#and there were a lot more people than i expected. must have been two dozen-ish of us

[naomiknight-17]

Uncle Tony's final resting place is a beautiful spot, and he's back with Aunt Barbara now

We took a moment to walk a few rows down to visit the graves of Grandma and Papa, and Uncle John and Aunt Betty while we were at it

This cemetary holds a lot of my family. I'm glad it's a beautiful and peaceful place for them to rest in

[elthadriel]

Boosting Morale

It's been too long since Rex and Cody were together to let sharing a room with a dozen other men stop them from having sex.

And if their men want to watch, well maybe that can just be part of the fun.

Tags: Public Sex, Exhibitionism,   Begging, Anal Sex, Consensual Kink, Humiliation, Light Dom/sub, sub Cody, bottom Cody, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Roleplay-ish, SubCody Week 2021 

Read on Ao3

It hadn’t even occurred to Cody to not to give up his quarters when Kenobi had mentioned there were going to be a total of six Jedi and twice as many Senators on the Negotiator for a couple of nights. It was sensible even if it hadn’t been proper procedure. He could find an empty bunk in the Trooper barracks easily enough, an event he doubted a non-clone would ever recover from.

Still, he was disappointed to be on the same ship as Rex and not have the privacy to enjoy it. At least they could still curl up in the same bunk, which was a whole lot better than being light years apart for weeks at time.

And, well, Cody hadn’t realised he’d missed sharing a room with his brothers. Private quarters once he had left Kamino were a luxury he could never have imagined and not one he wanted to give up, but there was something oddly nostalgic about being in barracks with a couple dozen other clones, a near even mix of the 212th and the 501st who had been invited to double up. He’d even missed the unashamed sounds of loud sex happening all around him as everyone settled in for the evening. The only thing that had really changed from when he shared a room with other CCs was that he wasn’t able to pick out exactly who was fucking who based on the precise sounds they were making.

That was probably a good thing; he didn’t need to know any of his men that well, or any of Rex’s for that matter.

And it turned out his frustration at not being able to enjoy one of the rare nights he had Rex got to spend together had been unfounded. It probably wasn’t the best idea to get so handsy in front of men they were expected to lead into battle, but if their vode had no concerns about getting off in front of them, it seemed only fair they got off too.

Rex kissed him like he was trying to drag Cody’s soul out through his mouth, hard and unrelenting. He was in a rough mood, teeth catching on Cody’s lower lip, tugging and sucking, drawing soft noises from Cody.

He was on his back, Rex above him, one leg pressed between Cody’s, rubbing up against him with any movement. Cody still resisted actively rutting against it, but he was more than aware the opportunity was there if he wanted it. Rex had an elbow either side of Cody’s head holding just enough of Rex’s weight to get the angle Rex wanted, the rest of Rex’s bulk heavy across Cody’s body.

Cody sighed into the demanding kisses, holding the front of Rex’s shirt to stop any chance of him pulling away; not that it was a risk he was particularly concerned about.

“Hey, Captain, nice of you to slum it down with the rest of us. Who’s your hot piece of ass?” A Trooper called out across the room with the confidence of a man who had just earned his paint.

Rex broke the kiss and Cody opened his eyes, getting a good look at him before he turned to address the Trooper. Rex was a little flushed, eyes dark, mouth quirked up in amusement.

“That would be Marshal Commander Cody,” Rex said. “Something you’d like to say to him?”

Cody turned to catch the man’s expression, the added bonus being that twisting his head displayed his distinctive scar. The Trooper went a rather dramatic shade of white.

“No Sir. Sorry Sir- Sirs,” the kid said, snapping his heels together and saluting. Around him his friends seemed torn between laughing at his misfortune and being appropriately deferential. It probably wasn’t the sort of thing they were going to let him forget anytime soon. It was an important lesson in being overly familiar with officers.

Not that it was always a bad thing for soldiers to be familiar with their COs. Cody tugged Rex’s attention back to him before the poor boy combusted. He liked how familiar Rex was with him.

“You’re a fucking moron, Vector,” one of the clones said, voice not quite low enough to prevent it from carrying.

“Gonna get your shebs sent for reconditioning. Gonna have to tell the Kaminoans you said a Superior officer could get it,” another said, Blue, a 212th man on a list in Cody’s office for potential officer training. He went a little pinker realising he was going to know exactly which of his people had watched Rex feel him up.

“Nah, the Commander’s always in a good mood when Rex is around, no rewards for guessing why. He’ll probably just put you on cleaning detail until you die.”

“It is a hell of a show though,” Blue said, and Cody knew he wasn’t supposed to have heard that part. He let it pass unchallenged. Rex’s hand was slipping under his shirt, warm even against his heated skin, and everything else seemed unimportant.

“He’s right,” Rex mumbled, breaking the kiss to suck at Cody’s neck instead. “You are a hot piece of ass.”

Cody rolled his eyes, but smiled despite himself. Their kisses were growing more heated, and the leg sandwiched between his own a more distracting presence. It was one thing to make out in a shared space, full of subordinates who were already paying more attention to them than they would any Troopers fooling around, it was quite another have sex with another officer right in front of them.

They could probably get away with frotting against each other at least. Except-

“Force, I want to fuck you so bad.” Rex said, mouth hot against Cody’s neck.

Cody groaned, shifting his hips, rubbing his semi-erect cock against the thick meat of Rex’s thigh. The muscles in his groin clenched at the suggestion, pre-come leaking from the tip of his cock, staining the front of his blacks. It had been almost two months since they’d had the time for penetrative sex, and now the idea was in his head he wasn’t sure he could settle for anything else.

Rex nipped at his jaw.

“You’d like that, huh? I could strip you out of your blacks in front of our men and fuck you while they watch,” Rex shifted from his elbows up onto his hands, looming over Cody.

“Rex,” Cody moaned, his hips twitching without his permission.

“What do you think they’d make of that? Watching the great Commander Cody spreading his legs and begging for it like a slut?

“Please.” He could already picture it, how he would look to them, reduced to a needy mess by the promise of a hard cock in him. He had such a carefully built reputation of control and unbending professionalism and there was something deliciously filthy at revealing to the men who respected him that he was as human as the rest of them, throwing all propriety aside in exchange for good hard fucking.

“Please what?” Rex asked, smirking ever so slightly. The only saving grace for Cody’s pride was the flush rising on Rex’s neck, making it clear he was as turned on at the thought as Cody was.

“Fuck me in front of them. Show them who I belong to.”

Rex’s breath caught in his throat. He pressed his thigh more firmly between Cody’s legs and Cody failed to muffle his cry. He buried his burning face into Rex’s shoulder. Fuck. The silence in the room was palpable, and he could feel the eyes of what must be everyone in the room turn to him.

He wanted this, the tent in his blacks made that more than clear, but the sharp embarrassment was dancing between exciting and too much.

Cody wrapped his arms around Rex’s back, holding him close as he decided where he was going to land on this. They’d played with this sort of fantasy before, toying with the intoxicating mix of humiliation and excitement of being watched, but fantasy and reality were two very different beasts.

Rex kissed the point just under his ear, voice more breath than sound. “We can go find a supply closet if you want?”

It certainly would be easier. They could steal from the room and find a private little corner of the ship, it wouldn’t even be the first time. But he wanted to do it here. He wanted everyone to know exactly how well Rex took care of him. He wanted the burn of humiliation fuelling his arousal.

“No. I want to do it here.”

“You sure?” Rex asked, because he worried like that.

“Positive.”

Rex bit the shell of his ear, giving a tug just the right side of painful. “You’ll let me know if it becomes too much?”

Cody nodded.

Satisfied, Rex sat back on his haunches, pulling his upper black up off over the top of his head, dropping them onto the floor by the bed. He had mostly healed burn from a too close for comfort blaster bolt along his shoulder where there was a narrow gap in their armour. Cody sat up, pressing a kiss just by the edge of it.

Before he could enjoy the rest of Rex’s newly exposed skin, Rex was tugging insistently on Cody’s own blacks, his shirt quickly joining Rex’s on the floor. Rex did exactly what he had just denied Cody, pushing him back into the mattress and ducking his head to suck a dark mark into Cody’s collarbone. Cody closed his eyes, sinking into the pillows, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Rex’s mouth was hot against his skin, and a deep satisfaction curled around his chest knowing how marked up he was going to be by the time Rex was done with him. He’d have fading bruises to trace long after Rex was gone.

Pleased with his work, Rex abandoned Cody’s collarbone in search of somewhere else to mark him only to be very quickly distracted by Cody’s left nipple. He licked a stripe over it before sucking it into his mouth, while Cody made a soft, pleased sound. Rex’s teeth teased the nub, a sharp pain that had him clutching at the back of Rex’s head to keep him in place.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” said one of the troopers said from a bunk over. They were slowly gathering closer, even those that had been actively fucking each other suddenly more interested in what Cody and Rex were up to. It was understandable, it wasn’t the sort of show that happened very often, if ever. “The Commander looks good all messed up.”

Cody wondered what Fox would have to say if he knew about this, Fox who claimed he intended to fuck his way through the entire GAR but wouldn’t so much as be seen in a state of undress more scandalous than removing his helmet by the men he directly commanded. If he and Ponds had ever managed to agree about anything it was that it was an officer’s responsibility to maintain an unshakable sense of integrity to his men. Cody somewhat doubted they would consider letting Rex fuck him as meeting that standard. This was going to make it back to the other CCs, it was inevitable, and the promise of their judgement did filthy things to Cody’s insides.

He hadn’t known this about himself, how hot he would find this.

“Check in with me?” Rex said, removing his mouth from Cody and leaving the wet skin to cool against the air.

“They think I’m hot,” he said voice already a little rough.

“You like that?” Rex asked.

Cody wanted to hide his face, somehow more embarrassed to admit that he liked being watched than in the being watched itself. There was nowhere for him to hide from how well Rex knew him however, so he just nodded.

Rex looked at him like Cody had hung the stars and planets beside. He kissed Cody with bruising force, before taking full advantage of Cody’s confession.

“They’re jealous,” Rex said. “They would do anything to be in my position right now. You spread out under them, desperate for their touch. If I wasn’t here, would you let them? Would you offer up your tight ass to your men?”

Cody whined, fisting the sheets under him.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Rex was back at his throat, pausing his verbal torment to add another bruise to Cody’s growing collection. Only when he was satisfied with the angry mark did he continue. “Face down on the bed, ass in the air, let them take turns with you until you’re fat with their come. You think a single one of them could resist an offer like that?”

“Fuck, Rex.” He tried to grind his ass against Rex but he had no leverage flat on his back, Rex’s hands holding him in place.

“Ask me for it,” Rex ordered. “ Nicely.”

Cody let out a breathless laugh. Like he was in any state to be rude to Rex right now.

“Please, Rex.”

Rex rolled his hips, the hard line of his erection rubbing up against Cody and his thigh pressing teasingly down against Cody’s, but he made no other move to progress things.

“Louder. So our men can hear you.”

Heat throbbed sharply in Cody’s crotch.

“Please,” he said, barely any louder than the first time. Rex kissed him, mouth closed, surprisingly chaste considering the filth he had been talking only moments before. Cody squeezed his eyes shut and tried again.

“Rex, please. I need you in me. Stop teasing. Please. ” There was a tremble to his voice, but it carried across the room, and he heard someone off to the side let out a low groan accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a hand working slicked up flesh.

Force, they were jerking themselves off to this. To him.

Rex let out a low moan of his own, kissing Cody again with more force.

“You’re amazing,” Rex breathed. “I love you.”

He smiled, bright and warm, made braver by Rex’s words.

“Fuck me, please, please, Rex. ” He shifted his own leg, deciding it was only fair Rex experienced the delicious friction he’d been teasing Cody with, pressing his leg up against Rex’s bulge. Rex gasped, arms almost buckling in surprise, but while a couple of Troopers moved to sit on closer bunks for a better view, Rex wasn’t taunted into returning to their game just yet.

“I want them to see how perfect you are for me. I want them to hate me for being lucky enough to have you.” He said, voice low, speaking just for Cody. Rex threaded the fingers of one hand through Cody’s, holding his face with a gentleness that didn’t match bite marks littering Cody’s body.

They looked at each other for a moment, Rex smiling fondly, running his thumb down the scar on Cody’s face. Cody wanted him far more deeply than physically, wanted to whisper terrible vulnerable things to him, but while he was learning all sorts of new things about himself in that moment, like his apparent kink for being dommed with an audience, that was something he wasn’t willing to share with anyone but Rex.

Instead he kissed Rex’s palm and hoped that he knew.

Rex closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them his smile widened and turned more mischievous.

“If we don’t move this along I’m going to come in my blacks like a shiny,” Rex said. He released Cody’s face to trace a line over Cody’s ass through his blacks instead.

Shit.

“We don’t have any lube,” Cody realised. He’d left it in his room, hidden among his clean underwear. He hadn’t considered this as an option.

Rex hesitated for only a moment, before his expression turned smug. He dug his fingers into the flesh of Cody’s ass, teasing the waistband of his blacks lower on hips. “I’m sure one of our roommates would be happy to donate some to the cause if we ask.”

Cody was more than aware it should be embarrassing to have to publicly ask one of their subordinates for lube but with Rex’s obvious arousal at the idea pressing against him it was impossible to care.

He nodded his consent to the suggestion and was rewarded with a playful slap to his ass, though the angle was wrong for any real force.

“Hey, Fives,” Rex called across the room. “You got any lube?”

Five’s reply came quickly enough to make it clear his attention, seemingly like every other clone in the room, was already on Rex and Cody. “I thought being prepared for all eventualities was what separated good leaders from great ones?” He asked, in what Cody was positive was a reference to something he’d said. It sounded like the sort of bullshit he sprouted around shinies. Making that kid an ARC had been a mistake, that much recognition had given him a dangerous amount of confidence.

“Delegation is an important part of efficient leadership,” Cody said, which was perfectly true, but this was probably not what anyone had had in mind when he’d been taught that. There was a smattering of laughter across the room and Cody had to imagine it was less because they suddenly found him so very witty and more because his attempt at his officer voice was rather undone by his riled up state.

“Enough with the lip,” Rex said, with a hint of his own officer voice slipping through. “Do you have some or are you going to be the reason Marshal Commander Cody doesn’t get fucked tonight?”

Cody was absently surprised that he was even able to maintain an erection with how much blood was rushing to his face. Rex made him sound like he was gagging for it. It wasn’t inaccurate, but having it shared with so many people twisted his insides in delicious ways.

“I’ve got some, give me a second.”

Cody didn’t pay any attention to Fives trying to fish out the lube, his attention suddenly taken by how Rex’s pecs looked from this angle. He wanted to lick them. Rex had a head start on marking him up, but Cody would make sure he returned the favour, if not tonight tomorrow. Rex’s chest was beautiful, but it would look even better covered in dark bruises.

There was the sound of bare feet on the hard floor and a shadow fell across the bed. Fives could have thrown it from where he was sitting, but Cody had to admit that if it had been his superior officer in this position, if it had been Alpha-17, he probably wouldn't have turned down the opportunity to get a closer look either. Fives stared down at him, lube held loosely in his hand, largely forgotten. He hardly seemed to notice when Rex reached out and took it from him, placing it down beside Cody’s hip.

Rex twisted Cody’s nipple sharply, pain blurring with pleasure and Cody arched off the bed with a hiss.

“Say thank you,” he said, before dipping his head to press an apologetic kiss to Cody’s chest.

“Thank you, Fives,” he said, turning only enough that he could see Fives out of the corner of his eye. Fives didn’t meet his gaze, his eyes locked on where Rex’s hips were flush against Cody’s, between Cody’s spread thighs.

“You’re welcome, Sir.” Fives wanted to touch him, it was clear in the tension in his hands the effect it was taking to hold himself back. Cody wished he would try. It was impossible in that moment to have any interest in anyone’s hands but Rex’s, but Rex could play the possessive partner when the scene called for it, and Cody wanted to see Rex remind Fives of his place.

He rolled his hips fruitless up against nothing, the drag of his blacks against his cock nowhere near close to enough.

Fives had just enough self-preservation not to try, but he also didn’t leave. He sat on the bed next to theirs, his dick tenting in his blacks, hands in white knuckled fists on his lap. For a second Cody considered asking him to join them, he could take Fives in his mouth while Rex fucked his ass.

“Eyes on me, Cody,” Rex said. He’d sat back up, one hand down the front of his blacks, stroking himself, the material clinging to the outline of his dick. All thoughts of Fives slipped from his head.

Rex gave him an almost bashful smile, dropping his voice again. Fives might be close enough to hear, but it was enough to mark the conversation as not part of the game. “Last chance to think better of this,” Rex said, though of course it wasn’t. Cody had no doubt he could end this at any time. He had no intention of ending anything.

For all the bluster Rex was putting on for the role, he was far from unaffected. The paper thin skin at Rex’s throat fluttered with his rapid pulse and Cody pushed himself up onto his elbows to kiss it. Rex lifted his head, giving Cody easy access, sighing happily as Cody pressed hot, open mouthed kisses to his skin.

“If you weren’t so pretty flustered and on display I might be the one thinking better of this,” The teasing tone was back, Rex’s throat rumbling under Cody’s mouth. “You’re so beautiful, I almost can’t stand the thought of sharing you.”

“You can’t get us all riled up and leave us hanging, Sir.” Steel said, ignoring the elbows from his brothers.

Rex shot Steel a look that made it very clear how little he thought of Steel’s commentary.

“He’s right, Rex, bad for morale.” Cody nudged Rex’s side with his knee. He was aroused and excited, and wanted suddenly to goad Rex into action, face the consequences of a little cheek.

Rex caught on immediately, and there was a dangerous edge to his voice and Cody was abruptly shoved back down flat to the bed. “Want to make this a regular thing? We can have bi-weekly showings? Send holovids to the other battalions of me reducing you to a needy mess, begging for cock. See how good morale is when they have regular access to Marshal Commander Cody being fucked like he was built for it. They haven’t even seen how prettily you suck dick.”

“Big word for a man who still hasn’t fucked me.”

Rex grinned, wide and excited, before he pulled himself back into his role. He grabbed Cody’s balls firmly through his blacks, enough to tumble over the line from pleasurable into uncomfortable, boarding on painful. Cody scrambled at the sheets, arching up into the touch, the air punched out of him.

He loved it when Rex was rough with him.

“What was that, Sir?” Rex asked. “If you’re unhappy with how I’m doing things I’m sure someone else would be happy to take over. Get a little Trooper over here who’ll fuck you exactly how you ask. Do you think that would satisfy you?”

“ Rex, ” he croaked, barely managing to make a sound at all. His lungs were empty and he couldn’t pull in more air. Rex’s grip on him seared like a brand and he squirmed, desperate to be released and desperate to be held tighter. No one had ever been able to ride his limits the way Rex could.

“We both know that I know what you want more than you do, don’t we?” Rex eased up, just enough that Cody remembered how to breathe.

“You do, Sir.” The title spilt from his mouth without his consent, the scene getting twisted in his head, forgetting what game they were playing. He was going to come if Rex wasn’t careful, make a mess of his blacks and their plans.

“Then would you like to apologise, Cody?” Rex’s voice was perfectly level and it made Cody’s toes curl.

“I’m sorry, fuck, I need you, Rex. Just you.” It was more of a whine than words but it was apparently enough.

Rex released Cody’s balls and he could think again. He was achingly hard, throbbing painfully already pressed up against the point of no return. He had to hope the foreplay was turning Rex on as much as it was turning him on, because he felt he wasn’t going to last long when Rex started fucking him.

Rex ran his hands over Cody’s thighs soothingly.

“ Fuck.” Fives sounded almost as ruined as Cody felt.

“Something to say?” Rex asked, returning to the game at hand.

“The fucking noises he makes, Rex. Do you mind if I…?” Cody couldn’t see what Fives gestured to, but he could imagine. There was something almost comical about Fives asking for permission to do what half the other men in the room were already doing.

“Would you like that?” Rex asked Cody, and perhaps Fives just understood the scene a little better than the others. Cody didn’t know what to do with that information.

Cody nodded, probably too eagerly.

“I don’t think he heard you,” Rex said, conversationally, but he had that same ability that all officers had, to make his voice fill a room.

“Yes,” Cody said, trying to use his officer voice too, but there was a tremble to it that he couldn’t quite bring under control.

Rex took hold of Cody’s hips, applying just enough pressure to make sure Cody wouldn’t be able to forget Rex was in control.

“Yes he can masturbate to the noises you’re making while I fuck you?”

Cody’s pulse pounded in his ears, almost enough to drown out everything else. “Yes he can wank to the sounds I’m making.”

“Him or all of them?” Rex asked, still not done forcing Cody to admit exactly what he wanted.

“All of them.” Cody couldn’t get his voice steady but no one could fault his volume. “Fuck, Rex, every fucking clone in the GAR.”

Rex’s hands tightened on him, betraying his own need.

“Well if you’re the entertainment, we really should give them something to see. Wouldn’t want to lower morale.”

Sometimes when Rex took control like this Cody was left feeling like he was floating but this time he felt grounded, hyper-aware of every sensation he was experiencing. The sheets, damp with his own sweat, sticking to his back, the too tight cling of his blacks around his crotch, the achingly familiar calluses of Rex’s hands on his skin, the way the room was already filled with the distinct smell of sex, the scattered noises from their men pleasuring themselves.

He was on the brink of drowning in it, trusting Rex to keep him from sinking completely.

“Going to get you out of the rest of your clothes, show our boys how pretty you are. Bet they already fantasise about your thighs, I know I did while you were still playing hard to get. I think you owe them a proper look after flaunting yourself around for so long.” He dug his fingers into the muscles of Cody’s thighs to prove his point, squeezing once before he shuffled back a little and pulled at the waist of Cody’s trousers.Cody lifted his hips to help and Rex pulled his blacks out from under his ass and down his legs. The air wasn’t particularly cold, but being suddenly so exposed caused goosebumps to raise across his skin. Rex’s hands returned to his bare thighs, running his fingers lightly up the inside and despite applying almost no pressure, Cody spread his legs wide under the touch, lifting his hips, drawing attention to his erect cock.

For a moment he was at the edge of genuine embarrassment at displaying himself so thoroughly, at being so visibly desperate for Rex’s touch, but while the approving noises from the troopers did nothing to soothe him, he was also successful in gaining Rex’s complete attention.

Rex took Cody’s cock in his hand, and Cody moaned, falling back into the pillow, eyes closed, and any risk of shame was consumed by the heat of Rex’s hand. No one should be ashamed of wanting this. He wrapped his legs around Rex’s back, knowing full well he would have to release him almost immediately so Rex could finish undressing, but in that moment needing Rex to be flush against him too much to care.

It was hard to care about much with Rex slowly jerking his dick, rubbing up against his ass, and giving him a look like he was the most beautiful thing Rex had ever seen.

His focus fixated on where the skin just above the waist of Rex’s blacks met the sensitive skin of the inside of Cody’s thighs. He needed more of Rex’s skin against him. He reached up, touching Rex wherever he could, running his hands over Rex’s throat, chest, waist, any part he could reach.

“You’re wearing too much,” he mumbled. “It’s not fair.”

Rex grinned cheekily at him.

“What was that, Cody?” He was still stroking Cody, with slow deliberate strokes that caused heat to pulse through him in encompassing waves. But it wasn’t what he wanted.

“Take your blacks off. Promised them a show,” he said, and then because he’d learned his lesson, added, “Please, Rex. I want to feel you, it’s been too long.”

Rex lent forward to kiss him again, hooking an arm under Cody’s knee, pulling it up with him as he moved, spreading him obscenely open, pressing their cocks together, only a thin layer of material still separating them. It was pressure that had no risk of having him shoot off early, like Rex’s careful handjob had, but the physical proof that Rex was as turned on as he was pressing against him was at least just as arousing.

It was also a deliberate denial of what Cody wanted and caught himself pouting into Rex’s kiss.

“I think the Commander gave you an order, Captain.” It was a 501st boy, one Cody thought he should recognise but couldn’t put a name to. He would have to learn it, give the little shit a medal.

“Don’t think the Commander is in any position to give orders right now,” Rex said, grinning as Cody sulked.

“Think that qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment, Sir. Blue-balling a senior officer.”

“Forget cruel to him, what about us? Gonna get a kriffing friction burn on my dick,” another 501st Trooper added.

“Your boys are as desperate as I am,” Cody said, awed.

Rex shook his head, not even really able to argue with that, but he was always one to recognise an opportunity when it presented itself.

“The 212th have been very shy,” Rex said, sitting back up, “What do you think, Clover. Want to see me fuck your CO? Want to see him squeal?”

Clover let out a sound that was more squeak than word.

Rex let Cody’s leg fall heavily back to the bed.

“Look at him, he’s desperate for it, wants to know how pretty you think he is like this, how pretty the highest ranked clone in the whole damned army is when his subordinate makes him beg,” Rex wore his achievements humbly, but smug pride at how wound up he had Cody was oozing off him in waves and Cody couldn’t get enough of it.

Rex rolled his hips again, pressing their cocks hard against each other and Cody choked out a desperate please. His head felt light, the excitement of the role catching up with him. It was so easy to let everything but his clawing need for Rex to fall away, shove any lingering sense of shame from his head. He needed Rex like he needed air, and he found it hard to care if everyone knew it.

He wanted them to tell him how gorgeous he was like this, not because their opinions mattered, but he needed to hear how perfect he looked to Rex, how jealous they were of what he provided to his partner.

“You’re keeping him waiting, Clover.”

“Yeah, I want to hear him beg, he’s so kriffing beautiful, Sir. Think they built him differently from the rest of us,” the trooper finally managed, without the confidence of his 501st brothers, but lacking none of the eagerness. “Give him your cock, Sir. He’s earned it.”

Rex pressed a finger up against Cody’s entrance, teasing the rim but refusing to push into him.

“You have been very good,” Rex mused, and then his hand was gone. “Seems to me your boys want to see you get fucked just as much as mine, yours are just politer about it”

He lent in very close, mouth brushing against Cody’s ear. “I’m desperate too. The things you do to me, Codes.”

Cody keened, twisting and catching Rex in the briefest of kisses before Rex pulled away.

Rex stood from the bed, kicking off his trousers before in record time before he was back between Cody’s legs, his cock rubbing up against the cleft of Cody’s ass, finally a promise rather than a tease.

He was gone for only a moment, but for those handful of seconds, alone without Rex’s body to shield him from the room Cody took a proper look around, and fuck, they really were being watched by everyone. His heart clenched in that perfect mix of nerves and excitement, the same feeling he got the moment between jumping from a LAAT/i and his jet-pack kicking in. He spread his legs a little wider, rolling his hip up into the air, delighting in how wanton he looked.

His eyes locked with Janad who had shed his own blacks entirely, shamelessly jerking himself off with one hand, the other wrapped around the dick of the vod next to him.

He winked and Cody blushed furiously, heat spreading quickly up his neck, but didn’t look away, not until the second Rex was back between his legs and demanding his full attention. He collected the almost forgotten lube, pouring a liberal amount out onto his fingers, some slipping off and landing on Cody, offensively cold against his heated skin.

“You know that’s the good stuff right?” Fives asked, almost disguising the shudder to his breathing. “Please don’t waste it.”

“Consider it the cost of entry.” Rex grinned, his fingers back at Cody’s ass, trailing his slicked up fingers down between Cody’s cheeks over his hole. “He likes it messy, likes it leaking out of him and down his thighs. Don’t you, Cody?”

He paused his exploring, touching the tips of his fingers against Cody’s entrance, a promise of what the correct answer would bring.

“Yes, Force. I love it when you make a mess of me. Fuck me hard and then send me off to a briefing, leaking slick and come, staining up my blacks.” They’d only done that once, and the discomfort had only just been outweighed by how hot it had made Cody feel. Rex however had been very taken with it, and fucked him again the moment he had returned to his quarters.

Rex made a choked off sound that was almost a curse and finally, finally , pushed two fingers into Cody. He let out a low moan, reaching blindly to hold whatever part of Rex was closest. His cock jumped against his belly as Rex gave him almost no time to adjust to the intrusion, pulling his fingers out to the first knuckle barely as heartbeat after he had pushed them in, only to shove them right back in again. It was a far cry from the stretch of Rex’s cock, but Cody was worked up to a point where he felt he could have fucked himself to completion on a single finger if it was all Rex was offering.

It felt so good to have something filling him.

Rex’s other hand rested on the inside of Cody’s thigh, keeping his legs parted as if Cody would close his legs for anything other than a Sep warship at this point.

Cody was up for a lot in bed, and liked to think he was flexible to whatever his partner wanted, but there was nothing that got him going in quite the same way as being fucked. He’d been utterly taken with the sensation from the very first time he’d pushed his own fingers into himself, face down in his pod back on Kamino, with medical jelly he’d stolen from the medbay as lube. He’d been so caught up in the thrill of this new way of pulling pleasure from his body he’d forgotten to catch his orgasm in the napkins he’d taken from dinner and he’d had to sleep in stained sheets for the next three days.

His own clumsy attempts had nothing on Rex’s fingers stroking against his insides.  

“Love doing this to you,” Rex said, Rex found Cody’s prostate with practised ease, curling the ends of his fingers up into it, pulling punched out gasps from Cody. He wanted to fucked, craved the fullness of it, but with Rex’s clever fingers working him open, he almost forgot that, ready to be brought off just like this. He groaned, struggling to keep himself still under Rex’s attention; he wanted to buck into that hand no matter how fruitless.

“That’s it, let them hear you.” Rex said, continuing his careful massage of Cody’s prostate, dragging more noises from him.

Cody wanted to hear them too, he wanted to know if their thoughts were as filthy as he imagined they must be. But they’d fallen silent again and Rex's efforts were making it hard to think straight.

“Rex,” he gasped.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I don’t- fuck, I don’t know.” He forced out between desperate breaths.

“Need more?” Rex asked. He could have let up, let Cody get his thoughts in order but instead he redoubled his efforts, moving his hand from Cody’s thigh to tease his balls, heavy and full beneath his straining cock.

Cody made an inhuman noise. “Please .”

“From me or them?” Rex sounded so calm, and it was driving Cody wild.

“Both, please, Rex, more.”

“Fives?” Rex asked, trusting their resident ARC to be able to run his mouth.

“Sir?” Fives was less successful in sounding unaffected.

“Is this the first time you’ve gotten off to Cody?”

Cody sucked in air sharply at the thought, Fives making the exact same noise across from him.

“No, Sir. Not the first time,” Fives admitted.

“When was the first?”

“Couple weeks after  Rishi. Echo and I got each other off and all we talked about was the Commander. How fucking hot he looked fighting those droids, his voice, his kriffing legs.”

Cody made a noise he didn’t have a name for, something desperate and eager.

“Look at him,” Rex said, and Cody could only obey.

Fives had pushed his blacks down his thighs, stroking his dick with slow deliberate movements, eyes fixed on Cody. Pre-come leaked from the head and trickled down his cock and over the back of his hand. He grinned at Cody, twisting his hand up over the top of the head of his cock, pulling most moisture from the tip.

“You want to taste it, Commander? I’m sure if you asked nicely the Captain would let you.”

“Careful, mir'sheb ,” Rex said, twisting his hand inside Cody in that particular way that sent a jolt of pleasure though Cody’s lower half. “Not sure that’s what the Commander-”

“No,” Cody cut him off. “I want to hear more.”

Fives finally looked away from Cody, but only to look at Rex, checking everyone was on board.

Rex seemed amused more than anything else. “You heard the Commander, Fives.”

Fives’ gaze snapped back to Cody, eyes darkened with lust at being permission to continue.

“You want to lap at my cock, Sir? I bet you look so pretty stuffed from both ends, can’t imagine one man is enough to satisfy you.”

Cody laughed. He’d been on some strong ass painkillers in his time and none of them had left him feeling as high as this. “Rex is.”

He shot Rex a smile, who managed to look almost bashful, ducking his head to kiss the inside of Cody’s knee. Funny that was what made him blush.

“He never shares?” Fives asked. He was getting close, jerking his hips up into his hand, his coordination abandoning him. Cody wanted to push him over that edge.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Sometimes he invites the other CCs into bed with us, see how much I can take. Last time- Ah!”

Rex pulled his hand almost all the way out only to shove them roughly back into Cody, taking his cock in his other hand. The sudden sensations were enough to short circuit Cody’s brain, any hope of coherent sentences forced out of his head in favour of the dual pleasure of being filled and held.

If Rex wasn’t careful he was going to abandon the game entirely. He could flip them, pin Rex to the bed instead, ride him until his legs gave out. He could have Rex in him that very second. Waiting would be better; the tease was half the fun, and Rex always knew exactly how long to make him wait, but if Rex didn’t start something soon he was going to be too horny for something that required as much brain power as delayed gratification.

“Sharing all our secrets, huh?” Rex asked. The hand around Cody was lax, and Rex kept it perfectly still even while he continued to work at his passage.

“You tell him then,” Cody said. He bucked his hips up against the loose grip, desperate for any friction he was allowed, even if it was far too little. “It’s better when you say it.”

Rex smirked and pulled his fingers out with a wet sound that seemed impossibly loud to Cody’s ears. He allowed Cody one firm jerk of his dick before that hand too was removed. Cody whined at the loss, his attention well and truly back on Rex.

Rex however was still looking at Fives.

“The last time I was generous enough to let someone else touch him,” Rex said, picking up where Cody had left off, “we worked him open until he could fit both of us in him. He could barely keep himself upright, even pressed between both of us. It took ages to make him loose enough, and he was so fucking proud of himself when we were both inside. Came all up himself.”

Fives wasn’t looking anymore, his eyes closed, fucking frantically into his hand, consumed by the image Rex was painting for him. Rex picked up the lube from the bed, dripping more down his crack and then slicking up his cock.

“I fucked him again the next morning, he was still wet from the night before, and so loose I just slipped right in.”

Fives swore, hunching over on himself, ropes of come messing up his hand and the floor at his feet.

“And after all that talk.” Rex made a dismissive huff. “You couldn’t keep up, ARC.”

Cody wanted to kiss Rex, would have if he could have done it without distracted Rex from were he was finally getting ready to fuck him. His blood burned in anticipation, hot and pulsing under his skin. Fives panted to the side, seemingly run out of things to say.

Back on mission, Rex rearranged Cody to his liking, pulling him down the bed, lifting his thighs up onto Rex’s lap, forcing all weight up on his shoulders. It lined him up nicely, and deliberately denied Cody any angle to push back against Rex from, leaving Rex in control. Cody was spread completely open, entirely at Rex’s mercy and his heart pounded.

Rex gave him a hungry once over, eyes dilated. Cody wished he felt suave enough to smirk up at Rex, but with anticipation heavy in his chest, it was all he could manage not to start begging again. Rex traced a line down the v of Cody’s hip, his cock pressed hard up against Cody. If Cody had even a little leverage all it would have taken was the slightest shift to have Rex sliding into him.

Rex apparently had one last game in mind before he allowed that. “Vector, you wanted to see the Commander’s ass, come over here.”

Vector made a startled sound, jumping to feet in surprise. He shared a nervous look with his vode before stepping closer, wearily like he was expecting the offer to be withdrawn if he drew too much attention to himself. He wet his lips, eyes raking across Cody. He was hard in his blacks, the line of his cock obvious through the material and the seal of his blacks wasn’t lined up correctly, like he had had his hand shoved down them only a moment before and hadn’t had the time to lay them flat when he had hurriedly pulled it out.

Vector edged closer, until his knees were up against the bunk, looking over Rex, directly down Cody’s spread legs. One of the 212th boys, Sunny, if Cody remembered right, cautiously followed him, staring at Cody over Vector’s shoulder with an equally appreciative gaze.

Cody squirmed under their scrutiny, feeling a primal urge to cover himself. His cock pulsed with each beat of heart, a small pool of his pre come collecting on his abs. Rex moved, his cock head nudged against his entrance, but Rex seemed content just to tease him and Cody was in no position to do anything about it.

Well, almost no position.

“Please, Rex,” he whined, giving Rex the most heated look he could manage.

Rex gives Cody an unimpressed look, completely aware of what Cody’s game was. That didn’t mean he was immune.

“Please,” Cody said again, and Rex couldn’t hide how his dick twitched at the pleading. “It’s been weeks, Rex, please. ”

“He’s gorgeous,” Vector said, awed.

“Don’t talk about him like he’s not here, Vector,” Rex warned.

“You’re gorgeous, Sir,” Sunny said, before Vector had a chance to correct himself. “Never knew you were hiding all this under your armour.”

Cody was going to split into pieces if Rex didn’t fuck him that very second.

“Ready?” Rex asked. He was looking at Vector and Sunny, but Cody nodded anyway, squirming in Rex’s lap.

The head of Rex’s cock pressed up against his rim, until his body gave up its futile resistance and Rex breached him. He pushed into him in one smooth stroke, a motion that managed to be as breathtaking no matter how familiar it became. His mouth parted and his head fell back, exposing the long line of his neck. The only sound that escaped him was a shaky, extended exhale. So much of Rex’s bare skin was against his own, and he still wanted more, even filled to his limit he ached for more.

There was always something so utterly overwhelming about knowing Rex was inside him, touching him places he couldn’t touch himself even if he tried. Rex’s cock filled him in a way his fingers couldn’t, a perfect heat stretching him open and he didn’t think he would ever have enough of the feeling.

Were Vector and Sunny looking at where Rex’s body met his, where he stretched tight around Rex’s cock, his most intimate parts on complete display for them. Or would they have stared at his face, wanting to know exactly what expression Cody made when he was penetrated. Force, these men had to follow him into battle, trust their lives to his judgement and strategy. And now they would have to do it with the image of him being thoroughly fucked burned into their memories.

He wondered if he would be able to live it down if he came all over himself right then and there.

He could feel the weight of all the eyes on him, but couldn’t look away from Rex, and the way he was biting his lip to hold in his own groan, and the way his eyes had fallen shut, overwhelmed by the pleasure Cody’s body could give him. Cody was becoming rapidly addicted to how hot his men found him like this, but he wondered then how many of them wished they could be in his place instead of Rex’s, could be the person causing that expression on his face.

Anyone who wasn’t was an idiot; Cody was convinced he was getting the better end of the deal here.

“You feel so good, Codes,” Rex said, voice a little thin. “Fuck, you’re always so good.”

He pulled back slowly, dragging his cock against Cody’s insides until the head was catching on his rim. He thrust back in with a grunt and Cody arched up off the bed, keening high and frantic, clutching at the sheets with one hand and tugging hard at his own hair with the other, needing the bite of pain to make the overwhelming pleasure of being fucked open bearable.

“So tight,” Rex managed, between uneven breathing as he began a punishing pace with his hips, shoving deep into Cody each time.

“Rex,” Cody whimpered, “please.”

“Are you always this needy?” One of the troopers asked, and Cody couldn’t look away from Rex to check who. It didn’t matter much at this point.

“Yes,” he gasped. Rex slammed back into Cody, and Cody let out a choked off groan. “Every time.”

And he was, he supposed. Even over a year into their relationship, the fire Rex lit in his chest every time they fucked hadn’t faded. Every time they were together Cody was as eager for him as the last.

“Fucking desperate for me,” Rex said somehow making it sound dirty and sweet all at the same time. Cody reached out blindly, grasping at Rex’s hand on his hip, squeezing it firmly before Rex pulled it away. Before he could complain the hand circled his cock again and all possible complaints were consumed by the burning heat in his groin.

“More, Rex, harder, please.” Cody was only vaguely aware he was babbling, every passing thought that crossed his mind leaving his mouth. He wanted Rex to fuck him so hard he would feel it for weeks and something to that affect tumbled from his lips.

“You will, Cody, I promise.” Rex pressed deep into him, stretching him to his limit, making it abundantly clear he intended to follow through. “And everyone here is going to know why you’re walking funny.”

Cody moaned, deep in his chest.

“Harder” he demanded. “I want more, please. I can take it. Don’t hold out on me.”

Rex laughed, voice hitching every time he plunged into the tight heat of Cody. “I know you can.”

Rex shifted, putting his arms under Cody’s legs, pushing himself up onto his knees, lifting Cody’s lower half completely up and off the bed, folding him almost in half. The new angle was perfect.

Rex fucked into him with fresh force allowed by the position, dragging over his sensitive prostate with each thrust. His whole body felt taught, his orgasm building each time Rex bottomed out into him and each time Rex’s hand twisted over the head of his straining cock.

“Gonna make you come all over yourself,” Rex promised. “Gonna fuck you until you can’t stand. Is that what you want?”

“Yes, Rex,” he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t imagine anything beyond Rex.

“You ever get bored of him Commander and I’ll be happy to give you what you need. Trade him in for a younger model, ya know?”

Cody had almost forgotten Fives was even there and if he had any breath left in his lungs he would have laughed at the very possibility of what Fives was offering. The goading wasn’t meant for his reaction however, even if it was ultimately for his benefit. Rex snarled, slamming his cock back into Cody with an aggressive jerk of his hips.

Words abandoned Cody completely and he let out a wordless cry.

“Didn’t we already prove you couldn’t handle him, Fives?” Rex was setting the sort of relentless pace he would normally never be able to maintain but he was as encouraged by their audience as much as Cody was and seemed to have found new depths to himself.

In the very corner of Cody’s vision Fives gestured at his cock, already erect again. That man didn’t know when to quit; it was going to get him in trouble one of these days.

“Maybe you can’t go twice this quick, but they gave me a little extra.”

Rex laughed, sharp and mocking. “He has the entire Command batch to pick from, and he still picked me, what do you think that says about how well I fuck him? But you, three months out of ARC training thing you could satisfy Commander Fucking Cody? He’d eat you alive.”

“Rex,” Cody said, it felt like the first conscious choice he’d made about what left his mouth in a while. Rex was getting distracted, and Cody was feeling greedy; he wanted all of Rex’s attention for himself, he wanted the attention of every man in this room, but he needed Rex’s.

“I’d help,” Vector said suddenly, apparently rediscovering the conference he’d had at the start of the night. “Hold him down while Fives fucks him. Sunny could suck him off.”

Sunny made a pleased noise that made it very clear what he made of that idea.

Rex growled, fixing Vector with a glare, one he had learnt from Cody himself, that was normally enough to scare anyone with an ounce of self-preservation into silence; Cody was almost honoured that the desire to fuck him was enough to make that include almost no one in the room as the increasingly detailed mutterings of how they would take him apart didn’t pause even for a second.

“Can you imagine the sounds he’d make if you edged him? He was begging almost before Rex touched him, imagine if you denied him for hours. He’s be so fucking pretty that desperate,” a 501st man said.

“Forget that, I want to see how he looks three orgasms in and being worked up to another one, so thoroughly fucked he can’t even hold himself upright.” And that was definitely Lieutenant Janad.

Rex pushed deep into Cody, balls resting up against Cody’s ass, abandoning the promised hard fucking to grind deep inside Cody while he put their increasingly bold audience in their place.

Cody bit back a grin, everything felt so good, Rex surrounding him, Fives posturing, the impossible mix of reverence and debasement from his men. But he wanted to come, and Rex needed to be brought back to task. Di'kut the lot of them.

“Hardly a brag that you need three men to do the job I do alone. If you thin-”

Cody clenched hard  around Rex’s cock and he interrupted his monologue with a shocked gasp, curling forward, almost losing his balance and toppling onto Cody. Fives failed to fully stifle his laugh and Rex gave Cody a betrayed look.

Cody laughed breathily, pulling Rex down to kiss him.

“I was doing a thing,” Rex grumbled, but accepted the kiss.

“You’re an idiot.” Cody kissed him again. “I love you.”

Rex huffed out a laugh of his own. He held Cody’s face between his hands, their audience momentarily forgotten. The warmth in Rex’s eyes, and the fond curl to his lip affected Cody more than perhaps anything else Rex had given him that evening.

“That’s kinda  sweet actually,” Janad said to some murmured agreement.

“Show them,” Cody said, hands roaming across Rex’s shoulders and down his chest, touching him everywhere he could reach. “Show them how well you fuck me, please, Rex, I’m close.”

Rex bit at Cody’s mouth, catching his lip between sharp teeth and tugging before pulling back to give him the best angle. Rex had brought him close a couple of times already, each time backing off before Cody could come, but there was a determination that made it clear Cody wasn’t going to have to wait much longer.

“I want to see him break,” Nebula said. He had stood from his bunk, him and a couple others joining Vector and Sunny crowding the bottom of the bed, leering at Cody over Rex’s shoulder. Cody glanced at each of them but his gaze was pulled back to Rex as his partner hiked his hips even higher.

It was barely even a stretch now when Rex pulled most of the way out of him only to slid that burning heat deep back inside. There was lube leaking out around Rex’s cock and coating the inside of Cody’s thighs and a line of pre-come sliding down from his cock towards his chest, more pumped out with each thrust of Rex’s hips and slide of his hand.

It didn’t take much before he was right on the cusp of coming again, each time Rex moved inside him punching a sound out of Cody’s throat. He felt like he had been hard for hours. He jerked up into Rex’s hand, muscles tightening as his orgasm grew, his thighs trembling with the strain of it. Rex was close too, could feel it in the way Rex was holding him and see it in the set of his jaw. Cody tightened around Rex’s cock, his own dick twitching at the low groan it pulled from Rex.

“Just like that, Cody,” Rex said, “You feel so good.”

“Rex,” he managed, the tension throughout his body growing to almost too much. He was already past the point of no return, caught between the heat of Rex inside him, and the heat of Rex’s hand around him. He grabbed at Rex’s shoulders as he came with a wordless moan, the building heat and strain across his body hitting the edge he’d been chasing all night. He tumbled over it, his muscles relaxing all at once as his orgasm hit him, an intoxicating mix of relief and intensity. Pleasure coiled outward, his whole body suddenly warm and lax.

One of the watching clones swore colourfully.

Rex’s pace stuttered, as Cody broke underneath him, the scene all but forgotten. He managed only a couple more thrusts into Cody before he hit own limit and came with a choked off cry of Cody’s name. He spilt deep inside Cody, hips flush together, dropping Cody’s legs as he was overtaken by his own pleasure.

Come streaked up Cody’s chest almost to his neck, hands dropping from Rex, eyes closed as he rode out the aftershocks. He collapsed into the damp sheets, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Rex hunched over him, his own breathing equally laboured, head resting on Cody’s shoulder. They were still for a moment, the room either finally stunned to silence or Cody was just too out of it to hear. Rex pressed a clumsy open mouthed kiss to the side of Cody’s neck, the strength in his hold on Cody evaporating in post-orgasm bonelessness.

Cody clutched at Rex’s shoulders, to ground himself, a reminder that he was flesh and blood and not about to slip away into nothing. It had been a long time since he’d come like that.

The noise of the room around them slipped back in, the familiar sound of masturbating and men following their example and finding someone to help them get off.  Cody felt lightheaded.

He clasped his hands behind Rex’s head pulling him out from his neck to kiss him, as uncoordinated and lazy as Rex’s own attempts.

“Love you,” he mumbled into Rex’s mouth, feeling Rex’s lips curl against his.

“Love you too.” Rex paused, and made a face. “But I’m also going to cramp, hold on.”

Cody grinned, laughter bubbling in chest.

Rex pulled out of him, bringing lube and come with him, dipping out down the inside of Cody’s legs and onto the bed below. One of Rex’s favourite tricks was to turn Cody over and eat his own mess out of Cody’s sloppy hole, but even after sharing far more of his sex life with his men than he had ever intended Cody felt he would rather that habit remain between just them. The sheets were already filthy with sweat anyway, what was a little more bodily fluid?

Rex didn’t seem up it either way, as immediately upon extracting himself from Cody flopped back down on top of him. Cody stroked the softness of his buzzed hair. Rex hummed happily.

Someone came with a loud groan of what Cody suspected was his own name. He had assumed that once he had come, and he was no longer thinking more with his cock than his head he would feel embarrassed by his actions - real embarrassment, the sort that tied his stomach in knots, not the embarrassment they had played with in the scene, where the scandal was half of the fun - but despite his concern he was still utterly relaxed. He was going to get shit for this once the CCs found out, and they would, they always did, but he felt like he would be able to shrug it off and very honestly say it had been worth it.

It might even be better for how annoyed Fox would be.

“You good, Cody?” Rex asked.

He nodded.

“Yeah, just, uh, it was a lot.” Cody said. “You?”

Rex hummed again, a deep, satisfied noise. “I’m fantastic.”

There was the sound of footsteps and Blue was standing over him, normally messy hair even messier.  Rex propped himself up on one elbow, glaring at the man who had dared interrupt their post-orgasm bliss. He was mollified almost immediately.

“Here, Sir.” Blue handed Rex a damp cloth and Cody remembered exactly why this man was being considered for a promotion. Cody decided to pretend he was imagining the dark spot on the groin of Blue’s blacks.

“Vector and Sunny look like they are doubling up if you want a clean bunk.” Blue gestured to a bed across the room.

“Thank you,” Rex said, also seemingly a little lost on how he should interact with everyone now the scene had ended.

Blue had no such reservations and saluted Rex, rotated just enough so that he was facing Cody’s straight on and clicked his heels in a second salute, as though Cody wasn’t still naked on his back, lube and come dribbling from his asshole.

Utterly unflappable.

And he would rather like to take Blue up on that offer of the bunk; he had outgrown sleeping on dirty sheets.

The cloth was cool against his overheated skin as Rex wiped up first the mess he’d made on his stomach and then down between Cody’s legs. He inhaled sharply as the cloth passed between his checks and over his sensitive rim, but even the most insatiable parts of him agreed that they were done for the night. Finally, folding the cloth over on itself to find a still clean section Rex gave his own crotch a once over. It wasn’t really enough, they were both still covered in a fine sheen of sweat, but Cody didn’t think his legs would hold him long enough to shower, even if he could face the communal freshers.

He’d been naked around enough of his men for one night.

“You want some water, Commander?” Fives asked, because apparently everyone was desperate to be helpful now. It was reassuring in a lot of ways, he wouldn’t know if he’d completely fucked up the chain of command until later, but now the scene had ended everyone seemed to be falling back into something that resembled polite interaction.

“Thank you.” He pushed himself upright, untangling himself from Rex only after reminding himself it would only be for a minute before he could cuddle up against him again, all the better for a clean bed and a cold drink.

Rex didn’t let him go very fair anyway, shifting to sit up against him, pressed together from thigh to shoulder.

Cody took the offered water bottle, noting absently that his hands were shaking just a little. He drank the cold water gratefully, very aware of his body’s needs now that they had finished. He wouldn’t have said no to something to eat either but sleep, and crawling back on top of Rex felt more immediately pressing.

He passed the bottle over to Rex who took a grateful couple of mouthfuls of his own.

“Something to be said for delegating the aftercare,” Rex said, nudging Cody’s shoulder with his own.

Cody snorted. “Maybe we should always have a shiny on hand to bring us fresh bedding and hand feed us fruit after sex.”

Fives opened his mouth to say something, but Cody shot him a look and he wisely snapped his mouth shut. Wordlessly, Fives took the empty water bottle back. It was nice to know publicly begging for cock hadn’t robbed him of his ability to glare men into silence.

“Fresh blacks for both of you on Vector’s bunk, Sir,” Janad called from across the room.

“Not sure about morale, but it certainly seems to have improved inter-battalion coordination,” Rex said, sounding genuinely impressed.

Cody rolled his eyes, painfully fond. “The 212th and 501st worked together just fine before I got my dick out.”

Rex laughed and stood, pulling Cody after him by his hand as he crossed the room over to Vector’s bunk

“I don’t know, I certainly feel like the inter-battalion coordination of certain officers is improved when you get your dick out.”

Cody groaned but didn’t try to hide is smile

Passing Rex the bottom half of one of the sets of clean blacks before climbing into his own, struggling with sluggish limbs that didn’t want to work the way he expected them to. He left the shirts folded at the bottom of the bed, sinking down into what passed as a mattress, tugging Rex impatiently after him. It only took them a second to arrange themselves how they wanted, cuddled up against each other.

“That was good,” Rex said, tracing aimless shapes onto the skin of Cody’s back. “Didn’t expect to get so into it.”

“If they don’t keep us up all night with their attempts to recreate our best hits, maybe we can give them another show in the morning,” Cody teased.

Rex’s chest rumbled under Cody’s head as he laughed. “Don’t say that too loud, they’ll get ideas.”

Cody grinned. He could think of worse outcomes.

[neuvillette]

Paperwork - FrUK Fic (18+ish)

During the industrial boom in England, someone in particular has been working himself to the bone.

Fuck... There it was again, that near-painful pang in his ribs from thinking about that bastard. That arrogant prick had whispered to him so closely that day so long ago that the memory of the hot breath from his lips still seemed to be lingering on his ears-- or was that just his own fiery blush? Either way, it wasn't going anywhere. Whenever he was alone his thoughts would instantly crack back to that insufferable shit. How his lips were so plush and too naturally red to be decent... How those blue eyes drifted lazily along wherever they pleased, often up and down his body. How he hoped that they one day would look back at him so pleadingly, begging for something almost too shameful to fulfill. He knew approximately how the man looked under his clothes, since he was prone to low cut shirts, high hems, translucent fabric. He had a tight waist and broad shoulders, he had hips that almost could be considered too wide, ones that would probably be good to hold onto tightly and grip red marks into. His chest, like much of his body, was soft, not flabby exactly, but plush enough to squeeze and nibble at. Fuck, FUCK, that pang came again, searing through his chest as he battled to think of something else. He had work to get done, and a lot of it. These kinds of thoughts were not only immoral but incredibly inconvenient, and the toll they took on his body meant he had to go through an arduous process to relieve himself, if only for a little while. His teeth all pressed down together as his jaw clenched, he could feel the pressure all throughout his face as he tried to just get on with it. There wasn't that much paperwork left, right? Just a bit more. A small distraction would do him some good. He only realised he was tapping his mostly-dry dip pen against his desk when he noticed how the rhythm was starting to seep elsewhere into his mind; tap tap tap, thrusts against a document, against something soft, warm, moans echoing in arches over the staccato beat, and--- He dropped the pen unceremoniously onto his desk, caked-on ink splattering down as he pressed his forehead into his hand. He had been slipping too hard recently. His bosses hadn’t been pleased with his work as of late; though he had been toiling during similar hours and put in the same effort he always had, they said he needed to rise up to meet changing standards. He used to do work with his hands, but that wasn’t needed anymore. He used to be their guard dog, or at least their work horse. For everything it was, at least the action of his youth was invigorating. At least he wasn’t monitored, and had time to do things for himself, instead of being their tool all hours of the day. He had time to work with his hands, his hands. To create things that were valuable, that were helpful to the, to his, people around him. Now he was… well. He was expendable. But not so expendable that they would waste his capacity to do paperwork. Industry was booming, one couldn’t just expect to stand by with what had been accepted in the past. Labour was becoming more standardised, more efficient, more impersonal… Not that he had ever been the most personable chap. While he enjoyed working with his hands, making things one by one, the gritty way, the difficult way, he made efforts to internalise what they had said to him. They needed his mind, his edge, to work on this stuff. That’s what he was for, after all; not forging swords, not stringing bows, not tilling soil or growing things; but intellectual, gentlemanly, removed work. Detached, necessary, proper. It suited him, he tried to tell himself. He wasn’t one easily inclined to the personable, nor to saccharine slop… Not when communicating with others, anyhow. Buried and smeared while being hidden amongst mounds of paperwork were brief scribbles of poetry, of sketches of mistily reimagined silhouettes, flowing romantic prose incapable of coming out through his own halting speech, of faintly grasped memories of torrid expressions he needed to recall through flowing strokes of a figure, but those all were secrets even he wasn’t meant to have access to. Shameful, that’s what it was. Inefficient, ineffective, and shameful. An outlet for his needs to make something, perhaps, but… Certainly they sated other desires as well.

The distance between them should have helped; should have given him time to correct and corral his feelings, mold them back into form briskly, scaldingly, sharply--as one does when shaping copper. Instead he had gone too soft, too half-hearted, and his self-inflicted blows to his psyche had been too gentle. The metal of his desire had set and crisped up before he could steer himself back on track, and now he had to re-anneal, to subject himself back to fiery disavowal and guilt before the exacting measures of self-restraint would be effective. Yes, he quite liked that idea. He couldn’t have his metallurgy back but he could certainly think of his rehabilitation as such. He had forged many a sword, an arrow tip, an axe, before. His personality would be the same. Scalded and quenched and hammered into shape. And with his skill he could tap incessantly, exactingly, forcefully thrusting against the teasingly giving metal and-- blast it, again! It was achingly difficult to ignore. The distance only seemed to make his delinquent misgivings have more courage to rise up again out of turn. When he was face to face with those capricious blue eyes long enough to remember the wretched personality that tagged along with them it was easier to keep his goal in mind, but the longer he went without a glimpse of the sour man himself, the more alluring the rest of it seemed. Had they even written letters? Well, he hadn’t sent any. He had received a fair handful until they had run dry. He had almost convinced himself that he was glad of it. A few lines in the others flowery script were too laden with implications to be safe; he had already resigned himself to the idea of his correspondence being read at his supervisor’s discretion, so it was best if the letters wasted away entirely rather than risk the uncovery by his betters of whatever hintingly depraved thing would find itself penned inside a perfumed envelope. Near the end of their dispatchment, the notes had gotten quite irritated it seemed, demanding reply. His excuse for his silence was that he simply didn’t have time to dally on such things, but in truth he wanted to show himself that he could deny the temptation. It was easy to tell himself that he had enough to worry about with dozens of signatures to scrawl, appeals and drafts to write, documents and proposals to uncritically approve. With considerable effort, he plucked the intricately carved ivory dip pen off of the desk before blotting it back into his blue-glass inkwell. Just a few more of these documents and he’d be able to wallow in his own home instead of his suffocating office. The half-hearted, half-present signatures left a streaky trail of black as his newly inkstained hand trailed across the page, though the final few letters were jaggedly interrupted with a rapping at the office door.

“Yes, sir, I’ve already said I would finish them by today,” his calling tone was harsh but clearly deferent; he was a lively one, but part of being a man was knowing his duty and thusly his place. Even so, he didn’t bother glancing up from his efforts to correct the broken signing at the tail end of the page as the door slowly opened, creaking unceremoniously.

“If it’s really necessary I can work past my contractual hour, though I must note that your well-intentioned checkings-in aren’t conducive to getting any actual work done.” This comment was much more pointed, though not so much so as to be crossing a line. Still, the silent presence above his desk, looming, made him rethink his words for a slight moment before he got the better of himself. No need to look up as if they can dole out some sort of punishment! To you, of all people! No, you’re working together under the same sense of duty… Right? Keep your head down and show them your dedication and vigour. If they’ve got a problem they can bloody well deal with it, that’s not something that’s important enough to interrupt this work.

« Ah. Scribbling pen names has stopped you from writing back ? You are a much more petulant boy than before, their puppy-dog training is not working on you. » The two sentences were connected not in theme but in the rolling, keen tone they were carried by. The former was a lazy observation and the latter was crafted solely to rile him up. The door quietly shut behind, and there was a graceful and soundless moment afterwards. In a second of skillful self-control, he did not drop the pen but instead cooly placed its nib back into its proper receptacle, as much as he was inclined to throw it at his guest. For a flitting pause, a scorching rage surged through him. What about no reply hadn’t gotten through that dense skull, and what made him think, after it all, that he could flicker back in, no doubt impermanently, just to ruin all his progress, and--

God he needed to see him.

He would not ever, never, let him know that.

“As spineless and will-less as ever, then, Bonnefoy. Resolute enough to travel across the channel to be a nuisance but not enough to do any work or get any admirable aims in life.” Fuck, that hadn’t enough venom, it was transparent and flimsy. Traceable. He made sure his glower was deep enough to offset what he was certain was too-soft a rebuttal. It hadn’t done enough, though.

« So you have missed me ! Yes, you know, I do enjoy to come here and to anger you. » A quick beat passed.

« You know I had to come and-- mmm… scorn you for ungentlemanly not replying to my letters. » Well, it seemed he was being equally as transparent. He almost shivered. It was one thing to have his feelings discovered, but if they both were in agreement over what was happening, it was much more difficult to steer away from what was coming.

“Scold. You mean scold.” He added curtly, taking his pen back up as he glanced back down at his paperwork. He had been staring at his face up until then, he just realised. Blue eyes as infuriating as ever, that new obnoxious french hairstyle, the unneeded tightness in the waist and legs of the waistcoat and trousers, the volatile expression of something genuine.

“Your english still hasn’t improved.” He continued with a comment he knew would be ignored, but he needed to get it out there. Keep up the guise of nagging conversation.

« Your office is so away from the rest in here. Isolated like always. And no windows, a prison ! Poor little sad Englishman, and of course no time to write letters, not one bit. » They were talking by, not to, each other, though they were saying the same things. He had decided to sit upon the edge of the bureau, clearly an excuse to stir up some fabricated bile for their equally as convincing argument.

“I’m working upon this desk, thank you! And I’ve been working for months now. You were not invited and are not wanted; you’ve found your way in and can find your way out. Good day, Bonnefoy.” His pulse was hammering now, if only he could direct it at that copper-- beat his will into place, keep it straight and unmarred, stay determined. The Frenchman was simply smiling away with that look of acute, cutting, though well-intended observation. He was not going to leave on his own. With a return of the pen to its place, he stood, making an attempt to usher his unwelcome guest out. Francis rose as well, and as he did so the Englishman made no further attempt to get to his office door. Instead they stood together, steadfast.

« Say hello to me. It’s been so long, and I want to hear it and you want to say it. Just hello. » It was a tender plea as much as it was a command. The fool really thought he was entitled to it, but only in the way two who have known each other a long time are entitled to hear the news of someone’s workday or what dreams filled their last night’s sleep. They weren’t touching, but they could. His own face was beet red as he decided whether or not he should deny the request, angry and upset at more than the situation and himself. It was boiling over, the tapping beats in his chest and throat weren’t subsiding. He had to do something. He wished he had a bloody window so he could toss the intruder out of it, grasp him by his ruffled collar and throw him out the door, or against a wall, or over his desk, or--

“You-- I can’t believe you--” He was cut off by a look, and maybe Francis had moved forward slightly with his deep gaze, bridged the gap a little to make it easier, but maybe he hadn’t, and maybe he had grabbed at the nicely pressed wool jacket of his own accord, pulled at the stupidly styled french coif to reach for a kiss, to stumble into the wall behind them all on his own. He certainly was the one pressing them together, at least preliminarily. Bonnefoy, having planned something along these lines, was quick to fill in the needed friction after a blink.

« That’s-- hmm… one way to say hello. » The teasing tone was almost enough to make him stop entirely and snap him out of it, possibly stear himself back onto a more proper path, but Francis was smiling again and it was just too earnest as he craned his neck back in anticipation to be kissed there. They both knew this was the only hello he’d be able to manage. Any further acknowledgement of a budding warmth between them beyond the physical was more than he could honestly bear. For now, the more openly flagrant refusal of the two to meet gentlemanly expectations would have to be their letters that were few and far between, punctuated by occasional tysts like this, though the sentiment always lingered, and he was afraid it was growing. He had a period in his youth, with no supervision on open seas, when he didn’t hold himself to such a high standard in these matters. It had taken a fair amount of diligence to push himself back on track, but now--... Well, he could feel himself slipping again, but this time he knew better. Somehow the refutation of his desires of it all made it all the more difficult to deny. But Francis wasn’t giving him much pause to think more deeply about these things, and the wretched glint in his eye made it seem like he knew just what was on his mind. Why did he always know!? It hurt, to be so well understood in a shame the other refused to acknowledge. When had Francis ever been shameful of anything? He pretended to be, but only to be irritating. Every so often when they’d do this, he’d resort to saying such horrible things about how he relished his sanctity being soiled when they both knew perfectly well that no such thing was ever there in the first place. Francis made no signs to do so tonight, not as impatient hands were fiddling with buttons and edging him over to sit back on top of the desk. That pansy French fashion was great for enticing the eye but by god, the buttons! Warm, manicured hands met his and Bonneyfoy grinned.

« You do not need to open my shirt. » What a stupid assumption.

“Just because I don’t-- stop that! I can do it on my own, you’re not making it any easier. I could just rip the damn thing if you prefer-- I don’t have to but. Well, I get to,” His huff was met with an expression that looked sickeningly soft. Was this not injustice enough? To acquiesce to desire, but now his carnal lusts were being interpreted as tenderness! Maybe it was a bit of that, but blast it, Francis could at least pretend he didn’t know. It wasn’t like this was something special for him, anyway. That fop was getting it on with anything that moved and looked his way, and now Francis was lording it over him that he liked him! He was probably smug, pleased that he had ordained to come down and give him the pleasure of a single, solitary fuck while he was off cavorting with--

« Please, let me. You’re tense, I can help. » There he went with that tenderness again, too visceral to be faked. The beat in time of the two sharing a glance was raw and it shut him up quite well. Francis kept chatting as he placed the Englishman’s hands under his shirt as he nimbly undid his own buttons. The other was content to grab about underneath as he waited.

« You need to learn to say no to them. Get more time away. They make you feel worse inside, and that is not very handsome at all. » And there he went with the sap. It was easy to slide his hands around to the small of Francis’s back and hold him steady as he kissed him to shut the man up. Surprisingly, Francis pushed him away to finish opening his buttons. The Englishman did not appreciate that.

« Despair is becoming on you, but even you need to be patient. I’m not going anywhere. » They both knew that wasn’t true, but he wasn’t complaining when Francis plucked his own cold hands out of the back of the Frenchman’s trousers and placed them on the man's freshly revealed chest. He could feel Francis shiver under him, his own hands were much colder than the other’s hot skin. A moment of impulse made him squeeze possibly a bit more roughly than he should have, and Francis did that little gasping moan of his he always did. It had  been so long that he hardly remembered it anymore, but it was quite the experience to hear it again. The more he groped the chest, the tighter the legs around his waist would get. Oh, his poor paperwork, it was only slightly out of the way of being crushed and pushed about… Maybe he could move it before they got on with it all, it would only take a--

That familiar warm hand grabbed his jaw tightly and pulled his gaze back away from the documents on his desk, the both of them pausing only for a moment before they kissed again and all thought of paperwork was forgotten in favour of instant gratification. He could feel Francis smile triumphantly as he kept up his slightly desperate grabbing and squeezing, his hips starting to move up against the open legs resting on his desk. It was rather ungraceful, Francis’s legs snaked tight around him as he pressed their bodies together. In the one moment before he would no longer be able to resist himself, a clutching shock of guilt crackled through his chest. Unbeknownst to him, his face contorted slightly, a grimace of pain and reconsideration. Francis didn’t see, or, at least, didn’t pause. Instead, the hot, slender fingers that still held his jaw were keeping the pair kissing as a rhythm not dissimilar to one that the Englishman was familiar with was hammered out against the solid office desk. If only he could say he forgot the expectations of his bosses and the world at large for those moments, but he couldn’t. His will was stronger, however. At least, his will when combined with his desires. Besides, it was difficult to pause when his pervasive nuisance was sitting its fat arse on his desk, when they were clutched and and hugging together as tightly as his wax seals pressed to his paperwork that was currently watching the display. His hands were suddenly disordered-- after months, years even, of writing when told to, shaking hands properly, adjusting ties, now they had free reign to fly wherever they fancied. Tangled in bouncing blond locks one moment, then back squeezing his partner’s chest, then slipped down the back of the loosened trousers upon his bureau. There wasn’t much time until the nonsensical French interjections fizzled into dripping moans, and even less of a beat until a quicker, tense breath of air joined in. Chests still together, their hearts raced. He was the first to pull away and face the wall with a few curses as Francis was left sitting. Realising the fruitlessness of any attempt to clean himself there, he circled around to tend to the ever-patient papers awaiting his return as he dutifully stacked them in his carrying case.

“I should be going, then. These need finishing. Ta.” Miraculously, he found the coldness he had been attempting to muster up upon his companion’s arrival, though it was a tad too late. Francis wasn’t altogether pleased with the change in tone, although he understood the haste required after their torrid encounter.

« But I need a-- Angleterre, you-- ! » His shirt unbuttoned and tousled, and his trousers hanging off of his hips, Francis slipped to place himself in front of the door.

« You are bringing me to your flat, or your kennel, or wherever it is they keep you when you aren’t here. »

“Not if you’re going to speak French, I won’t.” A raised eyebrow came with the easy, chilled reply.

« Do not get smart with me. » Francis shot back, deft fingers working to button his shirt and press down his clothing as swiftly and naturally as bird preening itself. The other’s stern expression and eyes looking elsewhere told him as much as he needed to know. He softened, if only slightly.

« Look, I’m just as presentable as you. It’s a business trip, would that make you feel better ? I won’t bother you as you do your paperwork. I’ll even make you tea and something real to eat as you finish up. Hein ? »

Another few beats between them, and, ever the gentleman, he opened the door for Francis after giving them both a once-over.

“We’ll need to be quick, alright? These pants are already uncomf--... Go.” He gestured briskly out the door, and followed after the other man who seemed far more pleased with himself and the situation. What was he doing? Why was he-- well, that didn’t matter. All he had to worry about was getting back to his own room and not being seen by anyone in so disheveled a state… Besides, Francis seemed to be making no effort to be inconspicuous-- loudly asking for directions to his living arrangements because it had just been so long since he had seen them, and in French, no less. Though determined not to look at him, what made it worse was that he could just sense that sickening grin creeping up Francis’s face, spreading more and more by the minute. If only he had just remembered how irritating and inconvenient, unprofessional and repulsive the Frenchman was… Being apart for so long made him more alluring when he really knew what the bastard was like. If he had been prepared, why, he wouldn’t be bounding after him, through dirty, smoggy streets; his heart racing, his stern glare only slightly beating out the flutter in his chest and the small twitch at the corner of his lips. Incorrigible.

[specterchasing-a]

Brainberry Picking || Morgan & Eddie

TIMING: Current-ish

LOCATION: Jericho Hill Cemetery

PARTIES: @mor-beck-more-problems​ & @specterchasing​

SUMMARY: A zombie and a medium meet in a graveyard, one of them might have a foot fetish.

CONTENT: Aside from the foot fetish, all is well.

“I just don’t see how you can have a whole existence that relies on human systems and communities--well people systems and communities and not give a crap just because you’ve been doing it for a long time,” Morgan complained, swilling her chopsticks around her brains and rice. “Aren’t we responsible for each other even if we’re three hundred and some baby normie is twenty? How can apathy be a good thing?” 

It was her off day from work, and rather than worry her family by spending the day cooped up inside, she opted to spend as much time outside as possible, even if being in hunting range made her nervous. But Jericho Hill was more ghostly than anything else, and the trusted the soldier to signal if he saw anything dangerous looking, even if he did talk a big game about being specater in the game of humanity, and the effects of longevity. He’d saved her and Erin. He had more of a heart than he wanted to admit, even for a centuries-old kid.

The colonial soldier shrugged and said that she should wait and see until she was older. 

“Okay, teen grandpa,” Morgan deadpanned.

The colonial soldier changed the subject by way of nodding toward her foot. Did she require assistance or was she really just that bad at noticing grievous injuries?

Morgan looked down at the chunks of broken bottle protruding from her toes. “Fucking--” She hissed and propped up her foot, starting to yank out the pieces one by one and wipe the black blood on her skirt so there wouldn’t be anything for hunters to find when they prowled at night. Her wounds would close up soon enough. As much as she wanted to sport as much extra strength as possible, she hadn’t figured out how to negotiate her fear of being caught off guard by some junior college murderer and the fear of not being herself. 

In the distance, stone scattered across the tall grass. Morgan stopped, mid tug, and looked around. “Hello?”

Jericho Hill, one of Eddie’s most beloved places to visit. The other cemeteries in town had their charm, but meandering among the derelict headstones of White Crest’s oldest burial ground came second to none. As per usual, he arrived with a camera—just in case. 

Eddie minded the graves as he wandered, making sure not to intrude on anyone’s final resting place. Midway through the graveyard, he spotted two figures with their backs to him in the midst of conversation. Considering Jericho Hill was open to the public, that would’ve been a perfectly ordinary occurrence, except one of the figures happened to be a colonial soldier far beyond his expiration date. Eddie’s heart skipped a beat at the possibility of encountering another medium but, as he grew closer, he noticed the potential medium doing something with her foot.

Raising his camera, Eddie slowed his pace and zoomed in on the woman’s feet for a better look. “Oh, what the fu—” He stumbled over a semi-interred rock, nearly losing his balance and dislodging the rock in one fell swoop.

“Hello?” said the woman. 

Eddie froze in place as if staying perfectly still made him invisible. Realizing she likely had very little in common with Spielbergian dinosaurs, he cleared his throat and waved sheepishly. “Beautiful day, huh? Hey—is your foot okay?”

Morgan stiffened at the sound of a voice nearby. She ran a dozen or so scenarios Mina had drilled into her. She was better at defense on account of nine more months of practice, but that didn’t mean she relished the thought of having to throw anyone to the ground or break any bones. 

But it was just some kid, looking like a peeping tom who’d been found out. 

“Is it a beautiful day?” She challenged. “Because being spied on doesn’t usually fall under my ‘beautiful day’ umbrella.” At the mention of her foot, she put hers back down and yanked as many pieces out under the cover of the grass as she could. “I’m fine. Why are you looking at my feet in the first place?”

“Hold on, don’t do that,” Eddie said with a shake of his head. “Don’t make me sound like some kind of graveyard-foot-pervert. Look at it.” He gestured towards the foot in question. “That’s not natural and neither is talking to ghosts—hey, by the way, nice to see you again, Terry.” The second half of his statement was directed at the colonial soldier and paired with another short wave.

“Hi, Eddie,” the ghost responded.

 “Y’know, I was just excited to meet someone else who could see them, but the whole black goo thing kind of threw me off my game.” Eddie’s attention reverted back to the woman currently picking at her foot. “Also, who eats in cemeteries? I’m just saying, let he who is not being super weird in public cast the first stone.”

Morgan didn’t know what to process first, having her injuries spotted by a Gen-Z wunderkind with a camera, the “not natural” thing, him seeing the ghost, or-- 

“Terry? Really? You tell him your name, but not me?” Morgan reached over and elbowed the soldier through his arm.

“A man has to keep some mystery with a pretty lady,” he replied, smirking through the gash in his face.

 “Now you’re just trying to clean it up. Did you see him coming too?” She turned back to the kid, Eddie apparently, and  tucked her feet under her skirt. “Whatever you are, you aren’t the only kind of person who can make friends with ghosts,” she said, miffed but starting to deflate. He had said he was excited. Excited people usually didn’t try to lop off your head. “And for your information, cemetery picnics have been a time honored tradition for centuries. The Victorians designed some of their cemeteries to be enjoyed like parks. And there’s a lot less---” Kids. Couples picnicking. Burger wrappers and empty slushie cups. Life. “Crowds, in a cemetery. I like the quiet. And the company. Sometimes.” She side-eyed Terry, who clutched his chest like he was wounded.

The conversation unfolding before Eddie left him feeling like a child seeing their parents get into an argument. He casually averted his gaze in an attempt to give them some semblance of privacy while they worked through their dispute. Before he knew it, the irate woman’s attention was back on him and he found himself wishing their argument would have gone on longer.

“That’s… actually very cool,” Eddie admitted, his brows raising in approval. “But, um, circling back to what you said about seeing ghosts—I’m a medium, I thought we were only ones with that specific privilege.” He couldn’t help feeling inadequate as he confessed his ignorance. Eddie dedicated his life to knowing about the supernatural, but he barely knew anything for certain. “Who else made the cut? Obviously, you don’t have to, like, tell me what you are, or anything. Not unless you want to, which would be stellar, but… I feel like I should know that kind of thing.”

 “Medium, huh?” Morgan said, sizing the kid up again. “I’ve met a few of you. Exorcists, mostly, but still. But, since you asked so nicely, all of the undead I’m aware of and some fae can see and hear ghosts. It seems to be a proximity to death sort of thing, but I don’t know how the metaphysics works.” She set her lunch aside and dropped her hand under her foot to finish picking out the glass, away from view. She was mostly sure he didn’t actually have some voyeuristic foot fetish, but that didn’t do much for her self-consciousness. It was one thing to patch herself up at home, or with dead people who didn’t care, but with strangers, she felt the wrongness of her body. It wasn’t neutral, it was batshit. “You must be some kind of death enthusiast too, though. Coming out here by yourself in the middle of the day? It’s not exactly the nicest cemetery in town. I hardly see anyone alive out here on my visits. Shouldn’t you be hustling or studying or having fun somewhere?”

Eddie’s eyes glistened with rabid enthusiasm at the mention of the undead and fae. He’d only recently learned about the existence of zombies, and his fae-knowledge severely lacked depth. And here this woman was, sounding like she knew a great deal about both.

“Hustling?” he repeated the word with bashful incredulity. “I mean, this is fun for me. Not to sound edgy, but I love the dead. The living are cool too, but… they’ve never felt like home, y’know? All my life, I’ve been surrounded by dead people that either needed my help, or who helped me. I like spending as much time with them as I can.” He tried not to watch as she covertly plucked at her foot. Curious as he was, he could do without further insinuation that he harbored some sort of affinity for feet. “Is that how you are?”

With the last of the glass picked out, Morgan went still and regarded Eddie more carefully. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d met a human who spoke so affectionately about the dead, and she wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or concerned. “You talk about the living like you aren’t one of them,” she said. “I don’t meet too many humans that apathetic about who they are. But your ghosts--they were good to you? You weren’t ever scared?” But one revelation deserved a little something in return, and anyone that fond of the dead probably wouldn’t sell her out. Morgan pursed her lips as she thought her answer over. “I am recently un-humaned, yes,” she said. “A little over a year now. You could say making friends with death saved my un-life, but I had lots of other help too. Living-people-help.”

The stranger had a point—Eddie never felt like he belonged among the living—but never had the dissonance he felt been stated so bluntly. “I guess, yeah. The living are assholes, for the most part.” There were, of course, exceptions to that rule, but they were few and far between. “Most have been good to me, except…” Eddie shook his head gently. “They’re individuals too, can’t expect them to all be winners.” As she admitted to being undead, he looked at her with enraptured awe. “That’s… wow. I mean, first of all, I’m sorry for your loss. You’ve probably got a handle on things by now, but I’m sure that’s a pretty wild transition. And, I’m glad you had people to help you adjust, support systems are so important.” Eddie took a moment to center himself. “What’s the, uh, preferred terminology for your… condition? Also, wow, I should probably ask your name, huh? Like Terry said, I’m Eddie. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He bowed his head slightly to punctuate his sentence.

“The living are individuals too, Eddie,” Morgan said. “And if you didn’t know about undead and fae seeing ghosts, I’m guessing you haven’t met many of the other living species of people out there. It doesn’t seem like a good idea to dismiss all of them out of hand. Or especially kind. Your ghosts were living once too, you know.” But Eddie’s vagueness piqued a troubling sense of familiarity in Morgan. Children didn’t tend to rely on ghosts if they had live people to take good care of them. “Those must have been some pretty shitty assholes to make you give up on everyone alive, human or not. I’m sorry for that, Eddie. Whatever happened to you, whoever was that cruel--I know how it can feel safer to just pull away and not risk yourself again, when you’ve suffered enough in a certain way. And I’m sorry.” She sighed and held out her hand to the kid, smiling sadly for both of them. “I’m Morgan Beck. You can refer to my ‘condition’ as zombie. But that’s classified. I don’t really enjoy having to fight for my existence. Not that a slayer won’t already know what I am on sight, but I’d rather they not get any extra help you know?” Her smile curled bitterly and she turned her eyes to the rest of the cemetery. “Are you really out here because it’s fun, Eddie…?” She asked quietly. “Or is it something else, too?”

When Eddie set out for Jericho Hill earlier in the day, he hadn’t expected a lecture. “Death changes a person,” he said softly after she reminded him that ghosts weren’t always memories. It didn’t take him long to realize the issue with his statement. “Preacher, choir.” He gestured first to himself, then Morgan as he assigned the labels. “You probably have a point.”

Eddie found himself nodding along with her condemnation of ‘shitty assholes’ initially, but he stilled when he heard her apology. His expression fell into unsure neutrality; he didn’t know how to respond. Strangers weren’t usually that kind, and they never read him like a book. It took him a moment to register her outstretched hand before he grasped it with his.

“Pleasure to meet you, Morgan Beck,” Eddie said, mirroring her sad smile. “Your secret’s safe with me. People like you shouldn’t be hunted, anyway.” Her question took some mulling over. Eddie didn’t particularly like being open and honest on that front. “Well, I mean, it is fun, but…” He trailed off with a sigh before shrugging. “Actually, that’s kind of bullshit. I can’t remember the last time I had fun—maybe with Bex or Alfie, but that’s different. Having fun with friends is easy but, when I’m alone…” Eddie shook his head and let out a terse sigh. “Are you, like, a psychiatrist or something? Analyzing brains by day, eating them by night.”

“What? Death changes you? No kidding,” Morgan deadpanned. “You can consider me an expert on both sides of the curtain,” she added more kindly. “Thank you. For your...Human-Plus allyship?” She wasn’t sure what to call it. She confided in so few humans these days. She had enough on her plate with her family as it was. 

She kept looking at Eddie, his battered hollowness and his resilient vitality. There was more than one way to be alive and dead, she supposed. “I’m an adjunct professor in the English department at the university,” she said. “But I spent my alive-time on earth literally cursed with suffering, and consequently spent a lot of time desperately wanting to get to know people and being afraid of getting too close, in case they got sucked into my magic bullshit. So I’m good at noticing things and I understand a lot. Like that feeling where you can be mostly okay when you’re with people, especially the ones you care about, but when it’s just you that feeling you’re running from is still there and it settles in. But we don’t have to talk about that, if it makes you uncomfortable. Also, I resent the suggestion that I eat people. I’m actually trying to hurt as few people as possible right now for reasons that have nothing to do with my appetite, which I monitor and manage very carefully. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that again. You can tell me about how you know Bex, if you really want a change of subject.” Beaming at Eddie, she brought up her knees and let her head fall to rest on them and settled in. She’d given him a lot, but if he was friends with Bex, it was probably best he got used to the ride.

Eddie deserved her snark, even he could admit that. Despite his theorizing, fantasizing, and romanticizing—he didn’t know what it meant to be dead. Against better judgement, he envied Morgan and the way she straddled the line between life and death. It sounded ideal, at least on paper. “I strive to be a friend of the dead,” he said with a mild shrug. “Clearly, that doesn’t absolve me of insensitivity though, sorry about that.”

As she caught him up to speed on the source of her empathy, he listened with enraptured fascination. Eddie didn’t know the first thing about curses, but he liked to think he understood the loneliness she alluded to. “Sounds like you got saddled with a spectator role, that sucks. Most people aren’t built for that.” He hoped he wasn’t projecting, but he wouldn’t be surprised if that turned out to be the case.

“Shit—thanks for correcting me. I shouldn’t have made an assumption like that,” he admitted timidly when she kindly scolded him for his comment about brain-eating. His face lit up at the mention of Bex. “You know ‘er?” he asked, taking a seat in front of Morgan. Knowing she was familiar with someone like Bex instantly eased whatever lingering uncertainty he still felt. “We met pretty recently, I guess, but she’s the kind of person I feel like I’ve known a lot longer than I actually have, y’know?” 

Eddie wondered how much information was safe to bring-up, ultimately deciding to play it safe. “It was after… well, she’d just gone through something pretty awful, and I think I made things a little harder on her. Not on purpose, of course, I didn’t know, but… she was really kind to me, anyway. I think that goes to show how special she is.” He neglected to mention the magical mishap; maybe Morgan didn’t know that side of Bex. “How do you know her? If that’s alright to ask, I mean.”

“You weren’t built to be a spectator in your life either, Eddie,” Morgan said. “No one is. We are here to learn, to connect, to experience. What’s the point of being stuck in a body if not to feel? What’s the point of being surrounded by so much mess and beauty if not to learn as much as you can from it? It’s cruel to take it for granted. And it’s cruel to hurt someone in a way that they cut themself off from anything good they might find in their tiny little existence.” 

She fingered the tall, young grass as she spoke. She could never settle on a memory to give its strange, invisible touch more substance. When she was a child in Houston and her mother would send her into the yard to practice her alchemy, the grass was thick and sharp. It prickled her feet so badly she’d check her heels to see if they had cut her. They never did. So maybe the grass was like dull needles, or like tiptoeing around the rules, since she would often do her exercises slowly or skip steps on purpose so she could do them over again and make her time out last longer. Long enough to see the stars appear, but before the mosquitoes ate her up.

“But yes, I was really bad at keeping my distance,” she went on. “Which made for a lot of good experiences and a lot of hurt. Honestly, I wish I’d taken more risks, made more kinds of alive-memories to hold onto.”

She couldn’t help but beam at hearing the boy talk about Bex. Nothing he said was news to her, but it was nice to see her kindness reflected in someone else’s eyes. “Bex is staying with me right now. Has been for a while. Well, me and my girlfriend. We care for her as if she was ours, as best as we know how, anyway. So I know,” she grinned. “You’re not breaking supernatural club rules if you want to talk about her.”

Eddie wanted to agree with Morgan, to say that life was something precious and cherishable, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie. Death looked a lot more appealing to him whether or not he made a triumphant return as something a little less human. “Cruel or not, people do it anyway,” he said with a shrug. “I’m coping with it the only way I know how.” Granted, his coping looked a lot more like sabotaging. 

Eddie didn’t think much of the grass, it was just grass; everywhere and unextraordinary. All it had to offer him were stains, the thought of which made him shift uncomfortably. He felt that way about a lot of everyday life’s mundanities. They didn’t exist unless they caused a problem. Morgan had a point when she warned him against taking things for granted, but Eddie didn’t realize it. How could he?

“I bet that’s weird,” he said. “Everything changing, but also not. I don’t know much about zombies, obviously, but I know coming back is rough for a lot of ghosts. I’d tell you that there’s still time to take those risks, but I get the sense you didn’t come to Jericho Hill looking for silver linings. At least, not ones given to you by some random guy with a foot fetish.” He ended on a joke in the hopes that it might lighten the mood, praying she didn’t think he was serious.

A sigh of relief passed Eddie’s lips. “Beamed a heaping helping of trauma right into my head,” he explained. “She didn’t mean to, of course, and I’m not exactly mad about it, anyway. Knowing her is worth a little muss and fuss. That said, I learned my lesson. No more alleyways for Bex.”

“Eddie, and I mean this kindly, with the kind of empathy that comes from experience--” Morgan prefaced her words softly, giving Eddie a look that pitied and understood too well. “Putting all your attention on other people’s problems so you don’t have to look at your own doesn’t make them go away, or get smaller. A lot of the time it just makes them grow heavier and sink their roots deeper into you.” 

She reached out and gently flicked some of his long hair out of his eyes. “Worrying about me isn’t coping. What’s so bad about turning all this nice attention on yourself? I know people haven’t been kind, but whatever they said or did, they weren’t right about you. You deserve kindness. And love. Being here is hard enough without being cruel to yourself too. But--” She grinned wryly. “You didn’t come to Jericho Hill for a pep talk from a walking dead lady.” 

She picked up her Pyrex and ate the last bit of lunch and dusted herself off. “I’m going to go home and prep some raccoon bones for my next art project, if you want to come. Bex has some really great pieces she’s made too. But we know each other now, so I hope you won’t try and disappear just because I know what song you’re playing.”

Eddie listened as Morgan spoke. Meanwhile, his stomach twisted into anxious knots. He didn’t want to hear that putting others first wasn’t the answer. Tackling his problems head-on hurt too much, especially considering he rarely had help. “Yeah, so I’ve noticed.” His gaze fell to the ground. Eddie couldn’t bring himself to say more, it might inspire her to confront him with even more difficult truths. It was nice feeling like she cared, he didn’t expect that from someone he just met, but it was also heavy. 

Eddie let out a soft huff of laughter when she flicked a strand of his hair. Such a simple gesture, but the familiarity of it inspired a gush of affection. “Maybe not, but I’m glad that didn’t stop her from giving it to me anyway.”

“Are you kidding?” Eddie asked in disbelief, rising to his feet. “You’re a bone-art making, pep talk giving zombie with a weirdly comforting southern accent. Good luck getting rid of me, you’ll need it.”

[clarste]

Sorry if you've been asked this explicitly before, but what are your thoughts on Penguin Logistics, specifically in comparison to the other organisations/factions in Arknights? I recently started and managed to grab everyone within a few pulls, except Sora (and I guess Mostima, unfortunately.) and I think they're easily my favourites. Would love to hear your thoughts. Cheers.

No one's ever asked me that, but they probably should have since I've gone all-in on Penguin Logistics ever since I pulled Exusiai and Croissant early on. I then proceeded to never pull any of the others, forcing me to buy Texas and Sora in the shop and much later dump all of my accumulated gacha currency getting Mostima. Anyway, my goal in life is to use the entire team and also max them all out. PL4life!

Anyway, my initial impression of them was that they were the cast of a 90s anime like Cowboy Bebop or Bubblegum Crisis (...Tokyo 2040). Like, they're an eclectic band of hyper-competent misfits working for a small company operating at the edge of the law. “Penguin Logistics” itself sounds like a euphemism for being, like, smugglers or something. "We'll get your package where it needs to go, no questions asked." Then Code of Brawl came out and I was totally right except they are also very dumb in a funny way. Like, they accidentally got into a turf war with the mafia, but apparently that's just business as usual.

Anyway I want to talk about each of them individually now so apologies if this starts rambling.

Texas is pretty clearly the main character of Penguin Logistics, and you can tell because she's the hub of their whole relationship wheel on the in-game chart.

She's also kinda Spike from Cowboy Bebop, although less laid-back I guess. She's a former mafia assassin on the run from her past, but her past won't leave her alone. Incidentally, "mafia" in this case refers to the various wolf families from the fantasy Italy equivalent in this setting, although they make some interesting comparisons to wolf packs in the profiles. However, Texas's family is dead, which should make her a "lone wolf" that will supposedly never have another place to belong. Except PL itself is proof that that's wrong.

Theoretically she’s just the team’s driver, but because PL is always getting into ridiculous anime fights she’s also good at that part too, using dozens of little... lightsabers(?) that she throws around willy nilly. It would probably look super-cool to see in action, except this is not that kind of game so we’ll just have to wait for the anime or whatever. It’s noted in her profile that her fighting style shows that she unconsciously sees as the only purpose of a weapon as being to kill, and heck, she’s right.

She's cool-headed, adaptable, and the serious one you can always count on, but she's not above getting into friendly(?) brawls just to take out her frustrations out.

Her name comes from the extinct subspecies of Texas Wolf.

Next up is Exusiai, the angel who loves nothing more than guns, god, rock and roll, and apple pie. In that order. In other words, a stereotypical American. Even though she's from the fantasy-Vatican. Basically she's a cheerful, friendly, laid-back person who never really fit in back home where people are expected to be more serious and orderly. Not enough to be, like, shunned or anything but she's always been a weirdo. All angels have guns though, that’s like standard issue. She wishes she could have more though.

She's also super religious, but interestingly never brings it upon her own. I feel like she probably realizes how uncomfortable it can make people who don't share that religion to suddenly bring up Jesus all the time in casual conversation. Like, she's not ashamed of it or anything, but she won't shove it in your face either. Personally, I find that a pretty cool characterization for a fictional religious person.

Which is also sort of a hint that beneath her goofy exterior she's a thoughtful, deliberate person who doesn’t let anyone in by accident. Texas notes that they're exact opposites in this respect. She also has an extremely interesting relationship with the next person.

Her name comes from the Greek word for the order of angels in Christianity often translated as "Powers."

Mostima... where to start...? I guess first of all she’s a fallen angel, apparently because she pointed her gun at her own kind under MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES. Probably related to the whole war in Kazdel thing, where many of the other MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES in this game took place. Long story short, stuff happened in the war, she pointed her gun at another angel, Exusiai’s sister is dead under mysterious circumstances, and Mostima gave up her gun and now wanders the world delivering long-distance packages for PL. But that’s mostly an excuse for to be alone as much as humanly possible. She can also use time magic because I dunno why not. MYSTERIOUS.

She’s friendly enough, talkative even, and has a hobby of visiting new places and trying out the local food, etc, but her real defining trait is that she just doesn’t need other people. She’s explicitly aromantic, saying she has no interest in love, but she also has no need for friends or family or apparently coworkers either. Because of the way the world is, she spends most of her time driving through the endless wastelands between cities, with nothing but a truck, some packages, and her thoughts. There’s something... romantic about that (in the other sense of the word), but even she admits that the romance of watching the sun set in a desert with no one else around for hundreds of kilometers gets old after a while.

I feel like I should note that she has a very “best friend of her big sister” relationship with Exusiai, by which I mean she’s known Exusiai since Exusiai was a kid and to her Exusiai will always be that kid. Also Exusiai only joined PL in the first place to hunt her down and get answers about her sister’s death, but Mostima just laughs it off and leaves town for another year or five. 

Her name is probably a corruption of Mastema, a rather infamous fallen angel in mythology.

Croissant is... well, to be honest everyone past this point is more of a minor character. Which is actually a weird thing to say since none of these people are actually major characters in Arknights, but I guess these are less important people even within the group?

Croissant’s gimmick is that she’s always trying to make money by selling stuff. I guess she’s a merchant? But not, like, a formal one who runs a shop, she just gets her hands on stuff through her connections and sells it. But in like, a friendly down-to-earth way, it’s even said that she lives paycheck to paycheck. She’s a girl trying to get by with a second job, I guess is what I’m saying.

Team-wise, she’s the muscle of the group, being a minotaur and all. She lifts the heavy packages and also smashes things with her MAGNETIC HAMMER which I don’t know why I find that name so amusing. Gameplay-wise her special move can knock all the enemies around her halfway across the map and I smile every time she does it.

Her profile notes that she’s really just living her best life as a normal-ish person, and that helps make everyone around her feel normal, and that’s important in a setting where half the people around you are dying of magical cancer (no one in PL is Infected though).

Her name comes from the French word for Crescent and also a type of Pastry. Leaning more towards Pastries in my opinion.

Sora is an idol singer. Because, to be perfectly honest, what ragtag band of misfits is complete without an idol singer? She can’t really fight, but I guess Texas must have saved her life at some point or something because she bullied both her agency and PL into letting her work there part time. And also she is obsessed with Texas. I guess saying it like that makes her sound kind of annoying, but she really isn’t, she’s just an earnest girl chasing her dreams.

There’s also this interesting thing where a lot of her basic information is censored by her agency in order to protect her privacy (”do not dox the idol”). Even including her race. She presents as a wolf, but her promoted E2 art has her as a rabbit, which raises some interesting questions that don’t really get answered.

Her name comes from the Japanese word for Sky.

Lappland is not really part of PL, but she’s PL-adjacent enough to be worth mentioning here. Basically she’s an old acquaintance of Texas from back in their mafia days, and she’s obsessed with hunting her down and... fighting her? Killing her? But in, like, a sexual way? She’s kind of a crazy psychopathic killer. Maybe. She can also be very calm and polite when she wants to be, although with a taste for gallows humor. That just makes her scarier because you don’t know when/if she’ll snap.

There are two kind-of explanations for her being like that: A) her family is dead and she has no “pack”. As a wolf, the stress of living without a pack is supposed to be maddening. B) She’s infected with Oripathy (magic cancer) and there are crystals growing in her nervous system. Which... can’t be good. The answer is probably a combination of both.

But the most important thing about Lappland is her base skill and how it interacts with Texas. Basically, in your base there are various jobs you can assign people to and different characters get different bonuses for them. Most people in Penguin Logistics get bonuses for working the Trading Depot, for obvious reasons. Lappland gets a “bonus” where if she’s in the depot at the same time as Texas, she loses morale slower but doesn’t actually get any bonus to productivity. Meanwhile, Texas gets a bonus to productivity when Lappland is around, but loses morale way faster. In other words, Lappland is slacking off and making Texas so uncomfortable that she works twice as hard just to get the job over with so she can leave. This is their relationship as defined by game mechanics.

Texas also has another bonus where she loses morale slower if Exusiai is there, which completely cancels out the penalty she gets from Lappland. In other worlds, Exusiai being there too calms her nerves enough that she doesn’t feel the need to immediately escape.

Oh yeah, I forgot to talk about Emperor, who’s the owner of Penguin Logistics. He’s a world-famous rapper wearing a Tupac shirt and also literally immortal.

[lokiondisneyplus]

In late March, when Robert and Michelle King convened the writers room for their supernatural drama Evil, they plotted out a second season premiere in a haunted New York City subway station.

Now, more than two months later, as the novel coronavirus continues to ravage so much of the world, the idea has been scrapped at the behest of their line producer, who warned that filming permits would be hard, if not impossible, to come by. When the CBS series does return, the season opener will explore the spiritual consciousness of its characters instead, with a storyline devoted to the "God helmet" and its virtual-reality-meets-peyote-style impact. It's a plot perfectly suited for a post-pandemic world, explains Robert King, because it relies heavily on visual effects. "You have to look at scope in a different way," he says, in this case referencing the scope of the brain rather than scope of a subway.

In virtual rooms all over Hollywood, writers like the Kings are being asked to rethink what could be feasible once production resumes. Many are waiting to actually tweak their scripts — "I don't want to have to rewrite everything six times while the guidelines change," says Shameless' John Wells — while others are already avoiding or scrubbing crowds, hugs and handshakes. Sex scenes and fight scenes will need to be carefully considered, too, and in some cases reconsidered as storytellers along with their line producers and studio bosses navigate an unknown future.

"What we're telling our writers is 'Don't be dumb,' " says one studio executive, who suggests that an elaborate crowd scene with dozens of extras would surely qualify. "We're not going to be able to shoot it, so don't write it."

Regardless of directives, which vary by studio, more than a dozen producers who spoke with THR say their anxiety lies largely in the uncertainty. "It's very hard when you don't know what the future looks like," says Marta Kauffman, showrunner of Netflix's Grace and Frankie, whose situation is made more complicated by the fact that the youngest of her four leads is 79 years old. She has yet to go back into her scripts and start making the necessary changes, but that's coming, and she's dreading it. "We had scenes at our assisted living facility with a crowd, and, well, we can't do that anymore. And we know we certainly won't be doing lots of kissing with elderly people, but it may have to go beyond that."

Though Kenya Barris' actors are several decades younger than Kauffman's, he's having trouble wrapping his head around how he'll make his Freeform series Grown-ish, which takes place almost entirely on a college campus. "It's literally about a place where people gather," he says, "and you can only do so many [contained] bottle episodes before it starts to lose the tone and feeling of what the show is." Meanwhile, Mythic Quest's Rob McElhenney was smack in the middle of shooting a scene set at the E3 gaming conference when production shut down. "There were literally thousands of people in the audience, and that's not going to happen anytime soon," he says. "So I'm going to have to rewrite it and reshoot it."

The days of doing a dozen extra takes are likely over, laments another producer, and shooting long just to have it, too. In fact, one executive suggests scripts could soon be five or six pages shorter ultimately, to make room in a show's budget for pricey protocols like crew-wide testing. There have been rumblings of putting line producers into writers rooms as well, though writers with any modicum of power are likely to resist additional infringement on the creative process. ("It's a terrible idea unless you have an irresponsible showrunner," says Kauffman.)

Writers will also be asked to lean on fewer characters along with special effects to provide scale. As one producer explains, if a pre-virus scene was set at a backyard birthday party full of children, the post-virus one will have two or three characters sitting around a kitchen table talking about the party — and any flashes to it would largely be CGI.

"The technology that brought you dragons and exploding people is the same technology that will be bringing you ordinary crowd scenes on shows you wouldn't expect [to use] visual effects," says You's Sera Gamble, who suggests CGI will be of little help on her intimate scenes, which she isn't interested in writing out. "We're not at the place in 2020 where we can talk about using visual effects to fake a kiss between [You stars] Penn Badgley and Victoria Pedretti — that's a separate issue and one we have to figure it out."

In recent weeks, writers such as Gamble have been looking abroad to see and study how productions elsewhere are grappling with the same challenges. All eyes are on Australia's long-running soap Neighbours, which announced it's resuming without extras or physical contact between castmembers. The show's producers have said they'll cut away before a kiss or punch, relying on the audience's imagination to do the rest. It's a strategy that some will consider stateside, too, particularly when it comes to intimacy.

Other approaches being discussed involve facilitating separate shoots, which can then be pieced together in post, and quarantining participating talent for 14 days, with testing done regularly, before shooting the scene in full. The actors involved with the latter would have to be OK with that plan, of course. "And if they're not, you're fucked," says one executive, "because you can't force an actor to do something that they're not comfortable with." At least two more predict those kinds of conversations about comfort levels — both general and specific — will start to happen with No. 1's on every call sheet in the coming weeks, if they haven't begun already. And the responses are expected to vary, particularly among the older and more vulnerable set. Regardless of how many safety measures are put in place, there will be some who simply won't feel comfortable and, as one network head warns, some shows could go away as a result.

For the time being, writers seem to be relying on their own gut to guide them. Barris, for instance, won't be writing in handshakes anytime soon, since he cringes every time he sees one on TV now. "I'd be less offended if you came up and cupped my girl's boob than shook her hand," he jokes. Curb Your Enthusiasm boss Jeff Schaffer agrees: "The handshake is gone," he says, "it's the VHS of salutations." And McElhenney's partner, Megan Ganz, reveals she'll be editing out a pre-pandemic line in which Mythic Quest's lead characters are asked, in response to their slacking, "What have you been doing for the past six months?" because it no longer feels right.

Studio and network execs must rethink their choices, too: Some are looking to their own libraries for contained shows that might be worth rebooting, while others are exploring potential series add-ons where only a couple of characters are needed. Working in their collective favor is an overwhelming desire among most casts and crews to get back to work. Says Black-ish showrunner Courtney Lilly, "If [our show] ends up being a one-act play for 21 minutes between two characters so that people can work and America can see characters they like onscreen doing something that isn't a repeat, we're going to find a way to do it."

It's a sentiment shared by many — just not all. Robert King falls among the skeptics: "Oh my God, network shows can't be made more boring," he says, horrified by the notion of having to scale Evil or The Good Fight down to a series of two- or three-character scenes. "You need to find ways that are visually interesting and inspired, and if you start limiting things, it'll just be, 'Why do I want to watch that? I'll wait for the newest Netflix thing that's shot in Hungary or somewhere where they will let people sit on each other's laps.' I just think everybody needs to calm the fuck down and not write with the idea of limitations in mind — or [at least] not as the guiding force."

[musedblues]

Always Something There To Remind Me [Part: 3]

summary: Home is where the heart is. You're working on finding yours. After a handful of misfortunes, your old friend Joe helps to unravel life's greatest mystery while adding a bit of extra grief to the mix.

warnings:  A few mentions of panic attacks, and getting sick a but also dare I say a bit of fluff?!

w/c: 6k

a/n: This has been one of my favorite chapters to write so far. Thank you for all the lovely feedback, lads!

taglist: @im-an-adult-ish​ @mrsmazzello​ @lettinggosthehardestpart​ @the-moving-finger-writes​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​

Part 4

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

On the walk across the street with your mother, carrying matching bottles of wine, you worried this Christmas Eve was going to be dramatically different than all others that came before it. That you were too far out of the loop to ever fit back in.

But you were at ease the second you passed through the Mazzellos front door. Joe and his mother were the only people bustling around the kitchen, so early in the evening. You'd expected tonight's reunion with your old friend to be even more sensational than the last, but it wasn't. Joe simply greeted you with a grin, taking the bottle of wine from your clutch and spinning around to find a cork right away. Your mothers began spouting gossip near the already set up table, while Joe poured the two of you a drink.

As you followed your old friend toward the living room, you couldn't help but notice how alarmingly normal this routine seemed. This felt much more like coming home than landing at the airport to your teary-eyed mother had, for some reason.

But lots had changed since the last time you'd spent celebrating with the Mazzellos. And you couldn't wait any longer to hear about the things Joe mentioned being apart of the last you saw him. Not long after you settled on the sofa to the tune of his exciting storytelling, you asked for faces to match the names of his new cast of friends he had yet to stop buzzing over. Joe wasted no time pulling up a group photo of himself mixed in with a pretty bunch of actors.

"Lucy is actually the funniest person I know, besides yours truly of course." Joe boasted about a girl who looked as if she was made of porcelain. You had no reason to doubt she was just as flawless in real life. Before you could ask more of her, Joe was already on a roll. "Ben is the love of my life. I mean, come on, look at the guy." Joe proceeded to ramble for a long time about the blonde, telling you how the man with emerald eyes was a loyal and passionate friend, someone Joe had come to trust and admire. "Rami, well, you know him, don't you?" Joe shrugged, glancing your way as he sipped some wine. Oh yeah, you did. The guy was in another production with Joe, back when he facetimed you weekly. Rami had ended up in the background of enough of those facetimes to give you a few meaningful greetings when you called to check-up. You wondered if the superstar remembered you at all. "And Gwilym is-" "Welsh?" You let out a breath of a laugh. Gwilym. There's a name you'd hadn't even known existed until a few summers ago when some old fella down the road kept getting his mail switched up with yours. Joe matched your unexpected chuckle with one of his own, almost like he wasn't sure if he should have acknowledged your remark. So you just shrugged and offered your friend a small grin "Small world."

Thankfully, Joe's muddled expression softened. As you began to wonder one thousand things, he went on...

"He is the best of us. Heart of gold." Joe's bragged as the pair of you focused on his phone screen. There the five of them were, all dressed up, strutting across a lavish purple carpet. Just when you both polished off your glasses of wine, the doorbell rang. Cousins and aunts and uncles started to show up with dessert trays and gift bags. Most of them remembered your name and hugged you like always. It was almost like no time had ever passed, like this Christmas Eve picked up where the last one you attended left off. The most exciting reunion came just before dinner time as Joe's siblings showed up.

John and Mary arrived together, with their spoused and gaggle of children, all of whom you'd never met. A couple of the more rambunctious kids raced up to their grandmother, while John stopped in his tracks when he noticed you.

Growing up, you went to all of his baseball games. You helped him with his homework and bought him birthday presents. He might as well have been your own little brother. But since you'd graduated, Joe's updates about his kid brother stopped coming when his own did, too.

"Oh my God!" John practically tackled you in a hug that everyone around you chuckled over. "I didn't, why did- when did you come back?" John laughed, clearly surprised by your random appearance at Christmas Eve dinner for the first time in forever.

"Is this really happening?" Mary moved toward you. She was pretty as ever, dark hair and bright eyes. You always looked up to her, and she always looked out for you. She rescued you from bad first dates, taught you how to drive and told you highschool secrets, like your own older sister. Now, she shoved John away and hugged you even tighter. You wondered how you'd gone all this time without seeking Mary's counsel and support.

Both of their spouses watched on in confused glee, happy that everyone else was so happy. John's wife was the first to bite.

"Hi! I'm Eva." The pretty brunette smiled at you but cocked her head, clearly lost to why her husband was so excited to see you. Then she said, "How long have you and Joe been...?" Eva pointed to where your best friend stood in the archway of the kitchen, and your mother let out a chortle in passing.

"Ah yes..." You turned to Joe with a sly smile. Maybe you'd been sipping too much pre-dinner wine.  "I'll never forget the day he untied me from those train tracks!" You reached out to latch onto Joe in a comical way, and even though he winced for show, he held onto you like he might have actually wanted too.

"Who's the actor here, y/n?" Mrs. Mazzello joked, batting your arm with a laugh.

"Joe has just been using me for my many talents all these years. I taught him everything he knows." You shrugged with one arm still looped around your friend's neck.

"Those were the days." Joe reminisced with a snicker, keeping his relaxed hold around you.

John was quick to disperse your make-believe bubble to explain to his wife exactly who you were.

"This is y/n. The girl in all our pictures in the hallway." John gestured toward the corner where dozen of snapshots hung of their family at parties and graduations. A handful of which you and your mother happened to sneak into the background of over the years. "She's practically a Mazzello."

"Oh my God." Eva's face fell, and she turned to you with a serious gaze. "I'm so sorry, I've heard so much about you but never- oh, come here." And she pulled you into a hug all the same. John and Mary gathered their excited offspring and made them each introduce themselves to you, well besides the tiniest babies who couldn't. You barely had time to gush over the families before dinner was served.

Everyone devoured plates full of well-cooked food, laughing over things you somehow still understood. Christmas hadn't felt so warm in years. You and Joe moved through even more wine, sharing glances like a secret code when his weird uncle started rambling about politics. When dinner was over, everyone was still happy to linger around together.

When everyone gathered in the living room, you excused yourself to the bathroom. On your trip back down the hallway, a tiny giggle stopped you from rejoining the party just yet. Mary's littlest babe was clinging to the open doorway of Mr. Mazzello's office, a space with oak bookshelves and a writing desk to match. Joe's father could be found there, working until it was time for dinner.

The baby was babbling, pointing into the dark office. He stumbled into the shadows and turned his head before he shifted and looked at you. The baby screwed his brows together and started to ask a question using the only syllables he knew to use.

And somehow, you realized he was looking for Joe's dad. The little boy spun in the doorway again before he wobbled right toward you. Simultaneously, Mary floated down the hall with a baby bag over her shoulder. She must have been looking for the kid. He was reaching up and pulling on your sweater, now.

"I think he wants to go in there." You spoke softly, watching Mary's baby point back toward the dark office. When you looked back up toward Mary her eyes were glossy. She shared a silent glance with you before she bent down to her boy's level. He kept babbling and waving back toward the office.

"He's not there, sweetheart," Mary whispered, smoothing back her baby's hair and breaking your heart. She lifted the kid to her hip and cocked her head, a signal for you to follow.

The office was warm and smelt like cinnamon, not because of Christmas time, but because it always did. Mary flicked the Tiffany lamp on and the room filled with spots of amber light. There were papers scattered on the desk and a chair filled some costumes in the corner like someone was meant to come in and do work at any moment.

"Dad used to let the kids sit in here while he worked." Mary sniffled, while the baby in her arms reached out to touch the book shelve before him. It was filled with awards and photos and crafts.

"I was always afraid to come in and interrupt business." You breathed a laugh, floating closer to monitor the shelve. Right between a photo of Joe and his father at the grand canyon, and a handpainted candle vase, something caught your eye.

There was a Polaroid. You had a camera for a month before one of your friends stole it. With it, someone had taken a photo of you with Joe's dad at play practice. Joe was away that summer, filming and you needed something to do. Your highschool was putting on a production of Grease, the ancient choir director conveniently passed away a week before your first rehearsal, so Joe's dad stepped in to help, last minute. Somehow you ended up as a Pink Lady, without a name or any lines. Joe's dad let you keep that jacket. You gave the Polaroid to Mr. Mazzello as thanks, during the wrap party. Despite having no lines, you were a shite actor, but Joe's dad took it easy on you. That was just one example of the way he'd always sort of looked out for you, you realized.

Mary noticed the photo your gaze was fixated on and said: "You're family, y/n. And I'm glad you're back home."

You couldn't tell if she knew what you'd been through but above all things, you knew Mary was wise enough to read you like she always had. Her baby had retracted away from curiosity and curled into his mother's arm. She noted that it was probably bedtime for all the kids and started to leave her father's old office. You were left alone to turn the light off. Leaving that room on your own terms was the first goodbye you'd said in months that brought you any kind of peace.

///

Your mother left home in a sequined shaw with a camera around her neck. At midnight, a new year would begin, but someone was getting married before then. She invited you along to help take photos, But just days before, you'd made plans of your own. With Joe. He said there were some people from town throwing a party and he'd been invited long ago. Joe asked you to join him, saying something about how he probably would only go if you came along. Something about that made you agree.

So you slipped into some old dress you'd bought in Wales and made a mental note to go on a shopping spree, soon. Joe showed up at your door, dressed for the occasion too. Tonight felt like more of a step outside of your comfort zone, than a simple New Year's Eve party. But even so, falling back into your old spot at Joe's side was natural, and you didn't have time to dwell on the inner workings of things while he sang along to some old Britney Spears album the entire car ride, begging you to join in. By the time you arrived at the party, you almost forgot that Joe's version of carpool karaoke wasn't the main event of the evening.

He kept one hand steady on your shoulder as you walked from the parking lot and into some modernly styled club. Inside, clear bulbs were strung from one sleek pilar to another. One too many bodies occupied the dance floor while those left behind took up nearly every table and booth insight. Joe directed you toward the bar top where two miraculously free seats called your names.

Just then, someone recognized your friend. A tall man in a dark suit called Joe's name as you eased onto the bar stool. You didn't recognize the guy, and the bartender was asking what you wanted. So you ordered two of the same bourbons and turned back to see Joe rolling his eyes while the stranger was walking away.

"I can never remember his name," Joe admitted, leaning toward you. You chuckled and started to respond when another voice cut through the crowd.

"Joey!" The high pitched squeak hurt your head, and when you turned to see who it belonged to, nothing made sense. Lacy Duval was prancing toward the both of you in a tight sparkly dress. The only thing you knew about Lacy Duval, was that in high school, she was two grades below you, but somehow always ended up mingling with everyone in your class. So it wasn't surprising to see she'd recognized one of you, but it was a bit unsettling to see how excitedly Lacy dashed your way. And it was furthermore of a shock to you to find Joe waving to her with a wide smile, like they'd really known each other.

"I'm so glad you could make it, I've been looking around for you all night!" The girl with silvery blonde hair and a matching bright smile gushed. The bartender slid your drink near your elbow and you grinned his way as thanks.

"Well, it is only 9:30." Joe laughed. Then he reached over and rested a hand on your knee. "You remember y/n right?"

"Of course I do." Lacy turned her smile toward you.

"Hi, Lacy." You smiled back, raising your bourbon for a sip. Another set of faces emerged from the party, and you vaguely recognized them. They knew your name and warmly greeted you. But their interest lied in Joe, of course. They talked him into coming with them to meet someone on the other side of the room.

"Don't worry, I'll save your spot!" Lacy giggled in a way that made you kind of want to leave and go back home. But you just sipped your bourbon and smiled at Joe when he turned to you with a sorry shrug. Lacy slinked past Joe as the strangers pulled him in their tow. Somehow while the only person you knew disappeared into the crowd, you managed to down your bourbon until it was gone. You asked for another.

Then, without prompt or consent, Lacy crossed her silky legs and began to tell you a story you never asked to hear. She explained how a couple of summers ago, Joe was in town filming his very own movie. You knew all about it. You were still in touch with him then. But according to Lacy, she was there. She twirled her hair around a finger while she told you how Joe and his cast would sometimes stop in the all-night diner she worked at back then, and how she would hang around with them when no other customers stopped in. According to Lacy, Joe personally invited her to the wrap party.

"We hung out a lot." Lacy propped her elbow on the bar and her head in her hand. "We didn't see much of each other until his dad got sick, or whatever. We did hang out more when he was home for that."

Your bourbon was gone again. So you asked for a shot of whiskey.

"About time he showed up tonight." Lacy smiled, her teeth sparkling like the glitter her dress was made of. "We've had plans."

"Well, Happy New Year." You smiled. Was she finally done talking?  Someone just as scantily clad and pretty spotted Lacy and hurried up to her for a hug. Your whiskey arrived as the girls scurried into the crowd arm in arm without so much as a goodbye your way. You watched Lacy work the room as she moved through it, keeping that giant smile turned up all the way even when no one was looking. Before you could look away, Joe appeared as if he was making his way back to the bar. Lacy had spotted him too, apparently, and moved like a cheetah to corner him on the dance floor.

So, you were alone now. You could be home alone, but you weren't so, you took your shot of whiskey to try and calm your nerves. This party was way out of your league. You didn't know anyone, not even the people who seemed to vaguely remember you. And the music was pretty obnoxious. But as soon as these thoughts plagued you, a familiar face came into view. Some boy you'd known from high school took Lacy's spot on the barstool at your side. He was your first student, the year you taught your peers to play the piano for some extra cash, freshman year. The guy seemed genuinely glad to see you now, and you had always wondered what happened to him after high school. After catching up for a while, asking a few questions you always wanted to ask him, the guy had one of his own.

"Aren't you married, or something? The last time I saw Joe, he said you were living with some guys in the UK."

Whoa, you were not ready for that one. You sort of hoped everyone had decided you fell off the face of the earth. That thought always eased your mind when it began to wonder what people might ask you, when you moved back home. You hadn't properly prepared an answer for times like these...

"Oh, nope not married." You managed to remain cool under pressure, as the guy nodded in understanding. But of course, he didn't really understand. And he didn't know your throat was going dry at the thought of Kris. You politely excused yourself and headed toward the restrooms.

It wasn't even eleven o'clock, yet but the place was packed with party animals and the only people your recognized were across the floor. Lacy was looping her arm around Joe as she motioned for him to meet someone you couldn't see. The rest of the crowd were blank faces.

Maybe it was the drinks you'd downed so quickly. Or the fact that you still felt like shite at the simple thought of what happened to Kris. You had stopped missing him sometime long before he died; when he skipped town on your last birthday and gave you a present a few months later like an afterthought. That's when you really stopped feeling much for Kris at all. But you never got to end things between the two of you on your own terms. That left a million unimportant arguments burning in the back of your mind. By now, you were just pissed that the situation still had such a massive effect on you. Tonight being no exception at all,

Thank God the restroom was empty. You hurried toward the yellow stalls and prayed no one heard you getting sick. The tile floor was sticky and it hurt your knees. Every moment of this night was more uncomfortable than the last... After some time, you stood to better yourself but felt still felt dizzy as you leaned against the sink counter. The party boomed on and your head pounded. Then the bathroom door creaked open.

"Y/n?" Lacy's shrill pitch echoed through the tiled walls. You felt nauseous again.

"Yeah?" You tried to sound normal, bringing the back of your hand to your lips.

"Did you just...?" She trailed off, and you could only muster a tiny nod before hurrying back to the stall to barf again. Lacy's heels clicked toward the door and it slammed shut. Who would want to watch some girl throw up alone on New Year's Eve? You took your sweet time drinking from the faucet and taking deep breaths in the mirror. You decided that the moment you stepped foot back in the party that you were going to have a good time. Or at least pretend a little harder too.

But after you pushed open the restroom door and started to walk into the crowd, a hand grabbed you and spun you back around. It belonged to Joe, and he was pulling you toward the exit.

"We're going home." Joe decided loudly over the annoyingly loud music.

"Oh no, why?" You pretended to dread. He only pulled you close and guided you through the front doors. A few strangers watched on as you left before midnight. The city streets were empty and quiet, and Joe's car looked warm form the outside.

"Lacy said you got sick?"

"Oh, yeah." You shrugged. Your goal wasn't to ruin the party. "We don't have to leave because of me." You felt sick again.

"First of all yes we do. It wouldn't be fun if you feel bad. Secondly, it was already no fun. They were only playing Katy Perry."  Joe seemed truly disturbed. You had to laugh. The ride back home was quiet.

Joe parked outside your front door and followed behind as you walked up your porch steps. You stalled with your hand on the doorknob and announced that you planned on starting the new year off with a bubble bath. But declaring the peaceful plan didn't make you feel any less horrid. Then Joe softly assured you that he'd be across the street if you need him.

"You aren't gonna go back to the party?" You wondered. Why wouldn't he?

"Why would I?" Joe furrowed his brow, truly confused. You only chuckled and shook your head as you slowly twisted your doorknob and thanked Joe one last time. Then you went inside, even though it looked like Joe had something to say. He could tell you in the morning, you thought.

You felt better in the stillness of your home, surrounded by warm bubbles and candlelight. You changed your sheets and put on an oversized sweatshirt from Australia, one Joe shipped you as a Christmas gift the year he spent filming there. You watched the time on your phone turn to midnight and wondered if Tegan was having a good time. Last year, she helped you throw a party in the pub, and you didn't shut down until five a.m. This year you were snug in bed, high off the scent of your freshly cleaned sheets and relishing the quiet.

You must have succumbed to sleep, but it wasn't long before you shot awake with a tightness in your chest. Sometimes the nightmares faded as quickly as they appeared, leaving you with a racing heart all the while. It was still quiet and you were still alone. Your phone read two in the morning, and there was a text from your mother announcing she booked a room across the city after her wedding shoot. She wished you a happy new year, and that's when everything really started to crumble for you.

Something about being all alone, in a new space and time made your throat close. Your hands buzzed and tears stung your eyes. Every time you tried to close them, the worse your heart sped up. You had no choice but to let yourself cry a little but still couldn't fall asleep when you learned to breathe again. So you scrolled mindlessly through your phone hoping the internet would distract you long enough to fall asleep again.

Your Instagram feed was flooded with photos of friends in new year party hats with drinks in hand. There was a video of someone's baby comically dancing to auld lang syne, and a series of firework boomerangs. Then- a picture that caused your eyes to roll.

You didn't even realize you were following Lacy Duval. But lo and behold, the newest post on your feed was one of her very own. It was a selfie of her and Joe, from tonight. Her arm was tight around his neck, and he looked happy under the red-tinted lights. There were a few hundred likes, and the first comment you saw, read: "You two again! Looking good as ever."

What the hell did that mean? You wondered enough to click on Lacy's profile. Sure enough, between rows of facetuned selfies, there was a slew of photos of Joe on Lacy's feed. One photo of him wearing her bedazzled sunglasses, another of the two of them sharing a booth at the diner Lacy mentioned before.

Your bedroom suddenly felt like a trap, like your mind wasn't the issue. You felt like you did when you'd been grounded as a kid. So you got out of bed and descended the staircase, flipping a lamp on in the living room. Somehow the change of scenery completely changed your mood. You sank into the sofa among decorative pillows and a quilt you'd left behind some days before.

You nestled there, flipping on the tv and decided to play Parks and Recreation in search of a reason to smile. Then your phone buzzed from the coffee table where you tossed it. It was a text, from Joe.

Hey, you still up?

You glanced up to the telly, then back down at your phone, wondering why he was. You had just been on social media. Maybe Joe noticed you were active. Maybe he'd gone back to the party after all.

Yep. You good?

A few minutes passed until he responded again.

Want some company?

A tiny laugh escaped your throat. Why would he want to come over at two in the morning? You couldn't understand how Joe had known to offer his company in this moment when you felt the loneliest you had in a long while. You could help but type back that you were unlocking the door and for him to come in whenever he felt like, if he really did.

You sat back down among the den of comforts that was your old sofa, and watched Parks and Recreation with a wandering mind. You weren't even sure what you'd been thinking of until the front door jostled open, and you snapped back from your zone out.

"Happy New Year!" Joe excitedly boasted. He was dressed in joggers and an old sweatshirt, and he held a paper sack close to his chest as he shut the door behind him.

"What's up your sleeve?" You laughed, stretching your arms as you sat up all the way. You watched Joe cross the room to rest his mysterious bag on the coffee table and sit near you on the edge of the sofa. It wasn't quite like your friend had come over for a visit, but rather like he was finally home after a long day. A warmth bloomed in your chest at the thought of Joe existing back in your orbit, and being happy as always to do nothing together.

"Doctors orders." He spoked as he reached into the paper bag. "We've got some overpriced drug store candy. A bag of ginger cookies. A magazine I found with Bruce Springsteen on the cover, and this." Joe named all the things he revealed from the bag one at a time, ending with a small envelope he handed to you. It was a card with the words "Get Well Soon" scrawled in outlandish cursive. Inside was blank, besides the doodled Joe had drawn of a frowny face wearing a droopy party hat. You laughed out loud, glancing up to your friend who looked quite proud.

"Thank you, Joe. You didn't need to come bearing gifts." You gave him a look as you rested the card on the table in front of you. You hadn't even felt sick since after your bath, anyhow.

"Uh, of course I did. Now shut up and try one of these. This was like, twelve dollars." Joe chuckled, reaching for a golden tin of suckers that came in elaborate flavors like ginseng, lavender, and cinnamon.

"You're out of control." You mocked, shaking your head but peering into the tin all the same. "Simply ridiculous."

"So you're saying you don't want one of these?" Joe jeered, pulling the tin away right as you started to reach in. You scoffed a laugh, moving your hand to shove his shoulder in protest.

"'Course I do! You've truly saved the day." You softened, really meaning it. You were having a really rough go of it until he showed back up. Joe reached in for a sucker and you did too, pulling one that was honey flavored. When you settled back into the sofa, happy with your choice, Joe followed suit. His shoulder pressed against yours and a new episode of Parks and Recreation was starting.

"Sorry the party was so lame." Joe pipped up, pouting as he watched the opening theme play through.

"It's okay." You decided after a beat. You could have assured him it wasn't so bad, but it wasn't great. And you really appreciated Joe's efforts to make your night more enjoyable, whether he realized that's what he was doing or not.

"Do you wanna watch something else?" You offered, suddenly realizing you had nothing left to offer him as thanks for everything. Joe shook his head and stuck in sucker in his mouth like a little kid, and you had to laugh over how much this felt like highschool. Then you settled closer near him, enjoying your candy just as well. Joe's arm fell warmly across your shoulders while a couple of episodes played through with Joe's occasional added commentary and bursts of giggles. You laughed too, but your eyes grew heavier with each passing scene. You hadn't even realized you were falling asleep until you felt Joe take your sucker from you loose grasp. Your head had fallen to his shoulder, and your eyes couldn't stay open one second longer. Parks and Rec’s familiar theme song echoed through the room as you dozed off in a flash, the easiest sleep you'd had in weeks.

///

Your home was quiet again when morning came. You were laying on the sofa with your favorite quilt gently draped over you. Joe was gone. When you stretched into the morning, you noticed a note on the coffee table, where Joe's slew of presents were left from the night before.

"Happy first day of the rest of forever. Thank's for letting me crash for a while. Maybe next week we can have a real party. This has all been an elaborate excuse to use one those fancy quill pens your mom keeps around. x o x o."

You snorted at Joe's thoughtfulness, always going out of his way to let you know how he felt. What had you done to deserve his remarkable friendship after all this time? You dwelled on the thought as you tidied up the living room and went about your day.

///

Your mother had started traveling for work. She was currently somewhere in Denver, taking photos of some happy couple. Leaving you alone to jump over the last of many legal hurdles you faced after coming back home. All you had to do was get from one place to another, delivering some business to the social security office, to confirm you were living back in the states.

The winter's thickets blanket of snow had been reduced to sheets of melting mush, but last night's bitter winds froze the mess to the ground. You waited around the house long enough for salt trucks and rush hour to wear down the roads before you hopped in the jeep your mother left behind. No big deal, you'd driven dozens of times before... just not for a while. You decided your reward for this nerve-wracking mission would be getting dinner from the best pizza place uptown.

You drove down the block with white knuckles, and onto the highway without even thinking. When you realized how far you'd safely made it, you relaxed enough to sing along to Billy Jole as you drove. This was way easier than you'd hoped.

After successfully delivering your paperwork,  you parked in the pizza place lot and ate a piping hot slice behind the wheel while scrolling through social media. Your phone was near dying when you decided to head back home.

Billy Jole was still a great company as you felt your self grow more comfortable behind the wheel. You were in complete control and everything was fine.

Until a loud unsettling POP came from somewhere outside your vehicle. Your car had obviously just blown a tire, slumping to the left in the middle of the highway. As you held your breath and tried to slow down, your remaining tires lost traction on a rouge patch of ice.

"Shitshitshitshit!"

Your car gracefully slid off the road toward a speed limit sign, scraped against the pole and spun around to a halt.

"Damn it!" You cried, tearing your white knuckles from the wheel and covering your face in your hands. Your heart was pounding and your throat closed shut, but a pathetic cry still managed to escape.

A couple of cars breezed by, leaving the highway otherwise empty while you sat trying to pull yourself together.

You weren't hurt. The radio was still blaring Scenes From An Italian Restaurant. It was a little cold, but you were okay. That's what you kept repeating over and over until your hands stopped shaking and you could breathe a little better than before.

"Oh shit." You whimpered, hopping out of the car to monitor the front left tire. The rubber smoking, peeling away from the rim. You hurried back in your car and found your phone was only at nine percent. Who were you even going to call forty minutes away from home? Oh, that's right, no one lived there anymore. Joe was in the city again. Mary was a lawyer and John-

You pulled your phone to your ear as it rang.

"Hello?"

"John? Hey, you live uptown don't you?" He said so at Christmas.

"I do! Stopping by to reminisce?" He laughed.

"I have a really huge favor to ask."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, well, I'm having some car troubles." You explained where you had been left stranded on the highway and how it all happened. How your phone was dying and you needed to call a towing service.

John promised he was right on his way, and you were able to call a service to come and get your car while you waited for a ride of your own.

His blue Buick slowed and eased off the side of the road only fifteen minutes later. John stepped into the frost-covered grass and leaned toward your open driver's window as you collected your things.

"Did you get through to a towing service?" He asked right away.

"They should be here in no time." You assured, and right as you had, a truck came creeping toward you from the other side of the road. By the time everything was sorted out and you eased into John's passenger seat, it was nearly nightfall. He cranked up the heating vents as you glanced around, noticing a car seat in the back, piled with a few bright children's books.

"Man I can't believe baby John has his own baby now." You beamed, turning to face Joe's little brother. He chuckled, stealing a glance your way while pulling back onto the road.

"Almost four, I wish he was still a baby."

"Yeah," You halfheartedly agreed. You wished you could have been around to know the families as they grew. You'd missed out on so much, and for what?

"So what's it like being back? Christmas felt like it always used too." John smiled, easy-going as always. Funny how he saved the day and went on chatting as if it wasn't a big deal, you thought. Weren't you the one supposed to be rescuing him from silly little mishaps like these? Maybe this was an all-new alternate reality.

"I was glad to be there. It had been far too long." You breathed, glancing out the window to the cold grey highway.

"Eva still feels bad for not recognizing you right away." John laughed. You couldn't help but chuckle, too.

"Oh, how could she?" You wondered. You hadn't been around. But you didn't want to dwell on that anymore. "It's not the first time someone thought I was Joe's hot date." You chuckled light-heartedly.

"I'm sure it won't be the last." John rose a brow, like he might have had more to say. But after a beat, he went on rambling about how glad he was that you'd been at the first Christmas his dad was absent from. How things felt less grim than he expected. And how he was glad to know space nor time could keep you from crashing the party.

When John dropped you off back home, you couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. You concluded that the indecision was better than falling into your usual downward spiral, and hoped things would only get better from here...

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

[higuchimon]

[fanfic] Rewards of Losing

Another pleasant evening, made even better by a successful duel. Ryou stepped out of the door, enjoying the warm summer air. Much better than the chilly inside of his current – location. He didn’t want to think of it as a lair, though the half-dozen opponents he’d called here would probably disagree.

Of course, they were all cards now. He wasn’t going to worry about their opinions.

But he’d done all that he could here. He’d sealed some of the finest duelists in the XYZ dimension in cards and had a very good idea of how XYZ Summoning worked. He was only one of several operatives from Fusion in this world, seeking out information and taking care of potential troublemakers before they ever knew there would be trouble to make.

That meant that he needed to destroy this place as quickly and cleanly as possible and then head on to his next location. It wouldn’t take long; he kept virtually nothing here anyway. All he needed was the time.

He would make certain that this wasn’t the only place that burned. It would have to burn totally but it would need to spread, just to cover his tracks. A building that only burned when it was surrounded by other, equally flammable buildings, would quickly give away that an unregistered Firestarter roamed the area. The locals – the Guild, he’d learned they were called – would start looking for said Firestarter.

Ryou had a lot invested in not being found and he’d done a very good job so far. He kept himself distant from as many people as possible, while not being standoff-ish to the point it caught other people’s attention. He couldn’t hide being a Firestarter but he could fly under their radar.

And once the invasion starts, I won’t have to hide at all. He didn’t know when the invasion would start. But he suspected it would be soon. Everything had to be put into place and enough people trained to make it happen.

Of course, Fusion and the Professor’s preparations had been built up for quite a while already.

He started to go back inside, intent on getting his prizes and starting the fire. But something across the alleyway shifted, and Ryou stopped, staring intently. Had someone connected to one his opponents followed him here?

He couldn’t see who it was, but his Firestarter senses flared up – he might not know who it was, but he could tell what it was.

There’s a Healer there. That didn’t seem quite right. What would a Healer be doing around here, even if they were allies to an opponent?

“Who are you?” He asked, wary, hand ready to activate his duel disk at a moment’s notice.

The voice that came back was – different in some ways that he’d never heard before. Soft and firm, laced with all the raw power of a Healer at least on his level, but coming from – farther down? A child? No, it couldn’t be.

“I am Kei. And you must stop.”

Ryou’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” Had they somehow seen him? If that were the case, then he’d make sure that they were the next one that he carded. He couldn’t allow them to spread the word. Even if he could escape, it would put the invasion at risk. He couldn’t let that happen.

“What you’re doing. Turning those who fall against you into cards. Denying yourself. You must stop.”

Ryou pressed his lips together. So they had seen him. He would at least give them a good duel before carding them, regardless of their age. “If you want to stop me, then you’ll have to defeat me.”

“That won’t happen.” A soft whisper of a laugh. “I cannot duel, my Firestarter.”

“What?” Ryou shook his head. “I’m not your Firestarter. I already am courting someone else.” Though truth to tell he wasn’t especially thrilled about it, but Firestarters and Healers at Academia weren’t always given the choice on who they courted or bonded to.

“You are. But as to why I can’t duel -”

Ryou could see a pair of gleaming gray eyes moving out in the darkness. They reminded him of Shou’s eyes, though not even as high off the ground as Shou’s would be, and they were – they had -

A light hung not that far from where he stood, so he saw what came out of the shadows very clearly. He simply didn’t believe what he saw. Slowly he shook his head. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t possible. But there it stood regardless, staring at him relentlessly.

It was a cat. A very large cat, one that he might have even thought of as a panther. The cat’s head rose at least to his waist and was as black as a starless night. Intelligence gleamed in those gray eyes that regarded him so calmly.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head again. He’d clearly taken a harder hit in that last duel than he’d thought. That alone made sense. He wasn’t seeing a huge cat and if he did see a cat, the cat wasn’t talking to him. It wasn’t possible.

The cat did not smile. But from the set of the shoulders and the way the tail curled around the cat’s front paws, Ryou knew that it was amused at him.

“As I said, I am Kei. I am your Healer Cat. You are my Firestarter. Or we will be.”

Again Ryou shook his head. “Even if you exist – and you don’t – Yuuri doesn’t take very well to challengers.”

Yuuri won the right to court him against four other Healers. There wasn’t much left of them. If one could call mulch “much” anyway.

Kei’s tail twitched, head raising upward in a very confident gesture. “You may rest assured that I don’t care what he thinks. You are not his. You are mine.”

If this cat was as possessive as Yuuri – no. He’d hit his head, that was all there was to it. He wasn’t hearing this.

“I don’t have any food for you. Go try somewhere else,” Ryou snapped, turning on his heel and stalking back into the building. He locked the door behind himself and hurried to pick up the few items that he wanted to keep. He wasn’t even going to think that what had just happened could even be close to being real.

The last thing he needed in his life was another creature as possessive as Yuuri. It hadn’t yet been decided that they would bond, but as the two respective most powerful Firestarter and Healer at Academia, most people expected that they would, sooner or later. Ryou more or less expected it himself. Who else would he bond to, when he’d never met another Healer who came close to him in power?

Kei had that strength. Ryou knew that even when he didn’t want to know it. There wasn’t a single Firestarter or Healer who could have missed it.

But that’s a cat. Cats can’t be Healers. Or Firestarters. I’m hallucinating. He truly wanted to believe that with all of his heart. He didn’t dare think of what the other options might be.

He packed up what he needed – the decks and the Duel Disks would be sent back home, which meant that anyone searching for them here wouldn’t find them – and found himself grateful all over again that the building had no windows. He stepped out of a different door, cautiously making certain that no one was in the area to see him.

Especially not anyone with black fur and gray eyes.

At least on this side of the building, there were far more streetlights, which meant far fewer places for a large black cat – that didn’t talk, because cats couldn’t talk – to skulk around. He took the time to change out of his Academia uniform to the street clothes he’d picked up to help blend in around here. Perhaps the cat wouldn’t notice him like this.

I’m not trying to avoid a talking cat. He would tell himself that as often as he needed to.

When he was a decent distance from the building, he turned and regarded it for a few moments. His eyes narrowed and his mind lashed outward, igniting the building. Flowers of flame unfolded from one particular side of it, not that far from a bar. The fire probably wouldn’t spread that far, but it would likely be written off as a late night drunk doing something that he shouldn’t. With a small effort of will, he made sure the fire burned bright and strong enough so erase every trace of his presence.

He could hear fire alarms already on the way. He could only stay long enough to make sure any local Firestarters didn’t hear anything about him from the fire. Flames did not identify people by their names, but they could still give enough information to make him quite uncomfortable.

“This has to stop.” Again the cat sat there, tail curled around their paws, staring at Ryou. “You’re hurting people. You know this is wrong.”

Ryou’s first instinct was to correct that. He hurt people because he needed to; because it would help his people when the invasion came. But he wasn’t going to talk to a cat about things like that.

Instead, he finished off the fire, turned on his heel, and headed off into the night. The cat didn't follow.

Not that he looked. Really.

Kei watched his Firestarter until he was out of sight – a distance far greater than a human’s eyes would have been able to. He’d been watching this Firestarter for several days, learning what he could about him.

That wasn’t nearly as much as he wanted. For all that a Healer Cat could tell certain things about any Firestarter, most especially their Firestarter, he couldn’t quite pin down important points about Marufuji Ryou.

He knew that the Firestarter was a Firestarter, and one strong enough and with the right personality that if the wrong event happened, he might well frost over. A nascent Frostflame needed an equally strong partner, or even two on occasion.

He’d known before Ryou said a word that someone else was courting him. If one could call it courting. He could smell the scent of the other, a little faint but there, and he also smelled cruelty. It wasn’t so strong as to indicate it came from Ryou himself, though Ryou did have a few streaks of that himself. Not so much as to turn Kei off, though.

Slowly he got up and followed. He’d tracked Ryou to where he lived some days before and didn’t need to go behind him to get there. But he wanted to keep an eye on his future partner regardless.

What else he knew could be summed up very quickly and easily. Ryou wasn’t from this world. He didn’t carry any of the scents of it beyond what he’d picked up from living here for a scattering of months. But the fact he didn’t even know Healer Cats existed made that absolutely plain.

There were other cues as well. The way that Ryou didn’t seem to know what dueling just for pleasure was came close to the top of the list. He only dueled when he would turn his opponent into a card at the end.

That would definitely have to stop. He wasn’t sure of why Ryou was doing it – he couldn’t read the Firestarter’s mind, only be aware of certain emotions – but it could not keep on happening. He wasn’t even certain of how Ryou did it. That would have to be changed as soon as possible.

Silently Kei slipped through the night, considering his options. He knew the first and most powerful thing he needed to do – bond to Marufuji Ryou. It wouldn’t entirely eliminate his need for a human Healer but it would help balance him. Maybe then he would understand why what he did was wrong.

Assuming that he didn’t already. Without knowing why he did it, Kei couldn’t be certain. He would have to ask that as soon as possible.

There were routes in Heartland City – in any city where Cats dwelled – known only to those of the feline persuasion, be those Fire Cats, Healer Cats, or cats who were neither. Kei strolled down one of those, pausing at one of his favorite restaurants. He would have far preferred eating with his future Firestarter, but until he could convince Ryou that he was neither a hallucination nor a common cat, this would have to do.

This particular route catered to unpartnered Cats of both types. Kei ordered himself a delicately prepared meal of fish and happily tore into it while considering his options.

I’ll have to keep at it with him. He’s stubborn. Which wasn't a bad thing at all. Kei rather liked that, in fact.

His tail swished as he considered what else to do. Ryou would need a proper Healer, a human. Were there any that could serve the purpose? Someone far better than whoever it was that was trying to court him through cruelty now.

I need a duelist for this. He won’t be happy if his Healer can’t duel. Kei knew that already. Dueling sang in Ryou’s veins along with his blood and his flames.

Unfortunately, there weren’t any duelists randomly lurking along the way between here and where they were going. Fortunately, Kei knew exactly where to find duelists. Far too late now to go looking, but come the next day…

The sooner he could locate one, the better. If he wasted too much time, it wasn’t impossible that the Dark Healer who he scented around Ryou could make his move and they could begin to bond. That would be monstrous; not a true bond in the slightest.

But Kei refused to let that happen.

Once he finished his dinner, he loped off into the night, planning for what the following day would bring.

Mizael liked being out late at night. He had a taste for rare flowers that grew best by night – there were few enough Healers who specialized in those, so he had them all to himself more than he didn’t. So he wandered through one of Heartland’s loveliest gardens, one that he’d helped grow, one that featured a great deal of evening primroses, jasmine, and wisteria.

Sometimes he saw other Healers out in the gardens. That was hardly unusual; there were plenty of Healers who enjoyed the night-blooming blossoms, even if they weren’t good at growing them. Every Healer had their specialty, after all.

He was also used to seeing Healers who brought their prospective Firestarters on courting dates to the Night Gardens. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever do that; presuming that he ever found a Firestarter or even a Fire Cat that he might want to bond to. So far, none of the ones he knew who weren’t bonded ever quite seemed right.

What he wasn’t used to seeing in the Night Gardens was a Healer that he didn’t know whose presence sent a warning tingle up his spine. The stranger wasn’t doing anything untoward; he wasn’t even looking at Mizael right now, though he surely knew Mizael was there.

This wasn’t just a strange Healer, though – this was a strange unbonded Healer. He strolled along the walkways of the garden, whispering to the blossoms in the same style that any Healer would. He paused at one twining wisteria vine and regarded it thoughtfully, tracing it with one finger, and a soft chuckle that Mizael didn’t understand.

Mizael approached carefully. This wasn’t just a Healer who was new in town. The closer he got, the more he could feel that this was also a duelist, even if he couldn’t see a deck or a duel disk on them. But a duelist’s spirit could not be hidden.

“What are you doing here?” He finally asked. “Are you new to Heartland?” He’d heard nothing from the Guild about any new Healers and they were reasonably good about letting him know who might visit his gardens.

The new Healer turned towards him. His coloring was unusual, even for Heartland. His hair was mostly a deep shade of purple that matched his eyes, though there was pink in the back as well. He wore a uniform that Mizael didn’t recognize, as purple as his hair. His left arm cocked, as if intent on battle at a breath’s notice.

“Only visiting,” the newcomer said, lips turning upward into a smile. Mizael tried to ignore the shivers that the smile sparked. This was a face that seemed crafted to smile but when he actually did so, all Mizael could think was to make it stop. “Is this your garden?”

“It’s one of the city’s,” Mizael said, reaching up to brush his fingers over the wisteria. He’d always been rather fond of it. “But I take care of it, too.”

“How nice,” the stranger agreed with a slight tilt forward of his head, too slight to really be called a nod. “It’s larger than my garden, but I have to share space at – my school.” Again that way his lips moved that invoked a smile without actually being one.

Mizael nodded; he’d been through that experience when he was at school. All the student Healers had to share a communal garden. Which wasn’t a bad idea; it helped teach co-operation. But he far preferred having his own garden to himself.

“Are you going to be visiting long?” Mizael knew he’d never been good at small talk. There were far better ways to spend one’s time, he believed.

“Unfortunately, not. I came to visit the Firestarter that I’m courting.” Again his lips curved upward. “He’s in town for a time on – business.”

Mizael nodded. Before he could ask the other for a duel, the newcomer tilted his head a bit more. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ve neglected my manners. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Yuuri.”

Mizael nodded in return. “Mizael.” He had a family name, but he preferred not to use it. It had never meant that much to him and going only by his given name felt more fitting regardless. Then he smiled. “You wouldn’t happen to be a duelist, would you?”

To Be Continued

Notes: Because I wrote this for YGO Big Bang, I will update it daily until it’s done. Starting Monday I begin GX Month, which I’m quite looking forward to.

[displacedhobbit]

Update: Greater Than Gold

AN – Uhm, so, yea. Quarantine has been a good time for me to sit down and write, so here we are. I started this story about 8 years ago. It’s drifted in and out of my thoughts pretty regularly in that time. In my absence, I’ve been scribbling down thoughts, moments, plots. I can honestly say the story is mostly finished, it’s just a matter of editing and figuring out what I want to include and reordering events to make them chronologically correct(ish).

Anyway, I fully expect that most people who have been following this story are long gone, have moved on to different fandoms, and forgotten my words. I just want to see it through.

This chapter takes us part way through the quest, to Rivendell. There will be at least one more chapter before the conclusion. And probably two endings, haha.

Warnings: Violence, some swearing.

Also on FF.net and AO3

Chapter 25: Eighty-Two and Seventy-Seven - Part 1

Word Count (chapter): 8035

It’s time.

He scans the room once more, ensuring that everything he will need for his journey has been packed. He’d made list after list and double-checked them all. He was prepared, he was ready , but he drew little comfort from that knowledge. As Dwalin had reminded him, there were no guarantees in the wild. He hurriedly paces his bedroom, scouring it for anything that he may have missed as worry claws at him.

It was time .

Not so long ago, he’d accepted that this day would never come, that Erebor would be lost to him forever. And now, now he was ready to walk out of the doors of the home he’d built in the Ered Luin, likely never to return. So much of his own blood, sweat, and tears had gone into establishing this home for his people. Nostalgia fills him; this was where he had raised his boys. There are thousands of memories here, most of them good, but the bad ones that clung around the halls like ghosts, catching him off guard when he least expected it, reminding him of all that had been lost.

But still, while he was proud of the life he had created for his people here, from practically nothing, he longed to bring them home . To let those who had fled Erebor with him walk among the halls once more. To let the children who’d only heard of it in stories gape wide-eyed at their homeland. To let them, all of them, know safety and security and belonging after being cast out and forgotten for so long. To let the stories or Erebor become real for Durin’s Folk once again.

There’s a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” he calls, calming his pacing and busying himself with checking his bags one last time.

“Dwalin just arrived,” Kíli says quietly, taking in his uncle’s somber mood. He looks nervous, and Thorin can hardly fault him. This would take his boys far from the only home they’d ever known, across the expanse of Middle Earth to a home they’d only longed for because of him .

“Come here,” Thorin requests, and his youngest nephew crosses the room with haste. He immediately pulls him into a tight embrace, feels the tension in his youngest nephew’s back. “It is time, isn’t it?”

He feels Kíli nod against his shoulder as the lad tightens his grip on him. “Be careful,” he murmurs. Though his tone is soft, it is stern, and Thorin knows that his words are a command, not a request.

Thorin kisses his temple, squeezing him one last time before releasing him. “Come. We must not keep your brother and Dwalin waiting,” he says, reaching for his bags. Kíli grabs one of them, carrying it with him as they leave the room. Thorin holds back, casting one last glance around, before following Kíli to the living room where Dwalin and Fíli are quietly conversing.

“Ready to go?” Dwalin asks cheerfully, clapping a hand on Fíli’s shoulder. Thorin can tell that he’s deliberately keeping the mood light to brighten his spirits, and he is grateful for it. His heart has longed for Erebor since the day the wretched dragon came, but even he cannot deny that parts of Ered Luin will always feel like home. It still feels impossibly hard to leave.

“Aye,” he murmurs. “Should be able to make good time with this early of a start.” He looks to Fíli. “Come here, lad,” he calls, and wraps his heir into a tight embrace.

Fíli heaves a sigh as he hugs him closer still. “Please be careful,” he echoes his brother’s words.

“I will,” he promises, dropping a quick kiss to his forehead as he shifts to hold him out at arm’s length. “Take care of each other,” he says, regarding Kíli as well. “I will see you in Bree.” He pulls Fíli back into another embrace, reaching for Kíli as well.

He holds both of his boys tight, breathing with them to calm his nerves. He refuses to entertain the possibility that this will be the last time he sees them. “I love you both,” he murmurs, throat tight at the admission. It isn’t often that he voices his affection for the lads, and he feels both of them hug him tighter at his words.

“And I love this whole sorry lot,” Dwalin confesses as he joins in, wrapping a bone crushing embrace around the three of them. Kíli lets out a rough laugh, one that shows just how tight with emotion his throat has become, and Thorin feels his heart lurch as he desperately squashes the dark visions creep into his mind again.

Dwalin gives another squeeze before pulling away. “Alright, lads, we’ve got to be off now.” Thorin is fairly certain he sees the glimmer of a tear in his old friend’s eye and knows that it pains Dwalin just as much as it does him to leave.

“Two weeks,” Thorin says as they separate. “Oin and Gloin will be ahead of you; they’ll send word if there are any signs of trouble. Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur will be three days behind you.” Thorin adjusts his hold on his pack, before reaching for the bag Kíli had carried into for him earlier. “Be careful, lads,” he all but whispers, reaching for his nephews once more to touch his forehead to each of theirs. “We will see you in Bree.” If his voice cracks, none of them comment on it.

“Good luck,” Kíli says, his voice coming out overly loud in their otherwise stiflingly quiet home, and though he has put on a brave face, Thorin can see how his eyes are watering. A glance toward Fíli shows that he does not fare much better.

“Stay safe, lads,” Dwalin says, speaking when Thorin finds himself unable to due to the lump that has lodged itself in his throat. He claps a hand on both of the boy’s shoulders, squeezing them gently as he does. “We’ll see you soon.”

No one is able to find any more words as Thorin and Dwalin finish preparing to leave. They pause for one more round of embraces, and no one comments on the mistiness of all of their eyes.

Without a sound, Thorin and Dwalin depart the dwelling, with Fíli and Kíli trailing behind them, heading through the still halls in the early morning. Being up before most of the settlement makes their journey quicker than normal, and soon they reach the mouth of Thorin’s Halls, where the early dawn light slips through the open gates.

Thorin turns to regard his nephews once more, taking in their faces and committing them to memory, just in case. Surprisingly, it is Fíli who blinks out a tear, so Thorin reaches for him first, curling his fingers around the back of his neck and knocking their foreheads together with a tenderness he was sure he had lost in the last few years. From the corner of his eye, he sees Dwalin do the same to Kíli, and once he is ready he breaks his embrace with his eldest to trade places. When they part, Kíli gives him a brave, albeit shaky, smile, and Thorin feels a wave of emotion wash over him.

He doesn’t deserve these boys. He doesn’t deserve their love, he knows, but he cherishes it all the same.

“We will see you in Bree,” he says once more with a steady voice, willing himself to believe it. This part of the journey makes him anxious, when they will all be setting out at different times, following different paths before reaching the main road…he will not be able to protect them in the wilds, but he trusts that their training is enough to keep them safe.

He will rest easier once they are all reunited.

As he and Dwalin turn to greet the misty morning, he doesn’t dare look back to the gate. He keeps his gaze forward, on to the port at the Gray Havens where he will meet with Dain’s men, then to Bree to reconvene with the company, then to Erebor. He mustn’t look back; not now. He’s come too far for that.

His eyes are fixed on home .

------

It doesn’t take long for them to set up camp for the night; he and Kíli are well practiced at it. But his brother is unusually fidgety and cautious, his eyes keep flitting toward the tree line as if the darkness itself is going to creep into their campsite. While Fíli has removed his scabbards and set his swords to the side for the night, Kíli’s bow stays slung on his shoulder, and though his brother has laid his sword down, his hunting knife is still tucked into his waistband.

The camping is familiar; they’ve done it dozens, if not hundreds of times before on hunting trips. The setting is not . Kíli has never been this far from home, far enough that the Blue Mountains sit on the horizon and the trees are becoming sparser every day, giving way to rolling fields of tall, tall grasses. Thorin has taken Fíli on enough trips that the road feels almost comfortable for him, but Kíli is all jittery and full of nervous energy. With every day it gets slightly worse, and Fíli hopes that once they reunite with Thorin and the rest of the company that he’ll settle down.

“Should only be a few more days until we get to Shire,” Fíli murmurs, stretching his arms behind his back as he speaks. “And then maybe two more days to Bree. I can’t wait to have a soft pillow under my head again.”

Kíli makes noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, eyes still scanning the edge of the forest.

“Hey,” he calls again, waiting until his brother’s gaze turns to him instead. “Come here.” He pats the ground next to him. “Boots off. Feet by the fire. Relax. I mean it,” he adds when Kíli very nearly rolls his eyes at him.

Kíli settles in by his side, pressed too close as always, but Fíli takes advantage of this position to sneak his bow off his shoulder. Kíli shoots him a look, but just sighs and unbuckles his quiver and lays it next to his bow. He looks tired. Fíli wraps his arm around his shoulder, smiling when his brother instinctively lays his head down on his shoulder. “Maybe we’ll even have an ale or two,” Kíli murmurs sleepily, and Fíli’s smile pulls even wider.

“I mean no offence to Mister Bombur, but the ale in Bree is much better than his,” he says, chuckling at Kíli’s feigned gasp of disbelief.

“Traitor,” he teases, “I’ll tell him. He’ll only have you drink the skunked ale from here on out.”

Fíli chuckles at him. “You wouldn’t. I’d bring you down with me,” he promises.

Suddenly, Kíli’s head snaps up from his shoulder, and his dark eyes focus on the edge of the clearing. His hands reach instinctively for his bow, fumbling for a moment before he finds where Fíli set it down.

“What’s wrong?” Fíli whispers, but is immediately hushed by his brother. Then he hears it, too, the soft crunching of underbrush in the distance.

Someone is coming.

Fíli immediately reaches for his scabbard and pulls his sword free, eyes intently watching his brother. Kíli has always been able to see better at night than him, better at using his senses to locate prey moving stealthily through the woods, so he knows it is best to follow his lead.

Silently, Kíli pulls an arrow and nocks it in his bow. The sound of snapping branches gets louder. Whoever is encroaching on their camp is making no means to be quiet about it. Kíli starts to draw, his eyes narrowed, focused on something that Fíli cannot see.

“Oy, don’t shoot me, laddie!” Bofur’s unmistakable tenor sounds through the woods, and Kíli relaxes, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Mahal, Bofur!” Fíli exasperates. “You nearly scared the life out of me!”

“Good thing he didn’t hear you talking about his ale,” Kíli teases, smirk playing at his lips even as his shoulders stay tense.

“Sorry, lads,” Bofur says as he, Bifur, and Bombur finally reach the clearing. “Wasn’t completely sure it was you all we were coming up on.”

“You’re supposed to be three days behind us,” Fíli says, as he and his brother cross the clearing to meet the other dwarves, helping them deposit their supplies to set up camp.

“Got a raven the day after you left. Thorin wanted us to catch up to you and head to Hobbiton instead,” Bombur explains, already digging in his pack for his cooking supplies. “Forgot to pack some of my spices in our haste to leave, but we should be able to make due until we can purchase more provisions,” he says with a wry smile.

Kíli shakes his head and laughs at him. “Priorities, honestly,” he murmurs, and then signs something quickly to Bifur in Iglishmek that makes the older dwarf laugh as well.

“Did he say why?” Fíli asks as they all settle around the fire, where Bombur has immediately taken to seasoning the rabbits they’d had roasting there. “Is something wrong?”

Bofur shakes his head. “Nah, didn’t seem to be anything amiss, though it’s hard to tell in a letter. Didn’t use any of ‘em code words, so I suppose it’s all right.” He reaches into the pocket of his overcoat and pulls out a piece of parchment, handing it to Fíli.

Before leaving, the company had settled on a few phrases that sounded innocent enough that Thorin was comfortable sending through the ravens, but held special meaning for them, and them alone. The ale’s gone stale meant that Dain’s men had crossed them, or This town reeks of tall folk meant that they were under threat of attack.

It doesn’t surprise him at all when Kíli’s head appears behind his, reading the letter over his shoulder. Bofur was right, there isn’t anything off about the message, just that their meeting place had changed and they were to look for a door with a particular rune on it once they reached Hobbiton. Straight and to the point.

“Gets you to your soft pillow and decent ale sooner,” Kíli murmurs, smirking at him when Bofur looks up in surprise.

“Oy! What’s wrong with my ale, laddie?”

------

They wander the narrow trails of Hobbiton, passing a glance at each door they pass to check for the rune. Bofur and his kin had decided to refresh themselves at the inn before reuniting with the company (with some “ decent ale ,” Bofur had teased), but Fíli and Kíli were anxious to see their uncle again, so they’d headed on.

“What if we’re the first ones there?” Kíli asks, idly chewing on a piece of grass. They nod in greeting to a hobbit that passes them with a wide berth, giving them a peculiar look all the while and muttering something about strange folk in the town once they’d passed. From his lessons, he knew that Hobbiton was fairly isolated and wary of outsiders, so he paid it no mind.

“Then I suppose Master Boggins will have to entertain us for a short while,” Fíli answers easily. “Though I should think Thorin, Dwalin, and Balin should be there already.”

He pauses, and regards his brother with interest. “I thought it was Baggins?”

Fíli’s eyes narrow in thought. “I’m fairly certain it was Boggins,” he affirms. “Hey, do you see that?” he asks, pointing toward a house on a hill. There’s a small thing at the base of the door, shimmering in the glowing moonlight. “That’s got to be the mark, don’t you think?”

Kíli nods in agreement, and they set off up the hill. “I hope he has food,” he grumbles lightly, suddenly wishing he had stopped at the inn with Bofur.

“I’m certain he will,” Fíli assures him. “No one in their right mind would host thirteen dwarves without preparing a proper meal first.”

------

It’s been raining for days . Kíli is certain that even his bones are soaked through at this point; he’s forgotten what it meant to be dry. The entire company had been right miserable, Thorin most of all, as they’d continued trudging along, hoping that the rain would either let up or they’d come across a town with an inn where they could warm up and sleep.

Even Fíli’s normally cheery mood had soured; he’d snapped at him earlier that morning for simply trying to start a conversation with him. It was early in the afternoon (at least, he thought it was; it was hard to tell with the overcast sky and the monotony of the road) when Kíli slowed his pony down and shifted to the back of their traveling party to ride next to Mister Baggins (oh, he would need to get his brother back for that one later).

The hobbit looked as miserable as he did, and so Kíli decided to ride by him in companionable silence instead of trying to force conversation.

“This is not at all what I was expecting,” the hobbit – Bilbo – utters bitterly, furiously wiping rain from his face. “Not like any of my walking holidays at all! None of the adventures in my books talk about how utterly mundane this all is.”

Kíli chuckles lightly. “I must agree,” he admits. “Though I’ve never been on quite such a journey before. I suppose I didn’t really know what to expect.”

Bilbo adjusts himself on his saddle. “And these ponies! I much prefer the ground under my feet, thank you!”

He glances down toward the hobbit’s feet. “Wouldn’t that be painful?” he asks without thinking, forgetting his manners and Balin’s teachings about the ways of hobbits. Were his teacher within earshot, he would have gotten a lecture for certain.

“You know, with as hardy as dwarves are supposed to be, you’d think your feet could handle some rough terrain,” Bilbo replies, unbothered, a mirthful expression on his face that makes Kíli laugh and forget the rain for a moment.

Gloin tosses an irritated look back at them, clearly still disgruntled from the rain, which makes Bilbo downright giggle in response.

“The rain’s making ‘em delirious back there,” Bofur teases good-naturedly, which only earns him a scoff from Gloin.

They lapse into a comfortable silence, and for a while, the rain doesn’t feel so stifling.

-----

Bilbo wakes with a start. He’s not been too keen on sleeping on the ground in the first place, but it’s made worse by the fact that he thinks there was something crawling on him just then. He fumbles out of his bedroll, dusting himself off where he swears something just slithered across his legs. The fire has burned low and is casting strange shadows around their camp, giving him all the more reason to feel anxious about a creeping visitor in the night.

He knows he won’t find sleep anytime soon, so he looks to see who is on watch, thinking that perhaps he will keep them company for a while or maybe relieve them early if they’re tired. It’s Kíli that’s watching him from where he is propped up against a tree trunk, a small little smirk gracing his lips that lets Bilbo know he saw his miniature freak out, and he has the decency to at least blush a little before he makes his way over to him. Fíli is asleep beside him, half curled into his side and using his little brother’s leg as a pillow.

“Can’t sleep, Mister Baggins?” he asks as soon as Bilbo sits beside him, a smile clearly evident in his voice. He likes Kíli, he knows. The young dwarf is always full of energy and is overly kind to him, which is something that could not be said for the rest of the company.

“No,” he answers. “We don’t all have the luxury of your brother to fall asleep at the drop of a hat, no matter where.”

Kíli chuckles before glancing down at his brother, affection clear in his features. “A bit annoying, really. He tricked me into watch. Said he wanted someone to keep him company and then dropped right off.”

Bilbo laughs as well; it does certainly sound like something Fíli would do. The lads had broken up the monotony of the journey by playing pranks on one another, much to the amusement of the company (he’d even seen Thorin crack a smile at their antics). “I could take over for you, if you want,” he offered. “I’ll be imagining things squirming around my bedroll for the rest of the night, I suppose.”

Kíli gives him a light smile, but he notices how it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I can’t really sleep either,” he admits, and there’s something about him that just looks so off and vulnerable in that moment that Bilbo suddenly realizes how young Kíli must be.

Eventually he fishes out his pipe and fills it, offering some to Kíli, who simply shakes his head. He takes a long drag, tastes the Shire and home , and it brings a bit of peace back to him. He watches Kíli for a moment, notices how his gaze keeps flickering from one sleeping dwarf to the next, to the treetops and the stars, to the fire.

“How old are you, Kíli?” he asks eventually, curiosity getting the better of him, even if it may not be proper to ask such a bold question at this time of night.

If Kíli is surprised by his question, he doesn’t show it, but his eyes do stop their wandering and eventually settle Thorin. “Seventy-seven,” he answers.

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. He is only fifty, and hadn't imagined that Kíli could be older than him, but he thinks he remembers from one of his books that dwarrows live a good bit longer than hobbits. “When do dwarrows come of age?” he asks, and notices that Kili almost blushes, but it could be a trick of the firelight.

“At eighty,” he answers. “The company had to vote to let me come or not.” He swallows thickly, and Bilbo knows there’s something else he wants to say, so he gives him time to speak. Eventually the young dwarf just sighs and shakes his head.

Bilbo lets out a long sigh. “I don’t think I would have ever been able to convince my parents to let me journey so far before I was of age,” he comments, searching for familiar patterns in the stars, silence stretching between them.

“My parents have been gone a long time,” Kíli eventually murmurs. “It’s just me and Fíli. Always has been.”

Bilbo curses his boldness. There’s a sadness in the lad’s voice that he’s not heard before, and he hates that his curiosity puts it there. Yet, it explained why the brothers were so close, much closer than any of the other siblings in the company. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Kíli doesn’t reply, but Bilbo sees the soft smile that tugs at the corner of his lips. The dwarf isn’t cross with him, which comes as a huge relief.

“I had forgotten that dwarrows live much longer than hobbits,” he eventually says, breaking the silence and steering the conversation down a different path, puffing on his pipe thoughtfully. “But no doubt you’ve had plenty of time for adventures in seventy-seven years?”

Kíli gives him a lopsided grin. “I’m just as green as you, Mister Baggins,” he admits. “Up until a few months ago, I’d never left Ered Luin.”

Bilbo is quite certain that his jaw drops, drawing a light chuckle from Kíli. 

“Well, sometimes Mister Dwalin and I would go on hunting trips, but they were never far away or for very long,” he explains. “And I went out on patrol around Ered Luin, but still, not far.”

“Oh,” is all Bilbo can think to reply. The lad had seemed so at ease in the wilds; he had just assumed Kíli had more experience than most, especially having been chosen for such an important quest. Bravery must be in no short supply for dwarrow, he reasoned. “Well then, I hope you are at least not as afraid of everything as I am.”

Kili’s gaze flickered down. “I am,” he admits quietly, and Bilbo wonders how in the world he can possibly be afraid, because he is always sent out scouting and climbing trees and hunting, typically with a smile and an eagerness not possessed by the rest of the company. But really, he realizes, Kili is still just a child, one who has never been away from home before.

“Is that why you can’t sleep?” he ventures, and Kíli just nods. Bilbo offers him his pipe again, but he refuses again. “Well, I’ll look after you if you decide to nod off. I can keep watch until morning.”

That soft, kind smile returns. “Thank you,” he murmurs quietly, and Bilbo can hear the sincerity in his words.

The comfortable silence descends over them once again, and Bilbo focuses on his pipe, idly humming fragments of a mostly forgotten lullaby from his childhood, the words dancing around his mind but flitting just out of reach. He wonders how he’s forgotten the words but can hear his mother’s voice clear as day, wonders if Kíli does the same with old dwarven lullabies. He turns to ask, but to his pleasant surprise sees that Kíli’s eyes have slipped closed, his head resting back against the tree trunk, chest rising and falling with steady, even breaths, lulled to sleep by the pleasant smell of pipe smoke and Bilbo’s humming.

Bilbo smiles, feeling immeasurably proud of himself as he settles in to keep watch for the next few hours.

He doesn’t see the fire glinting from Thorin’s eyes, who quietly watches him with a growing fondness.

-----

Lightning cracks across the sky, followed by another booming rumble of thunder. He and Kíli are working quickly to get the rest of the ponies tied to some trees, to keep the spooked beasts from fleeing in the night. As it is, Fíli feels fairly certain that one or more of them will be missing before the dawn. He deftly ties the reigns of the last of his ponies, before looking back at Kíli to see if he’s almost done. He cannot wait to be back under the cover of the outcropping of rocks they had found just before the skies opened up in this deluge.

His brother is on the last of his ponies, Minty, and Fíli begins to trudge over to help him along. Another bolt of lightning streaks the sky, bathing the entire wood in an eerie blue light, with the impossibly loud crack of thunder coming immediately after. Fíli sees Minty rear up in fear before sprinting off. Frantically, Fíli’s eyes search for his brother in the suddenly dark wood, but he cannot see him - the place where Kíli stood moments ago is empty.

“Fee!” he hears in the distance, and with a sickening feeling he realizes that Kíli must be caught up in Minty’s reigns, being dragged alongside her as she flees.

“We need help!” he screams in the direction of their encampment, before tearing off after the pony. Lightning illuminates the forest once more, and Fíli can see them, can see Kíli’s arm trapped in Minty’s reigns as his brother tries to pull himself free. He pushes himself faster, sprinting through the brush of the forest to catch them. Another flash reveals the stream they’d forded earlier, and with relief he realizes that Minty will likely stop at its banks - she’d been the most reluctant to cross it. He’ll be able to catch them and get his brother loose.

He trips over a branch, falls face first into the underbrush, and hears a large splash from ahead.

“No, no,” he breathes, scrambling to his feet. The next flash of lightning reveals Minty’s head barely above the tumultuous waters as she frantically tries to cross, with Kíli nowhere in sight. “Kíli!”

He reaches the streambank just as Minty pulls herself up on the other side, reigns cut. Kíli must have managed to free himself, but he’s still nowhere to be seen.

Panic grips at him as he scans the turbid waters, searching for any sign of his brother. Behind him, he hears someone calling out, but he can’t focus on who it is or what they’re saying. Another flash of lightning and he sees him, at least the blue of his hood, farther downstream. He sprints down the bank, his boots sticking in the mud, slowing him with each step, but he keeps his eyes on the hood, terrified that he will lose sight of it and his brother will be lost for good. When lightning flashes once more, he is relieved and horrified to see an outcropping of rocks blocking most of the stream flow, water rushing over and around them in their quest downstream. The rocks should stop him, and Fíli will be able to catch up.

Without thinking, he leaps into the rushing water, frantically moving forward, the water pushing him along with unforeseen might. He smashes into the rocks, his hands gripping wildly for his brother. Finally, he feels Kíli’s solid weight just under the surface and he pulls .

“Here, laddie; we’ve got ‘em,” he hears suddenly, and he looks up to see Bofur and Bifur with their arms extended. He lifts his Kíli up as well as he can, and the brothers grab him to pull him the rest of the way up. Kíli is deadweight, unmoving, and Fíli’s heart lurches in his chest as Bifur carefully carries him across the rocks and to the riverbank.

“Now you,” says Bofur, and Fíli reaches for him, grateful for his help in getting out of the stream as his legs have turned to jelly and he’s not certain he could have done it on his own. He leans heavily on the innkeeper, trying to find his brother in the darkness.

“He’s not breathing,” he hears someone say, but he can’t quite place their voice. He abruptly realizes how cold he is. Lightning flashes again, but it seems so dim. Why is everything so dark? “Someone get Oin! He’s not breathing!”

He feels the mud of the bank under his feet, but his legs give out when Bofur relinquishes his hold to let him stand. He hears thunder, and everything goes dark.

-----

“Move!” Bilbo commands, startled by his own forwardness. Dori obliges without comment, stepping aside from Kíli’s limp form, face clouded with worry. Kíli looks like hell, practically blue. Bilbo sinks to his knees beside the lad, shaking fingers brushing the hair back from his face, alarmed at how cold he is. Gently, he adjusts the lad’s head, trying to recall the rescue breathing his Brandybuck cousins had taught him ages ago when they were just children. When he pulls his hands back, he is dismayed to see them covered in blood.

“Do you know what to do?” Dori asks from behind him.

Dimly, he nods. “I think so, at least,” he admits, suddenly unsure of himself.

“Need some help over here, lads!” Bofur calls, and Bilbo looks up to see him struggling to support Fíli’s weight. Bifur rushes to help carry him, throwing Fíli’s arm over his shoulder to hoist him up. “Dori, get Oin. We’ll be right behind you.” He fixes Bilbo with a stern look. “You’ve got him ‘til they get back?”

“Yes; now go!” Bilbo orders, confidence returning as his fingers feel for the boy’s pulse along his neck, finally finding it sluggishly pounding along. He takes a deep breath, pinches Kíli’s nose, then breaths into his mouth once, then twice. The lad’s chest rises with each breath, something he vaguely remembers as a good sign, but he can’t for the life of himself remember why.

“C’mon, Kíli,” he murmurs, before breathing for him again. And again. And again. Watching between each breath for a sign of life from the lad. And again.

It can’t be like this. Not Kíli. Kíli who was so kind, and listened to his stories, and found ways to make him laugh on the darkest days of their journey. He breathes for him again. Watches. Nothing .

And Fíli! Was he alright? In shock, no doubt, from the icy chill of the water. He breathes again. Watches. Surely he would be okay, but without Kíli? Breathes again. He can’t fathom it. He’d only known them for a short time, but they were practically two souls sharing one body. Again. Again.

Again .

Kíli suddenly coughs, spurting up water as he does, before taking a rough, heaving breath. His body spasms violently as his consciousness comes back to him, grating, gasping breaths shake his entire form.

“It’s alright,” he soothes, stroking his hands along his face, his shoulders. “You’re alright, Kíli; we’ve got you.”

Oin suddenly appears beside him. “Said he wasn’t breathing?” he asks. “You did this?”

“My cousins taught me rescue breathing after one of them nearly drowned,” he explains hastily. “I think he has a head injury,” he adds, holding up his still bloodied hand as evidence.

“That arm might be broken, too,” Oin says, gesturing to Kíli’s right hand, which is already bruised and purple, swollen around his gauntlet. “C’mon, lads,” he says, and Bilbo looks up to see Gloin and Dwalin, their faces stricken with worry. “Let’s get him to the fire; Mister Baggins’ fine work will be for naught if we don’t get him warm.”

Numbly, Bilbo follows after them as they carry Kíli’s still sputtering form, hurrying through the downpour to get him under the safety of the outcrop. After what seems like an eternity, he spies the campfire in the distance. As they get closer, he can see the dwarves wrapping Fíli in furs. He’s cradled against Bofur’s chest, next to the fire, mumbling incoherently as he comes back to his senses.

Thorin is positively frantic, which strikes Bilbo as odd. He is immediately at Kíli’s side while Oin strips him of his soaking clothes, and it is Thorin who gathers the lad into his arms and wraps him tight under his furs, lips pressed close against his temple as he whispers words Bilbo cannot hear while Oin prods at his head, searching for the wound.

He feels like an intruder, like he’s watching something deeply private infold, so he slips away.

Silently, he trods off to the other side of the fire, to sit beside Fíli and Bofur. Fíli seems to have regained some of his strength - he’s not leaning on Bofur quite so much, and his eyes are focused on his brother across the fire. Bombur has placed a warm bowl of stew in his hands, and he’s cradling it gently, the tips of his fingers white with cold.

“He’s breathing?” Fíli asks as Bilbo approaches, his voice a stammering slur of words.

“He is,” Bilbo confirms as he settles himself, warming his chilled hands by the fire. Thunder rumbles again, making him jump. His adrenaline from being able to help has faded; now he just feels worried and cold. “What even happened?”

Fíli clears his throat. “I’m not quite sure,” he admits, his voice trembling. “We were tieing up the ponies. I looked over and one of them bolted, and I don’t know what happened but Kíli was...he was caught somehow...and…”

“His arm looked injured,” Bilbo said softly. “It must have gotten tangled in the reigns.”

Fíli chokes on a sob. “He went under and I couldn’t find him,” he murmurs, and Bilbo glances over at him, dismayed to see the tears pooling in his eyes. “I couldn’t help him.”

He reaches over and pats Fíli’s arm, trying his best to soothe the lad. “You did help him, Fíli. You got him out of the water. And now Oin will take good care of him.”

At that moment, Kíli lets out a pitiful wail as Oin tends to the wound on his head. Fíli starts to stand, but Bofur grabs his arm to keep him seated. “Rest, laddie,” he commands. “He’s in the best of hands.”

“I’m not leaving him alone,” Fíli asserts, and when he staggers to his feet, Bofur doesn’t stop him. Bilbo watches in barely concealed amazement as Thorin opens his arms and allows Fíli to settle into his opposite side, gingerly taking his brother’s arm into his hands to examine it. He’s never seen Thorin show a lick of affection to anyone in the company (and certainly not to him), and this raw tenderness...it’s a side of the dwarf king he hadn’t seen before.

His musing is interrupted as Bombur hands him his own bowl of stew. “It’s supposed to be a secret,” Bofur says after a moment, “but I think you’ve earned our trust.”

Bilbo regards him oddly. Their trust? Did he not already have it when he agreed to come on this blasted quest?

“They’re his nephews,” the innkeeper says, voice quiet, buried under the commotion of the camp.

“His what ?” Bilbo asks, incredulous. Slowly, the pieces click into place, his conversation with Kíli from a few nights ago catapulting to the front of his mind. Being orphaned, having to rely on his brother, being brought on the quest even though he wasn’t of age…

“He doesn’t want anyone to know because they’re his heirs - could wipe out the entire line of Durin at once if some evil sort wanted to,” he continues, still quiet. “Aside from Erebor, he loves those boys more than anything in the world. Raised ‘em himself. They may as well be his sons.”

-----

Kíli finally feels warm again, from where he is pressed against his chest. Thorin watches him as he sleeps, the subtle movement of his eyes beneath his eyelids. The fact that he is sleeping relatively peacefully is a gift that he won’t take for granted.

He truly thought they had lost him. When Oin and Dwalin had brought him back to their encampment...he was too pale, streaks of red blood on his face and neck, his arm impossibly swollen…and Fíli, his sweet Fíli, soaked to the bone and utterly terrified that he’d been too late to help his brother.

He’d been ready to scold the lads about being careless when tending to the ponies, but all of that anger, all of his appearances dissipated the second he’d heard Fíli’s frantic scream in the storm. The second he’d seen his frightened face…

He swallows thickly. Nightmares for his past swirl around his mind, horrible visions that he hoped would never come to pass. He regrets bringing them, both of them, but they’re too far gone to turn back now.

Oin had worked quickly on Kíli, finding and stitching the gash on his head, bracing his (fortunately unbroken) arm. The lad had been nearly delirious, from pain or cold or both, and Thorin had focused on talking him through what was happening, on distracting him with stories from his childhood, keeping him awake so Oin could assess the severity of his concussion. When Fíli had stumbled over he couldn’t help but gather him into his arms as well. Kíli was certainly in a more dire state, but it wasn’t lost on him that Fíli had nearly lost his life as well. If Bofur hadn’t heard his call...if he hadn’t rushed to their aid…

He couldn’t let himself dwell on that.

Holding them both so close had reminded him of when they were children, when Kíli was horribly afraid of storms and Fíli was afraid of sleeping alone, and they would both clamber into his study (where he inevitably was still up, pouring over his maps and books) and curl up on the settee together until they calmed enough to go to sleep.

But they weren’t children anymore, and they weren’t in the comfort of their home. They were in the wilds, on a quest that Thorin had no right to bring them on, no right to even ask them to come on.

The guilt gnaws at him, and he curls his arms tighter around Kíli’s sleeping form. He catches Fíli’s eye across the fire, where his heir is heating some water for the herbal tea Oin had given him for his aches. Fíli gives him a gentle smile, but Thorin sees the sadness and fear that still linger in his eyes. Thorin had held him close last night as he’d cried out his fears and blamed himself. But from the sounds of it, it was all a freak accident. No one could be blamed for this, not truly. Perhaps Minty, but the beast was only acting on instinct, and now she and her supplies were lost.

Kíli stirs slightly. Thorin peers down to be met with clouded, confused brown eyes. “You’re awake,” he says quietly, and Kíli’s brow furrows.

“Wha-” Kíli starts, his voice raspy. “What happened?”

Fíli rejoins then, smiling slightly when he sees that his brother is awake. He takes the tea he’d brewed for himself and presses it into his brother’s hands. “Minty took you for a late night swim,” he says, light tone belying the fear of the night before. “Drink this,” he adds, helping his brother lift the mug to his lips. “It’ll help you feel better.”

Kíli frowns. “Wha’s wrong with my hand?”

“Got tangled up in her reigns, I’m afraid.” Fíli explains, and Thorin is immensely grateful for his calming presence. A lump has lodged itself in his throat, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak. “Oin thinks it’s just a sprain,” he adds. “Should be right in a few days.”

Kíli quietly sips the warm tea, a soft hum of appreciation slips from the back of his throat. He lifts his head from Thorin’s chest to look around, but quickly grimaces and screws his eyes shut, letting his head fall back. “Ah, shit,” he grumbles, making Thorin chuckle, loosening the knot in his throat.

“Oin thinks your head will be off for a few days yet,” he explains. “Maybe sooner with the teas, but you’ll need to take it slow until then.”

“Thought you always said I had a thick head,” Kíli grumbles, drawing a bark of laughter from Balin nearby, which tugs a small smile to Kíli’s lips.

“Good thing, too, laddie,” Balin says, laughter still bubbling in his voice. “A knock that hard to any of the rest of this lot would have then out cold for days.” He casts a glance over to his brother. “Except for Dwalin, of course.”

Kíli laughs for real then, and Fíli joins in. Thorin feels immensely relieved to hear them sounding so much like themselves; it dissolves some of his guilt and frustration, reminding him that although they are but boys, they are strong , and loyal, and kind. It reminds him of why he included them in the company, even with his reservations, of their worth to this quest, of the rewards they would reap in Erebor.

And despite the terror of the night’s events, he feels more sure of himself than ever.

-----

“I don’t care what Uncle says about elves,” Fíli sighs contentedly, sinking into the huge, cushiony covering of the bed they’d been lent for the night. “So long as I get to sleep on this divine bed, they’re alright in my book. They’re even more hospitable than the poor hobbit was!”

“ Bilbo ,” Kíli reminds him. Having grown close to the hobbit during their adventure, he’d learned that he was particularly annoyed at being referred to simply as “the hobbit.” ( “I have a name,” he’d grumbled after Dwalin had dismissed him easily. “A perfectly good name that he’d be kind to remember!” ) Since then, Kíli had tried to use his name as often as possible.

“Yes, Bilbo,” Fíli amends. “Speaking of, what do you think of him?”

Kíli adjusts the sleeves of the robe the elves had lent them while they tended to their clothes, rolling them to keep them from covering his hands, before clammering up onto the bed with his brother. “I don’t know how he’ll fare as a burglar,” he admits, settling into the delightfully comfortable bedding. “But he is kind and honorable. A good man.”

“Mmm,” Fíli murmurs in agreement, practically falling asleep. It had been a long time since they had gone off to bed with a full belly and all of the comforts of home (though, to be true, the luxurious halls of the elves were a far cry from their modest upbringing), and Kíli would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleased with the turn of events. Elven culture was dramatically different than their own, but seeing a semblance of home , even if it wasn’t his home, had been deeply comforting.

A thought occurred to him, one that he had tried to squash down many times before, moreso now that their journey had started. He’d never properly voiced it aloud, not even to his brother.

What even was home ? Ered Luin had been the only home he had ever known, but being raised by Thorin it was always treated as a temporary solution. His days were filled with stories of Erebor, of their real home, but that’s all they were to him. Stories.

Now that the quest was proceeding, he felt a distinct fear gnawing at him. Would he even like Erebor? Thorin always spoke of the great, winding halls that carved deep into the mountain, but Kíli hated being underground for long stretches of time, much preferring the rolling, open fields or the comforting canopy of the forest. ( Elf-bred indeed , his brain mocks). If Thorin were restored to his throne, certain...responsibilities would be expected of him. He wasn’t sure he would be able to fulfill them. Fellow dwarves would be depending on them, and he was right terrified of letting them down, of not being up to the task.

He knew in many ways Fíli felt the same way - that their upbringing precluded him from being a suitable heir to Thorin’s throne, that he also feared not being adequate for their people. But Fíli didn’t see himself the way Kíli did - the way their fellow dwarves in the settlement saw him. He was assured and just and kind. He was skilled on the battlefield and had proven his worth as a soldier and general in his time on patrol. 

And then there was the unspoken truth about his birth - he was the spare. Part of him didn’t even dare to hope that he would ever even see the halls of Erebor, which is maybe why he couldn’t picture where he would fit. He’d already nearly lost his life thrice already -  most recently this morning, when he’d covered the company as they’d fled the band of orc hunting them, jagged arrows narrowly missing him. Then there was the business with the trolls, and not to mention how he almost got himself drowned (purely on accident, at that!). The wizard had alluded to the fact that the danger would increase the farther they traveled - that Rivendell would be their last safe sanctuary for quite some time.

He drew up the map of their road in his mind. Idly, he wondered at which point he would meet his demise.

“You’re not sleeping,” Fíli groggily mumbles, arm blindly flopping around to find him. “Go t’sleep.”

Kíli rolls, curling up against his brother’s side, squashing down his dark thoughts once again. Fíli already has so much to worry about; he doesn’t want to burden him further, especially knowing how much theorizing about his own end distresses his brother. 

He focuses instead, on happier memories, in particular on a foraging trip he had taken with Fíli and Dwalin through the woods surrounding Ered Luin on a perfect autumn day, the leaves swirling around them in reds and golds in the crisp breeze. They were just children, unburdened by the worries of their people. Carefree. Happy .

The sound of Fíli’s soft snoring and the comfort of their bedding eventually lulls him into a dreamless sleep.

-----

AN - I’m wrapping up the next chapter (currently rewatching the films for reference - my dumb self forgot about the whole ~arkenstone~ thing...oops).

[sleepdepwritings]

Presented for archival purposes only, the first part of a story I wrote many years ago and will not be continuing no way it’s very bad.

A Save the Spiders Gig

by Cody L Ralston

Chapter 1

The vampires stormed the stage while we were in the middle of "Walking is Still Honest," which was not fucking cool.

First of all, it's my favorite song by my favorite band. You don't go with the stage name "Against Steve" unless you love Laura Jane Grace. Second, Ted steps back and lets me sing lead on that song, and I fucking shred at it. I shriek that motherfucker, alright?

And third, y'know. Vampires.

The gig was a bonfire/kegger/minor riot some local kids had arranged in the badlands outside of town. We were set up on a platform we'd jerry-rigged from some old wooden pallets and milk crates, wailing sloppily at two or three dozen drunken, pill-popping, weed-smoking punk kids and a handful of older crusties who thought we were "true punk" because we sucked. Everyone in that crowd was screaming, slamming, arguing, fighting, and a few on the outskirts of the firelight may have been screwing right there in the dust.

In all the chaos, it was easy to miss things that would otherwise have set off warning signals. Like flying bottles. Or jagged-toothed undead monsters leaping for my throat.

The first vampire, a young man with a mop of dark hair, came at me just as I made a flamboyant motion with my bass that ended with the body of the instrument coming up hard into his jaw. I choked on the line I'd been singing and made to apologize before I noticed that two other people had leaped onstage, and that all three of them were baring huge sharp teeth at me and my band. All three had dirty, claw-like nails to match, and their skin and eyes had a pale blue tinge that put me immediately in mind of dead things.

"Shit! Vampires! Shit!" I yelled, right into the microphone. The audience probably thought I'd gotten high and forgot the lyrics, but Kassie, Ted, and Dave dropped the song immediately and made to defend themselves.

"Steve! Catch!" Dave yelled, throwing one of his drumsticks toward me. I dived for it, but one of the vamps tackled me, cracking the pallets as our combined weights slammed down on them. I clawed and scrambled for the drumstick, but the vampire had me pinned by the legs and lunged for my neck at the same time.

There was a solid "THONK" and a whine of feedback. The vampire rolled off of me, hissing at Kassie, who had just clubbed him over the head with her guitar without bothering to unplug it from the amp. Holding it by the neck like a golf club, she hammered another blow into the vampire's temple while I got my feet under me and grabbed at the stick.

Wheeling around with the stick clutched in both hands, I brought all my weight down on the dazed vampire, driving the length of wood right into the center of his chest. The stick splintered and broke when it hit his sternum, but one splinter must have made it through the rotted bone to his heart. He shrieked with pain and rage, convulsing, tearing at the ground with his clawed hands and tossing his head back. I fell back,  Then, suddenly, his cries died off, his body went slack, and his flesh began to slough off, dissolving into a putrid, green-black goo that bubbled and stank.

Kassie reached out one heavily-tattooed hand to me and helped me up off my knees. I winced- her grip had driven some of the splinters deeper into my hand.

A few yards away, Ted was holding one of the other vampires off with a mic stand. He had butted the foot of the stand into the hollow of the bald, emaciated creature's throat, and was pushing with all his might to keep the frenzied thing at arm's length. The vampire howled and lunged, forcing him back.

"Guys, I need help!" Ted screamed, panic rising in his voice. "He's really dumb but he's really strong!"

I looked around for the nearest weapon and found nothing but the splinters of the pallet at my feet. Cursing through clenched teeth, I grabbed an arm-length piece of splintered board and lunged at the vampire's back, leading with the sharp(ish) tip.

Said tip sank several inches into the creature, right between his shoulderblades. Unfortunately, while the board stopped at several inches, I didn't. My momentum carried me forward into the now dying vampire, who in turn slammed forward into Ted. We all hit the ground with a muffled "Shit!"

For a terrfying instant the wailing, snapping, clawing thing was trapped between us. Then, finally, it stilled, melting into corpse-goo all over my fucking shirt. Ted's shirt too, I guess.

Breathing hard, we got up, shaking and covered in rotten sludge. Ted sputtered and wiped some of the stinking shit out of his beard. Kassie, ever appropriate, was pointing and giggling at us.

"You guys actually made vampire-slaying look pathetic!" She snorted. I glared and looked to the back of the stage.

"Where's Dave?!" I yelled. Our drummer and the third vampire had disappeared from sight, which was a hell of a trick considering dave is six foot two without his massive green warhawk.

"Oh, right here." Called a voice from my left. I whirled around to see Dave step into the firelight nearly twenty yards away from the rest of us. How the hell did he get over there so fast?

"One of the fuckers tried to run. Don't worry, I got him." Dave hopped up onto the stage, and I noticed he was gripping a ride cymbal in his left hand. He took his place behind his kit and replaced the cymbal. One edge was bent sharply and stained black. Dave looked to me, smiling beatifically.

"Shall we?" He asked casually.

I turned back to the partygoers spread out in front of us. All of them had stopped to stare at the fight. A few were gaping dully, some were murmuring questions to each other,and a few near the front looked like they were about to start screaming. For my part, I stared back at them, wide-eyed and soaked in what I was pretty sure was someone's liquified intestines.

Ted, natural showman, was the one who finally acted.

"Guess our friends jumped their cue a bit, huh?" He laughed into the nearest mic. "Hope you enjoyed out little skit there. He's some Misfits covers for you. ONETWOTHREEFOUR!"

***

We fumbled our way through "Astro Zombies" and "Last Carress," then ran for Ted's van, parked with the cluster of other vehicles beyond the fire. We huddled around the far side to discuss what had just happened.

"What the fuck Dave?!" I hissed. Dave drew back, looking indignant.

"What? What did I do? Some vampires just attacked us, why would you blame me?"

"What the FUCK, Dave?" Kassie and Ted spoke simultaneously.

"Dave" is not Dave's real name. We all took stage names when we formed our band, Save the Spiders. Theodore "Ted Kennedy" Paige is four lead singer, Kassandra "Kassie Kriminal" Jones our guitarist, Steven "Against Steve!" McCool (me, nice to meet you) our bassist, and Dave G. Abortion is our drummer.

I don't know Dave's real name. I don't know if he has a real name. What I do know about Dave is this- he is tall, tan, has dark eyes and typically Navajo features, and the night I met him I saw him transform into a ten-foot-tall insectoid monster and bite off a man's arm. The man survived. Don't worry though, because after a lot of explaining and screaming and vomiting, I helped Dave hunt him down and finish him off before he could eat a couple of toddlers.

Oh, and he's a decent drummer. Kind of a showboat though.

Since that night, we had all had further encounters with monsters and magic, and almost all had been attracted by Dave and his mysterious powers.

So we stood there, scowling, daring him to keep denying that this was somehow his stupid fault. Eventually, he sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Look, there are LOTS of vampires who don't like me. It'd be hard to narrow it down to one group and one reason."

"What, didn't you recognize any of them? You got real up close with the one guy." Kassie said. Dave shrugged.

"They were all fairly fresh. Probably servants to whoever had the real grudge. I expect there'll be more coming."

Ted groaned.

"Why are we always in the crossfire with you? Why can't they kill you in your sleep and leave us out of this?"

"Why, because you're my best friends and stalwart companions, and killing you would hurt me more than any wound, of course!" Dave grinned and tossed an arm around Ted's shoulders. Ted jerked away from him.

I shucked my ruined shirt and tossed it onto the rocky ground. I ran my hands through my shaggy blonde hair, trying to think up a plan of action.

"Okay, so. Dave, you need to ask around and figure out who's in town that might want you dead-"

"Long. List. Dude."

"What the fuck ever! Go through it! And we need to set up some kind of defense system at the house. I don't want to be eaten on a futon, I'll disappoint my parents." I glanced in the direction of the party, which had gotten back into swing. "And we can't take any gigs until we've got this sorted out. We don't want to get normals involved in this shit."

"Good thinking, by the way, Ted." Kassie interjected. "Passing the vamp attack off as part of the show. Think they bought it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Everyone there was off their skull on booze and speed. Half of them won't remember it happened at all, and I'm sure no one is going to leave here convinced they saw real vampires."

"I know I saw real vampires."

The voice came from behind us, between the cars. Everyone jumped and raised their hands in vague, ineffectual defensive motions.

A young man, probably around nineteen, stepped forward hesitantly. He was black, on the short side, with a swimmer's build and close-cropped hair. He wore a faded denim jacket, blue jeans, and a Ramones t-shirt, all rumpled and a bit ratty. His eyes were cast down shyly. While I should have been concentrating on what he was saying, I couldn't help thinking to myself that he also had a really cute face.

"Those were real vampires." He said, louder this time.

"Kid, you do NOT want to go around saying that." Kassie said, quirking a pierced eyebrow. "Normals will want to lock you up and vampires- if they existed, which they don't, nuh-uh, no way- would want to kill you. If they existed. Which-"

"I KNOW they exist." The kid looked up to meet our eyes, indignant now. "I know they exist because I've seen them before. They took some of my friends. I think they ATE them. And I came here tonight because someone told me you guys have handled creepy stuff like this before. I came here for your help." His eyes flicked down again, and his lower lip (his really quite full and soft-looking lower lip, I noted, like a fucking idiot) quivered. "They're after me, too. They know I know."

The band exchanged looks. If this guy had contact with the vampires, he probably knew who they were and maybe where they were holed up. And if they were after him, we had a duty as non-assholes to help him.

And, well... For all Ted's bitching, we all knew we were nursing a big stupid hero complex.

I held my hand out to him.

"My name is Steve McCool. And we're going to help you however we can, alright?"

He looked at me with relief in his shining eyes. He shook my hand, his own clammy and sweating.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. I'm Jamie, Jamie DeVries."

"Well Jamie, this is Kassie, Ted, and Dave. Hop in the van. We're going to pack up and then we can take you to our place and you can give us some details on these bastards." I turned to the others.

"Alright guys, let's haul ass and get back to the squat."

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #193

“i’m stronger than i ever knew; i’m strong because of you.”

What’s one item the dollar store is good for? Candy. What’s the last thing you made out of construction paper? A "cover" for Sara's first V-Day present. What’s the last thing that inspired you? I'm not sure, really. Probably some video. Are you a daredevil? No. What’s one thing you are lazy about? Cleaning. Do you prefer tea to be cold or hot? Tea is a no from me. Do you ever get annoyed by the stupid decisions characters make in books? Not really annoyed, seeing as making mistakes is sometimes a necessity to the plot, but I'm more like, "no one would ever do that irl," especially in the horror genre. What’s one thing that’s annoying you about the book you’re reading now? N/A What’s the most boring thing about your life right now? You would almost assume I'm under house arrest because I can never leave my fucking house. What could make your life more interesting? Being in school, have a job, or have Sara live here. Name someone you know who is truly happy. My nephew. He's only two, but. I have never seen a happier human being. Do you have trouble letting friends go when you need to? It depends. Do you have trouble letting things go? Depends as well. How cluttered is your apartment/house/room? My room's decent, but the majority of the house is kinda messy or just unorganized. Do you have any antique furniture? No. What’s the most you’ve ever spent on a purse? Idk, certainly not much. Where would be the most fun place to do a 24 hour challenge in, do you think? Probably an amusement park. Would be creepy as fuck at night too, and I'd liiive for it. What’s something you’ve been wanting to do but haven’t got around to yet? A lot... like resume studying German. I haven't decided to yet because I question the real usefulness of it; I want to go to Germany, but that may never happen, and I could probably manage just enough with what I know. It may end up just being wasted time and effort. What was the best class trip you have ever been on? 5th grade visit to the zoo. Did you have your own room as a child? No, I shared it with Nicole. Maybe Ashley was with us for a while before being given her own room? Idr. Have you ever shared a room? See above, then with Jason in the old apartment. If so, was having a roommate hard for you? As a young kid, Nicole and I liked sharing a room, but as I especially got older, I really wanted my own. With Jason, no. Do you own a lot of clothes that don’t fit you anymore? Yes, some I hope to shrink back into or are just stored for nostalgia. Where do you donate old clothes? Goodwill and some other place idr. Do you enjoy antique stores? Oh. My. God. Yes. What are five things you inherited from your mom? Somewhat slower metabolism I think, depression, are seasonal allergies genetic?, height, and hair thickness. What are five things you inherited from your dad? PACING, this little short huff-ish laugh thing he does at the end of some sentences, no common sense whatsofuckingever, and enjoying games. Do you enjoy grocery shopping? Noooo. Do you enjoy clothes shopping? Only at stores I like, and if I don't have to try things on. Do you own footie pajamas? Omg nooooo, haven't since I was a kid. They had to be so uncomfortable. Which America’s Got Talent Golden Buzzer performance was your favorite? I haven't seen/remember enough. Do you watch America’s Got Talent? I did religiously until Sharon left. If you were to host a '90s party, which 3 shows would you like to run? That '70s Show, Full House, and The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. What was your favorite thing you collected as a child? Webkinz. I was that one kid who had dozens. Whose house was your first sleepover at? My first best friend, Brianna's. If you had a daughter, would you allow sleepovers? Of course with girls, but I probably wouldn't allow a boy to stay overnight until she was at least 16 due to the risk of her getting pregnant. Which do you like better, your first name or your middle name? My first. What are some ways that pop culture has helped you learn historic or scientific facts? Oh, video games and TV shows definitely have. There must be plenty of other things, but. Blanking. Have you ever had a job in which you felt that you had nothing to do? What was the protocol in that situation (e.g., surfing the web, taking on the job of co-workers, or pretending to work)? If you have not, do you think it would be lucky or unlucky to have such a job? N/A; I wouldn't enjoy an extreme lack of work, but definitely some time to like wander around the Internet and such. Having too little would be super boring, and I'd feel very unproductive. Have you ever intimidated or made another person feel legitimately threatened? If not, do you think that you could ever be seen as scary? I felt horrible when I found out Mom's been legitimately uneased before because of how loudly I can scream at Bentley and/or Teddy when I'm really pissed. I've been working on it since then. In what ways do you or would you need to be validated by a partner? (For example, liking your posts/talking about you on social media, or perhaps by doting on you with gifts.) Above all, I need to be reminded that you love me, that you're not leaving (unless of course there's good reason to), AND THAT MY ILLNESSES AREN'T BECOMING TOO OVERWHELMING. As well, with how I physically am now, I need to know that my weight doesn't bother you. That's all I can think of atm. When you are having a hard time emotionally, what are some of the telltale ways that you act out or that your personality reflects your struggles? I admit I speak before I think and can be very snappy and sarcastic. I become extremely pessimistic and cry easier than I already do. My stability in general is very fragile when I'm struggling. Do you tend to succeed by weaning yourself off of something or by quitting cold turkey? WEANING. I never would've survived dropping soda (for the time I did) if I hadn't weaned down. Well, quitting meat cold turkey during my vegetarian phase was easy, but most things, I'd still say weaning. Is there a specific type of pet breed/size/etc. that you don’t want? Why not? I wouldn't want huge dogs due to so much energy, nor would I want arachnids or insects. Or fish because they bore me so it just feels like a total chore to clean the tank. I wouldn't want most birds due to all the noise. Also not interested in blood pythons, as they're notorious for being aggressive. Have you ever lived in a notoriously dangerous area? If not, would it bother you to do so? Yup. Has a friend’s significant other ever interfered with or damaged your friendship? What about a significant other of yours damaging a friendship? I don't think so for either. What, if anything, is something that you put pressure on yourself about? What do you imagine would happen if you did not live up to this expectation? Achieve complete financial comfort. If I don't, after how I've grown up, I will be borderline (if not seriously) devastated and disappointed in myself. I also put immense pressure, an amount I know is unhealthy, on myself about losing weight, and if I don't achieve that, I don't know what I'd do. I've worked and still work so hard to. If you have been in a serious relationship, have you and your partner ever discussed lifetime plans that clashed? Did you reconcile them or did you break up? If you have not been in a relationship, what are some issues that would be deal-breakers? In the beginning of mine and Jason's relationship, it was casually mentioned I didn't want children while he did, but we didn't worry about that at the time as we had a long time to figure that out. I later decided I wanted kids together, anyway... Would you ever believe I wanted three back then???? If you have favorite names or names picked out for your children, where did you learn of the names or when did you fall in love with them? I can't remember where I heard Alessandra, but I immediately thought it was gorgeous. I fell in love with Damien because of fucking Mayor Damien from Who Killed Markiplier? Yes, I would absolutely name my son after a Markiplier character, fight me about it. What is one item that you have recently been coveting? Do you think that you will actually get it? Why/why not? A new laptop more than anything... and soon. Dad's working on it as a Christmas + birthday present. Do you still have both of your parents? They're alive, but divorced. Do you like being sensually bitten? UGGGHHHHHHHH YEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS. If you wear eyeliner, what color do you use? Only ever black. How many colors are in your hair right now? One, but with natural highlights and undertones. Do you have your full license yet? No. Working on it. Are you into gory movies? If the gore is a realistic amount. Have you ever been locked in a room forcefully without anyone knowing? No. Do you have the same color eyes as your mother? No. Does your significant other boss you around a lot? No. Have you ever been drunk? If so, do you get drunk regularly? No. Do you consider yourself a loner or a social butterfly? A loner, but I'm sincerely trying to branch out at least some. Have you ever been put to sleep for surgery? Yes. What is your favorite online smiley face to you? I like ;v; but rarely use it because people can't seem to decide if it's an extremely happy and teary face (what I see) or a sad one???? What is something that freaks you out no matter what? OH GOD thought of this because I passed a video of a pregnant sphynx on FB today. I. Cannot. See a fetus moving from the outside of its mother's stomach. It absolutely, thoroughly horrifies me to the point I may scream. It's one of the million reasons, if not the main reason, I never want to be pregnant and why I say pregnancy would likely traumatize me, especially feeling it. Are the lights in your room more dim or bright? I'd say my ceiling lamp is a tad dimmer? Do you take a lot of photos? No. I'd take far more "photography" pictures if I actually had things to and a way to get around... When you were little, did you think band-aids healed everything? Maybe? Have you ever had a pregnancy scare? A completely unrealistic one. I just missed my period one month, I guess out of stress, a change in meds, something like that, and I was panicking that it was a pre-cum pregnancy, even with protection (aka, thin underwear, which sperm can't travel through). I was an anxious mess until my period did come around. Anxiety is fun. Do you have freckles? If so, do you enjoy them or hate them? I don't. Where do you download music from? YouTube. Do you have a laptop, desktop or both? A laptop. If you have a job, do you work with any of your friends? Do you like that job? N/A When did you last look in a mirror? Last time I was in the bathroom. What are you most known for? Probably that I'm very reserved and anxious. What was the last movie you bought for yourself to watch? I don't think I've ever bought a movie myself. If you have any animals, do any of them live in the house with you? They all do. Would you rather have curly or straight hair? Straight. What is one thing you think is gross about the human body? Sweating. Ever make a friendship bracelet for someone? As a kid. Would you say you have extreme morals? "Extreme" seems a bit far, but I have rather strict ones. What have you been made fun of for the most? I've been teased by so many people, family especially, about how I stay on the laptop or am on my phone, and I fucking hate it. Seriously, don't bring it up. I have reasons. Do you watch any television shows from other countries? I don't watch any TV shows currently. Who is your most favorite television/movie villain? Television... probably a character I can't say as their position of being a villain is a massive spoiler of the show. Or Fullmetal Alchemist's Envy, especially in Brotherhood. Movie, Dark Alessa from the first Silent Hill. Have you ever been stabbed by something? A pencil. Maybe other things. Well, do piercings, tattoos, or shots count? How many pillows do you normally sleep with? Two. When you have chocolate, do you eat it room temperature? Or are you like me and stick the bar into the fridge first? I like it room temperature. Chilled doesn't sound all that appealing. What’s the most shocking thing that’s happened in your part of town? Idk, maybe a murder or something? Are there any constellations you recognize just by looking at them? The Little or Big Dipper, idk which is which. Which insect do you find the most beautiful? Butterflies! Do you like gardening? If so, what do you grow? No. Do you enjoy puzzle games? If so, which one’s your favorite? Yeah, probs Sudoku. What is a job you would never in a million years want to do? Teaching, to name just one. What’s the weirdest building in your city? *shrugs* Do you recognize friends’/family’s vehicles by sound? No. Which Disney villain is your favorite? Probably Scar. Or Hades, I loved his character. Which possession would you not want to inherit from a relative? I dunno. Fancy china or some shit I'll never use or break. Is there an ex you think about every day? You know... maybe Jason. Tiny things will trigger quick memories/thoughts about him a lot of days, maybe actually most, I guess as a PTSD thing. He played such a huge part of my life and drastically changed it, so it's hard not to. I don't give him deep thought or anything and they're typically emotionless; just for example, if I heard Motionless In White, my head would immediately connect them to him as his favorite band, then the thought's over. AND I JUST WANNA SHARE BECAUSE I'M PROUD AS FUCK that today was our anniversary date, and this is the first year I feel zero pain or attachment to it. Would you ever go back to any of your past relationships? No. What's the worst thing you have ever said to anyone? Probably some evil shit I said in that letter to Dad. Who was the last person to text you before you went to bed last night? Sara. When was the last time you had a conversation with an ex? I talked briefly with Girt a few days back. Is there a guy who knows everything or almost everything about you? Jason did. Who was the last person to annoy you? My stepmother with the stupid political shit she shares on Facebook. I love her a whole lot, but oh my god. I regret even adding her. Do you have any text messages that you don’t want other people to read? I wouldn't be mortified or anything, but there's some I want private nevertheless. Which room in your house tends to be the coldest in the winter time? The laundry room, the first room of the house from the backdoor. There's no AC in there, and because there's a draft with the door, it gets cooooold. What is something that you fear will happen to you in the future? (Also Why) I won't be financially stable. That's all I've known so far, and the stress of it is unbelievable. What criminal (dead or alive) would you like to sit down and talk to and why? None. What is the most interesting documentary have you watched? Meerkat Manor. :') Where is your brother? In Tennessee. Last person you cussed at? At? Not in the presence of? Uh, I think I playfully called a friend/family member a bitch at some point? When did a parent last tell you, you couldn’t do something you wanted to? I was craving a Sonic shake a couple days ago, but Mom didn't wanna drive out that far with low gas. Last time you took a picture? A few days back. Our camellia bush is blooming now, and some of the flowers are falling, and I visualized a beautiful shot looking down at one, but no matter what I did, the damn camera wouldn't focus just enough. This is such a frequent problem that I think something may be wrong with the lens. I cannot wait for new ones. Next time you will see the last person that made you cry? Who was it? Myself, so, lol. Next person that will call you? Likely my dad about our laptop hunt. Last person that was at your house besides family? A delivery guy. How many friends do you have? I don't know who are really my old friends, friends, and true friends nowadays. Few. When were you born? 11:20 or 11:30 A.M., I forget. Who are you closest to in your family? Mom. What program on your computer do you use the most? Chrome. Would you ever consider getting plastic surgery? Not unless I was in some sort of freak accident. What is your favorite breed of dog? Akita inus or Saint Bernards. Are you a fan of anime? Yeah. What is your favorite kind of cookie? Soft chocolate chunks. Ahhh. Where is your favorite city? I don't have one. Do you get bored easily? Very. What grosses you out the most? The most? Oh man, idk. Probably seeing bones clearly broken and at gnarly angles, or strange bodily shit like botflies being pulled out (I physically refuse to watch things like that), and giant pimple/cyst popping is fucking disgusting. I do NOT understand how some find it satisfying. Or, as mentioned earlier, seeing fetuses move from the outside. Have you ever been to the circus? In elementary school. I don't remember it. What’s the longest word you know? Uhhh, "brobdingnagian?" Do you use teeth whitener? No, but God knows I want to. Do you think war is an acceptable way of solving problems? NO. NO. NO. NO. Were you a bad child when you were younger? No. What is your favorite type of exercise? Swimming. Do you live near any volcanoes? No. Name one word that you always have trouble pronouncing. Almost everyone points out how I put a "d" in "breakfast" after the "k." I have to consciously think in order to not. Tell me something about yourself that you don’t normally tell people. The fact I enjoy RP. Do you have any songs that seem to fit your life perfectly? Perfectly, idk. Have you ever tried “planking”? Oh wow, I forgot about that fad. The exercise form of planking, yes. Do you trust yourself with big responsibilities? Usually not. What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream? So there's this local dessert place I go to exclusively for their ice cream called "campfire delight" that surpasses any ice cream I've ever had. Out of basic flavors, vanilla. How many people have you truly fallen IN love with? Two. Where was your mom born? Somewhere in New York. Have you ever seen your siblings naked? Well duh as kids. As teens/adults, I think I've seen Ashley like once. Now Nicole, she has no shame and used to walk without a care into the living room to grab clean clothes lmao, and she never cared if I needed to come into the bathroom for whatever if she was in there after she got out of the shower. What can always make you feel better no matter what? Show me that video of Mark witnessing for the first time that "nasa peepo" shit lmao. I will at LEAST smile. What did you last order from a restaurant? A double cheeseburger and fries. And what restaurant was that from? McDonald's. Did you ever really believe in the tooth fairy? Yes. Would you ever get your legs waxed? Likely not. Are you listening to music right now? "Roots" by In This Moment. When was the last time somebody hit on you? lul Sara yesterday, I think. Was the last person you met a male or female? Uhhh who was the last person I met. I really don't know. Which one of your friends do you feel most comfortable around? Sara. Do you own a map of the world? No. Who did you last spoon with? Sara. Does your family eat dinner together? No. When eating string cheese, do you dive right in or just peel it? I don't like string cheese. How do you get rid of your hiccups? Nothing works for me. Do you know how to take screen shots on your computer? Yeah. Do you have a blister anywhere on your body? No. Do you remember what your last fortune cookie said? No, but I think I recall thinking it was stupid. Do you like Chinese food, Mexican food, or American food better? American. What do you think of off-brand soda? Doesn't bother me. Do you like hot, cold, or lukewarm showers? Usually hot. Do you grit your teeth a lot? No. Do you like to swing? Ye. How about jumping on a trampoline? Haven't done that in years, and it would probably wreck my knees. Do you have long arm hair? No. Is your hair healthy? Very. How often do you wash your hair? I have to every time I shower unless I want it greasy, so every other day or sometimes one more. Do you love Family Guy, or hate it? It doesn't bother me. Do you like kids? I don't hate them, but being around them long enough tests me. How often do you like to have sex? Sara and I aren't at that point yet, so I can't really say. If I'm still the same, Jason and I did so every few days, and if I didn't see him in like, almost a week, I'd definitely want it. Do you throw shit under your bed? No. Do you like Dairy Queen? Sure. Have you ever actually drank warm milk? Ew, no. Do you prefer to have milk when you eat cakes/cookies? Every once in a while for cookies. What is your preferred brand of chocolate? Ohhhhhh I can't remember its name. It's one of the "fancier" kinds. Do you like white chocolate? No, too sweet. Are there any movies/shows you’ve seen so many times you’re sick of them? I don't think so. What about songs you’ve heard so many times you hate them? Not hate. Have you ever eaten snow? Yeah, as a kid, and here in the South, there's also this tasty treat called snow cream that you make with fresh snow. Are there any metals that turn your skin green? Silver. Do you know anybody who gets feminism confused with misandry? BOY DO I Do you talk to your pets? Seriously curious, does anyone not? When you do, is your tone different from when you talk to humans? Usually. Do you like using terms of endearment? Yes. Describe yourself with 3 fictional characters. Okay so I'mma actually think here... HA FIRST I am the Actual Eric Derekson, Max Caulfield (tho I give myself just enough credit that I am not that cringey), and Katniss Everdeen, if I remember her well enough (and I only read the first book/saw the first movie). Are there any numbers you dislike for any reason? No. Do you own/wear any jumpsuits? No. Have you ever adopted a stray? (Cat or dog) Cats, plenty. What’s a movie you think more people should see? Idk. Do you read about any mythology? (Greek, Roman, Norse, Egyptian, etc) Haven't since high school, but I'm very interested in it. If you do, do you have any favorite gods/goddesses? Maybe Artemis. Do you think it’s prettier when the moon is full, or a crescent? Full. Have you ever been to a planetarium? Does the Kennedy Space Center qualify? Have you grown to dislike your first email address? Lol, I'll admit it's embarrassing when I have to give it out. Have you ever gotten angry at an employee and complained to the manager? No. What songs bring back happy memories for you? "Closer" by The Chainsmokers, "Leavin'" by Jesse McCartney, "Pretty Woman" by Van Halen, "All Time Low" by Jon Bellion, "Caroline" by Aminé, "I'm Not A Vampire" by Falling In Reverse, a few Billy Joel songs, a lot of old Train songs, "Let Me Hear You Scream" by Ozzy... a lot. Are there any smells that bring back happy memories? Probably? Oh, pancakes and sausage or bacon cooking, for one. I just remember the occasional times as a kid Mom would make breakfast.

[hellomissmabel]

The Girl From The Village part 1

MASTERLIST

AO3 account

Pairing: Steve x reader

Warnings: Cheating. Death by car accident, and by infection. Physical assault, breaking and entering.

Word count: 5k

Summary: Still grieving for her husband’s death, Captain America is the last person Y/N expects to show up at her door. Their fate is connected in a peculiar way, one that sparks an unusual friendship. Yet Y/N still isn’t sure she wants to be included in this particular narrative.

A/N: written for @nataliarxmanxva and the prompt is in italics. I know this first part is extremely heavy, but the second part will be much lighter, I promise!

Series masterlist can be found here

I married young, fresh out of high school with my prom dress as inspiration for my wedding dress. I married the first fool that told me he loved me. He was a car freak and tweaked at his father’s vintage car collection over the weekend. Some say I married up, with a real gentleman that treats me like a queen. Others say he married down, and even though I’m a beautiful butterfly, our love will only last a couple seasons before the butterfly gets stripped of her wings.

So it’s only fitting that for this year’s Halloween walk around town, I dress myself up as a dark forest nymph, with withered, ghostly butterfly wings. As an annual tour guide, I escort the kids, teenagers and other youngsters around different haunted locations. At the end of the night, there’s a party for those who can’t get enough of the nightly terrors and an open bar for the other who, like myself, just need a drink to come down from all the screams.

As I sit down on one of the long bar stools, waving over the bartender with a kind smile, I check my phone for any missed calls or messages. There’s one from my mother-in-law who tried to reach me about an hour and I cringe at the reminder of our last conversation, a neat little bruise high on my cheek bone where she slapped me right in the face, now covered up by a thick layer of make-up.

She had already warned me that she was going to do that if she ever saw me again. But I just wanted to return our wedding album I borrowed from her husband, my father-in-law, last spring. He seems the be one of the few people that understand my situation, having experiences the very same emotions I went through. Of course he’ll never talk to his wife about this, or she will be just as ‘sympathetic’ to him as she is to me.

“Why the long face, Y/N?,” the bartender comments on my sullen appearance as he makes me a Bloody Mary on the house.

Sighing while I cup the glass in both my hands, I take a sip from the red liquid. “Family issues. As usual.” The bartender, Jimmy, tells his colleague to take over for a minute as he leans on the counter and listens to what you have to say.

“She still thinks it’s my fault. Everything is always my fault. Last Monday she gave me a shiner. But how else was I going to give back our wedding album to her, hm? Mail it to them? Come on…”

“Don’t, Y/N. Jared would want you to be happy.”

“She was the one that set me up with her son in the first place. I mean, she probably regrets that now. She regrets many things, she told me. Yet she makes it look like I don’t regret anything at all. I’m fine with taking the blame because I deserve it. But I refuse to be her patsy, I can’t control every element of her and my life.”

“Of course you can’t, sweetie, you’re only human.” Jimmy squeezes your shoulder. “I gotta go back now, I’ve got customers waiting, but I’m always here if you wanna talk. And remember sweetie, you’re a wonderful human being and you’re gonna get through this.”

The walk home is silent, with my headphones on and in comfortable loneliness. These last few weeks have been nothing but comfortable loneliness. I have gotten used to being on my own so I don’t feel as lonely anymore as before. But I still clearly remember a time when I was surrounded by people, when I was loved by everybody in this little town instead of shunned by half.

That night, you don’t even bother to take off your make-up properly, not yet ready to see the blue-ish bruise on my cheek shine in the soft bathroom light. It’s only when morning comes that you regret ever not taking it off, scrubbing and rubbing at the best of your abilities until your face is red and swollen from the exertion. Exhausted again, you crawl onto the couch with a warm blanket or two and some Halloween-themed cornflakes, reminiscing about Jared, and Tom.

A strong knock to the door startles you as it disrupts your trail of destructive thoughts. Getting up with a heavy feeling in your bones, you drag yourself from the safety of the couch and towards the front door. When you open it, it’s like the wind is knocked right from your lungs.

“Hi,” the blond says shyly, giving you a warm half-smile as awe transforms his face. “I’m sorry to show up here unannounced, but I was hoping to talk to you. You’re Y/N right?”

“And who may you be?,” you ask a little defensive, your evident surprise putting you straight on edge.

“I’m Steve, Steve Rogers,” he replies as he goes through his hair with long, slender fingers.

Steve Rogers. You’re going over in your mind where you’ve heard the name before, until it finally clicks and recognition dawns on your face. “Captain America?,” you whisper under your breath, a couple curses on the tip of your tongue. “What is Captain America doing on my doorstep?”

“Like I said, I wanted to talk to you. I saw you in Brooklyn, like a month ago, is that possible?”

You nod since you have been in Brooklyn for a baby shower last September, but unfortunately you don’t remember running into none other than Steve Rogers. If you had, surely you would remember? “Come in,” you offer hesitantly as you size him from head to toe. He’s just like the news reports show, tall and muscly and all bulging biceps.

He waits for you to sit down before he takes a seat opposite of you, wringing his sweaty palms together. “So I’m just gonna… say it,” he chuckles wryly, embarrassment rolling off him in thick waves. “I was in Brooklyn getting some groceries when I saw you walk up to one of the apartments across the street. You were wearing a soft blue dress with a red bow in your hair. Your hair was pinned up like they did back in the forties and you looked very classy.”

As he finishes his appreciative description of your vintage outfit and matching looks that day, you’re already blushing like a lobster. But Steve isn’t finishes yet. “The resemblance was uncanny,” he gushes softly, taking his wallet and fishing out an old photograph. Steve shows it to you and you take it in the palm of your hand, very carefully.

Tentatively you speak with a quiet voice and tender eyes. “She does look like me. A lot.” Your thumb smooths over the black and white surface. She’s in some kind of uniform, ready to salute, her red-painted lips holding a perfect smile while her eyes glisten with genuine heartiness.

“She was a chorus girl. Her name was Naomi.” His eyes dart from the picture in my hands to mine and back. “She was one of the brightest souls I’ve ever met. Really talented performer, so good they sent her with me to the battlefield to cheer up the men.”

Your eyelashes flutter softly as you try to hold in your emotions, moved by how his voice seems to break under the pressure of his words. “She was special. Bucky and I, we were smitten by her. When I rescued him from where they held him imprisoned, she was there to nurse him. Bucky… He – euhm, he was a little infatuated. But Naomi, she only had eyes for me.”

With a little laugh, he accepts the picture as you give it back to him. “Naomi stood up for me and kind of… tamed the other girls. One guy taking on at least a dozen show girls… that’s just too much oestrogen for little Stevie here to handle. Even though I wasn’t so little anymore.”

After pocketing it back in his wallet,  he fidgets with his hands in his lap. “Some of the girls didn’t have lads at home and could get a little handsy from time to time, but it was always very innocent. They missed having a man around, so I sort of became their man. But Naomi… With her it was different… She – euhm, she was my first.”

Your eyebrows knit together as something snaps inside of you. “If you’re here hoping to get laid by a lookalike of your forties sweetheart, then you better get out of here before I kick you out.”

Steve gapes at you, his pupils flared in surprise as he stutters and stammers to correct himself. “No, no that’s not why I’m here at all. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m just here to talk, promise.”

The corner of your mouth twitches as your lips are set in a thin, stern line, jaw still clenched tight. You believe him. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to be so rude. I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

The colour slowly returns to his face as you relax your shoulders, a flush creeping up on you as a more positive connotation settles in your thoughts. This chorus girl, Naomi, who looks so much like you, was Captain America’s first time fooling around. That must be a compliment in that, right?

“What happened to her?,” you query gently, noticing the Captain’s cheeks are turning from pink to pale white again.

The Captain is fighting back the tears and he squeezes them shut as he remembers her, clearing his throat first before answering. “She took a hit when Bucky fell of the train. Naomi had caught some kind of infection from the battlefield and when she heard about Bucky… She lost her will to fight. She was devastated.”

You get up from the couch and join his side once you notice how hard this is on him. Placing your hand on his knee, it gives Steve a little boost to continue. “Yet we made each other a promise. I’d get back from the war and she’d get better. She’d hook me up with Peggy and I’d find her a nice lad, too. But instead of keeping that promise…”

“You ended up in the ice, trying to save the world,” you finish his sentence for him. “I’m sure she knew. I’m sure she knew you did what you had to do.”

“Naomi was one of the first people to ever appreciate me for me. To her I wasn’t just some bulky and weird science project, but a real man. She didn’t know me before I became Captain America, but she assured me she would’ve loved me just the same.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Steve,” you whisper softly. “I know what it feels like to lose someone that special.”

Steve shifts his body towards you, interest peaking his ears. “My husband, Jared, died last year,” you explain as an uneasy mood strikes you. This is the first time you’re actually willing, prepared, just ready to talk about it.

“Jared and I, we were everybody’s favourites, so naturally we were bound to fall in love. High school sweethearts, you know...” Your mouth has run dry so you run to the kitchen and fetch yourself a glass of water, offering Steve a drink too.

“We got married shortly after we finished high school, before we were supposed to go to college. Jared had already procured his placed at an Ivy League University and soon thereafter I earned a scholarship to the same one, too. I didn’t want Jared’s help, I didn’t want to thrive off his last name. I insisted on earning my place.”

Returning with two glasses, you sit cross-legged next to Steve, holding on tightly to both your glass as well as your heart. “We had a solid relationship. We had a good marriage. But we married too young, there were others things we still wanted to do other than being married. Sure, we loved each other and wanted to grow old together, but after a while there was no passion, no excitement, no sparks flying anymore.”

Steve listens intently, nodding here and there whenever he believes it’s most constructive. The sound of your voice is somehow soothing to his own grief. He wants closure just as much as you do. he thought that by going to see you, he’d be able to turn the page. But one page can wait a little longer if he can help you move on to the next chapter, too.

“Two summers ago, I met another guy, Tom. Jared had flown to Europe for his internship and would be away for two full months, maybe longer. We’d just graduated and the whole world seemed to be at our feet. Tom was here visiting some family and one of my friends, his cousin, brought him along to a party.”

Inhaling deeply, that night’s events still freshly engraved in our mind, you attempt to suppress the flashbacks and the memories by holding your breath. Steve tells you it’s alright, his hand rubbing circles on your back to help you level your breathing. “It’s okay. You can tell me, I won’t judge.”

“Nobody ever talks about summer love like it’s going to last, you know? You don’t expect a summer fling to last. But Tom… he took me hiking one day and we’d just lay in the grass looking at the clouds changing, holding hands. Tom adored me. He was so easy to adore, too. So we kept it going for longer than just the summer, long after Jared had returned...”

Your glass is empty and it’s like you’re staring into a bottomless pit. “Tom got a job here, because I asked him to. Jared never suspected anything. Of course I still loved him and Jared still loved me, but the chemistry between us had long died down. The most intimate moments with Tom were our hikes, when we could just… be together. Period. It wasn’t about the sex, it was about something much deeper.”

Looking up into Steve’s baby blue eyes, you recognise the same remorse, the same regret that’s flooding your system as we speak. He was in love with Peggy, yet allowed himself to fall for Naomi as well. “If you don’t mind me askin’… How did Jared die, love?”

“Jared was supposed to take one of his dad’s vintage cars out for a spin. He wanted to take me with him and maybe organise a little picnic with just the two of us. He got home early from work to prepare for everything. I knew Jared inside out and he probably thought he should do some warming up first so he could impress me with his driving skills. But the car hadn’t been out of the garage for ages and didn’t receive a regular check-up either. Jared crashed into a tree because the brakes didn’t function properly.”

Crying softly into the blond’s shoulder, the super soldier wraps his arm around your waist and comforts you silently, giving your emotions free reign. “His mother likes to blame me for what happened. She needs someone to blame.”

“It’s not your fault, Y/N,” Steve whispers into your hair. “None of it is your fault.”

“If I hadn’t been in the woods with Tom, I would’ve had reception and I would’ve heard my phone ring.” Detaching yourself from his sturdy frame, you try to make yourself look presentable again by wiping away the tears and putting your hair up in a messy ponytail. “The whole town soon found out. She made sure of that. I’m the town’s sweetheart that became the town’s scapegoat.”

“Y/N…, don’t think like that, doll. You can always move…”

“I can’t move. Everything reminds me of Jared and I wanna hold on to his memory. At one point, I couldn’t take it anymore and considered going back to New York where I did my internship. But if I move back to New York, I risk running into Tom again and I can’t… Too much has happened.”

Your red-rimmed eyes find his and as they lock, his phone rings loudly, breaking the tender atmosphere surrounding you like a safety net. “I’m sorry, Y/N, but I gotta go. The team is wondering where I am. I wish I could’ve stayed longer to talk. Maybe I can come over again? Somewhere next week?”

“I have a day off on Wednesday and I can start later on Thursday, so then we have plenty of time to talk.”

Steve nods softly, making a mental note of your appointment. “So I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

“Thank you, Steve, for listening.” You don’t feel exonerated, but there’s a small sliver relief at the end of your tunnel, guiding you to a better mindset, helping you grieve. All thanks to Steve.

“Thank you, Y/N, for your trust. And for not screaming when I showed up at your door.”

You both chuckle at this and after watching Captain America get back into his car and drive back towards the highway, a warm and fuzzy feeling has lit up your chest. You didn’t hear from Steve anymore as you forgot to exchange numbers. But figuring that he’s Captain America, an Avenger, working together with Tony Stark, he would’ve found a way to contact you if he needed to. Next Wednesday couldn’t be here fast enough.

So to ease the nerves, you started baking as early as Tuesday morning. You worked at the shelter and the adjoining pet store and had an hour lunch break during which you made the decorations and toppings for your cupcakes. And when you got home around half past five, you started baking even more; from cookies to pie to even croissants for breakfast should Steve show up as early as eight a.m.

Steve arrived a little after eleven in the morning and he also brought a guest. When you opened the door this time, you expected to see just the blond super soldier, and not a certain metal-armed assassin that’s been all over the news as of late.

“Y/N, I know I should’ve called or at least texted you, but we were sent from one mission to the other and…” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration with himself. “I’m so sorry, that’s not an excuse. But I still hope you don’t mind Bucky tagging along. I let it slip that I tracked you down and he kind of wanted to see for himself.”

By now, Bucky’s jaw has gone slack, his mouth agape as he sizes you up. “She’s just like Naomi, Steve.”

Unsure of how to react, you invite them in, Steve pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek as a greeting and Bucky giving you an awkward wave. “I told ya, didn’t I, Buck?,” Steve chuckles to his friend as you show them inside.

“I doubt that I look exactly like her. I mean, I don’t have the size of a show girl let alone the legs for it,” you mumble as you neatly arrange all the pastries on your kitchen table. The two men protest and assure you’re just as stunning as Naomi, no matter your size.

“Did you make all this just for us?,” Steve asks you as he sits down closest to the apple pie, the scent tickling his nostrils with delicious intent, exchanging an impressed look with Bucky.

“Well,” you blush shyly, “I actually made it just for you, since I didn’t think you’d bring a guest. But I think there’s enough to feed two mouths. If not, I can always bake more.”

Bucky shakes his head, grinning boyishly at you as his flesh hand reaches for one of the chocolate chip cookies. “This is more than enough, Y/N, thank you so much.”

You spent the rest of the day talking to the two super soldiers, enjoying the fruits of your labour with their stomachs filled to the brim and crumbs everywhere in your kitchen.

“So what do you do for a living?,” Bucky inquires before taking another forkful of his plum pie with dark chocolate topping.

Putting down your cherry and cream muffin, you take a napkin and dap the corners of your mouth clean. “I’m actually a vet. I work at the pet shelter and help out at the pet store on the regular. I used to have a dog, Sam. Well, actually she was Jared’s dog, a black Labrador. She died after our first year of marriage.”

The table grows silent, Bucky’s heart aching for Y/N as he envisions how much it would hurt if his own service dog died. “Steve’s been thinking about adopting a dog,” Bucky blurts out all of a sudden, taking Steve by surprise.

Sure, he’d been thinking about getting a service dog just like Bucky. But then again, he didn’t think he’d have the time to take care of the little fella if he did get one. For now, it’s been a constant game of pro and cons in his mind. His heart, however, tells him to just do it and adopt.

Your eyes light up at Bucky’s comment. “You can come to the shelter with me some day, if you want to?”

Bucky nudges Steve’s side, giving him an encouraging sideway glance. “Y-y-yeah,” Steve stammers softly, “That would be great.”

“I don’t mind walking around town a little while you guys go to the shelter,” Bucky announces a little too quickly and too eager for Steve’s taste. He’s trying to play matchmaker, a role solely reserved for Nat. But Bucky wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t at least attempt to be a good Cupid.

The shelter appears to be a lot smaller on the outside than it is on the inside, providing enough space for the pets to roam freely. The owner, Jensen, greets you with a big, toothy smile and gives Steve a firm handshake, patting his arm as he remains completely oblivious as to who he actually has in front of him. Maybe it’s for the best, you reason.

“Steve’s interesting in adopting a dog,” you pitch the idea to Jensen, your shoulder brushing briefly with Steve’s as you both try to follow after Jensen. He apologises immediately, as do you, and like a true gentleman he allows you go to first.

“Awesome! I also just had an elderly lady in that was interested in adopting three cats!,” he boasts while he guides you around the desk and out back where the dogs out. “She’ll come back on Saturday. I won’t be in on Saturday, gotta keep the wife happy and take her and my little girl to big city for some shopping. But you’ll be here, so the shelter will be in very capable hands.”

At the moment, there are fifteen dogs at the shelter. Steve’s interest is instantly captured by one of the smaller dogs. “Hey there buddy,” he coos at the little pup, scratching behind its ear. “I like this one,” he smiles up at you with matching puppy dog eyes. He’s already head over heels for the little golden retriever.

“Ah yeah… that one’s name is Scout. One of six puppies that came in about a month ago. The owner couldn’t take care of six pups and asked me if I could take on four of them. Scout here is the smallest and we believe he won’t grow up to be a very big dog. But don’t be fooled by his size, this fella’s got a really big heart.”

You could sense by the way Steve interacted with Scout that it was a match made in heaven, so it didn’t take the blond long to decide he wanted to adopt the little pup. After making sure the papers were all signed and in order, Steve and Scout were now a fact. Bucky was overjoyed when he saw Steve approach with Scout asleep in his arms. You wanted to invited them for dinner, but Bucky and Steve kindly turned down your offer as they still had a long drive back to New York.

“I promise to take good care of Scout.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise, Cap,” you hum warmly as you hug the two Avengers goodbye.

“And I’ll call you, too. I have your number now,” Steve winks and prompts a heavy red blush to tint your cheeks. He pecks your cheek one last time before disappearing into the car and Bucky insisted joining him on the driver’s side since Steve had already driven all the way out here.

With Steve and Bucky gone again, you had nothing left to wrap your mind around anymore. You fill your days with the same activities and the same thoughts as you have done before the blond arrived. He calls you every now and then, and even lets Scout take over his cell phone. But it just isn’t the same anymore. Your friendship with Steve, if you can call it a friendship at all, is solely based on your resemblance with Naomi, Steve’s chorus girl. There’s no way a man like Steve would ever be friends with a woman like you if it wasn’t for that particular reason.

So when Steve invites you to spend a few days with Bucky and him in New York, you feign illness and tell them you’ve been taking ill by the flu. When a second request arrives, another excuse is made up. Until Steve offers it a third time and comes to get you in person.

He doesn’t expect to find the house in a complete state of utter disaster, your door ajar and your walls clad with red spray paint. There are words scribbled on the front of your house, such as ‘slut’ and ‘whore’, and once he walks inside he sees the true damage that has been done. Your house is no longer a house, it’s a wreck, overtaken by the work of vandals.

You’re huddled in the corner of your bedroom and when you hear footsteps approaching, you crawl in your closet, afraid the men who did this have come back to hurt you even more. You’re wearing your pyjamas, or what’s left of it, and are extremely cold since all your windows have been shattered and the icy winter wind has full access to your chilly bones.

Steve crouches down next to you, embracing you in his strong, warm arms in an attempt to get your temperature up. He asks you what happened, but you refuse to reply. He asks you if you want to see a doctor, but you shake your head no. So he’s left with no choice and hoists you up in his arms to take you the shelter where he knows Jensen will be able to help you out.

The first thing that comes to Jensen’s mind is “not again”. Steve gives him a puzzled and baffled look, which he answers with a regretful smile. You’ve passed out on the couch in Jensen’s private quarters at the back of the shelter, giving the doctor time to assess your injuries.

“She’s fine. They tore her clothes apart just to scare her, but her injuries show no signs of a sexual assault. Well, we won’t know for sure until she’s ready to tell us what happened, but they didn’t rape her last time, so I don’t think…”

“Wait, this has occurred before?,” Steve interjects, smoothing over your hair.

“They’re trying to bully her away. Some guys from the edge of town who heard about her history with Tom.” Jensen runs a hand down his face and groans. “They never entered her house in the past, they’d only mess with her garden or the outer skeleton of the house. But things have… escalated since people spotted you at her place.”

“So this is all my fault,” Steve concludes from Jensen’s words, cradling your body against his as he notices the goose bumps rising on your skin.

“Hey, man,” Jensen rests his hand on Steve shoulder as a sign of comfort, “That’s not true. Those kind of people… they don’t need much to start a riot. Y/N has been keeping to herself since Jared died. Once in a while a friend would pay her a visit. Sometimes this friend would be a guy. And they know he’s just a friend, but that doesn’t stop them.”

Steve gets the bigger picture and is even more adamant than before to get you out of this town and give you the life you deserve. He keeps watch by your side for the rest of the afternoon, until you wake up in the middle of the night crying out his name and he has to console you until the early morning light sets in.

“There were three of them. Again the same guys. They broke into my house, expecting me to be still at work. But I wasn’t feeling very well so I took half the day off. I walked in on them and they just…” You bite your quivering lip, crossing your arms over your chest. “They just lost it. They attacked me on the street once before and just bruised my face, cut my hand, tripped me on the sidewalk… Yet this time, they made sure to beat me up real good.”

“Please, Y/N,” the captain pleads with you, “This has to stop. Come to New York with me.”

He can see you’re in doubt, the memory of your late husband fighting to stay in this little, wretched town where it all began. But there a part of you that’s crawling its way out of the deepest, darkest depths of your disgrace in an attempt to find the light again. And it’s Steve that awakens that part in you the most. Whenever he’s around, you don’t feel the pain or the heartache as much anymore. It’s like he’s a catalyst of better times ahead. It’s like he’s your antidote to the sorrow threatening to swallow you whole.

So you agree to come with him to New York.

Tagging: @avengerofyourheart @a-little-hell-to-raise @marvelingatthewonder @mrshopkirk @hardcorehippos @knittingknerdy @winterboobaer @italwaysendsinafightt @viollettes @hymnofthevalkyrie @feelmyroarrrr @justareader @austinamelio @volklana @howlingbarnes @themcuhasruinedme @theoneandonlysaucymo @caplansteverogers @amrita31199 @emilyevanston @minervaem @howlingbarnes @buchananbarnestrash @youandb @you-and-bucky @fvckingsteverogers @thatawkwardtinyperson @barnes-heaven @that-sokovian-bastard @abovethesmokestacks @marvelrevival @marvel-fanfiction @justanotherbuckydevotee @barnes-heaven @heartmade-writingbucky @buckyywiththegoodhair @captnbarnesrogers @its-not-a-phase-hux @melconnor2007 @ivvitm1109 @toofuckinfabulous @ailynalonso15 @hollycornish @delicatecapnerd @camigt1999 @learisa @curlyexpat @palaiasaurus64 @fanndas-snow-goddess @crisssivonne @yourenotrogers @tomhollandzs @supernaturaldean65 @beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep @aletheladyinred @sniktlogan @xbergiex @reniescarlett @promarvelfangirl @capbuckybuchanan @lovemarvelousfics @yknott81 @rrwilson66 @pegasusdragontiger @salty-holographic-stickers @sammyissassy @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19 @kudosia @bellejeunefillesansmerci @lumelgy @mizzzpink @southernbellestatues @daringtodreamawake @neurotic-narwhal @cokamarie24 @blue1928 @movingonto-betterthings @breezy1415 @isnt-the-blog-youre-looking-for @jesspfly @weenie-butt @debzybrazy @fuckingchaotic  @always-an-evans-addict @petersunderroos  @thegreentgirl @nedthegay @eve1978 @yourtropegirl

Strikethrough means Tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you!

[sunken-standard]

Drabble Meme Prompt Fill #57 (ish)

Three requests in one fill:

@juldooz requested: New prompt list for the drabble challenge: 144 (I cheated.), 146 (Pillows are over-rated.), 147 (Zombies aren’t real, I promise.)?  (from the list for Round 2)

@8minutehooper requested: For the Drabble ask meme, if you're inclined to keep going with these: #2 We're going to freeze to death or #14 Fire! Fire! Fire! Please and Thank you! ?

@fiammablade3466 requested: Hi! You asked drabble prompt from that list... if your requests are still open I ask 94. Let's bet Have a nice day!

(This is an AU that's canon-divergent sometime after TEH and sometime before TSoT.  Sorry, it's not humor, but I just kind of go where the winds take me, and after so many dropped attempts at these prompts, I'm just thrilled I had an idea.)

"We're going to freeze to death"/ "Fire! Fire! Fire!"/ "Let's bet"/ "I cheated."/ "Pillows are over-rated."/ "Zombies aren’t real, I promise."

*

"Oh Sherlock, zombies aren't real, I promise," Sherlock said, his voice a grating falsetto.

"I said that like a year ago, would you let it go already?" Molly hissed back, peeking around the library shelf with her axe at the ready.  Never had she been so thankful for Tom's absolute nerdiness as the day the outbreak started; he'd been a rubbish fighter but his manchild arsenal had kept her (and Sherlock) alive since then.

"You were wrong then and you're wrong now.  Wiggins said he had a cache here, he knows how to hide things, it's still here."

"Well then let's just hope it's more than a ten-bag of weed and six black-market Russian amphetamine tablets like his 'cache' in that bus stop in Southwark."

"I don't know what you expected from a bus stop to begin with, unless you thought he dug a hole and buried a year's worth of tins of mushy peas and tomato soup under it."

"You know what?  Let's bet.  We're not going to find anything we need, like antibiotics or any kind of useful medication, or even anything useful.  At best it'll be a packet of Smarties and a biro."

"Stakes?"

"If I'm wrong then you can have first pick of whatever there might be."

"And if you're right?"

"We follow John and Mary," she said simply.  It was an old argument that came up more these days; winter had set in and the Zed were less active, but food was becoming scarce for everyone left in the city; they only managed to eat because of Wiggin's paranoia and Sherlock's people skills (oh God the irony there).

"Because Edinburgh—where we have no Wiggins, no network, and no practical knowledge of the geography—would be so much safer."

He was still angry with John and Mary six months on.

"We wouldn't stay in Edinburgh. We'd go find land in the country and there would be six of us to defend it, I mean, assuming Harry is alive and they found her, and we could farm.  There are probably some livestock animals left, and seeds out there somewhere, and barring that, we could—I dunno, hunt swans and forage in hedgerows.  We have a better chance out there than we do here, long term."

Sherlock huffed a breath; he knew she was right. "Let's just find the cache first, shall we?  We can talk about it later.  Go, I'll cover you."

She flipped down the visor on her helmet and ran for the reference section.  Sherlock followed at a bit of a distance, scimitar drawn, enough to give them both ample fighting room should they need it.  There were two Zed somewhere in the vast room by the sound of it, but they hadn't found them yet. They made it to the reference section without incident, which was good; they need to find the cache and get out because they were losing light fast.  Sherlock had a bolthole a few streets over; they needed to make it there before nightfall.

"Where did he say it was?"

"He didn't."

"Wonderful."

"We're lucky he was coherent enough to remember which borough it was," Sherlock pointed out.

They started searching, pulling out sections of books and looking behind them, looking for anything taped to the undersides of the shelves; she hoped like hell it wasn't a fool's errand.  Wiggins hadn't been the most with-it before he'd got bit and they'd taken his arm, and now...  He wasn't healing well because there was never enough food, never enough medicine, never enough anything and his brain—well.  They never knew if they'd get back to Baker Street to find another mindless zombie in the flat, either from self-administered poison or the sudden onset of gangrene.

She didn't want to think about it.

"Oh!" Sherlock said suddenly, too loud for a library and too loud for an enclosed space with an unknown number of Zed in the building.

"Shh!"

"What books did people stop using years ago?"

"Riddles, Sherlock."

He made a face and went for a section of shelves, ran his fingers along the spines until he found what he was looking for and pulled out the book.  "Encyclopdias," he said, opening the book with a flourish to reveal a pharmacy-sized bottle of tablets snug in a custom cut-out section.  

The feeling of relief was almost palpable; they had at least one thing to use or trade now.  Sherlock pulled out another encyclopedia and flipped it open, giggling when he saw what was inside.  He held up a packet of Smarties.  

"These are mine," he said, grinning.

*

"We're going to freeze to death," she said, teeth chattering.  It had to be close to zero outside as a cold, heavy rain fell on the roof of the covered market, dripping through one of the broken panels to land in a puddle near the shop Sherlock had chosen to hole up in for the night, since the bolthole had been compromised.  At least the rain kept the Zed outside, drawn by the noise.  All the shops had long been picked over for anything remotely useful and all the perishable food no one wanted rotted down to black, slimy piles; they'd been lucky enough to find a bin of cheap carpets in one of the shops that sold this and that, so at least they weren't sleeping directly on the floor.  Almost a luxury, these days, when they were away from home.

"More likely one of us, probably you since you're smaller, will freeze to death and bite the other. Either way, we'll probably both die," Sherlock said, pulling one of the larger carpets over the both of them like a blanket.  A lot of things had changed since the world ended, but at least they'd both maintained a sense of humour, black as it was.

"Wish we could have found some pillows."

"Pillows are overrated," Sherlock mumbled, shuffling himself into a more comfortable position.

"You say that now, but tomorrow..."

"May never come, so there's no point thinking about it," he said, finally giving up on trying to find a position that wouldn't leave him stiff and sore come the morning and curling around her for warmth.

"I'm so glad one of us is still an optimist," she said, turning into him and settling in his arms, taking what comfort she could when she could.  It only took the end of the world to get this close to him.

*

"Fire!"  She let go of Sherlock's waist and tapped his shoulder.  "Fire!  Fire!"

He couldn't hear her with the helmet on, but he must have looked where she was pointing to the smoke billowing in the sky.  He cut the throttle on the motorbike and pulled to the kerb (old habits).

"It's not home, is it?" she asked after pulling off her helmet.

Sherlock watched the sky for a moment, calculating.  "No, closer.  Westminster probably, no farther than Mayfair.  Might need to take a different route back.  Stay alert."

As if she needed to be told.

*

They stopped again just before crossing Vauxhall Bridge.  Sherlock counted out a dozen Clonazepam into a sandwich bag; she hoped it would be enough to get them a few litres of petrol.  Prices kept going up.

Same as it ever was.

Sherlock squinted at the smoke from the fire, blacker now, thicker.  "It's Buckingham Palace," he said.  

She shared a look with him; it was more than losing just another thing from before.  It felt like England had well and truly fallen, even if the Palace had been devoid of life for months.  They'd been past the gates a few times; dead guards and staff, snipers and MPs (all evacuated to the Palace just before the barricades across Westminster Bridge failed) roamed aimlessly, shuffling toward the fence as they were drawn to the noise of the motorbike and dispersing again sometime after they were gone.

Someone must have been desperate enough to walk into a contained hoard, or angry enough.  She hoped there wasn't a new gang to deal with; they never lasted long, nothing lasted these days, but it was always trouble when some bully who was lucky enough to make it this far fancied himself the next Genghis Khan by right of Darwinism.

*

Some people just want to watch the world burn, she thought.  And some people felt like they had to, to bear witness.  She wasn't sure which she was, now, some days.

Going into the heart of the inferno was insane, especially loaded down with enough trade goods to keep them in food and petrol for the next six months, but they were upwind and it was breezy enough to carry the smoke away, over the Palace Gardens, over Belgravia.

"Subtle," Sherlock murmured, looking the double-decker bus that had smashed through the gates.  He drank from his water bottle, passed it to her.

A small group—fifteen or so clumped into a loose herd—stumbled toward the bus from The Mall, drawn by the fire.  They didn't bother taking cover, they were far enough away not to be noticed if they kept quiet, kept still.

Another Zed staggered through the gate, away from the flames; she was covered in blood and gore, but her clothing seemed intact and she wasn't missing any limbs or dragging her guts along behind her.  Recently turned, then.  Didn't see a lot of that any longer.  Inevitable, though.  One day that would be Molly herself, one day that would be Sherlock.  

The rogue Zed serpentined her way through the herd; had it spotted them?  Something was odd about it, Zed didn't act like that.  They travelled in straight lines, faster when they spotted prey, didn't avoid collisions with each other.

"Of course," Sherlock breathed.

She looked up at him.

"The blood, it's camouflage. Probably the scent.  Clever," he said quietly, a note of admiration in his voice.

Jealousy, sharp and sudden and utterly ridiculous, spiked her heart.  Silly, really, but it was the first she'd heard him talk about another person without a trace of disdain in months.  

They remained silent as the woman made her way closer and the Zed filtered through the gate.  When it was safe enough, she stood straight and walked normally.  There was something about her, something predatory, that made Molly's hand twitch for her axe.  She stopped herself; don't show aggression, it makes you look scared, don't let them see fear, don't let them see weakness.

"Remember, remember," the woman sing-songed.  "Do you know what today is?"

Oh wonderful, another nutter.  Molly saw Sherlock's stance shift from alert to on-guard.

"Bonfire night," he said. Probably a guess; they tried to keep track of days, but there really wasn't much point to it now.

"Silly to burn Westminster, when they all came here," she said.  Her voice was light and hollow, somehow innocent while being devoid of any emotion at all.  "Why burn one effigy when I can burn seven hundred?"

Wow, Molly thought.  She had the feeling this woman wasn't just another one of the crackpot roaches like Wiggins who managed to survive even without their wits intact; there was something about her that made Molly want to run.

"So I take it you're not from the neighbourhood, since you're obviously not worried about the fire spreading," Sherlock said, his tone friendly, casual.  "Nice trick with the blood, by the way.  How did you figure that out?"

"A cannibal suggested it.  He's dead now.  He wasn't as clever as he thought he was."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. He wasn't.  Nobody was; they'd all used up their capacity for sympathy and empathy was too precious a resource to waste on the dead.

"Why?  It was a game.  He lost.  I cheated.  He should have been cleverer."

"Ah," Sherlock said shortly, shifting away from Molly to draw the woman's attention to himself. He was preparing for a fight.    

Something exploded inside the Palace, the ground shaking enough to throw Molly off balance.

Sherlock's arm shot out to steady her. "We need to go," he said.  He turned to the woman.  "Will you be alright?"

"Nothing can hurt the East Wind," she said, her face blank.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a split second before he put his helmet on and swung his leg over the bike.

[peaceofpuregold-blog]

Does Petyr Baelish Have PTSD?

@liitlefinger got me thinking with this:

Hmm I was thinking abt this last night and obviously Petyr has so much trauma from what happened to him as a kid but does he have like? A PTSD?

I have a tiny (really just a smidgen) amount of education and training on PTSD and other conditions listed in the DSM-V. Enough to have a .pdf of the thing I nearly forgot was on my computer. Thank goodness, because my copy of the text is nearly 1,000 pages long-ish.

With his consent, I’ve offered to go through the criteria in what I think will be my very first ASOIAF Meta©™®.

Caveat: I am not the type of professional who is legally able to make a proper diagnosis of any kind.

Background: to put it vaguely as possible (as I still prize my anonymity) my day job is working with a very vulnerable population, those with a variety of disabilities although I specialize in particular those with Intellectual Disability and/or Pervasive Developmental Disorder. I have helped those with other conditions, or those that have other conditions in addition to the ones I specialize in. I started out with children, but have moved on to adults, specifically those of 21 year of age and older. We are trained how to spot potential additional conditions and direct them to the specialists who can diagnose them and then we coordinate together to figure out how to help them receive the prescribed treatment post-diagnosis.

Now! On with the criteria! I’ve simplified it a bit, but I’m going to go through each one with what quotes from ASOIAF I can find and with the tiniest bit of generalizing, please feel free to take the latter with a boulder of salt. DSM bits will be italicized.

Posttraumatic Stress Disorder

Note: The following criteria apply to adults, adolescents, and children older than 6 years. For children 6 years and younger, see corresponding criteria below.

Sweet! I found the right page. For reference:

He had a little pointed chin beard now, and threads of silver in his dark hair, though he was still shy of thirty.

-GOT Catelyn IV

A. Exposure to actual or threatened death, serious injury, or sexual violence in one (or more) of the following ways:

1. Directly experiencing the traumatic event(s).

Yup. Multiple events at that.

Brandon was a man grown, and he drove Littlefinger all the way across the bailey and down the water stair, raining steel on him with every step, until the boy was staggering and bleeding from a dozen wounds. “Yield!” he called, more than once, but Petyr would only shake his head and fight on, grimly. When the river was lapping at their ankles, Brandon finally ended it, with a brutal backhand cut that bit through Petyr’s rings and leather into the soft flesh below the ribs, so deep that Catelyn was certain that the wound was mortal. He looked at her as he fell and murmured “Cat” as the bright blood came flowing out between his mailed fingers. She thought she had forgotten that.

-GOT Catelyn VII

“That was the night I stole up to his bed to give him comfort. I bled, but it was the sweetest hurt. He told me he loved me then, but he called me Cat, just before he fell back to sleep. Even so, I stayed with him until the sky began to lighten.”

-ASOS Sansa VII, Lysa

A fortnight passed before Littlefinger was strong enough to leave Riverrun, but her lord father forbade her to visit him in the tower where he lay abed. Lysa helped their maester nurse him; she had been softer and shyer in those days… As soon as he was strong enough to be moved, Lord Hoster Tully sent Petyr Baelish away in a closed litter, to finish his healing on the Fingers, upon the windswept jut of rock where he’d been born.

-GOT Catelyn VII

NB: In my non-professional opinion, I do not consider the actual betrothal to Brandon Stark to be a traumatic event. Please feel free to correct me, but I couldn’t find anything in the text to support this, but of course I may have missed something. I see obviously some grief, disappointment, and sadness. Considering the situation and his prior feelings toward Cat, I did not find any of these emotions expressed to be of a disturbed amount or manner. Please take this opinion with a hefty grain of salt and do not hesitate to correct me if I’m wrong.

2. Witnessing, in person, the event(s) as it occurred to others.

Nope.

3. Learning that the traumatic event(s) occurred to a close family member or close friend. In cases of actual or threatened death of a family member or friend, the event(s) must have been violent or accidental.

Nuh-uh.

4. Experiencing repeated or extreme exposure to aversive details of the traumatic event(s).

It is known that he has several brothels, where Littlefinger may serve folks of unusual tastes (at least per the show, as of writing this I couldn’t find evidence of it in A Search of Ice and Fire and a brief perusal of the text) which includes those that by simply the nature of their age cannot consent, let alone his own prostitutes where we may deal with anything from enthusiastic consent (I’m not going to knock the legitimate sex workers out there that take good care of themselves and only go through with consenting transactions. They happen, but I get the feeling and have read evidence of it rarely. Still, I’m one of the weird ones who have talked to a few of the healthy ones on my own time with no sign of psychological stress as I saw it or signs of attempting to lie… and a number of not healthy ones due to where I’m employed.), to dubious, to outright not consenting.

Nevertheless this criteria has been met!

B. Presence of one (or more) of the following intrusion symptoms associated with the traumatic event(s), beginning after the traumatic event(s) occurred:

1. Recurrent, involuntary, and intrusive distressing memories of the traumatic event(s).

2. Recurrent distressing dreams in which the content and/or affect of the dream are related to the traumatic event(s). Note: In children, there may be frightening dreams without recognizable content.

3. Dissociative reactions  in which the individual feels or acts as if the traumatic event(s) were recurring.

4. Intense or prolonged psychological distress at exposure to internal or external cues that symbolize or resemble an aspect of the traumatic event(s).

5. Marked physiological reactions to internal or external cues that symbolize or resemble an aspect of the traumatic event(s).

Unfortunately, all the above requires us to have an interview or be treating the individual we may be making this diagnosis for, or requires insight into the individual’s thoughts.

Say… like… maaayyybbbeee… in a POV chapter in this case.

Eh? Eh? GRRM? … Please?

Or he could somehow express these feelings to Sansa. I can’t think of anyone else he’d say them to. Then again, this could just be wishful thinking.

“Littlefinger is the second most devious man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

-GOT Eddard XV, Varys

Either way, unable to determine if criteria had been met at this time.

C. Persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the traumatic event(s), beginning after the traumatic event(s) occurred, as evidenced by one or both of the following:

1. Avoidance of or efforts to avoid distressing memories, thoughts, or feelings about or closely associated with the traumatic event(s).

2. Avoidance of or efforts to avoid external reminders (people, places, conversations, activities, objects, situations) that arouse distressing memories, thoughts, or feelings about or closely associated with the traumatic event(s).

See the above. Unable to determine if if the criteria has been met. But I think we can rule out C2.

“My lords, with your leave, I propose to travel to the Vale and there woo and win Lady Lysa Arryn. Once I am her consort, I shall deliver you the Vale of Arryn without a drop of blood being spilled.”

-ASOS Tyrion III, Petyr Baelish

D. Negative alterations in cognitions and mood associated with the traumatic event(s), beginning or worsening after the traumatic event(s) occurred, as evidenced by two (or more) of the following:

1. Inability to remember an important aspect of the traumatic event(s) (typically due to dissociative amnesia and not to other factors such as head injury, alcohol, or drugs).

The text implies Petyr was indeed drunk when raped by Lysa, therefore does not qualify as he believes he had Cat in his bed that night.

“He looked so wounded I thought my heart would burst, and afterward he drank until he passed out at the table. Uncle Brynden carried him up to bed before my father could find him like that.”

-ASOS Sansa VII, Lysa

If they had any sex thereafter post his fight with Brandon, but before being forced back to The Fingers, I believe would be defined as dubious consent (I don’t know if she became pregnant after that single session). He probably had quite a lot of pain medication to deal with his wounds.

Once more, does not strictly qualify. The bragging he does many years later in King’s Landing about taking the maidenhead of both sisters confirms that he was so impaired on at least that first occasion that he does indeed believe he had sex with Catelyn. There are several examples, but I quite like this one from a narrative stand point,

“Littlefinger had you first, didn’t he?”

-ACOK Catelyn VII, Jaime Lannister

Could just be an excellent example of toxic masculinity. As for his cognitions in regards to his fight with Brandon Stark… More insight is needed.

2. Persistent and exaggerated negative beliefs or expectations about oneself, others, or the world.

3. Persistent, distorted cognitions about the cause or consequences of the traumatic event(s) that lead the individual to blame himself/herself or others.

4. Persistent negative emotional state.

5. Markedly diminished interest or participation in significant activities.

6. Feelings of detachment or estrangement from others.

7. Persistent inability to experience positive emotions.

I’m sure Petyr felt like shit when he was hauled away to his father’s land before he donned the mask of Littlefinger, but we need a POV or declaration to another character to be sure.

D2-D7 Unable to be determined at this time.

E. Marked alterations in arousal and reactivity associated with the traumatic event(s), beginning or worsening after the traumatic event(s) occurred, as evidenced by two (or more) of the following:

1. Irritable behavior and angry outbursts typically expressed as verbal or physical aggression toward people or objects.

Umm… Lysa would agree.

Lysa Arryn smiled tremulously. “Only one? Oh, Petyr, do you swear it? Only one?”

“Only Cat.” He gave her a short, sharp shove.

Lysa stumbled backward, her feet slipping on the wet marble. And then she was gone. She never screamed. For the longest time there was no sound but the wind.

-ASOS Sansa VII, Lysa and Petyr Baelish

I mean, she was trying to hurt Sansa, but I theorize that this cool and controlled as a cucumber colored cat dude did this much sooner than he had planned to.

Anything else needs more insight.

2. Reckless or self-destructive behavior.

Chaos is a ladder, anyone?

Wait… What? Is that just a show only thing?! Aww… man.

3. Hypervigilance.

Well, to not be while constructing and carrying out his plans would be expected. To a detrimental level we don’t have enough evidence for yet. Need to be in his head for that or see some symptoms from Sansa. I haven’t found any yet.

4. Exaggerated startle response.

I don’t see anything in the text to support this. Littlefinger has the affect, as I’ve mentioned before, of a cool cat. Cucumber cat.

5. Problems with concentration.

If Lord Baelish knew how to juggle he could do it blindfolded with a great number and variety of things of all shapes and sizes; some on fire, some sharp and pointy in a number of ways, while standing on a ball, doing the hula-hoop, and playing the 1812 Overture in its entirety on a kazoo.

Currently not supported by the text.

Except for the juggling bit.

A master juggler was Petyr Baelish.

-ACOK Tyrion IV

6. Sleep disturbance.

Need a POV or a sneaky Sansa.

Technically since for this section only two were needed to pass here. He is short of making it by one. He might satisfy more with further evidence, but at the moment we’re again at the not supported by the currently released text impasse.

F. Duration of the disturbance (Criteria B, C, D, and E) s more than 1 month.

Need more data, see above criteria noted.

G. The disturbance causes clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational,or other important areas of functioning.

Honestly, considering how well the man functions in his society to the point of being promoted up the ladder to the Small Council, despite his low-birth and the other obstacles he had to overcome, I’m inclined to say does not at the present time meet this criteria. His mask is tight, but everything we have evidence for thus far does not state what he’s like beyond Sansa’s brief musings on the difference between the attitude he presents to her when she believes she can ascertain the difference between the mask and the man. What she perceives as Petyr could just be another mask, even if it is a smaller one.

Note that we also do not know precisely how long ago he started his climb. I could definitely see that he might have had to take some time to put his foot on the first rung. So he could have possibly met this criteria in the past. Unfortunately, as I’ve said many times before, need more data.

H. The disturbance is not attributable to the physiological effects of a substance or another medical condition.

Specify whether:

With dissociative symptoms: The individual’s symptoms meet the criteria for posttraumatic stress disorder, and in addition, in response to the stressor, the individual experiences persistent or recurrent symptoms of either of the following:

1. Depersonalization: Persistent or recurrent experiences of feeling detached from, and as if one were an outside observer of, one’s mental processes or body.

2. Dereailzation: Persistent or recurrent experiences of unreality of surroundings.

Considering that Sansa admits:

And sometimes it seemed to her that the Lord Protector was two people as well. He was Petyr, her protector, warm and funny and gentle … but he was also Littlefinger, the lord she’d known at King’s Landing, smiling slyly and stroking his beard as he whispered in Queen Cersei’s ear… Littlefinger was only a mask he had to wear. Only sometimes Sansa found it hard to tell where the man ended and the mask began. Littlefinger and Lord Petyr looked so very much alike.

-AFFC Sansa I

And how it appears to her he seems to be able to take the mask on and off at his own behest so that it’s hard to tell them apart, this really doesn’t meet the criteria for disassociation; but I could do a short meta about how he doesn’t meet this definition or the dissociative disorders currently in the DSM-V. The Depersonalization  and Derealization symptoms will again have to wait for possible reveals in the future.

Note: To use this subtype, the dissociative symptoms must not be attributable to the physiological effects of a substance or another medical condition (e.g., complex partial seizures).

Oh! That’s me! But the terminology is out of date as of this year.

Specify if:

With delayed expression: If the full diagnostic criteria are not met until at least 6 months after the event (although the onset and expression of some symptoms may be immediate).

Say it again with me.

NEED. MORE. DATA.

So, to summarize: Currently only one criteria has been met for a potential diagnosis of PTSD. The rest we require more data to determine whether or not he does as we need more insight via a POV chapter or what he may reveal to Sansa. If this is done verbally to her instead of with body language or clearly noted with certain nonverbal cues which may conflict with what he may be saying it will be difficult to determine if he meets the criteria or not.

Honestly, I’ll admit that what I could give references for during my first run through of this Meta©™® with the books I had and what I could find in ASOIAF this was a fun and insightful exercise.

For reasons I will not disclose here I have been diagnosed with PTSD for unfortunately meeting A1 on several occasions. It has been interesting to compare what criteria I most definitely met, but with treatment I have been able to manage or outright worked out of different subsets. I still meet them all enough to have the diagnosis, but have made significant progress, but it made me a bit proud.

[gaberium-blog]

AMOYT Ep. I: Old Memories

Date 01335579-The Hague, the Netherlands, Liberated Earth.

I woke up as usual today at just about 0900. Almost everything was as it should be, so I got out of bed as usual and got ready for the day. About a half-hour later, as I was finishing up breakfast, I got a call from one of Prime Minister Perkins' aides.

“Fury here.”

“I'm sorry to bother you so early, sir. I have a mission for you from the Prime Minister herself.”

“Go ahead.”

“Search and rescue, just you and your daughter if possible. The coordinates are 0153314 by 2139421. East Coast, active hot zone.”

“Understood. And the target?”

“Targets plural, sir. They are what remains of an exfil team sent out to evaluate the safety of the Eastern United States, and the refugee they picked up when they got there. Two men, one woman.”

“Understood. Please inform the Prime Minister that Lia and I will be underway within an hour and a half at most.”

“Yes, sir.”

I ended the call and took a deep breath. Back before everything had fallen apart, the East Coast of the US had been my adopted home. If I was right about what those coordinates signified, we would be going to a small town 2 hours west of my former hometown of Boston, Massachusetts. Finally, I cleaned up the relevant dishes, and reached out to Lia with my mind, waking her as gently as I could. A pause, and then-

Dad?

Yeah, honey, it's me.

Is everything ok?

Well...we have a mission. Search and rescue.

You're hesitating. I can feel it.

We're going to Amherst, honey. Amherst, Mass.

Through my connection to Lia, I could hear her drop the glass of water she'd been holding. I felt her repair the glass,  move it to the disposal, and I felt her readying herself for the complications this mission had in store for us.

Ok. How long?

Bay 5 in half an hour if possible. We'll take a quinjet there, complete the mission, and get out as quickly and quietly as we can.

Ok.

We could have gotten to Amherst a lot quicker if we'd wanted to. Speed wasn't the point, though. It was definitely important, but we weren't entirely sure there wouldn't be some kind of dampener or detector that would let the Furlak know of our presence instantly. So...the quinjet. Fast, stealthy, armored, and at the moment, our best chance of a safe drop in and out. Plus, the quinjet had a small med bay on board, so just in case one of the refugees needed it, we could heal them on the way home.

Date 01335579-Amherst, Massachusetts, Furlak Occupied Territories

We got to Amherst about 1h30 after takeoff. The pilot initially wanted to land, but I wouldn't let him, knowing that Lia and I could save time by jumping, and worry about getting the refugees in later. And so, when we reached the remains of the town common, the pilot brought us to a hover, and called out to us,

“This is as close as I can get you without landing. The distress call came from one of the dorms on Eastman Lane.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Acknowledged.”

“I'm going to go find a safe spot to set down. Signal me when you're ready for exfil?”

I nodded, and we jumped. We landed on the soft grass a moment later and made for the ruins of a church on the far side of the common. We made it safely, and I initiated the battle meld. Lia and I had been using this technique, a kind of double consciousness for a couple of years now, and we had it down to a science. While in the battle meld, we could feel not only each other's thoughts, but the emotions and energy reserves we each had left. In a pinch, should one of us be incapacitated for any reason, the other could revive that person, and if consciousness wasn't an issue, the captive one could coach the free one through battle and the eventual rescue. In our present situation, the battle meld was simply a way to coordinate strategy, and even kills if need be.

Lia?

I'm here, Dad. Where do you want to start?

Downtown seems empty-ish. Let's head over to Tyler Lane, and through the woods from there. Are you set for supplies?

Yes, Dad. Are you?

Yeah. And I remember where the weapons should be if we need them.

Ok.

Let's go.

We drew weapons, Lia her twin blade blasters, a combination gun and laser knife, and me my energy bow and shimmer blade, basically a sword with a blade made of energy that could be turned on or off. This particular shimmer blade was of my own design, with a white handle made of Eferim, the most durable material in existence, and a blade of bright white energy that would ignite only at my touch. While both myself and Lia were familiar with virtually all weapons from Earth's history, we both had our favorite weapons, our specialties if you like. For the most part, we would carry our two favorite weapons, one ranged and one melee, on our missions.  

Moving as quietly as we could, Lia and I made our way over to Main Street, and then down all the way to Tyler Place. The first thing we noticed, as we moved through the remains of downtown was how empty it was.. I'd been expecting at least some resistance before we made it farther than town hall, but that didn't happen. The streets were empty, and even reaching out with our minds, Lia and I couldn't feel anything right nearby.

We finally saw Furlak patrols as we neared the edge of the woods on Triangle Street, and even then we were able to avoid them for the most part. Only once did I even fire my bow, and that was to take out a rooftop sentry. Ten minutes and fifteen dead Furlak patrols later, we were at the northern end of Orchard Hill Drive, and here we finally had to do some fighting. We'd managed to get around two more patrols, working our way down past Van Meter House, and we somehow missed a scout. Next thing I knew, something that felt like a small stone was hitting my neck, and Lia was diving into cover. I dropped the scout with an arrow, but it was too late. Suddenly we were taking constant fire, and while it doesn't hurt us to get shot, it does slow us down, so we had to fight like gunslingers in the Old West. Five minutes of shooting back and forth, and I felt Lia's excitement through the battle meld.

Dad!

Lia? What's wrong?

Nothing. I've got a signal. They're in Thatcher, not too far from here.

Excellent. Time to move, then.

It only took us five minutes to clear out the rest of the Furlak in that area, and we moved down towards Thatcher Road. Another three minutes passed uneventfully, as we moved steadily downward past Greenough and then into the quad in front of Baker. Here we had to switch back to move as quietly as possible, wanting to give the Furlak as little warning as possible before we reached Thatcher House. Five more minutes and seventeen dead Furlak later, we reached the building. I reached out to Lia with my mind, and she nodded. Then I was on the roof, and making my way down the stairs, shimmer blade in hand. We knew the refugees were in the building, but we still weren't entirely sure which floor they were on, hence the walking downstairs instead of just being somewhere new.

I ignited my shimmer blade, and moved down the stairs a flight at a time, tk'ing (telekinetically) myself over the stairs themselves so as to move silently. I could smell the Furlak around me, but they must all have been told explicitly to stay on their patrol routes because not one of them seemed to detect either my movements or Lia's down below. Finally, after about ten minutes of proceeding like this, I finally found the floor I was looking for.

Lia. I found them. Fifth floor, center of the hallway.

I'm here, Dad. Ready when you are.

Pincer formation, ok? Let's try to keep the casualties low. We've killed enough Furlak already.

Ok.

I felt Lia on the other side of the building, and in perfect unison we moved inward, trapping the Furlak between us. I thought about dimming my shimmer blade's brightness, but then decided against it-the Furlak knew we here now, so the element of surprise was already gone. We moved steadily inwards, and before we knew it, we were standing in front of a door staring into the eyes of an angry and really scared Furlak guard. That, and trying to ignore the smell of burnt fur from the bodies in the hallway. I knew I would probably have to kill the guard, but even so, I wanted to try to avoid that if possible, so I reached out and touched his mind.

Hello.

AH! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

I just want to talk. You have something we want. Let us get our people out, and we let you live.

NO. NO MERCY.

I sighed. I'd tried this a dozen times or more at this point, and somehow it always ended the same way. A show of bravado, a needless attempt to scare me off.

Very well.

Taking a deep breath, I  reached out with my mind, pulling a jagged piece of siding off of the wall, and plunged it into the young Furlak's back. Seeing their comrade fall like this, fortunately, had the best possible effect, as the remaining three Furlak left the hostages and ran towards the only person they could see through the door-me. In the seconds before they arrived, I gave Lia a mental nudge, and then she wasn't there anymore. As I fought off the onrushing Furlak, Lia was in the room pulling rescuing the hostages. She moved each of the two soldiers out to the exfil site, but as she went to move the final hostage, the woman, we ran into a problem.

Dad? Problem. We can't Move with the woman.

Why, is there-

Before I had finished my thought, though, I had killed the last Furlak guard and entered the room myself, and I saw quite clearly what the problem was. Our final charge, a young woman, was sitting in the far left corner of the room, huddled against Lia,  The fact that the girl was ill was not, in itself, an issue with Moving her. A moment's look, however, told me that the young woman, a 21-year-old human, was five months pregnant, and that fact made it impossible to safely Move her without risking the life of the child. The way that particular ability works is a little odd. Even back on our world, very little had been known about the exact nature of that ability. The little we did know was this:

There are many names for it. Lia and I say Move or Moving, but that's by no means a perfect term.

It doesn't involve any actual travel through space. You simply exist in place, and then in another according to your desire.

Almost all forms of life can be safely Moved, and certainly all inanimate objects, except, for some reason, for explosives. The only living things that cannot be safely Moved are children (or the equivalent depending on species) under the age of five years and pregnant adults.

Moving involves some form of energy transfer. The exact nature of the transfer and/or the nature of the energy being transferred hasn't ever been completely determined, but the fact of that transfer, perhaps even translation from matter to energy and then back to matter, is why certain beings cannot be safely Moved.

All of this information took me a moment to take in, and then I realized something: I would need to explain all, or at least part of this to our charge, and probably get her permission to have either Lia or myself carry her, telekinetcally or physically to the exfil site. I moved across the room to the two women, and crouched down so that my 7'6'' frame might seem slightly less intimidating.

“Hi. I'm Fury, that's my daughter Lia. We're here to take you home.”

“I know. That you're here to take me home, I mean. And Lia just told me why we can't just dissappear like the other two did.”

“Good. So you know one of us is going to have to carry you, or float you back to a safe site. Then we can call the quinjet and get you back to safety. Do you have a preference, ms...”

“Ana. My name is Ana. And...Lia? If that's ok.”

“Of course. I'll keep you both safe.”

the next half hour was one of the most stressful of my entire life. We got Ana safely back to the quinjet, but the journey took almost twice as long because of having to stop every time Ana had a contraction, just to make sure we weren't seen. We reached the clearing in what had once been the Haigis Mall Bus Stop with only a few difficulties, but when we got there, we had to wait until the quinjet's pilot could land, and this meant holing up in what had been Haigis Mall itself, and fighting off everything that came our way.

Everything that came our way turned out to be a dozen Furlak attack squads. As soon as we'd reached the safety of the building, Lia set Ana down gently, and came to join me at the front doors. I put the communicator in my pocket and called my shimmer blade to my hand.

“We've got about 20 minutes before they can get here. Andersen had to scavenge some fuel, so he's only now just finished it up.”

“We're on our own?”

“Until the ship gets here, yeah.”

“Wonderful”

“I know. Oh, and look-we've got friends to fight!”

Lia smiled, and then she was back with Ana, and I felt her explain the idea of the battle meld. It took only a moment, and then I felt Lia reach out and touch my mind.

Dad?

I'm here, Lia. How is Ana doing?

I'm okay. This is going to take some getting used to, though.

It always does the first time.

As Lia finished up this thought, the first volley of gunfire blazed past my left ear. Cursing, I stowed my saber, switching my bow on even as I drew it from my back. Next thing I knew, Lia was with me, and we were dropping Furlak troopers by the dozen. We kept this up for almost an hour, and then things started to go very wrong.

How much longer can we do this? We have a pregnant woman who we can't Move, the quinjet isn't close, and there are hundreds of Furri bastards out there!

As long as it takes. We can handle it.

I know. It's not us I'm worried about. Ana had another contraction 5 minutes ago, and she'll need fluids eventually, even if we don't.

I sighed. I knew something like this was going to happen, but I'd been kind of hoping it would take a little longer.

Okay. Let's-

Before I could finish my thought, however, we heard the sound of jets overhead. Lia's joy was palpable, and as she explained to Ana, who was a ways back in the cave, and therefore hadn't heard the engines, I stepped out of the cave, smashing the nearest Furlak together as they tried to attack me. Glancing up, I saw the quinjet, but I also saw a Furlak attack ship. I sent the pilot a thought warning him, and then a thought back to Lia.

Flying Furris. Be right back. Keep Ana safe.

But Dad-

No time.

I threw myself into the sky, shimmer blade in hand. By the light of its blade, I saw the Furlak ship warming its guns, aiming right at our quinjet. Before they could fire off a shot, I was on the hood of the cockpit, tk'ing the windscreen off, and pulling the pilots into the void. That done, I jumped back into the air, slashing the fuel line and landing jets as I did so. Finally, I nudged our quinjet just out of range of the blast radius, simultaneously pushing the now empty Furlak jet away from us. Even with these precautions, the explosion still threw me into a giant oak a mile away. By the time I'd reoriented myself, Lia had gotten Ana onto the jet, and they were flying towards me. I hopped in through the access ramp and we left, headed back to the Hague.

Date 01335580- The Hague, the Netherlands, Liberated Earth

We touched down at the United Earth Medical Center about 12 hours later. As the ramp lowered to the ground, a team of medics rushed out to collect the refugees, and tend to us. Lia and I waved them away, of course, wanting only to make sure Ana and her fellow refugees got the care they needed. After this we did the required check in with mission control, and retired to our separate quarters to clean up. As I was getting out of the shower 20 minutes later, I felt a slight presence touch my mind. Probing it for a moment, I smiled as I recognized the feel of Ana's thoughts.

Ana. How are you feeling?

Fury! I'm sorry, that was way to loud. I guess I'm still not used to this. I'm okay, thanks to you and Lia. How can I ever thank you enough?

Honestly?

Yes.

The best way for you to thank me is for you to just live. Start over, make a new life for yourself and your child. Can you do that?

Yes. Are you sure, though?

I'm sure. I'm just glad we were able to bring you out of there safely.

Me too.

At this point, only a couple of formalities were left to take care of. I met with the Prime Minister and made my report, and about an hour later Lia did the same thing. After that, we were released for the next three days, a rare privilege that we both plan on taking full advantage of.

[mjvliteraryblog-blog]

Do People Actually Judge A Book By Its Cover? Why Your Book’s Cheap Exterior Might Be Hiding A Literary Gem

  Photo by rawpixel.com from Pexel

“You can’t judge a book by its binding.”   Passage from the African journal American Speech, 1944.

Just two years after this phrase was coined, it would go on to be adapted into mainstream idiom and pop culture, first and most notably in the book Murder In the Glass Room, by Edwin Rolfe and Lester Fuller, which featured the phrase “You can never tell a book by its cover.”  On the surface, of course, this is a self-explanatory term, and even as a metaphor for any large number of scenarios and character assessments, its meaning is clear.  However, metaphors and analogies aside, perhaps ironically, a field in which it is quite difficult to simply nod agreement with this is when actually judging a book by its cover.

WHY JUDGING A BOOK BY ITS COVER SAYS MORE ABOUT YOU THAN IT DOES ABOUT THE BOOK

To many, the answer may be straightforward: yes, we do judge books by their covers and no, perhaps we shouldn’t, but that doesn’t stop us.  Absolutely, this is true on both counts for many people.  However, there are many reasons why the answer to this question is actually more profound than it may first appear, and why its answer – individual to each of us - actually reveals far more about our own personality traits than it does about the writer, the book, the designer who created it, the publisher who chose it, or even the decision to print it.  What it raises in us - those actually making the judgement - is questions of how much importance we place on perceptive visual importance, stereotypical presumptions, patience, openness to and tolerance of new talent, respect for opportunity, assumptions of financially social inferiority and perhaps more than anything else, loyalty.

IS READER LOYALTY EXCLUSIVE TO THE RICH AND FAMOUS?

To add a measure of context to that list, let’s first consider the last of them: loyalty.  If I explain that in this case I mean loyalty to authors with which we have already established our position in their fandom – most likely famous – then perhaps the list might start to make more immediate sense.  Consider the newest novel you bought by your favourite best-selling author – you may remember the title (you actually might not), but can you recall, without checking, the cover?  Try to, right now.  One thing which will almost certainly have been true of it, assuming your best-selling author is a famous one, is that his or her name was in much larger font than the actual title of the book, itself.  Check your latest Stephen King or Michelle Obama book – it is a safe bet that the author’s name is at least 30-40% larger than the title.  What kind of a message does this send, then?  That if you are a famous, established author the cover doesn’t matter – even the title of your book doesn’t matter?  If it’s a horror, it used Chiller font and a dark theme… probably; perhaps there were pictures of balloons or a pram, but who can remember?  All that matters is the author who wrote it, and that it is the one you don’t own yet.  The book might be bad – the cover might be terrible - but you’ll still probably buy his or her next one.

Compare this, now, to a new, unknown author.  Those of us fortunate enough to work in the literary industry with up-and-coming authors should see things – including shabby book covers - very differently, and should pride ourselves on an inclination to appreciate the less superficial qualities mentioned in that list: openness, opportunity and new creative talent; this is, of course, a vital element of our profession. As a book reviewer, beta-reader and copy-editor, I myself am acutely aware that amongst every dozen or so rough stones there is a diamond (to shamelessly use yet another clichéd metaphor).  That diamond may be hidden within a low-resolution crust of an exterior, which is offensive to the eye and needs not just polishing, but entirely discarding – of course, I won’t know this unless I dig.  Many new authors may be unpublished; they may also be broke financially, unable to commission anything more expensive than some free or cheap Photoshop-alternative.  So, rubbing their hands in excitement and anticipation of their new graphic design hobby, they become hands-on and expand their skillset to include book covers.  With glee and relish, the author then prides himself that he is able to make a cover and can now do Photoshop-ish.  But, is it right?  Quite simply, is it good enough?

WHY BOOKS BY UNKNOWN AUTHORS HAVE TO LOOK TWICE AS GOOD – AND BE INSTANTLY RECOGNIZABLE!

By this rationale, is it therefore fair to say that if you are a famous author - probably wealthy with a loyal fan base - we have a right to judge your cover critically and view it cynically, whereas if you are an up-and-coming new face, we should afford you leniency for your budget and withhold judgement until we have read it?  After all, for all we know behind that cover may be one of those hidden gems – and, behind some there absolutely, undoubtedly will be.  Well, no actually; this is the very reason why you should not expect leniency!  You don’t have the luxury of a half-page author name self-selling your new book – you have yet to achieve that status.  Besides, the better your book is, the more enticing your cover should be!  I designed all of my own book covers, and whilst deeply proud of every single one of them, they have been upgraded and reissued over the years.  Why?  Because they weren’t good enough to reflect what was inside them.  Whilst you should always strive to create the best art you can – both inside and outside of the cover – your book’s cover is invariably little more than a shop window, with one primary objective: to get people inside it.  And, even whilst those in the business are less likely to judge a book so harshly by its cover, they are still going to have an inevitable, innate aversion to really bad covers; avoiding creating a terrible cover is a good place for you to start selling your book.  In fact, I’ll admit that there is undoubtedly still some degree to which a cover might help me select my next review read.  In spite of this, take a look at the BOOK REVIEW BLOG – seek out the books which have been awarded 5-star reviews and take a look at the poor quality of some of their covers; they gave no indication of the immense quality of what I was about to read.  

Image property of MJV Literary Author Services

Whilst you are there, by the same inverted principle, look for the lower scoring reviews; those with a professionally created and undoubtedly more expensive high-res cover – it would perhaps be a safe bet to assume that these would have more sales on Amazon than the rough gems do.  This is a tragic waste, and all the more reason why a good cover is so important.  By earlier asking “is it good enough”, of course the question refers to its defining measure: good enough to sell.  As far as the paying readership goes, sadly, and often inaccurately, they undoubtedly judge a book by its cover, if not totally, then to enough of an extent that this factor cannot be simply ignored when conducting your analytics – the number of Amazon sales will probably speak for themselves, as far as professional covers goes.  Whilst I am certain there is a huge number of people with the sense to acknowledge that an extremely good quality book may be hindered by its unknown author’s lack of budget, there are also most definitely particular universal expectations of the cover, which are consistent with genre – if you can’t tell your reader how good the book is, at least tell them what it is about, by its cover; at the very, very least, your cover must ascertain genre, even to be visible to your market audience.  Too many books hide their action-thriller credential behind a stock cover of a mountain – this means very little to a browsing reader.  I earlier mentioned the horror theme, briefly; sci-fi fans will probably expect high-resolution, technologically stunning imagery and artwork; period or romantic readers may be looking for beautiful scenery or lavish, costume-wearing characters; action readers will prefer a gripping, rousing cover, maybe featuring weapons or cash; family drama may invoke expectations of emotional people in melancholy and poignant poses; take a look at the colour themes of other books in yours’ genre, because they all have them…  The point is, if there is only one piece of advice to be taken from this article, it is that your cover, at the very least, must be recognizable to your target reader at first glance – or at least enticing - otherwise your marketing work is going to be a whole lot more difficult!  When you are rich and famous, your cover might not need to be memorable or even good, but at first glance it will still meet the genre theme, and that will be enough.

A GOOD BOOK COVER IS AN INVESTMENT

As far as goes any degree of importance readers place on the character traits mentioned - perceptive visual importance, stereotypical presumptions, patience, openness to and tolerance of new talent, respect for opportunity, assumptions of financially social inferiority and loyalty  – all people are different, and each respects some of these qualities more than others; this is a calculation you must make for yourself, as the author or indie publisher paying to produce your book, and adapt to your buyers’ persona.  One thing is clear, though, and probably made more so by looking at the not-so-good books which are selling well, rather than by the good ones which aren’t: a professional book cover may not be a creative necessity, but it is a business one - a relatively cheap investment, too, considering it is your book’s shop window.  Take a look at some AFFILIATED COVER DESIGNERS and their rates – you might be surprised.

Posted by Matt McAvoy: 31st July 2019