulses, Podge followed you with his eyes, his skin still tingling.

Melodie cleared her throat.

“Seriously, Podge, be careful.”

“I think they should go for it,” Nin replied.

Podge tried not to look too surprised. He didn’t usually have much support from within the pack other than you. It was a nice change. Melodie and Elton gave the younger woman incredulous looks.

“Seriously, Nin?” Melodie asked, “What reason could you possibly have for supporting this?”

Nin shrugged, sipping the dregs of her ice coffee, “Seems like the simplest answer. All your worries are more about the risk of emotional entanglements than physical entanglements and, if we’re honest, they’re already pretty entangled.”

“Wha-”

“No we’-”

“Nin-”

Nin turned to Podge, interrupting, “Y/N’s coworker is hitting on her. He’s asked her to dinner this weekend and she’s laughing and leaning into his chest and he’s threading his fingers through her hair so that he can kiss her ne-”

“Stop it,” Podge snarled, feeling a lick of rage so hot and visceral that the people at the next table got up to leave.

His packmates all felt the spike, their own wolves flaring up in a desire to join him in his anger. Nin smiled triumphantly.

“See? Forcing them to keep their clothes on won’t stop either of them from lashing out if they don’t keep themselves in check. We just have to trust that they know themselves and their limits better than we do.”

It was a good point. Nin was actively being supportive of him and yet it took all of Podge’s remaining self control to keep from lashing out. This was the problem with werewolves. No matter how good they tried to be, the monster was always right there, ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice.

He thought about the night he’d met you.

The flames radiating off the Sullivan house. His blood thrumming with the promise of violence, his senses sharpened by the wolf as he runs through the plan in his head. Lots of moving pieces. Lots of potential for disaster. Podge must ensure Sullivan pays for the damage he has done to the earth. No chance for redemption. Sullivan must die.

New smells. Enemies? Conspirators? No, old cigarettes and paper - friend! - Elton-of-Broad-Brook smell. Someone else - Garou. Unknown. Green apples and fresh dirt. Copper-iron-metal of blood. Pastries and coffee - perfectly brewed. Home.

Something stirs in the pit of his stomach, tingling like the electric buzz of wire. He throws himself into the Sullivan house without a second thought. Elton-Shadow Lord slips around the house. New Garou - female, follows behind Podge. Cannot allow distractions.

He rips into Sullivan’s guards, feeling the rush of savage pleasure that always came with a fight. This is what he was born to do. This is the job his selfish hands were built to accomplish. Let some other wolf be responsible for saving Gaia. He would slay her enemies and be content.

Movement to his left. The new Garou - apples-coffee-blood-dirt. He can smell her joy. No fear. No hesitation. She joins him in the slaughter and he wants to howl his appreciation and they are alive. Perfect synchronicity. She hasn’t transformed fully, but she moves like lightning. A guard shoots at his exposed ribs. Brace for pain. Warm arm around his waist. Apples-coffee-blood-dirt. She moves him. He lets her.

The first sound he hears her make is a gasp of pain as the bullet pierces her shoulder in Podge’s place.

He sighed, the anger leaching out of him in a rush. He could feel his packmates staring, he could feel their discomfort and concern. Podge wasn’t normally the most emotionally expressive member of their little pack and, indeed, he was only being as open as he was now out of desperation. Even he could recognize that he was in over his head, unsure which of his waring impulses was the coward and which was his true desires.

Elton leaned in, his brow furrowed with concern, “Come on, bro. Just tell us what’s nagging at you.”

“How do I know if the way-” he sighed, wiping his hand over his face with frustration as the words slipped away, “fuck-man. I don’t want to rip her fucking face off, alright? But Nin’s not wrong, I’m in too fucking deep now to just ignore it. And Nin’s all ‘oh, trust that you know your limits’, but what if I don’t? I’ve never been with another Garou, I don’t know.”

“Do you feel angrier when you’re together?” Elton asked simply.

Podge shot him an incredulous look, “No. Obviously not, she’s the best.”

“Well, there you go.”

“But you’ve seen how we are when we fight together,” Podge countered, “it’s carnage.”

“So you share a hobby,” Elton replied, “There are worse things than being a good team, you know?”

Something hopeful fluttered in the pit of his stomach and he looked over to you thoughtfully. You were working at the register now, taking customer’s orders with a polite smile. He let himself imagine what it might be like if he could just walk up and kiss your cheek.

“Plus, you’ve already asked her out,” Nin chimed in.

Ah, fuck.

Melodie’s mouth opened, “You did what?”

—

[ewaneneollav]

if they had like sellers of flowers by regina spektor or small red boy by ajj. i wanto send you every song ive cataloged as having ability to make me cry (or once having it). maybe i do comfortably numb even though i wish it could be The Bad Plus cover not the original. i havent even listened to original enough to remember how pacing of the lyrics might differ -_- who put THOSE lyrics in the hands of guys who would put a Guitar Solo in a song...THEY HAVE WINDMILLS OF YOUR MIND

the SINGLE drain gang song they have is western union which if they had to have only one it could b much less perfect than that. i wish they had gallery piece by of montreal. oh, wuthering heights they have it, im singing it, its settled, they have it - of course they have it - but - its settled

its funny to hear the bar owner list artists to someone each prefaced with "we've got," nooo Your App has got....

i think i would be at home in the world where anyone who went to a karaoke bar would have the inclination to go on the mic and apply some kind of parodic dj personality to their choice of songs and commentate between lines but it's by these sorts of metrics that i determine that in the overall reality that prevails i am not at home. also im totally in like the Drunk Texting Zone for about the past two hours preemptive apologies haha now that ive given that disclaimer i want to rant about literally anything. action button reviews boku no yatsuyasume. like i cant pretend to keyed into that dudes work at all [beyond] that one. but like i find inspiration just in the way he speaks in it. like it not even gotta be about the shit you SAY The Ineffable can prevail and inspire just in your intonation. i like the way you ([C]) talk too, i think ive already caught myself intermittently interjecting elements of it ; Soju ;

today the thing that sent me into a fugue was like grieved awareness of how much living in _ killed my fucking heart, like the innate voracious curiosities that feel like they die if there's no one to talk about them with, like i know i had the internet for talking to anyone and everyone really, and that's a great (like UNFATHOMABLY great) mercy... but, and yet, that shit also feels fake if there's like NO ONE to talk with directly, it's like ",shut up and eat ur computer scraps lowly dog," so i just stop caring that much in _. and then finally go out elsewhere where it's like. I think this is how much I would have cared if exploration had done anything for me beyond the purely solipsistic element.

i think what im saying is that im not sure u can understand just how much [ur casual speaking to all about the nature inclinity of exploration [ as if it didnt feel to me like a miracle]] privately quietly does to me , altho maybe (for all i know) u can understand ; but um that's the grief that fugued me today this morning, to feel my hunger starved out and killed yet still abstractly detectable within myself as a thing i can still recognize yet no longer intact enough to readily like relate to anyone around. ABSOLUTELY LITANY of drunkwriting so umm yeah i preemptively apologize and let up now [glad to know u] [[song interpolating Genius Of Love on the p.a.]]

[...]

h, oh omg, auto correct fucked my message, i meant, can't to being keyed in at all except beyond the boku no natsuyasume review. unspeakably surreal thing just happened

SAME

with the person who came back in and explained being a psychotherapist and gave me copious hugs. im like too drubk to even internalize it

guy literally prayed for me on the street. thought he was flirting w me but he left immediately after

and like this person twice my agr talking to me about their trauma. omg

it was a really good prayer and not like the most common possible one. he said he hopes all my doubts get resolved and i can move on from the things ill never have closure on

my day was altered by prayer once in like 2017

WHAT WAS ITTT

like me and two people and none believed but it was really depressive and the mood was reset by strangers prayer. just the ritual of it

im like really fucking religious im not Christian or anything but my weird vague theism/sheilaism thing makes me feel deeply connected to strangers prayer. i love to love. i live to liv

i love to love

i pray for prayer etc

[...]

whoever abstractly prayed for me has vanished within the fuzz of my drunken morass but such is life and i greatly encourage them in their capacity as a therapist. ok that person's offer to buy me additional bottle of soju was generous but unknowingly a bit much. im on like verge of hand on shoulder mode

[...]

just bide my time til i feel more normal simple yeeaa

oh no how much did you drink, r u near ur home

i def got like sicklydrunk just cuz that person's soju they bout my was literally one more than necessary but id say im ok now, and my lyft home is like video nearby and id say when i go home im not gonna get work tomorrow and im gonna get very good rest.. the autocorrects are 😂, funny*, ", video nearby," and it like replaced funny with a laughing emoji it's like recursing on itself, sory for like wackydrunk but we can call it even on it catching us off guard X) ,& i like knowing u

we don't have to believe in anything in particular to still believe in tgings and pacts that only work if we believe in them, i think it can be really hard to give faith and i empathize with that difficulty a lot, to just trust the world, to do what it needs to do, but life like part of the human condition is even when u trust the world u just endorse ur own PROJECTION of what u think the world wants to do and its confusing, but we got dis and my lyft driver just dropped me off at home

id say at this point "sleepy and safe and lying on my futon," but damn lying on the hard floor of the laundry room of my buildings common area kinda perfect rn, its warmer

THAT SOUNDS NICE

see like there's something i find paradoxically cozy about sleeping where ur not sposed to that just patently is not cozy, it makes me think of like a shelter dog that Likes being in a cage, but like u know who the cartoon sleeping posture of putting their hands together and then lying their head on their hands is kinda real, like the hands r actually cozy, its like watchin the fuckin "DVD" logo bounce off the sides of the tv for six hours cause u gotta be quiet till sunrise so u cant do shit else

like i encounter lots of tedious situations but if i could just parse them all in the manner of the tedium of the dvd logo then itd all be fine "we r the rats in the garbage of the western world so lets dance" luv u stephin merritt, bro that person was so unspeakably nice to me but they should've been nice to the EXACT extent that stopped at buying me an extra soju thstt last soju got me fucked uoy otherwise i met a guardian angel who only needs to figure out when they needa buy someone soju i liked i like

scratched their head all over and said ",thd world needs so much light" i did t ever know who they were i [was] just like ok they seem tolerant and like they give light. light

special

[rumandcigaretes]

Folks here we go!

Second charpter of "Bromance"

I sincerely hope you'll like what I've written, and that you'll let me know what you think <:

I'd also love to hear your ideas for the continuation.

What do you think should happen in Chapter Three?

What course do you think the relationship between Thomas and Alfie will take?

[Reminder: This fanfic is not canonical. In my concept, Thomas decides to forget about Grace and focus on his messed-up life. Of course, it's not that simple, but he decides to immerse himself in work. As a result, he re-establishes a partnership with Alfie Solomons. Both control a network of betting shops and, thanks to their influence, can decide on the winners - thus securing most of the profits. However, Thomas is haunted by demons from his past and falls into alcoholism. Drifting away from the partnership, he completely loses himself in self-destruction. Alfie wants to help him, not so much for his own good but for the sake of the partnership. However, things take a slightly different turn, which you can read about in this fanfic <;]

Okay now letsss go!!!

<Tw: alcoholism, some kind of sh, many swears, brinery> -> I think thats all but if it isn't, let me know!

2

Morning was cold. The bed he lay on felt almost like stone.

It was strange, though; within him arose a feeling of even greater emptiness. Something was missing.

But Shelby couldn't quite believe that the emptiness that had accompanied him for months had suddenly deepened.

He didn't cry for that bitch. He didn't cry for his father. He didn't even cry in and after Belfast.

Yet in that moment, a solitary tear rolled down his cheek.

So pathetic.

He knew what had happened. He remembered every moment, and even if his memory failed him, the muscles of his entire body painfully reminded him of last night's events.

Too much.

A piercing scream escaped his throat, and his hand painfully struck the bed frame.

Pain.

For a moment, the pain drowned out the emptiness.

So pathetic.

He was only pulled out of this horribly embarrassing state by the sound of opening doors. Before him stood the figure of a petite woman, scanning the room in fear.

Enormous anger boiled within him. How dare she enter without knocking?

He fixed his steely gaze on her. The woman immediately panicked, visibly eager to start a litany of apologies for her intrusion, but Thomas had no strength left for that.

"Get the fuck out," he growled, causing the woman to almost stumble over her own feet as she hurried out of the room.

As the door closed behind her, a string of curses poured from his lips.

What was he doing? Control was his strongest trait. And this? What was this?

He looked at his hand, noticing his knuckles were covered in blood. He sighed heavily as he sat up.

He was careful not to stain the sheets any further, well aware that traces of blood and semen would give the maids too much gossip fodder.

Although were the semen stains alone not already enough reason for gossip?

He grimaced, pretending not to care.

The journey to the bathroom was unpleasant. Pain in his lower body was clearly bothering him, but he tried his hardest to maintain shreds of dignity.

However, upon reaching the bathroom and casting a disdainful glance at his reflection in the mirror, even those shreds vanished.

What had he become?

His hips were covered in reddened bruises, which would likely only darken over time. His stomach still bore dried semen.

To make matters worse, a belt mark was especially noticeable around his mouth.

"Damn, did Clary notice?" raced through his mind, bringing a surge of anxiety.

He was pathetic.

With quick steps, he headed towards the shower, not wanting to look at himself any longer.

"I need to somehow massage this away."

They say warm water washes away shame.

Shelby definitely intended to test that.

The shower helped for a moment. The pain and self-disgust retreated a few steps, leaving only emptiness.

It wasn't unfamiliar to him, though, so he knew exactly how to effectively drown it out.

Fiery whiskey instead of breakfast was the best way to start the day.

He sat in the armchair where Alfie had found him yesterday. Essentially, the scene was the same as the day before. Him, whiskey, and empty whiskey bottles. A nice summary of Thomas "Fucking" Shelby.

He lit a cigarette to further poison the emptiness inside. Drag after drag, interrupted occasionally by a sip of alcohol. In fact, he had made some progress since he was using a glass.

He was only wondering what Clary was doing. She usually came around this time to ask what he wanted for breakfast. Although he usually replied that he already had everything he needed, the awareness that she hadn’t come that morning somewhat scared him.

Pathetic, Thomas Shelby afraid of what his housekeeper might think of him.

However, his fears were justified because rumors worked faster than anything else to damage one's reputation.

He got up from his seat and moved towards the bar.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror adorning the bar. He noted with a hint of relief that the mark from the strap had blended into his slightly darkened skin.

In reality, to see it, one had to look really closely, and after all, few people looked him straight in the face.

This calmed him a bit.

He resumed his intention and with a confident move opened the bar door. Behind one of the wine bottles, which he probably would never drink anyway, he found what he needed. Without much thought, he took out 20 shillings from his wallet. The cigarette he held in his mouth almost burned his lips.

He put the wallet back in its previous place, throwing the cigarette filter into a nearby ashtray.

He walked slowly towards the door leading to the corridor, first putting the extracted coins into his pants pocket.

"A bit of a nonchalant bribe, for me," he thought, smiling faintly.

He looked out into the corridor but saw no one. Most likely everyone was downstairs, but he decided not to bother going there.

"Clary, come to me!" he shouted, returning to his room.

How pathetic.

He cursed, falling heavily into the armchair.

After a short while, he heard a knock on the door.

"Come in," he commanded, pouring himself another serving of breakfast.

Clary entered the room. She was visibly stressed.

"Sit down," he pointed to the armchair right next to him. The woman quickly complied.

Shelby looked her over. He saw her fear.

"Who is downstairs?" he asked, lighting another cigarette and reclining in the chair.

After a few drags, however, he put it on the table.

She swallowed hard.

"Martha and Annie," the response was quick.

Shelby nodded.

"Since when have they been here?" he measured her with his gaze again.

Clary probably guessed what her employer might be concerned about.

"They just arrived, Mr. Shelby," her voice seemed calmer.

The man relaxed a bit at this information.

"Why didn't you come to ask what I want for breakfast?" he leaned towards her. He couldn't resist teasing her. It gave him a minimum of control. A minimum of satisfaction from having power over someone, over anything...

The maid lowered her gaze.

"I thought you didn't want to see me," her voice was stressed again.

Well, such a reaction was quite adequate - after all, she was dealing with unstable Thomas "Fucking" Shelby.

He reached towards his pocket, and the woman trembled.

"Listen to me carefully now," he looked her straight in the eyes, "Nothing happened this morning. You saw nothing and heard nothing. You'll also go to my bedroom now and take the sheets for washing. You are not to ask anything and comment on nothing. If I find out that anyone heard from you about this morning," he paused, clenching his lips tightly, "I will kill you."

As he said this, not a single muscle twitched on his face, and his gaze was fixed directly on the woman's irises.

The maid trembled again. She knew he wasn't joking. She couldn't utter a word, only nodded in understanding.

Shelby smiled falsely.

"Excellent. Here's something that might help you keep your mouth shut," he said, pressing the previously prepared 20 shillings into her hand.

He had forgotten about the lit cigarette that was sadly burning out on the table. He cast a longing glance in its direction.

Clary almost fainted. It wasn't good for her nerves. She jumped to her feet but put the entire amount into the pocket of her apron.

"I'll go take care of the sheets," she said, heading towards Shelby's bedroom. He merely nodded in her direction.

It seemed one problem was off his shoulders.

Now, he had to wait for the second, much more important one to resolve itself.

In this case, he wasn't really worried about anything.

Alfie was a reasonable guy and definitely wouldn't do anything stupid, as it would harm both Shelby and himself...

Although there was one thing with him that desperately wanted to be voiced.

That thing was the damn desire to control everything...

But in that matter, it wasn't possible. Shelby couldn't influence the Jew in any way.

After all, he didn’t intend to threaten him after he had dragged him to bed himself.

However, he also didn’t intend to ask him for anything – or rather, in this case, beg.

The boy's face twisted in a grimace of agony.

These thoughts hurt so damn much.

After all...

That evening changed nothing.

It couldn’t change anything...

No.

He just wanted it to be that way.

He was lying to himself.

The truth was that the evening spent in the long-haired man's arms changed something inside him.

It outlined a pattern that Shelby didn’t want to look at, fearing that what he would see would be so terrifying.

That was truly pathetic.

“Thomas fucking Shelby can’t come to terms with the disgusting truth about himself” – he laughed at the thought.

But this laugh was almost like crying.

He was exhausted.

The thoughts whirled so strongly in his head that it seemed to him as if he had been sitting in that armchair for ages. He was only snapped out of it by the silhouette of a woman quickly moving towards the exit of his room.

When she left, he noted with a hint of relief that he had gotten rid of that filthy bedding, which most likely still carried the scent of the bearded Jew.

He definitely didn’t intend to return to the bedroom anytime soon. Too much had happened there.

He grimaced at the memories of the previous night’s events.

His throat was dry, so he quickly reached for the whiskey bottle.

He took a big gulp.

“Fuck those glasses,” he thought, sighing heavily.

It was shaping up to be a horribly tough day.

He didn’t even notice when he drifted off. It was probably the bottle of whiskey, drunk in less than an hour, that had this effect on him.

He slowly rubbed his sleepy eyes.

He cast a bleary glance at the clock. It was nearing noon, so he would probably be able to have a proper drink at some pub.

He slowly got up from his seat, noticing a lot of white spots before his eyes.

“Fuck, I’m seeing white mice from all this,” ran through his mind.

He headed towards the door. After the morning adventure with Clary, he didn't want to see any of the maids.

Even though he had dealt with the matter, something in his head kept screaming that everyone knew what had happened the previous evening.

He tightly shut his eyes to cut off those thoughts.

After all, he was alone in his residence yesterday. He had long given up on 24-hour service. So why was he so worried?

He descended the stairs with a slightly unsteady gait, trying to be as quiet as possible.

It was absurd that Thomas "fucking" Shelby had to sneak around in his own house.

The realization made him smile sadly.

He didn't recognize himself.

…………

He breathed deeply when he managed to leave the apartment. The fresh air seemed almost strange to him.

He hadn’t gone out in a long time.

He shook his head as he walked down the road along the street.

As he walked, he felt somewhat uneasy. Random people greeted him or, conversely, avoided his gaze.

It always looked like this, but at that moment, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it.

“I’ve gone crazy” – This thought occasionally intruded into his mind, causing a grimace.

He had been grimacing a lot lately.

Mom wouldn’t have been pleased.

He felt definite relief at the sight of the dive bar where he liked to hang out when he didn't know what to do with himself.

Indeed, that day was precisely such a day.

With a quick movement, he opened the door, and the familiar smell of cheap cigarettes and stinking beer filled his nostrils.

It was pathetic, but he felt something calm down inside him at that smell.

He took his usual place right behind one of the screens. The bar was almost within reach, so without unnecessary fuss, he simply muttered to the bartender to bring a bottle of the best whiskey.

Of course, he knew that the best whiskey in this case meant some murky swill mixed with spirits, but he didn’t care much. In fact, the awareness that he would once again be able to drown himself in that crude alcohol almost comforted him.

“This will surely help me get through the day,” he thought.

He didn’t hold back. Glass after glass disappeared, and the thoughts seemed to become lighter. All fears vanished, leaving only that familiar emptiness.

Of two evils, this was the lesser one.

This state didn’t last long, as his attention was drawn to a familiar, mustachioed face that appeared at one of the tables.

It was Arthur.

“Fuck, what is he doing here?” he asked himself, feeling a surge of irritation.

He really didn’t want to see anyone he knew, let alone someone from his family.

Not that day.

Not after what had happened.

He swallowed with a sense of internal disgust.

What surprised him, however, was that Arthur completely didn’t notice his presence.

He looked as if he was waiting for someone.

The expression on his face also indicated that he had a specific purpose for being there.

Thomas couldn’t stop himself from glancing occasionally towards his table.

“Who is he waiting for?” – curiosity almost ate him up inside.

At the same time, fear sprouted in him that it might be related to the events of the previous evening.

“Maybe someone overheard him and Solomons and now wants to humiliate him in front of his older brother?

Maybe it’s Clary?”

With a slightly trembling hand, he refilled his glass and then drank its contents in one gulp.

Indeed, that filthy drink effectively dulled his nerves.

But even that swill couldn’t suppress the shock that came over him at the sight of the person heading towards Arthur’s table.

“That’s fucking Alfie” – his eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

His hands failed him, causing the contents of the freshly refilled glass to partially land on his pants.

He didn’t care at all.

A string of curses almost escaped his lips, but he quickly regained control of himself.

He had to focus and play this situation well.

Control.

That would save him…

There were many possibilities.

The worst-case scenario assumed that Alfie planned to ruin him in Arthur’s eyes by revealing what happened yesterday.

The best leaned towards the naive vision that the two men had simply met for a drink.

Shelby really wanted to believe that it was the latter that had brought them to this place.

However, he couldn’t do anything concrete to find out.

The most sensible approach was to simply watch the situation from a distance.

His position was ideal because the screen partially hid his figure while still allowing him to observe this unusual meeting.

He even decided not to indulge in any drinks during his observation to slightly improve his chances of reading anything from the behavior of the two men.

Interestingly, it didn’t seem like they were discussing anything particularly intriguing. However, Shelby knew his brother well enough to recognize that this seemingly nonchalant style of conversation was merely a cover. They must have been talking about something important.

Arthur’s face appeared normal, and the corners of his mouth occasionally curved into something resembling a smile.

It was quite obvious because conversations with Alfie were usually spiced with numerous jokes from him.

Shelby felt a very strong surge of panic.

“Fuck, I’m screwed,” he thought internally, but then he chuckled uncontrollably.

This thought led to another, which ironically expressed that yesterday he had someone in his ass.

He couldn’t see Alfie’s face clearly, as he was turned away from him. He could only fix his gaze on his massive shoulders, which by their very existence brought back memories of the previous night.

“Fuck,” he growled to himself in his thoughts.

He was so pathetic.

He lowered his gaze. He didn’t want to recall those memories.

Or maybe he didn’t want to want to recall those memories.

He felt disgusted with himself for almost looking at the bearded man with longing.

What was going on with him?

Could he really not even control himself anymore?

This morning, he couldn’t stand what had happened.

And now, when that man was sitting a few meters in front of him, he almost longed for those events.

For that touch.

For that smell.

“Fuck, enough!” – he scolded himself, turning his gaze back towards that particular table.

It looked like the conversation between the Jew and his brother was coming to an end because Arthur stood up slowly and began putting on the jacket he had previously hung on a nearby hook.

After dealing with the last button, he characteristically extended his hand to the seated man.

After exchanging a few more words with him, he simply headed towards the exit.

“What could they have been talking about?” – the question flashed through Thomas’s mind.

It definitely didn’t look like Alfie had told Arthur anything about their adventure last night, but he subconsciously felt that he had talked to him about something specific.

After all, why else would he meet him?

Was what they discussed important?

Did it concern him in any way?

The flurry of thoughts was interrupted by a movement from the Jew, who clumsily got up from his seat.

Just as he was about to avert his gaze to avoid being noticed, Alfie turned towards him.

He knew perfectly well that Shelby was there, sitting and watching their conversation.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pretending that the approaching man didn’t cause a surge of panic within him.

Alfie looked calm. Completely as if nothing had happened yesterday. His gaze was warm and his lips set in a straight line.

He was walking towards him.

Shelby didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t see him anymore.

It wouldn’t make sense.

“May I?” Alfie’s voice was friendly.

Shelby nodded in approval.

He didn’t really have a choice.

He decided that if he was really going to talk to this guy again, he definitely needed a drink.

He grabbed the bottle to pour himself the last bit of its contents into his glass, but his hand was stopped by the older man’s hand.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he muttered, sounding somewhat concerned.

Shelby was irritated. What the fuck did he think?

“Fuck off,” he growled, grabbing the bottle firmly and gulping down its contents.

Now they could talk.

“What do you want?” he snapped at the older man with a piercing but slightly glazed look. He tried to show as much as possible that what had happened didn’t affect him at all, that he was still the same.

Alfie looked him straight in the eyes. It was somewhat awkward.

Suddenly, Thomas felt a touch on his calf.

He flinched as if burned, looking down.

It was the older man’s boot. This peculiar move made Shelby feel a wave of breathlessness.

He looked at Alfie distrustfully.

“I want to help you, Tommy,” he whispered, leaning towards the brunette.

His foot began to dangerously slide up the younger man’s leg.

In fact, Alfie himself didn’t know why he made such a move.

Thomas couldn’t stand it. With a sudden gesture, he pushed away the older man’s boot, but he didn’t give up and firmly pressed his foot on his.

“What the hell is he doing?” ran through his mind.

“You’re full of shit, Solomons. At most, you want to help YOURSELF, but at my expense,” he panted, sounding sadder than he intended.

Alfie tilted his head like puppies do when they look at something that interests them.

A mischievous smile crept onto his lips.

“As for the first part, not today,” he winked at the blue-eyed man, which might have embarrassed him if he wasn’t so drunk.

Once again, Alfie was surprised by his own move. Although it was his style – turning everything into a joke because it made things easier. Right?

If looks could kill, Alfie would have dropped dead at that moment.

“Are you out of your mind? What the fuck are you doing?” Now it was Shelby who leaned towards the older man. He was truly angry.

But in that anger, something incredibly inappropriate was sprouting.

Alfie smiled indulgently.

Completely as if he sensed that inappropriateness.

“Let me help you,” he said, reaching under the table to place his hand on the younger man’s knee.

He was testing how far he could go.

But why?

He didn’t know himself.

Thomas felt like his knee was almost burning from that touch.

Yet he didn’t push his hand away.

Something in him couldn’t do it and wanted to savor the contact.

Once again, he didn’t know which time that day, he felt pathetic.

But he could admit that he maintained control because he chose this touch.

That was more important to him.

Alfie, as if sensing the boy’s emotions, gently stroked his knee.

Shelby shamefully admitted that his touch was warmly soothing.

What the fuck had happened to him?

He hung his head sadly.

He had lost.

At that moment, he didn’t even care about that fucking control anymore.

He wanted to wake up….

He hoped it was just a dream…

But when that didn’t work, he simply decided to ask the question that had been hanging in the air.

“What were you talking to Arthur about?” he asked without even looking in his direction. He really didn’t care anymore.

Solomons looked around, making sure there was no one nearby who could notice them. When he noted they were indeed almost alone and the bartender was busy cleaning tables, he reached with his remaining hand towards Thomas's chin. He lifted it gently, forcing him to look at him.

The boy shivered. It was too much.

"Don't touch me," he growled, pulling away from him. Yet immediately, he felt a familiar emptiness. Damn, did that touch really help him that much? He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore the increasingly inappropriate feeling.

"I can't handle this," he muttered to himself, knowing why. It was like an impulse. He just couldn't keep it in any longer.

Alfie nodded. "I know, that's why I talked to Arthur," he replied, straightening in his chair.

Thomas was stunned. What's happening? The image seemed to blur before him.

"What?" he asked, completely thrown off. Control... He needed control...

Solomons shrugged. "Should I be honest or nice?" he asked, taking out a familiar cigarette case from his vest pocket. Thomas licked his lips at the sight. Warmth spread in his stomach and his muscles tensed.

The older man didn't miss this. "Want a smoke?" he asked, perfectly aware of what he was doing. He was maliciously testing the younger man's boundaries. A wicked smile crept onto his pale-red lips framed by stubble.

He was acting like he'd gone mad. Mad for the younger one...

"Fuck, this is absurd," he cursed himself inwardly, but didn't let it show at all.

He really didn't understand himself anymore.

Shelby, however, didn't let himself be fooled. "Talk about what you discussed with Arthur," he said dryly. He had to push away memories stirred by the sight of that familiar cigarette case, containing indeed delicious cigarettes.

Something flashed in the older man's eye at his reaction. He lit his cigarette.

"So, should I be honest," he took a deep drag, "You're a wreck, Tommy. Impossible to work with. For a while now, you've done nothing but get drunk and cause trouble when you do. You know it, I know it. Arthur and I have been in touch about this for a while. We gave you time. We hoped you'd get it together. But clearly, you didn't. So today, I made the final decision. I wanted to tell Arthur myself. I figured this would be the most convenient place. And something told me I'd find you here today," he delivered the whole monologue, simultaneously enjoying his cigarette and never breaking eye contact with the shocked and enraged boy in front of him.

"He knew that Shelby wouldn't like this turn of events, but he knew it was best for the company and its interests. They had already lost too much due to the recklessness of the younger one.

Indeed, Shelby seemed to deflate. "Are you fucking kidding me?! US!" he shouted, lunging towards his partner.

They were lucky the dive bar they were in wasn't the quietest place, so that one shout didn't change anything.

Alfie remained unfazed. He simply continued smoking his cigarette. "Calm down," he said after a moment. "This is for your own good," he had to be firm. He knew this was the only way to make a difference.

Shelby couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was he some fucking child that decisions had to be made for him about what was good or not? He was supposed to be the master of his own fate. By what right did this bastard interfere in his life? Who did he think he was?

It wasn't even anger. It was pure fucking rage. What's worse, it was fueled by quite a bit of alcohol.

"I'll kill you," he growled, nearly spitting on the older man. But then a chill ran down his spine as he realized he had just had the opportunity to threaten someone like that today.

"If I keep killing them all like this, I'll run out of hands," a sarcastic comment floated through his mind stream. Shelby let it pass.

Alfie just laughed at his partner's reaction. "Try it," he said again, taking another drag from his cigarette. "You wouldn't be able to do it, Tommy," he paused, blowing the smoke straight into the younger man's face. Almost like yesterday. "You'd miss me too much."

He was certain this would break his resistance. A slight smile crept onto his lips. It was gentler but warm.

Thomas looked at him, and despite his lingering anger, he seemed to feel a sense of contentment. He liked that smile, and he saw it so rarely... He stared a moment too long because Alfie shook his head with pity.

"I knew it," he muttered, sending the younger man a piercing glance. "Tell me, how long have we known each other?" The question was completely unexpected, but it flowed smoothly from the Jew's lips. Perhaps he wanted to change the subject to calm Shelby down a bit. Of course, Shelby immediately saw through this intention, but he didn't resist. Lately, he had been torn between extremes-either

incredibly irritated and stimulated or tired

and submissive to the point of pain.

Literally.”

Perhaps at that moment, fatigue took over the helm.

With a somber look, he regarded his partner's face.

Cold Bastard Shelby again.

Classic move.

"It's been about 2 years, mate," he replied. Although he casually continued the conversation, something inside him, despite the fatigue and indifference he exuded, wanted this conversation to continue. Deep down, he almost begged for it.

"Pathetic asshole," he thought.

Even the desire for control seemed to fade away. At that moment, he was even inclined to let Solomon lead the entire conversation just to keep it going.

The Jew nodded. The cigarette in his mouth was almost burnt out, so he reached for the ashtray to extinguish it.

Shelby stopped him with his hand.

"I'd gladly finish it," he took the cigarette from his hand, savoring the moment their fingers touched.

It was almost exhilarating.

His move was an abstraction, yet it's worth noting that lately, most of his actions were like that.

More impulsiveness.

Less control.

He grimaced slightly at this realization but masked it with the cigarette, which he brought lovingly close to his lips.

Alfie observed him with considerable surprise. Honestly, something in the brunette's demeanor instilled fear in him. Shelby acted as if he had lost his mind.

He was drinking more than usual, avoiding contact with clients. He even stopped controlling the operations.

It was so unlike him.

What happened to the guy who shook his hand so firmly two years ago that he almost left bruises on it?

With shame, he admitted he missed that Thomas.

And now all he had left was Tommy.

Lost, messed up, drowned in drink, and confused Tommy whom he would have to save, willing or not.

Although did he really have to?

Or maybe the events of last night affected him so much.

Did by taking Shelby under his wing, he sign a pact with the devil?

Or perhaps he felt obligated to save him?

Or worse, did he feel such a need?

After all, why would he be talking to him now if not of his own volition, wanting to pull him out of the shitstorm he was in?

Why did he plan it all, starting much earlier than when they went to bed together?

But will saving this asshole from the quagmire require too much?

And yet he did it, just by talking to Arthur enough. He lightened Thomas' load enough for him to pull himself together...

Why did he talk to him?

Why did he touch him?

He grimaced. He didn't like those thoughts at all.

The younger man raised his eyebrows in surprise. The cigarette he had taken had long been extinguished in the nearby ashtray, and his gaze had been fixed on the contemplative Jew for a while now. He wanted to know what the other man was thinking so intensely.

"What's wrong?" he blurted out, trying to sound as indifferent as possible.

Excitement was getting the better of him again.

"What the fuck is happening to me," he growled in his head.

Alfie shook his head in a dismissive gesture.

"It doesn't matter," he rubbed his face with his hand.

It was probably time to leave this place.

"I'll go now," he wanted to get up, but Shelby's foot came down firmly on his shoe.

"What is he doing?" he asked himself inwardly, while at the same time staring in surprise at the blue-eyed man.

He looked into his eyes, but after a moment he regretted it.

Shelby was scared.

He saw it in his eyes.

He was definitely scared.

He saw it for a brief moment, but he was sure he saw fear in his eyes.

But why?

Thoughts swirled in his mind.

After all, he wasn't his nanny.

After all, he was

Nobody

Until yesterday...

The whole situation seemed to overwhelm him.

It was probably too much responsibility.

Comforting this jerk for a moment was even pleasant, but babysitting him full-time?

Definitely not a vision Alfie would allow himself to be swept into.

But could he realistically decide about it?

After all, everything around him was happening as it pleased, and he just tried to grab onto anything.

Just to survive.

The younger man didn't know what he was doing. He was weak.

He felt it deep inside. Something in him broke.

Was it the alcohol?

Something was messing with his senses so much that all he could read was fear.

Fear of being left alone with himself.

He didn't want to be alone.

Not after he felt he didn't have to be alone.

It was pathetic, but stopping Alfie, he wanted to convey that to him.

He wished the other man was sharp enough to read it from him.

Anything to avoid having to say it out loud.

But nothing happened. The bearded man just looked at him in surprise, while fear gripped his body more and more.

"Fuck," he muttered aloud. His tone was almost desperate. Something bad was happening to him.

She was even more frightened at the thought that at that moment she would even ask the older person to stay with him.

He really was pathetic.

Thomas' condition made the Jew fight his thoughts. After all, he couldn't leave this jerk in such a state.

"I'll take you home, Tommy," he squeezed out after a while.

Of all the options, this seemed the most sensible to him.

The least binding.

However, the younger man shook his head.

"No. It's better if you don't show up there," he lowered his head so the other couldn't look into his eyes.

A wave of shame mixed with fear, creating an almost deadly mix.

He felt the urge to drink again. Out of the corner of his eye, he sadly glanced at the empty bottle.

Alfie sighed heavily. He was tired of all this mess. But in the end, he wanted to play the hero himself.

He sat down next to him and offered help himself.

He planned it himself.

Maybe it couldn't be taken back.

This jerk wouldn't admit it himself, but the Jew knew that Shelby involuntarily trusted him a little more than he wanted.

"Alright," he muttered resignedly. "Get yourself together. I'll host you at my place."

Well, it was already too late to back out.

Hopefully, all this mess was worth it.

.......

The road to the older man's apartment passed fairly quickly. Shelby walked a few steps behind Alfie, so it didn't look suspicious.

All the way, he tried to ignore strange thoughts about being observed.

After all, they were just thoughts, right?

The older man didn't turn towards him, just walked confidently towards a place known only to him.

It was strange; they had been working together for a few years now, yet Shelby had never been to his place.

He smiled gently.

"There always has to be a first time," a silly thought popped into his head.

They passed a few turns to find themselves on a small promenade where cafes and something like a wine bar were located.

Thomas frowned. He didn't expect his partner to live in such an area.

He didn't dwell on it for too long because Alfie's figure disappeared into one of the entrances leading to the upper parts of the promenade.

He didn't hurry too much, not wanting to be taken for suspicious. Only after a short while of staring at one of the bushes adorning the entrance to the cafe, he glanced at his watch with a nonchalant gesture.

Classic move.

After this measured gesture, he walked briskly towards the entrance behind which the older man had disappeared a few moments ago.

Immediately after crossing the threshold, he saw a row of stairs that clearly led to the residential floors.

He followed them upstairs, assuming he would find the Jew there.

He wasn't wrong. Alfie was waiting for him right by one of the entrances, most likely leading to his apartment.

He shook his head at the sight of the younger man.

"You really don't have to try that hard," he chuckled. "These people don't give a damn where you're going or why. They have enough of their own problems."

As he said this, he aimed the key at the lock hole and turned it smoothly twice.

He opened the door, hiding the key in the pocket of his coat.

Shelby observed him closely.

The older man's words seemed to make him feel foolish.

With all his might, however, he tried to push away these strange emotions.

After all, it didn't matter anyway.

He entered the apartment behind Alfie, waiting meekly for him to close the door behind them.

He didn't feel confident enough to peek inside the room himself, but the hallway where they stood convinced him that his partner indeed had good taste.

The neighborhood might not have been very interesting, but the decor made up for this shortcoming.

In fact, it even added color to the whole place.

These thoughts relaxed the younger man a bit. He turned his gaze towards Alfie, who was kissing his hand and then placed it on a small case hanging next to the right door frame.

It surprised him a bit, but he didn't say anything. The older man, after making that gesture, looked at him expectantly.

Thomas didn't know what was going on. He raised an eyebrow in a questioning gesture, to which Alfie encouragingly waved his hand towards him.

"Come here," he instructed, and Shelby immediately responded.

"Give me your right hand," another command to which Thomas responded without blinking.

After all, no one could see them there.

The Jew gently took his partner's hand, bringing it to his lips. He placed a soft kiss on his fingers, then guided his hand towards the case.

Again, Thomas didn't know what guided him.

The younger man didn't resist. He tried to ignore the fact that his fingers burned as if touched by live fire.

Was it because of those lips or maybe the unfortunate case?

"Is this some kind of tradition?" he muttered, not wanting to appear uncultured.

Alfie smiled warmly.

"It's a Mezuzah, Tommy," he replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Seeing that his companion didn't seem to understand much, he added:

"Jews who adhere to tradition place a fragment of the Torah in the Mezuzah. When entering or leaving the house, they send a kiss towards it as a sign of greeting or farewell to God. In your case, this gesture signifies the acceptance of hospitality in my home," he said, then gently touched the boy's shoulder.

Somehow, he couldn't resist touching him on every occasion.

"Make yourself at home.”

Shelby shivered. Every touch from that man sent sparks through him like embers flying from a firepit. What was worse, he didn't know if it truly bothered him. Perhaps Alfie was his firepit? He grimaced at the thought.

A moment passed before the older man released his shoulder, hung up his coat and hat on the rack to their right. Right after that, he walked past him towards the kitchen. He decided to simply ignore that small grimace.

Shelby followed him, also hanging up his jacket and cap. Upon reaching the kitchen, he settled into one of the dining chairs. He had already had a few drinks that day, but he hoped for a taste of Solomon's famous rum. Subconsciously, though, he knew such an offer wouldn't come. Alf was the last person who would offer him alcohol at that moment.

Maybe he was losing his mind, but something in his head interpreted Alfie's reluctance to let him drink as a sign of concern.

An abstract thought. Someone cared about Thomas, fucking Shelby.

A crooked smile twisted his lips at that thought. It didn't escape the bearded man's notice, who had been observing him attentively for a while.

"What's amusing you?" he asked, expecting an interesting answer.

Shelby shook his head.

"Nothing," he grinned broadly at his partner. Somehow, he was feeling happier.

Alfie looked at him indulgently before turning towards the fridge.

"Have you eaten anything today?" he asked over his shoulder, pulling out a large ovenproof dish.

Shelby became slightly embarrassed. What the fuck did this guy care if he had eaten? It wasn't his concern.

Despite his subconscious aversion to such questioning, something inside him again attributed this to a form of care from the Jew.

At that moment, however, he didn't smile at the thought; rather, he grimaced in disgust.

"I ate," he lied effortlessly, watching his partner closely.

Alfie smirked mischievously.

"Too bad. I already set some aside for you," he nodded towards the plate with a large piece of what resembled cake.

Shelby grimaced. He didn't care for sweets.

"No need. You know I prefer rum in my tiramisu," he allowed himself a small smile, hoping the other would let it go.

But that didn't happen because after a moment, the long-haired man sat at the table, serving Thomas a plate and a dish with sauce.

Shelby examined the dish. He was surprised it wasn't the cake he had expected. The whole thing looked like cheesy mashed potatoes. The younger man grimaced almost like a child who didn't want to eat something green.

Alfie laughed. This brat could touch him in this bizarre way with his amazement.

However, the awareness of this fact wasn't as funny to the Jew. He gritted his teeth harder, trying to ignore the growing anxiety within him.

He didn't want to get attached. To anything. To anyone.

That wasn't his story.

He rolled his eyes.

"It's kugel, not some cake. Stop pouting and eat, or I'll be offended," he grumbled, pushing the plate almost against the boy's chest.

It seemed he had no choice. After all, his grimaces couldn't overshadow his impeccable manners.

The first bite was strange. He probably had never eaten anything like it before. However, that didn't mean he didn't like it. On the contrary, with each forkful, he realized how hungry he was and how much he liked this peculiar delicacy.

"A liquid diet definitely doesn't suit me in the long run," he thought.

Alfie smiled to himself, absorbing the magical sight of this usually cold bastard who was currently devouring the food like a small, innocent child.

With a swift motion, the older man reached for the sauce pitcher.

"This will make it even better," he declared, pouring a generous portion of sauce over the remaining kugel.

It was so strange. These two had never felt this comfortable in each other's company before.

That evening seemed to have sealed a strange pact between them.

A pact that unconsciously obligated Solomon to almost paternal care over the younger man.

That perfectly explained his behavior.

But what about Shelby?

Did it obligate him to be submissive to the bearded Jew?

It was ridiculous.

Shelby always managed on his own. He had mechanisms in place that didn't include supervision.

So why did it seem to him that deepening this fucking void inside him had something to do with being deprived of the whip that belonged to Alfie?

He grimaced.

Here's the translation:

The older man tilted his head, almost offended. "Don't you like it?" he asked gloomily.

Shelby turned towards him. Something in the older man's expression amused him greatly.

But he wanted to hide it because he knew that laughter could offend him even more.

Although... Did it really matter to him that much?

He couldn't resist, and a quiet snort escaped his lips, resulting in an even more disgusted look from the Jew.

"Don't eat if you don't want to," he reached out to take the plate from him.

To his surprise, he felt resistance.

"No. It's quite good, thank you," he said, pulling the plate closer to himself to resume eating.

Indeed, the sauce made the whole thing taste more substantial.

Alfie raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You're acting insane," he remarked.

Shelby smiled to himself. "Maybe I am?" he replied, more to himself than to him, but that didn't change the fact that the older man shook his head in dismay.

"Don't talk like that, Tommy," this time, the endearment from him didn't seem derogatory but rather comforting.

Strange. It was so damn strange for both of them.

Shelby adjusted himself in the chair, finishing the remainder of his meal and setting down his fork.

He fixed his slightly blurry eyes on the older man.

"What's going on?" he asked as if absent-mindedly. He didn't even know if he asked the question deliberately.

Alfie furrowed his brows. "Right now, we're sitting in my apartment," he said, slightly surprised but with a hint of irony. The state of the boy in front of him started to give him chills again, so sarcasm seemed like a good solution.

Shelby licked his lips.

"But what's happening between us?" This time, he asked the question completely consciously, and the gaze he stubbornly fixed on the man in front of him only reinforced the idea that it was up to him to answer that question.

The devil was in the fact that he himself didn't know what was happening between them.

He sighed heavily, holding back from swearing.

"I don't know, Thomas," he replied, breaking the growing silence.

He hoped Shelby might respond with something concrete. But it didn't happen.

The brunette lowered his head in resignation.

No one said anything for a long time.

Then suddenly, Shelby's voice pierced the apartment.

"I can't get rid of you," his voice was hollow.

Alfie furrowed his brows. He didn't say anything, feeling that what the younger man had to say wasn't over yet.

He was right, as a muffled voice once again filled the space.

"Not even now," he said, raising his head to look directly into the older man's eyes.

The Jew was confused.

"What the hell does he mean?" he thought, but images from the previous evening flashed through his mind in an instant.

But it couldn't be about that, could it?

"I got what I wanted, and yet I'm still," he interrupted himself, regaining some awareness. He didn't want to finish that sentence.

Unfortunately for him, Solomon wasn't going to let him off so easily. He looked at him meaningfully, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Shelby forced a half-smile on himself.

" Still hungry," he smoothly threw out. Almost as if he had wanted to say that from the beginning.

Suddenly, he felt an unexpected touch on his hand, which he had just laid on the table.

It was the long-haired man and his strong hand that caused this sensation.

Alfie was stirred by the blond's words. Some unimaginable fever that no compress could cure or even ease.

Something wanted him to immediately throw himself at this blue-eyed boy and shower him with kisses, yet another part whispered to him to hit him with all his might in that rather handsome face.

He felt like a toy.

And the worst part was that he seemed to enjoy this role.

After all, from the beginning, he was just a pawn in Shelby's game.

A pawn or a toy... It was all the same.

He squeezed the boy's hand tighter as he continued to stare at the source of the warm touch.

"Maybe I can feed you," Alfie whispered unexpectedly, cutting through the air and causing almost overwhelming waves of heat in Thomas.

"What the fuck is he talking about?" the younger man's brain couldn't comprehend what was happening.

Alfie had really lost himself in the fever caused by this brat.

He was scared by this fact, but he himself was beginning to feel hungry.

"Will you allow me to do that, Tommy?" he asked, wanting to get an answer as quickly as possible.

[robexp03]

Horse Whispers - Chapter 3

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Mr. Omen?” a voice echoed in my head. “Mr. Omen, can you hear me?” it said a little clearer.

“Um hmm.” I hummed softly. It was dark, and smooth, and cozy here.

“Start the drip”.

What?… I thought slowly.

And then I was instantly awake. Someone switched on the light; turned up the volume; hit the accelerator; I jumped to light speed!  Jumped, but not far. My limbs were paralyzed! Panic arose unwanted, and my heart started racing with fear! “I can’t move!” I screamed!

A gentle hand brushed my hair and a soft voice cajoled  “Easy big fella, your ok! Calm down now.”  Regardless, I started hyperventilating! I jerked a look at the face with the voice but it looked unfamiliar! Fear flamed to terror and my back arched upward. I needed to run, run fast, run far, and escape!

“Jerrod, lie across his thorax, but move slowly and quietly” a distantly familiar voice said firmly.  My vision was blurring, and a tunnel started closing in from the edges! My breath came in panting “ah’s”. And then gentle pressure on my chest, slowly increasing and becoming heavier, until a full enclosing pulsing living warmth covered most of my body.

That gentle voice shivered in my right ear, “Easy, easy now, I’m here to protect you. You’re perfectly safe. Calm down and reach out with your senses. Get your control back. Trust me. I’m right here….” it kept repeating in a litany.  The voice and the touch, but especially the pressure, slowly got through my terror and a feeling of relief flooded over me. It took a few minutes but gradually I began to return to normal. Some part of my mind latched onto that voice and its quality of firm gentle command and all my self-control abdicated to it. As long as it sounded, I felt that I was safe. 

In gratitude I reached out to hug the voice, and couldn’t. I glanced at my arms and realized with a flood of cool relief that they were not paralyzed, but rather each was laced into a tan leather gauntlet, and they were strapped to the frame of the table / bed I was laying on. My contentment at this realization was apparent when I finally relaxed, sighed deeply, and closed my eyes. Slowly, gradually, the pressure lifted from my chest. When I opened my eyes, it was Dr. DeBiron who filled my visual field.

“Mr. Omen, I apologize for how all this has happened. But I assure you that it was all necessary, and more importantly, expected” he said slowly.

“Why did you drug me?” I asked petulantly. “Did you think I’d back out?”

“No, Mr. Omen, I understand your psyche better than that. The soporific was necessary to get you over the initial shock of phase one of the treatment. I theorized that the human body might take the changes unkindly, and I wanted to have complete and absolute control for a while, for your safety. At least until the therapy had begun well. But I gave it to you secretly to get you into this laboratory. It is important to the owners of this facility that its existence and location are, and remain, a secret” he explained.

I had been examining with my eyes all the connections that my body sported; the I.V. in my right arm, the nasogastric tube taped to my cheek, the unfamiliar feel of what was undoubtedly a catheter running up my penis. “You mean you’ve started already?” I looked at him in surprise, all the other obvious questions driven back.

“Indeed. Indeed we have” he stated with a slight nod and smile. “In fact, not only have we started, but you have made great progress in your treatments.”

“I didn’t think it would be so fast” I said truthfully.

“Time passes swiftly to the mind that is drifting free” he said looking at my chart. “But I am very pleased with the progress you have made during the time you have been held unconscious.”

When the thought sank in that I had been unconscious I started to smile. “Progress.” I elbowed my body up a bit. “You said progress. What progress?” I was feeling excited.

“They are mostly internal adjustments, Mr. Omen. Mostly internal.  In fact, it is because the next phase of treatment is about to begin that I have withdrawn your sedation. But I also wanted to see how your reaction to returning to consciousness would manifest itself.”

Reaction to… Suddenly I remembered my fearful return. “What the hell happened?” I asked emphatically. “Is something wrong?”

“No. In fact quite the contrary. You do remember that I told you that a horse’s blood dynamics are controlled by hormonal factors do you not?  Well as I implied, during the process of phase one we have had to do a few alterations to your physiology that go beyond the splenomegaly. Your adrenal and pituitary glands and their products also had to be reorganized to establish this natural blood doping you are seeking. And your testosterone has had to be somewhat adapted as well. These modifications were done using the DNA of Tracker himself and there were bound to be some surprises awaiting us. What you felt Mr. Omen is undoubtedly what a horse feels when its fear gets out of control, and flight is its natural response. You should be very encouraged.”  I looked away in memory replay. Flight… yes… run, run fast, run far, and escape!  And then that voice…  I looked back suddenly. 

“There was someone else here…” I remembered. The doctor looked up over the head of the bed. Lying back down, I tipped my head back and looked in that direction. A tall tan muscular dark brown-haired man with a moustache and dressed in orderly greens smiled upside down at me.

“Mr. Omen, this is Jerrod. He will be your um… personal trainer,” the doctor said.

“Hi Mr. Omen” that voice smoothed my nerves, but it raised the hair on my neck again.

“Please, you- you can call me Cody” I said quietly.

            “Ok, Cody” he smiled back.  At the mention of my name, an electric thrill raced from my scalp down my spine, and straight to my butt. If I had one, I’d have been wagging my tail! Distantly I wondered why my heart was pounding, why my skin was electrified, but all I could manage to do was stare at him with my mouth slightly open. 

“Thanks” I breathed. “For everything”.

“Don’t mention it Cody” he replied, and the shock of a chill bolted down my back again.

“Mr. Omen, I think you need some rest. You have been unconscious for a long time, but I think you will discover that you are very tired just the same. Jerrod and I will not be far away.  Simply call if you need anything” the doctor intruded.

In fact, a great lethargy was about to overcome me. As I closed my eyes, Jerrod brushed my hair back out of my face again. “That’s good. Good boy” he said softly. I almost purred.

(((((((((((((((((((( -------------------- ))))))))))))))))))))

            “Doctor, it looks like you were right to think Cody might go through a kind of imprinting” I said, continuing to brush Cody’s beautiful pale forelock back from his face.

“Yes, he did imprint it appears. But I am surprised at the strength of his flight reactions” the doctor nodded and then he smiled slightly, but his eyes betrayed a deeper excitement. . "This is marvelous, Jerrod” he said quietly, almost reverently, while bending to observe Cody's mane. “This is medical science in its purest form.”

I smiled at the man lying peacefully on the table. “I’m afraid that I’m feeling a bit imprinted myself” I added softly. “I love the way his hair feels” I said as I petted him absent-mindedly.

“Another unexpected side effect. As is its growing pattern” Doctor DeBiron added. “Genetically it’s somewhere between hair and fur. I believe it has stopped evolving and its texture and colour will stabilize much as you see it now.” That’s fine with me- I thought “As to its growing pattern, time will tell. How far down his back has it proceeded?”  he asked.

“While he was trying to sit up I could see a one inch strip of light fuzz going down to just below his shoulder blades. It looks kinda like a punk mohawk!” I chuckled.

He looked up at me quizzically.  “I sincerely hope he finds the change as entertaining as you do. His blood tests show that the changes in his glands are only about 50% complete. We are about to pass a threshold, and enter a period of profound adjustments. I want to set up a rotating watch schedule such that one of us will be either here or at least at the monitor station 24 hours a day. It is possible that stress factors may cause another episode like that last one at any moment. We have no idea how the hormonal changes will effect his emotions and thought processes. Be sure to wear your pager at all times. I may need your magic touch again.”

“When will you tell him about the extent of the adjustments you had to make in your original plans?” I asked pointedly. Doctor or not, I didn’t think it was right that this new creature we were creating should be kept in the dark forever.

He looked sidelong at me. “Rest assured that I want to see my project succeed even more than you do, but for different reasons I suspect” he almost-but-not-quite bristled at me. He looked back at Cody appraisingly. “His emotional reactions to all this are at least as important to success as his physical reactions are. Obviously it will have to be very soon” he added as he lifted Cody's hospital gown and examined his penis and testicles. “This is not the kind of change that a man will not notice, nor ignore” he said, pursing his lips. “Be sure that his restraints are secure to the table. No chances… or rather, no foolish chances, must be taken now.” 

(((((((((((((((((((( -------------------- ))))))))))))))))))))

To be continued

[broken-clover]

8- Festival

This is one prompt that I included with some sort of image already in mind, perhaps I'll blame my recent playthrough of the Teal Mask putting me in a festival mood. I like the thought of Baiken and Anji introducing Delilah to bits of Japanese culture as a soft of family thing. I will say that I tried my best looking up accurate information on how to put on a yukata and tie an obi properly, but I apologize if I ended up inaccurate somewhere.

This one's also a bit of a gift for @rex101111 because we all know you're a notorious baiken liker, and it seems like you could possibly use something a little lighthearted right now.

-

Delilah very slowly looked down at the thing on the bed, then back up to her caretaker, and down again.

“...I don’t get it.”

Baiken sighed. “I know it’s not your usual thing. Anji suggested it to me. Figured if we were taking you to a full-on proper matsuri, might as well dress for it.”

The girl did her best to keep her nose from wrinkling in displeasure at the thought. “It’s…really fancy.”

“Just looks like it. First time always feels a little weird, even when it’s just a yukata instead of a full-on kimono. I felt the same way when I got my first one. I tried to find one where the fabric wasn’t rough to the touch, figured if I was gonna ask you to wear it for more than a little while it wasn’t fair to make it itchy, too.”

After another back-and-forth look between Baiken and the bed, Delilah tentatively reached out and thumbed the garment’s sleeve. “It’s kinda weird…” she half-murmured. “But if it’s important to you, big sis, I can try it once.”

“I find it helps one get into the spirit of things!” Anji chirped, making both of them jump back at his sudden appearance.

“How many times do I have to tell you to knock that off?!” Baiken visibly restrained herself, both from pulling her sword out and in keeping the litany of swears currently on the tip of her tongue from jumping out around a child.

Anji feigned innocence. “I simply wanted to see Delilah’s thoughts on the lovely gift you procured for her! I know you were worried about sizing, what with it being a surprise and all, I thought you would be relieved to see it was a good pick after all!”

“Shut it.” The woman’s face tinted scarlet. “You gonna stand around here all day, Mito, or can the kid get changed without you watching the whole damn thing?”

“Alright, alright.” He raised his hands and took a step back. “I’m just going to stand behind the divider, alright? I’ll be nearby in case you need any help tying the knots or folding anything.”

His hands stayed up as he moved, vanishing behind the panels of wood on the other side of the room. “Also, that’s another coin for the swear jar, Baiken!”

“Oh, sonuva- !” She growled, gritting her teeth. “Just stay in the corner and spare me your color commentary.”

“It looks like a bathrobe,” Delilah said.

Baiken sent a pointed glare at the divider as Anji snickered. “I guess it’s a little similar. You gotta do a few steps to put it on right. Might take a few minutes. That okay?”

She nodded. “Alright. With something like this, you can wear your usual stuff under your clothes. With the real fancy ones, you gotta wear special stuff under it, or nothing at all. But that sorta thing’s for real special occasions, weddings and that kinda thing. I don’t wear mine that way, either. Too much work.”

At that, Delilah tried to imagine Baiken in something very, very fancy, like the kimonos she had seen at the museum from before the war. It was quite difficult to envision. It seemed like that would get in the way of swinging a sword.

Baiken guided her into slipping off her usual dress and putting the new one on. Delilah looked down at herself. Her arms moved up and down, making the abundant material flop around.

“It’s too long.”

“Nah, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Pull up the edges so it’s close to your ankles.”

She did as she was told. “Good, yeah, like that. Just try to make sure it’s even on the bottom. Fold the right side against yourself. Yeah, like that. Then you take the left and put it the other way over the top.”

“Make sure it’s left-over-right and not right-over-left!” Anji chimed in. “Don’t want to scare anybody!”

“That’s what you do when they’re dead,” Baiken explained, noting Delilah’s confused look. “Mmkay, looks like it fits alright. Make sure it’s not too loose, you wanna be able to move around but not make anything untie itself.”

So far, she wasn’t too confused. Though she had to readjust it a couple of times, Delilah found a good fit that didn’t feel too much like being squeezed. Baiken had been right, the material was pretty soft, and that made the whole thing a little less uncomfortable.

“Nice, nice.” The woman nodded. She handed her some kind of string. “This part helps keep it closed. Tie it around your waist.”

“This looks different from yours,” Delilah gestured to the sash holding Baiken’s kimono together.

“Nah, I got one underneath this. It’s a separate part. Though now that you bring it up…”

While she knotted the string, Delilah watched Baiken root around in the closet. She came back with a bundle of pale pink fabric. “This’s the part that goes over the string. The obi helps keep things more secure.”

Baiken moved behind her. “Don’t turn around, I’m gonna help you put this part on.”

“You still remember your ties, Baiken?” Asked the voice in the corner.

Delilah felt a tug around her waist. “Heh. My mama tried ‘n tried to get me to learn how to tie my own belt. Never stuck. Thankfully, you’re still pretty young and haven’t had much practice yet. Nobody’s gonna bat an eye if you wear a kantan obi, plenty of adults don’t know how to tie their own anymore.”

“It’s a lost art.” Anji gave a mildly dramatic sigh.

“Oh shut the hell up, yours isn’t even in a proper damn knot, anyway! You’ve just got it tied in a dainty little bow, princess.”

“How cruel! And another coin for the swear jar!”

She groaned. “Anyway, here, grab the little thin strips. Just knot ‘em together any way you usually do, that bit gets tucked away.”

At least that part was easy. Delilah wondered how people did this every day, they must have had a lot more patience. She preferred being able to just slip on something comfortable and be done with it. But she did feel a bit fancy like this, the patterns were so much brighter and fancier than she usually wore. When she tucked in the sash’s knot, it did look cool, too.

“One more thing to put on.”

Baiken reached over and undid the rope of reddish-pink cord that was tied snugly around her waist. Delilah held out her palms and let it coil like a little woven snake.

“Another belt?”

“Just…try ‘n not pick at this one, okay? I know some of the bits are kinda loose, it’s just old.”

“What’s so important about this?”

“Eh, mostly just an accessory, some hold the knots together, but I mostly just use this one ‘cause it looks good. Though if you were wearing your first real yukata, it’d be nice to have something to tie it all together.”

Delilah didn’t quite follow the logic, but Baiken knew more about all of this than she did, so she trusted it made sense. The Japanese sure seemed fond of belts. She looped it around her waist and tried to replicate the knot Baiken used. It came out uneven, but when she looked back up, she was smiling.

“Yeah, I was right. Looks good on you.”

Delilah tried for a little twirl. Something about how the loose sleeves flapped did feel very fun. “I feel pretty.”

“Hold on, I’m gonna go get a decent mirror.” Baiken headed for the door. “Anji, you still have that one you made in the kitchen?”

He must have nodded, as Baiken departed in silence. Anji emerged from his hiding place, eyes immediately going wide.

“Goodness, well aren’t you adorable! All ready for your first festival!”

“I feel like big sis.” She waved the sleeves again. “Do you help her put hers on?”

“Nah, Baiken’s an expert. She can do all her folds and ties one-handed!” Anji paused. “She really gave you her kumihimo?”

The girl squinted in thought. She ran a finger across the braid. “This thing?” Anji nodded. “She told me to put it on top.”

“Huh! Never thought I’d see the day…”

“What’s so important about it?”

“It was her mom’s. She did a lot of weaving- well, that’s what Baiken told me, at least. She hated whenever I tried to touch it, I used to think she just hated having any of her stuff touched, but I think this one’s an old personal keepsake.”

Delilah went silent. Suddenly, this whole thing felt a lot more sentimental. Baiken wasn’t normally so passionate about clothing or getting dressed up, but now it made a bit more sense.

Anji guided her out of the room, all dressed up. Once she’d gotten enough time to admire her reflection in the mirror Baiken offered, the three of them stepped outside and headed in the direction of glowing lanterns.

He pointed off to one of the colorful stalls. “C’mon, kiddo, let’s go see if we can fish up a water yo-yo!”

“Huh?”

“Oh, it’s a festival staple. I think you’ll get a kick out of it.”

[fe-fictions]

Benny with a s/o who finds his appearance and build to be cute rather than intimidating. S/o can be a Oc, si, or just corrin I’m not picky)

(Let's GOOOO bc Benny IS so cute ;;; A ;;; Also I alternate between Benoit and Benny for his name; Benoit just sounds so much cooler, and I love the idea of Benny being his nickname ;;; )

He’d heard you describe him using that word once before. And he still wasn’t completely certain how he was supposed to take it. After all, he was notoriously one of the most fearsome and intimidating members of your army.

Where in the world did you get the idea he was anything other?

The latest time you said such an outlandish thing was during tea with your sister. Camilla had wondered aloud what had you so enamored with the man (who was currently hulking beside you, a towering presnece at the tea table.

“Well, I mean, where do you start?” You replied, looking your husband up and down and earning a bashful smile from him. “He’s just so cute!”

The term made Camilla giggle, and baffled Benoit.

“Er…you think I’m cute?” He repeated, a bit stunned by the statement, “You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious!” You huffed, as though offended he would suggest anything otherwise.

“But why?”

“Because! You’re- oh, I don’t know! It’s something about your face, and your hair, and how big you are…”

“Darling, those traits would make him look more intimidating than adorable. You seem to be confusing the two.” Camilla remarked, incapable of withholding her amusement.

“But he’s not fearsome!!” You countered, bordering on indignant. “I mean, look at him! He’s such a sweet and gentle person, how could anyone think him sometihng other than cute?”

“I-I think you’re referring more to my personality, not my appearance.” He corrected you as dour as ever. “I don’t exactly look ‘cute’. You look much cuter than I do.”

“Oh, stop it! Flatterer.” You laughed, failing to hide the blush on your cheeks behind your fingers. “That’s what makes you so cute! You look so rugged, and strong, but you’re such a gentle soul on the inside. I’ve never seen a man who can just hold out his hand and have a bird just fly over to you! It’s part of what makes you so special.”

“I feel like you’re describing an animal. Not a grown man.” Benny said shyly, the gushing praise of his wife making his heartbeat far too quick.

Camilla was smiling to herself, watching the two of you get into a competition over who might get more flustered first.

“When you explain it like that, darling, I’m beginning to understand your line of reasoning. Him being a big, gruff yet gentle spirit is quite charming.”

“Yes! You get it!” You cheered, grinning at your poor sweet husband. His eyes were fixed on the tea, a big part of him wanting to hide in a corner. “He’s just so adorable, isn’t he??”

“Indeed he is,” Camilla grinned behind her teacup. 

“Come on, now…this is a little much.” Benoit mumbled. You giggled as you wrapped your arms around his bicep, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Benny. I just love my big, sweet husband so much I want everyone to know it! And if they don’t understand why, it’s my marital duty to educate them.”

“How many more people are you going to ‘educate’?” He sounded mortified by the mere thought.

You shrugged, “Anyone who asks! Camilla was just the start.”

“You know, I wouldn’t mind if…if you didn’t educate anyone else.” He sighed, earning another laugh and a kiss on the cheek.

“Very well, my love. If you’d rather maintain that fearsome image, I won’t undermine you. Now let’s finish our tea. And maybe, if Camilla asks for more stories or has other curious questions…I might just oblige.”

“Oh, I don’t think she-”

“Actually, Benny dear, I have thousands of questions I’d simply love to ask my Corrin. Now, when did you first discover how cute he was?”

Benny was beyond a good sport when it came to being harassed by his wife, thankfully. And you were sure to apologize for embarrassing him with a litany of kisses; the only fair compensation for his troubles.

[rrelationshipadvice]

Hi, weird phrasing on this one probably, also apologies for the length.

I'm not sure what to do about my current relationship. We're long distance, both early-mid 20s (I'm tmasc, theyre nb) with litanies of issues that I (mostly) won't name that do affect how we act and react.

(I will mention that I have BPD, OSDD, and trust issues due to repeated past traumas because they come up later. I am trying to work on them, but not with a therapist. I can't afford one right now. I've had therapists in the past though, and am mostly working off what I can remember of their advice and worksheets and any other tips I can find to try and help.)

Very long preface out of the way, I often feel like I'm not good enough for my partner or tgat our relationship is bad for them, but they refuse to entertain the thought, or even the topic whenever I try to bring it up.

If I'm manic I tend to get really irritable to the point where even the most minor things like off key whistling or small noises or changing topics to sonething I'm not interested in will tick me off (I never voice these thoughts to them, or anybody, but I worry they can tell).

If I'm depressive I feel like I get unbearable with how much support I need. My partner has said that they don't mind it and that they like feeling helpful but I've accidentally stumbled upon them talking to one of my alters and saying the angst and worsened self esteem and splitting (in the BPD sense) during episodes frustrates them. I honestly can't blame them for it, even if it hurt that they didn't tell me about it to my face.

Every time we went on break/broke up in the past it's been horrible for both our mental health due to both it and other circumstances around those times, and my partner isn't keen on a repeat.

After our most recent break up, long before we got back together, they'd asked me if I saw them as a person or as a crutch and it stuck with me and only made my own worries about whether our relationship was good for us or not worsen. I do my best to handle my issues on my own, sometimes venting to them if I feel I need the emotional support. They can tell I hold things back though and they say it makes them feel like I don't trust them, when they're the only person I feel like I do trust, especially compared to everyone else.

Again, reiterating, I'm not sure what to do. I do love them deeply, and they fully reciprocate, but I can't tell if it's the disorders talking whenever I end up thinking we should see other people, so I'm here to ask for a second opinion.

.

[the-mothmaam]

Frankenstein

Okay. Even with just the screen name...

An oddly specific cut. Some might call it a breadcrumb.

But that's a quote from the monster's point of view.

And sure you ran off to the icy north and admitted to anger you couldn't control before leaving, but...

I don't know if you consider yourself the man or the monster in this situation. Either way it is not a way to live. Either way you deserve forgiveness and love. Either way I have a litany of apologies to make too, if I'm the other party in said dialogue... but I can't be certain.

And I refuse to guess.

The thing Emilie taught me that I took away from couple's counseling, was that I can't mind read. And I won't try.

I know talking is hard for you. It always has been. And I imagine it always will be. Which is okay. I'm patient-ish.

But I will reach every wrong conclusion and only MAYBE find the single accurate answer should I try to parse anything further. Gods know how I've tried and fucked that up over the last 2 years.

The only truth is the one that's been left unsaid.

And if you're ever ready to give that truth a space to be aired, you know where to find me. If it's a truth you need to say so be it, if it's a truth from me that I know not what it concerns... name it. I will do my best to speak it.

I came here to leave a note about my Facebook going dark, and to assure you I only did it for myself. The news and the world at large have been too much of late. And so I'm stepping back from social media... and the Internet as much as my job and life allow. It's nothing to take personally - no one can see me there any more. Not for now, at least.

If you change your mind, I'll always have the same phone number, email, and Discord.

And if not... Be well my love.

Oh, and P.S. I thought you'd find this funny - I started seeing a new therapist this month - a transgender woman. Her dead name is Brandon Flowers. She goes by Bri now. Just a weird little coincidence. My insurance stopped carrying Amy at the end of last year, but there's still a few things I'm trying to put to bed in my head, so having someone I can pay to listen to me bitch and moan is a nice way to tackle that.