#at first its entirely innocuous she just wants to Fuck Around And Find Out !

[zeveth]

zeveth's drive for exploration and knowledge, her curiosity to investigate the inner-workings of things both physical and eventually mental/emotional is both innate and bolstered by her developed coding, one of the unintended consequences of which is of course that she then has more control over her environments than the average vorta. that's the thing the founders have in turn to control.

[ceasarslegion]

Okay lets go

You may notice right out the gate that one of these is the game of the year edition, and the other is regular vanilla oblivion. I grew up playing morrowind and oblivion WAY before skyrim came out, so i actually had vanilla oblivion way back in the day and then got the GOTY edition after that one released so that i could play all the DLC when it was still a pain in the ass to download them individually off of PSN.

But theres a very specific reason why i kept my vanilla oblivion disc. I was considering trading it for something else, until I got to the vampirism cure questline in my run at the time, and discovered that the GOTY edition had an extremely game-breaking innocuous glitch that was never fixed in any future patch, update, or even acknowledged by bethesda, but it has been the bane of every ps3 GOTY player ever since.

I want you to walk a mile in child me's shoes for a second here. You remember how much of a pain in the ass it was to get the cure for vampirism in oblivion? How it was the fetch quest to end all fetch quests? How you dont even get map markers and just have to fucking wing the whole thing and hope to GOD you can find enough grand soul gems out in the world to even START the second half of the fetch quest and just GET the list of ingredients the potion actually consists of?

This glitch in the GOTY ps3 edition is right at the end. When i say right at the end, i mean when youre supposed to hand over the very last ingredient of the very last list of bullshit it has you running around the entire province and the planes of oblivion itself like Cyrodiil's most exploited door dasher to get. All while you cant go out in the sunlight without breaking into peoples homes and drinking their blood about it first. Skyrim spoiled all of you with its blood potions lying around in piles in the vampire castle. Oblivion girlies fought in the trenches for your blood potion freedom.

The dialogue option to give the witch the last ingredient, a bunch of bloodgrass which can only be acquired from the game's equivalent of biblical hell, is broken in the GOTY edition. Its broken. You cant give it to her. You can keep clicking it with 30 times the amount of bloodgrass she wants and she wont take it, she'll just keep telling you where to get it while you contemplate ending it all and deleting your save file to achieve nirvana through a direct experience with the frivolity of material objects like "gaming consoles." You cant ever cure vampirism in the GOTY ps3 edition. Now go outside and experience the birds singing in the park.

This was never fixed. There was never a patch to fix it. There was never an update. There was never an acknowledgement by bethesda game studios owned by zenimax owned by microsoft that this game-breaking glitch exists. You have to be a vampire forever.

Unless you have a copy of vanilla oblivion from the same region your GOTY disc is from, where this glitch does not exist.

But wait, dear player. You must head my warning before you go loading up your GOTY save file on the vanilla disc. You must not start any DLC before you complete the vampire cure questline, for your key items will be disappeared and you can never complete it. Or, if youre very unlucky, it could just corrupt your save file altogether trying to load DLC items onto vanilla oblivion. And if you follow this warning but have too many things in your inventory when you load it, you get an infinite load screen instead upon which to gaze at your reflection in your tv screen and calculate how much money and how many hours youve collectively sunk into bethesda products throughout your lifetime.

No, you must go to the barrel in the side of the witch's cabin and dump every single item in your inventory except for the bloodgrass before you save on the GOTY disc, exit, and reload on the vanilla disc. Then you can talk to the witch, give her the very last ingredient, and the moment she accepts it you must immediately save again, switch the discs back, reload, and collect all your things.

So i kept my vanilla disc in order to be able to run through todd howard's greco-roman labyrinthian trial of getting some witch to take a handful of grass from Tamriel's biblical hell if i ever get bit by a vampire in any future playthroughs.

Oblivion is an abysmal game and i will never stop playing it

Actually somebody please ask me why i have two copies of oblivion ps3 because the reason is so incredibly bethesda and so incredibly oblivion at the same time

[notanotherreidgirl]

spencer being really horny every time he’s around you but your completely oblivious until MORGAN tells you and then you take it upon yourself to go fuck reid (sub!spence pls!)

here you go! by the way, i am such a big fan of your writing and I was so psyched that you sent me a request - i hope you like it!

wc: 1058

Warnings: masturbation, language, oral sex (female receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex

Derek frowned. He wasn't usually one to meddle, leaving that to his baby girl but enough was enough. If he had to watch Spencer trip over his words (and his feet) when you walked into a room one more time he was going to lose his mind. Just last week he practically had to smack Spencer for staring down your low-cut blouse for 10 straight minutes during a briefing. Spencer Reid was a lot of things but subtle was not one of them.

The only thing worse than his perpetual and blatant arousal was your unrelenting obliviousness. There was Spencer turning bright red every time you so much as breathed in his direction and running off to the bathroom whenever you came within 3 feet of him and you had absolutely no clue. It was infuriating. Derek had never understood Penelope’s tendency to get involved in other people’s love lives until he was watching this scene unfold before his very eyes.

Spencer was returning from the file room, a stack of folders in his arms when he passed by your desk. At that very moment, you stretched, your shirt riding up to reveal the tiniest sliver of your lower back. It was perfectly innocuous for most, hardly noticeable really, but it was absolutely overwhelming for Spencer. The files tumbled from his grasp, scattering across the floor. You quickly bent down to gather them up which did nothing to help the growing bulge he was desperately trying to conceal. He dropped to the ground and hastily pushed the papers into a poor semblance of a pile - letting out a little yelp when your hands brushed - before depositing them on his desk and rushing out the door, mumbling something about forgetting a file.

When you got back to your seat Derek was there, toying with the Ray Bradbury novel that Spencer had given you a few weeks ago. You shrugged at him, preparing to get back to work and forget all about Spencer’s odd behavior. “When are you gonna put pretty boy out of his misery?”

You looked up confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on now. You’re too good of a profiler not to notice that Reid’s got it bad for you” he picked up the book as if to present evidence. You opened your mouth then closed it. Then opened it again.

“Oh.” It was all you could think to say. Your entire world just shifted to the left slightly and you swore you could hear it click into place. You turned on your heel, tracing Spencer’s steps and ignoring Derek’s laughter. Finding him was easy. He had retreated to the privacy of the file room, the Bureau had nearly gone completely digital and no one came down to rummage around for paper files when they could just look them up. He was biting down on his fist in order to muffle himself but his moans reverberated through the room. “You do this often?”

He jumped, making a useless attempt to cover himself with his hands but it was too late. Who knew the resident genius would have such a pretty cock? “I asked you a question”

“Y-yes. Yes, I do.” Much to Spencer’s chagrin, his erection did not subside after getting caught, if anything your presence had the opposite effect. He was sure he had never been this hard in his life. “I think about you all the time. I’m so sorry”

“You’re sorry? That’s not good enough, Spence” you pulled yourself up on a desk, parting your legs. “Come apologize to me properly”

After he got over his initial shock, he wasted no time dropping to his knees in front of you watching entranced as you removed your panties. His hands shook as they slid up your thighs and he brought himself to your core hesitantly, certain this was a dream. But all his disbelief was suspended at the very first taste. He ate you out like a man starved. You could feel him everywhere - licking up your folds, darting into your entrance, gripping your thighs, circling your clit - until you came apart. But he made no move to stop forcing you to pull him up by the hair. “You taste so good. Please, I want-”

You yanked his hair harshly and his words devolved into a lewd moan. “I don’t give a fuck about what you want. You got that?”

He nodded vigorously. “Good. Now I want you to fuck me, Dr. Reid. Do you think you can handle that?”

He stammered out a yes but you were already positioning him at your entrance, gathering a fistful of his cardigan and pulling him into you. His eyes were glued to where the two of you joined, watching himself disappear into you with wide eyes. You were setting the pace, propelling him in and out as he tried to process the enormity of the situation. Every time he started to wrap his mind around the fact that his dreams were coming true, you would envelop him in your warmth or let out a soft moan that dashed his mind to bits. He desperately tried to keep his release at bay but it was no use. “I-I’m going to -”

“Come for me, baby. Fill me up” you brought a hand to your clit, bringing yourself to your peak as he came with a low whine. For a moment the two of you just held each other, basking in the afterglow of resolving weeks of tension. Spencer swallowed before speaking. “I really am sorry. If I ever made you uncomfortable, I’m so sorry. I just can’t get you out of my head.”

“The only thing you have to be sorry for is not telling me sooner.” You placed a soft kiss on his lips and shuffled back, easing him out of you and letting his cum leak out. “You belong to me now, baby”

---

You had decided to stagger your return to the bullpen, having Spencer go first with you following 5 minutes later but your efforts were made in vain. When Derek spotted Spencer enter with a wide grin on his flushed face he stood right up and started clapping. Penelope sprinkled some makeshift confetti she had fashioned out of multi-colored post-its over his head as Derek grabbed his shoulder. “Finally! Way to go, pretty boy”

Blurb Masterlist

[brushstrokesapocalyptic]

it’s time for the “overanalyzing one-off lines” show!

so the very first thing magnus says when he sees pit in chapter 2 of kid icarus: uprising is as follows:

“Well, I didn’t expect to see an angel here. Hope this doesn’t mean I’ve kicked the bucket.”

now, i’m not sure if you’re aware, but that’s a really weird thing for someone to say, and it’s even more weird that no one comments on it. pit and palutena go on talking about unrelated things, as if that’s a totally normal and expected thing for magnus to say.

now, if you’re like me, you probably also didn’t really react to this line the first few times you saw it. it’s the second chapter, kiu has a lot of slightly-odd lines which turn out to be foreshadowing. me, personally? my first thought was “oh, i guess angels are probably associated with escorting the dead to the afterlife,“ and then i moved on.

they’re not, though. that’s what reapers do. and there’s no way humans have these two races mixed up. just fucking look at them.

do they look anything alike to you??? no. they don’t. which raises the question of why, exactly, magnus said that.

now, we don’t know a lot about angels as a whole. pit (and by extension dark pit) is emphatically not the gold standard of angeldom. we can assume he looks fairly ordinary for an angel, seeing as no one has trouble identifying him as such. beyond that, though, a lot of what we know about angels comes from what pit isn’t. for starters, he can’t fly. and there’s something else, too, but i’ll get to that later.

before that, though, i’m gonna go through the various unsubstantiated comments made by people with a dubious level of authority on the subject. (incidentally, i sourced these screenshots from the wiki— much more convenient than trying to dig through youtube for every single random conversation.)

without any further ado! let’s get into it!

Angels as Messengers

Gaol: Aw, Palutena’s little messenger boy. And Magnus, it’s always a pleasure. (src)

in the specific context of overanalyzing magnus’s first line, this is an important sentence to pick out. magnus and gaol are both humans, both with presumably a fairly similar history as mercenaries up until gaol got stuffed in a suit of armor. but while magnus makes a weird comment about death, gaol calls pit a messenger.

and pit agrees with her!

Viridi: I wish I had an angel to do my bidding. It’s like having an intern.

Pit: I’m not an intern. I’m a messenger of the gods!

Viridi: Poor Pit. Don't you know that the definition of angel is "errand spirit"? (src)

this particular conversation is the most insight we get into angels as a whole, i think. viridi thinks of angels as like divine interns, there to do little tasks for gods, and palutena doesn’t exactly disagree with her. pit says they’re specifically messengers, which lines up with biblical mythology. i could see the traditional role of angels in the world of KI being exactly that, showing up to tell the humans what the gods have to say because the gods themselves are too busy being petty jerks to do it themselves.

The Angel’s Code of Conduct

Magnus: You go in fully dressed? Don't you at least want to change into a...swimming tunic or something?

Pit: Oh, no no no! The angel's code of conduct says that we must always be ready for duty.

Magnus: I guess you wouldn't be an angel if you didn't do things by the book. (src)

Pit: Hey! You know the angel's code of conduct! I need to be prepared at all times! (src)

another random little thing is the angel’s code of conduct. without a larger sample size, we can’t know if it’s a real thing or just an excuse to save on laundry, but apparently it’s against the rules to not be on call at all times. in pit’s case, the duty he has to be ready for is doing palutena’s dirty work, but it can easily mean just about anything— including, of course, being a messenger.

No Warrior

Chariot Master: But you are no warrior, angel. Tell me, why do you fight?

Pit: I fight for Lady Palutena. And I fight for the people under her protection!

Chariot Master: That's not reason enough for an angel. (src)

remember how i said there was something else weird about pit? the chariot master seems to think angels aren’t very prone to battle— or perhaps even that they’re actively opposed to it. this lines up well with the idea that they’re supposed to be messengers, peaceful go-betweens for gods and mortals. this does not line up well with pit, the adorable weapon of mass destruction.

and it also does absolutely nothing to explain the question driving the whole existence of this post.

you know what does kinda lean towards an explanation?

No Other Angels

Pit: Do all gods have their own angels, like you have me?

Palutena: No, I don't think that's necessarily the case. (src)

i said before that the Intern Pit conversation had the most illuminating information on angels. this is what i was actually referring to. on its own, it’s pretty innocuous, but it’s just as weird as the magnus line. shouldn’t pit know about other angels, seeing as he is one himself? but he doesn’t know if there are other angels.

the only angels we ever see are him and his clone. no one ever directly references the existence of other angels, they only make general statements about what angels as a whole are like— statements which clearly don’t apply to pit, meaning they’re not just extrapolating based on the one angel that definitely does exist.

the one time someone does comment on the hypothetical existence of other angels, palutena gives a vague answer to the tune of “no,” the topic is changed, and no one brings it up again.

let’s go over everything i’ve established about angels up to this point. they can fly, they’re peaceful messengers of the gods, and pit is the only one that seems to exist as of the start of KIU.

it should be pretty obvious at this point what answer i’m dancing around, if it wasn’t obvious from the start. pit is the only angel around because all the other ones are dead. the reason why magnus said what he did is that his thought process went something like this:

See an angel.

Think “Aren’t angels extinct? Is that a ghost? Am I a ghost? I sure hope not.“

Make a quip about that.

Move on with his life, because he isn’t dead and evidently neither is this guy.

i’m not gonna pretend i went into this post with the intent of any other conclusion to that mystery. anyone who’s bothered glancing over a plot summary for the original kid icarus can draw that conclusion. it’s certainly what i did, reinforced by fics by people who had the same thought!

the truth, however, is that this was all a trick to get you to read my analysis of the theoretical nature of angels as a race. now that you’re invested, i’m going to dramatically throw aside my cape and reveal my TRUE FORM: telling people that fandom consensus is wrong, and my ideas are cooler and better than everyone else’s and you should all throw roses at my feet and bow before your king.

(or just, y’know, take it as the subjective analysis that it is. whatever floats your boat.)

Hot Takes

the original kid icarus does not actually tell you about angels going extinct. here’s the wiki article with the full text of the backstory, just for convenience, so you know what i’m on about for the rest of this post.

so, the part of the story that i think gets misinterpreted is this part about palutena’s army.

Medusa led a surprise attack on Palutena's army which could barely fend off the attack. Palutena's army suffered major losses and was heavily defeated in the final battle.

specifically, i think a lot of people interpret said army as having been made up at least partly of angels. sure, in the actual game it consists entirely of centurions, but you have to take old NES games with a grain of salt. i know i don’t buy for a second that pit was part of palutena’s guard before the original game (he was just too goddamn young), there’s nothing wrong with reinterpreting things.

recall everything i established about angels already, though. this is the hot official lore, from the game everyone knows and loves. angels are messengers, and if the chariot master is to be believed, never warriors. pit is an outlier. palutena’s army consists of centurions, not angels. if medusa wiped them out, it wasn’t because they were fighting for palutena.

(and honestly, i don’t think angels are necessarily associated with palutena exclusively. sure, she’s got the wing imagery, and she’s got the one known surviving angel working for her, at least up until pittoo is born. but angels are messengers of the gods, not messengers of palutena. again, pit is an outlier.)

which all brings us to the real question of this post.

what the FUCK happened to all the other angels? why is there only pit? why does magnus act surprised to see a messenger of the gods, and make a quip about being dead, if not because angels are otherwise extinct?! WHO KILLED THEM, AND WHY?!

thus concludes the “over analyzing one-off lines“ show. see you next, uh, maybe at some point if i feel like it!

(also another thought i had but couldn’t find room to fit it in properly: the gods don’t really act like angels are all extinct, but i feel like that can be explained through the sheer scale of a god’s lifespan. if we assume they were wiped out sometime around the original kid icarus (even if not as palutena’s army) then that’s a whole twenty-five years. that’s a long time for us humans, but for a god, that might as well be last tuesday. “yeah, i know what angels are like. sure wish i could have one. too bad palutena’s got a monopoly on the one single angel that medusa didn’t manage to wreck.”)

[fallen029]

Nervous

"Are you nervous?"

"No."

"You sure?"

Mira tilted her head to the side though her eyes betrayed the cute, quirky questioning vibe she was going for as they, instead, seemed rather disbelieving. It was easy for Laxus to note it these days, having fallen like most other in the hall for her typical chaste trickiness and innocuous pretenses over the years, but after being far more than just a guild member to her now for a good number of them as well, he'd begun to pick up on the little things.

Like how she seemed forever trapped in a guilelessness that didn't quite entrap her as well as she thought it did.

But this was fine, the ease at which he disarmed her now, as Mira was able to pick apart the man's own fallacies and walls.

"Yeah," he grumbled to the woman's question, but she only grinned at him, as if victorious, as she picked apart his lies with ease.

"Then why are you biting at your nails?" she asked with round eyes. "You only do that when you're nervous."

And now she'd managed to annoy him.

"Mira-"

"I'm only curious," she insisted with a little shake of her head. "Dragon."

He huffed some, his chest deflating as he finally gave her his full attention. They were in the bar, as they typically were, but Mirajane had actually found a moment to take a break. Rest. S-Class trials were, at that very moment, going on and those who hadn't been chosen were sulking away from the guild for the time being while a decent sized group was off being put through the rigorous trials and tribulations that were associated with being designated part of the elite group of mages that were Fairy Tail S-Class wizards.

Laxus had no reason to be nervous.

He'd claimed his spot many years before and, at times, wondered if he even had eventually surpassed the old geezer all together. He'd be a wizard saint, someday, he knew, or at least told himself so, and that meant that he had far more concerns than something as silly as a guild distinction.

Not when may one day have the distinction among the entire continent.

S-Class trials had nothing to do with him and, if anything, he was mostly just glad to find that bar emptied out some that day.

"It's okay," Mira assured him then though and when she reached across the table, it was to grab his hand, pulling it down so that she could caress it as she looked deeply into the slayer's eyes. "I am too."

"You are what too?" he asked dumbly, confused equally by her words as he was calmed by her gesture.

"Nervous," she insisted.

"About what?"

"The same thing as you."

"I'm not," he told her, "nervous."

"Laxus-"

"What do I have to be nervous about, huh?" Then, frowning, he questioned, "What do you?"

"Well, actually, I'm nervous about a lot of things," she said, releasing his hand, but only so she could bring her own up to her cheek and rest her head there then, as she thought. "I have a shipment of meat that hasn't come in yet and I know, this weekend, if I don't get it, that I'll have to serve meals without any meat portion and the guys will be pretty upset about that, which will affect my tips, and I've been trying to save up money for my wedding. Which brings me to my next point, I've been saving for a wedding that can't yet happen because my boyfriend is dragging his feet with proposing to me even though we've talked about it a thousand times-"

"Mira," he warned, but she only shrugged.

"The dog I look after was sick last night, too," she finished. "I'm nervous about that."

Laxus, with a slight breath, questioned, "What's wrong with him?"

"He has the shits."

And he blinked. Then narrowed his eyes while the woman only gazed right back with hers earnest and honest.

Shrugging some then, Laxus said, "If you need help wrangling him down to a vet, I could-"

"Oh!" Mira sat up then. "And I'm super nervous because my baby brother is off on the S-Class trials and I want him to preform well." Shrugging, she added, "But I'm torn, because I also want all of my friends to do well. Including your best friend. Freed."

Laxus' face fell then as he realized he'd been duped (possibly; her street dog did have a hefty amount of ailments from time to time) and only looked off once more as he remarked, "Sounds like your problem. Not mine."

"Oh, it's not a problem. Laxus. To be nervous about such things." Sighing, she said, "It means that you care. About them. To be nervous for someone else. I want them all to come back, knowing that even though they can't all be the winner, at least invigorated and ready to start right back at training and trying their hardest to, eventually, be that winner. It's an honor to be nervous on someone's behalf. I'd gladly take all of Elf's nerves if it meant he could put all his focus into the trials right now."

Laxus snorted. "Yeah, well, bully for you. Freed can take care of his damn self. I don't need to worry about him, like you and your loser brother."

"Behave."

Snorting, the man looked off before saying, "I'm not worried. Over Freed. Or anything."

"Fine. Not worried then." Mira had lost some of her jolliness at the slight her boyfriend had sent towards her absent brother. "But you are thinking about it. Aren't you? Even just a little? He's your best friend. I would at least think-"

"I'm," he insisted to her with a finality in his tone he usually reserved for literally anyone who wasn't his demon, "not nervous about the S-Class trials. Or worried. Or concerned. Alright?"

Sighing, she looked off for a moment, considering the slight surge of people that had come in in the last ten minutes or so and weighing in her mind whether or not her break was officially over. Not quite ready to let it go though, when her eyes drifted back to her boyfriend, it was with another set of words on her tongue.

"If you're not nervous about the trials," she began in that tone and it was enough, just on its own, to make him regret coming into the hall that day, "then that must mean that you're nervous about something else, so what is it? Huh? Is it that you've been seeing someone else?"

"Mira, what?"

"Some other woman, is it, then? Who is she, Laxus? Huh? Don't think that I wont' make a scene here, right now, in front of everyone, because-"

"What are you-"

"-if you don't tell me what it is that you're so nervous about, then I have no choice but to assume that you're cheating on-"

"I'm nervous for my friend, alright?" And he usually wouldn't take such a tone with her, but he did then, snapping some, out of aggravation and, maybe it was a trick of the lights, but the woman could have sworn she even saw a flick of his fangs as the vein on the side of his head bulged and his eyes darkened. "I want him to be S-Class with me and I'm worried that your stupid brother or one of those other idiots will get it over him. Or that...that… He'll fuck it up himself. Is that what you want to hear? Huh?"

No.

The other people around the guildhall did not.

But they had, quite clearly, heard nearly every word of his little outburst and, feeling all those eyes on him now only made the man growl louder. He was primed for a retreat, storming off and staying away from the hall for a few days, until he could stomach a return without smashing in the face of the first person who questioned him.

Mirajane, however, wasn't going to let this happen.

Because, yes, she had been very happy with the explosion of information that had just fallen out of the slayer's mouth. She'd only been prodding at him her entire break. For it to result in such a satisfying revelation meant it hadn't all been for not.

"Awe," Mirajane giggled, clapping her hands at the slayer's misery. "You guys are just such good friends, huh, dragon? You feel a lot better, don't you? Getting that off your chest?"

"No," he told her with the same candor that he'd just exposed himself and his nerves to the entire guildhall. "I feel worse."

"Well," Mira hummed as, job complete, she got to her feet once more, she offered, "I feel better. Isn't that all that matters?"

"Demon." The moniker was more of a proclamation than an endearing term. "You're evil."

"I love you," was her purest of explanations and she meant it too, he could tell, as her deep blues flashed a bit of hurt. "Helping you admit your feelings for your friends is how I show that."

"Yeah, well," he muttered under his breath, "then you need to find new ways."

Laxus took off that night, before her shift was finished, but that was fine with the woman as she'd more than begun staying most nights at his apartment.

When she arrived, he was flicking through an old atlas, comparing it to a current map. Something for a job, was all he grumbled to her when she lightly questioned, and Mira let his tone go because, well, she had been rather insistent before, at the bar, and all things considered, he hadn't outright acted a fool.

Just mostly.

"If Elfman doesn't make S-Class," she did whisper, eventually, over dinner that night and she saw the man roll his eyes, thinking she was trying to goad him back into a conversation, "I'll cry."

Grunting, he only continued to stab at the steamed vegetables at his plate, never rightly bringing them up to his mouth, but not quite ready to admit, when he insisted in a huff that he be the one to make them, that this was a bad idea.

"Of course," she hummed again, "if he makes it, I'll probably cry then, too."

"Mira?"

"Yes?"

"I already told you what you wanted to hear," he told her plainly. "What else do you want from me?"

"I'd like you to make a big emotional plea again," she replied back with the same amount of flatness that it almost made the slayer recoil. At the sight of it though, she broke some as, with a giggle, she admitted, "I'm just talking, dragon. About my baby brother. Who wants this so badly-"

"If he wanted it badly, he'll come back S-Class," Laxus told her as, with a shake of his head, he went back to stabbing at his vegetables. "If he doesn't, then that means he didn't want it badly enough."

"Well, I'm not saying that to him, if he comes back not S-Class."

"Yeah, I figured."

"And I'm not saying that to Freed either."

"That's fine," Laxus told her. "I will. He knows where to go to hear the truth."

"A little kindness will get you a lot in life, Lax," she replied, but he only shrugged some.

"Won't get you S-Class," he retorted and, well, the next morning would finally put the entire conversation to rest.

Cana had never looked prouder than herself and, that night, never gotten drunker, than when she was finally, after wanting it for so long, so much, to find herself on the same Fairy Tail tier as her father.

He was there, Gildarts was, having been hanging around for a few days, prepared for this, and she seemed rather annoyed by all of his attention, shoving at the man's face any time he tried to hug her, but betraying her annoyance by the glistening in her eyes, every single time he, also drunkenly, announced to those amassed how proud he was of the guild's newest S-Class member.

His daughter.

Mirajane was caught as she always was, between dismayed at the heartbreak evident on the faces of those who weren't victorious and the one who was. As she comforted both Elfman and Natsu over their losses, she did take note, across the bar, of where Freed was very stoic and graceful in his defeat, but still being comforted in their own ways, by his two friends.

"Who wants to be S-Class anyways?" Bickslow questioned. "When you can be part of the most elite team in all the lands?"

"I would," Ever admitted under her breath though, still, she patted at Freed's shoulders sympathetically.

It was as they stood though that all three felt it. It had been looming, after all, the entire time. The presence of their most highly viewed mentor, Laxus, who came out of hiding, down in the game room. He'd been down there transferring his nerves into some rounds of pool, but Cana and Gildarts very loud commotion had finally caught his attention and he found himself not welcomed to the celebrations of the member he'd most desired.

At his approach, both Bickslow and Ever took a step back. They too had disappointed the man in the past, but never quite in such a grand fashion. Freed was primed to take the gold this time around, only to lose out to the guild drunk and Evergreen couldn't help but to glare over at the other woman, hating her more, even, than Titania, just for that day only.

Laxus came to a stop before the trio, eyes on Freed, and the rune mage forced himself to meet the gaze of the other man. It was just as he was beginning to open his mouth though that he caught sight of Mira, over at the bar, staring very pointedly his way and he took in a breath, instead of speaking, reconsidering his words before he was unable to take the back.

His gaze didn't soften, not exactly, but Freed was almost surprised when, instead of being reprimanded, he was welcomed with a pat at the shoulder from the man, as well as a slight grin.

"You kicked Elfman's ass, at least, right?" the slayer asked to which the other mage bowed his head a bit.

"Well, we did find ourselves across from one another and I found myself moving on while he did not, but-"

"All that matters."

"L-Laxus-"

"You'll want it more, next time," he told the other man simply. "After getting so close."

"Yes." And he balled up his fists then, Freed did, nodding his head at the man as he insisted, "I will!"

It was a celebration that night, not a pity party, as Cana was far from someone that anyone could look down upon (especially not with her father there, intent on making certain this didn't happen) and it was a good night.

For everyone.

The night peaked though, for Laxus, when towards the end of it, as he sat up at the bar drinking with the still far too giddy Gildarts, listening to the man go on about all of where he'd been (with some praise for his little girl sprinkled in there), Mirajane appeared at his side. The slayer originally thought it was to refill his mug, which he held up to help her with this, but instead of leaning down to fulfill this request, the woman instead pressed a kiss to his cheek, lingering long enough for Gildarts to giggle at the man.

"Mira," Laxus questioned with a bit of a rosiness to his cheeks as the woman rightened and did, finally, begin to fill his mug with golden ale once more. Such public displays were hardly their style and the man raised his head then to question, "What was that for?"

"I just like it when you're nice, dragon." She even giggled. "I like it a lot."

But the night was busy and she was being called off again, across the bar, which left the still somewhat blushing Laxus and grinning Gildarts.

"You caught a good one, Laxus. Proud of ya."

"Shuddup."

"No, seriously." And Gildarts glanced over his shoulder then, to the table where his daughter was plying herself with barrel after barrel while her guild members, all so thrilled by her accomplishment, sat nearby, happily congratulating her. "I fucked up. You know. Once. With the only one that mattered. Sometimes you don't get second-chances, man." His serious tone faded though as his face contorted in a smile that didn't seem to stretch right across it as he said, "Unless you're like my Cana! No need for second-chances; she's all S-Class!"

"Yeah," Laxus snorted, "she just needed fourth and fifth and sixth-chances."

"What did you say? Eh? Laxus?"

And when Gildarts turned his head then, his face had contorted into something far darker and Laxus found it best to just sip his beer in silence for awhile.

They left together that night, Laxus and Mira did, the man a bit drunk and the woman, who'd worked the entire night away, stone cold sober, but it was fine, as she seemed high on something else.

"I'm so happy," she insisted to the man. "For Cana. It almost washes away how badly If eel for Elf."

Almost.

She was twirling and skipping that night, slightly before her boyfriend, and he only watched her for a few moments then before speaking.

"Maybe," he offered with a bit of a shrug, "he could come out with me. Elfman could. And we could train some times. To get him ready for next year."

And she stopped dancing then, Mira did, to look over her boyfriend as she instead flel into step with him. Slipping her arm into the crook of his, she snuggled up close to the man who, even drunk, only rolled his eyes.

"You're so sweet, Lax," she assured him as the man only groaned. "When you wanna be."

Even though his reaction seemed the exact opposite, slowly, Laxus was learning that, maybe, he always wanted to be.

[knox-knocks]

Such Stuff as Dreams are Made

this is my fic written for @justadreamfox for the spring exchange!! it got a lot longer than I expected, but here’s a magic library au!! i had a blast working with your prompts and i hope you enjoy! :D

~

Andrew needed a cigarette. He had a pack in his pocket, and he itched to light it and taste the bitter nicotine, but being chased by two squad cars full of pigs and four delinquents that wanted Andrew’s head on a pike left him with little opportunity. He hadn’t been the one to tip off the police about their little gatherings, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the road was ending and Andrew was coming up on a dead end.

He ducked behind a dumpster, bending over to catch his breath in an attempt not to pass out. He might be able to pack a punch, but running had never been his forte.

Red and blue lights flashed across the wall as one of the cop cars crawled past, the pigs scanning for any sign of Andrew or any of the other guys that had scattered after the raid. Andrew knew to give it a couple minutes before leaving his stinking sanctuary, and he waited a few more in case they circled back or one of his former associates tried to ambush him. Hopefully the pigs would arrest them and leave Andrew to get caught street-fighting another day.

When the coast was clear, Andrew left the alley and started back to the dilapidated house he shared with his deadbeat mother and sick brother. He needed to be home before Tilda got back from whatever gutter she had spent the night in, or before Aaron woke up and needed his meds. Aside from Andrew’s late-night escapade, the streets were silent as Andrew walked through the city he had lived in his entire life, but was never able to call home.

Andrew had picked up his street-fighting habit halfway through his junior year of high school, when Aaron’s condition had worsened and Andrew’s mounting responsibilities had grown too much, even for him. If it weren’t for Aaron, Andrew was sure he’d have run away and headed somewhere east, anywhere but California. But he would never abandon his brother; he was unwillingly to break the promise he made to him when they were children and leave him, sick and vulnerable, to Tilda’s negligent care.

It was on nights like these, when the breeze made Andrew’s skin prickle with left-over humidity, that he waited until Aaron was sound asleep in his bed and Tilda was long gone before he left their ramshackle little house with its sagging gray walls and peeling white paint for the night. The street-fighting provided some money that Andrew used to put food on the table and meds for Aaron, though not that much. Mostly it was a way to let off a little steam. Apparently, beating the shit out of people and getting beat in return was a great stress reliever. Though, Andrew supposed, now he’d have to find another venue. He doubted he’d be welcomed back to the old one, even if it didn’t get shut down by the pigs.

Andrew flexed his hand until his knuckles ached. They were bruised, he’d need to ice them when he got home. Andrew was so preoccupied with cataloging his injuries, that he almost walked right past something that shouldn’t have been there.

Situated in a vacant lot that had been empty for years was a building, tall and impossible against the inky black of the sky. It was square and blocky, blending into the neighborhood in the way all abandoned buildings did. Drab paint that coated the outside had chipped away in spots to reveal faded, crumbling brickwork underneath. On the inside, the windows were covered with thick, red curtains that stifled faint yellow light Andrew could see creeping from behind them. Andrew stepped over tiny flowers and leafy weeds that grew out of cracked concrete stairs that led to double doors at the front of the building and was struck with the sudden urge to knock, though the place looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.

Light seeped in from under the door and when Andrew pressed his ear to its splintered wood, he could hear a faint humming coming from the other side. It reminded him of a bit of a heartbeat. He took a step back, craning his neck to see the whole front of the ugly thing. A sign hung above him, faded letters painted onto rough wood.

Foxhole’s Traveling Library. Around it was a carving of a leaping fox, front legs touching its tail to encircle the words.

“What the fuck,” Andrew whispered.

The thing was, the lot the library sat on was next to the 24-hour convenience store that Andrew liked to stop by for snacks and cigarettes before his matches, and it had definitely been empty two hours ago when Andrew passed it. It looked as if someone had dropped a giant building in the middle of the lot and just left it there.

Before Andrew could think too hard about it, he heard the wail of sirens and saw the flashing red and blue of police cars rounding the corner. He couldn’t go to the convenience store since the owner, Mick, didn’t like him very much and would turn him over in a heartbeat. That left one last option.

Andrew shoved his shoulder against the boarded-up doors of the library, expecting more resistance, but the doors gave easily and he tumbled inside.

The library on the inside was a completely different sort of strange than the outside. While the outside was all crumbling infrastructure and OSHA violations, the inside was something straight out of a dream. It seemed a lot bigger than the outside could have hinted, with rows upon rows of shelves stuffed with thousands of books, stretching as far as Andrew could see. He was pretty sure he could get lost in this place, even with a memory as good as his.

A gilded spiral staircase gave off a burnished glow in the warm light that emanated from various dimly-lit lamps on the walls. They were old-fashioned, oil-lamps cast in iron that gleamed in the flickering light. Andrew craned his neck upwards and counted eight floors that looked identical to the one he stood on. There were paintings too – delicate oils of people hung in gold frames on walls painted white and masterfully-crafted marble busts of long-forgotten people tucked between the bookshelves. They were fanciful and detailed in a library that seemed to be made up entirely of fancy and detail.

Andrew drew closer the bookshelves and inspected the books. Most of them were leather-bound and embossed with gold foil and several were in different languages. He ran his finger down the spines, feeling the rough bumps from the binding and wondered how they got there. It seemed an innocuous question; someone had to have put them there. But Andrew couldn’t help but think that the books had always been there, that there was no other place for them to be.

He walked around for a bit, wandering through the shelves and studying the strange books in them. There were no markers that indicated what genre was in, but occasionally he passed tiny golden placards that listed names and places. One simply read, Forgotten Books.

As far as Andrew knew, the library was empty. He hadn’t seen a soul in the hours he’d been there; no one perusing the shelves of books or studying the artwork like he would have expected. He supposed they could have been on the upper levels, but there was no one at the help desk behind the stairs, either. But Andrew couldn’t help noticing that there was no dust that coated the shelves. The place seemed well-kept, so someone must have been attending them.

Andrew could spend hours here – days, if he really wanted to. But if Tilda found that he had snuck out again, he’d have more to worry about than a dust-free counter in a seemingly-abandoned library. He retraced his steps through the maze of shelves, noting that it took more time finding his way out of the library, and was outside before the sun had fully begun its assent into the dull gray of the morning sky.

The next day, the library pervaded his thoughts. After his shift at the warehouse, he went to visit the library again, except the lot was empty when he arrived. There was no sign of the huge building that had been there hours prior, not even the skeletal remains of it. Weeds swayed in the breeze where the library was supposed to be and Andrew was left wondering if he had simply dreamt it all.

~

The second time Andrew saw the library, he found it by accident, tucked in an alley about two miles from his house. It was a lot narrower than the library in the lot, and it sat crammed between two apartment buildings and a back wall. Andrew would not have recognized it if it weren’t for the sign that read, Foxhole’s Traveling Library fixed above the doorway.

The inside, Andrew discovered, looked exactly as it had when he first saw it. The same shelves with their strange labeling system were where he’d found them that first night, and Andrew was greeted with that familiar humming sound, like a thousand tiny wings beating in unison. The library still seemed impossibly huge compared to the outside, and Andrew swore he felt a buzzing beneath his skin.

It greeted him like an old friend, far too familiar for only seeing it once before. He’d stumbled across the library weeks ago, but Andrew felt like he had known this place for years.

The second level was almost identical to the bottom one, and Andrew spent his night circling the section of shelves labeled “Books Well-Traveled.” He expected to see maps and atlas’, depictions of the world and places Andrew would never see – and there were a couple – but most of the shelves held books with tattered covers and heavily-creased spines. As far as Andrew could tell, there was no rhyme or reason to the organization of the books. On one shelf, he found Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone slotted next to a near-unrecognizable copy of The Great Gatsby.

“You’re new.”

Andrew almost dropping the books he held in his arms to the carpeted ground below as someone spoke behind him. He whipped around to see a man standing at the end of the shelf. After spending hours alone in the library during his first visit, Andrew hadn’t expected to be interrupted by anyone.

The man wasn’t much taller than Andrew, or much older, with dark red hair that fell around an impish face in lose curls. He regarded Andrew warily, assessing him with a sharp quirk of an eyebrow. His face was covered in thin and circular scars and his eyes were shrewd and blue like a summer’s sky. He was very pretty, Andrew noticed.

His heart was still beating much too fast, as if he’d been caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar. He shoved the books back onto the shelf. “Who are you?”

“Neil,” the man said after a long pause.

Andrew blinked. He glanced at the plaque that was supposed to tell him what genre he was in, but simply stated Books Well-Traveled instead. Right underneath it, inscribed in tiny letters, was Neil Josten. Baltimore 2008 – Dublin 2010.

“That’s my shelf,” Neil confirmed, correctly guessing Andrew’s line of thought. His eyes narrowed. “What’s your name?”

“Andrew.”

Neil scrutinized him for a long moment, as if trying to puzzle something out. Then his expression turned sly. He slid next to Andrew beside the bookcase and pointed to the novels Andrew had hastily put away.

“You put them in the wrong spot,” he said. He reached around him and rearranged three of the books. “They’re chronological.”

Andrew frowned at the three novels Neil had sorted. “Hamlet was written before John Steinbeck was even born,” he felt the need to point out.

Neil looked at him with a strange quirk to his lips, as if there were something Andrew didn’t get. Obviously, he didn’t feel the need to explain because he ignored Andrew’s comment. “You can read the books, but you need to log it with Wymack first,” he said. “He’s the one in charge here.”

Then he plucked a seemingly-random book off the shelf and handed it to Andrew. He turned on his heel and disappeared before Andrew could even get a word in, navigating through the bookcases with an ease that spoke of true familiarity. Andrew glared after him, intrigued despite himself and irritated about it.

The book Neil had given him was a battered edition of Watership Down. Andrew rubbed his thumb over the hard cover, feeling the small tears and scratches in the plastic covering. Watership Down had been Andrew’s favorite book as a kid. He hadn’t read it in years, but he still had his own copy safely hidden under his bed. He didn’t know why Neil had given him this book in particular, or why he had seemed so wily about it. Andrew flipped through the pages, skimming through passages he had long since read and memorized, before replacing it on the shelf in its nonsensically designated spot.

Andrew passed the help desk on his way downstairs, and noticed that it was no longer unattended. The man standing behind the desk was a hulking bear of a man, with thick muscles the size of Andrew’s head and flame tattoos crawling up his forearms. He hunched over what looked like a log of names and book titles. He didn’t look like what Andrew would picture as a librarian.

“Welcome back,” the man – Wymack, Andrew assumed – sighed. He glanced up at Andrew and squinted at him. “You’re not taking another book, are you? You’re supposed to return them afterwards. This is a library, not a charity.”

Andrew stared at him. His hands were empty, and he hadn’t taken anything when he left the library two weeks ago. Rather than parse the meaning, Andrew asked, “What is this place?”

“Foxhole’s Traveling Library,” recited Wymack. “The sign’s outside. I thought you’d have learned to read by now.”

Apparently, no one in this weird library was going to give him a straight answer. The old quack behind the desk leveled him one last stern look before returning to his log. He scribbled something at the bottom of the page and said, “Stay as long as you’d like, but we close at sunrise. No taking any more books until you learn how to use a library.”

“I haven’t taken anything,” Andrew said and Wymack glared at him.

“I changed my mind,” he said gruffly, snapping his book shut and placing it flat on the desk in front of him. “We’re closing now. Goodbye.”

Not seeing the point in arguing, Andrew gave him a sarcastic two-finger salute and turned around. As he was leaving, he couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes watching him. The prickling in the back of his neck grew too much as Andrew was crossing the threshold to the alley outside so he glanced back. He saw something small dart behind one of the bookcases, a flash of red before disappearing again. Andrew stared hard at the shelf, but detected no other movement.

The sense of someone watching him followed Andrew home, but he couldn’t see anyone around whenever he scanned the street. His fingers brushed the armband of his left arm, taking comfort from the outline of his pocket knife. The hard ridge of his knife beneath his fingertips gave him more semblance of security, but Andrew didn’t feel completely safe until the door was firmly shut and locked behind him.

He didn’t know what to make of the library. It wasn’t normal, that much was obvious, but Andrew was hard-pressed to call it magic. He didn’t believe in superstition or something as stupid as magic. Things that bent the laws of time and physics didn’t fit into Andrew’s worldview, and a shapeshifting-traveling-not-magical library certainly wasn’t allowed. Andrew rubbed his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a migraine starting behind his eyes.

Maybe the sleep-deprivation and stress were finally catching up and he was losing it. The library and its strange inhabitants were simply a figment of Andrew’s imagination and all he needed was to sleep it off. He checked the clock that still hung in the kitchen, despite being about two hours off, and climbed up the stairs to the room he shared with Aaron. If he went to bed now, he’d still have a couple hours before he had to clock in at the grocery store.

When he stepped into his room, he noticed that the window was wide open. Aaron was asleep in his bed across the room, dead to the world for another couple hours before he’d wake up, but the latch was unlocked and the moth-bitten curtains shifted in the wind. Andrew frowned; he definitely hadn’t left the window open when he left. Aaron must have woken up and opened it himself.

That’s when Andrew heard the scratching from under his bed. He went immediately to Aaron, making a barrier between his sleeping brother and whoever was under his bed. But no one emerged. All Andrew heard was some more scratching, and then a quiet snuffling sound that reminded Andrew of a small animal.

For a moment, Andrew was relieved he wouldn’t have to fend off a would-be attacker, but then he thought of his books. The three novels he hid under his bed were the only things he truly owned besides the clothes on his back, and he’d kept them with him all these years. He wasn’t about to let them get chewed up by a wild animal.

Andrew looked for anything he could use and grabbed a ruler off of Aaron’s desk. The first thing he saw when he ducked his head under the bed was a shrewd pair of eyes, glowing in the darkness. Andrew jabbed at it with the ruler, and it leapt at him with snarl, making Andrew fall backwards.

It was a fox, russet-colored fur and bright blue eyes that seemed far too clever to belong to an animal. Andrew stared at it, dumbfounded, and it took him a few seconds to realize that one of his books was trapped in its jaws. He couldn’t see the cover but he didn’t need to – he would recognize this book anywhere. It was his copy of Watership Down.

“Hey – fuck.” Andrew scrambled to his feet, snatching for his book, but the fox darted out of his reach and jumped out the window. He rushed after it but was too late. He saw a bushy red tail disappearing around the corner, book in tow.

“You fucking asshole,” Andrew shouted, as loud as he dared. Tilda would be getting home any minute now, and Andrew couldn’t risk her hearing him.

Andrew shut the window and locked it, booking it down the stairs as quietly as he could. It didn’t take long to find the fox. Andrew chased after it, but it always stayed two steps ahead of him. It led him back to the dead-end alley the library had been in. Andrew rounded the corner triumphantly, expecting to see the trapped fox with his book. Instead he found a couple of trash bins and rotting cardboard boxes. No library.

Behind him, the sun was already beginning to rise. The library, and the fox with his book, were gone.

~

By the time Andrew made it back home, Aaron was already up and about. Andrew found him wandering around the kitchen in his pajama bottoms, rummaging through the cupboards for breakfast. He seemed okay enough, and Andrew was glad to see him out of bed.

“There’s no fucking food in this house,” Aaron grumbled before rounding on Andrew. “And you’re lucky you didn’t get caught sneaking out.”

“Did you take your meds?” Andrew asked without acknowledging the statement.

He brushed past Aaron on the way to the fridge. There wasn’t anything in there except an old bottle of ketchup and an empty pizza box. Andrew made a mental note to grab some groceries when he was done with his shift. They really didn’t have the money, but Tilda wasn’t going to do it and Andrew could ask for an advance on his next paycheck if he really needed to. Maybe he should find a new ring to fight in at night.

“Obviously.” Aaron crossed his arms. “And Mom’s passed out upstairs. She’ll be out for a couple hours but I’ll check on her in a bit to make sure she’s not drowning in her own vomit.”

“Let her drown.” Andrew slammed the refrigerator door shut. “Maybe then we’ll have money for groceries.”

“Fuck you,” Aaron said, but he sounded too tired to be angry.

~

Andrew tried really, really hard not to think of the library, but it slipped in and out of his thoughts almost constantly throughout the next four days. Even Aaron seemed to notice his distraction, shooting him concerned looks whenever Andrew was near. Andrew waved him off. The last thing Aaron needed was to be worrying about him.

“Is it a boy?” Aaron asked one night. He was already dressed for bed in sweats and an old t-shirt, furiously brushing his teeth as he analyzed Andrew in the mirror. Andrew shot him an annoyed look while he combed his wet hair out into something manageable.

“Mind your business,” he said, yanking at a particularly stubborn knot.

“You’re being weird,” Aaron wheedled. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

What could Andrew tell him; that he’d found a magic library not once, but twice? That he’d chased a fox that had stolen his book? That the library had practically disappeared in front of his eyes? Aaron would think he was insane. Andrew wasn’t entirely sure he’d be wrong.

Andrew practically shoved him out of the bathroom. “Bedtime, little Aaron,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Aaron scowled at him.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the older twin,” he said.

“Bullshit.”

Aaron rolled his eyes, then his expression turned solemn. “Seriously, though,” he said. “Are you in trouble?”

Andrew sighed. He knew Aaron’s concern wasn’t entirely misplaced; Andrew had been picked up twice by the police and had gotten himself into deep shit more than once. There used to be a time where Andrew and Aaron told each other everything, but that had been years ago.

“I’m not in trouble,” he said, only to ease the tension from his brother’s expression. “I found a new fighting ring that I’m going to try out tonight.”

Aaron seemed hesitant, but he let the subject drop. “Do you want me to go with?”

Andrew shook his head. “I won’t stay out long tonight, just testing the waters.”

“First-aid kit is under the sink. For when you get your ass beat,” Aaron teased.

“Oh ye of little faith.” Andrew slung his jacket over his shoulder and flipped Aaron off as he left. He saw Aaron return the gesture as the door closed behind him.

The new ring was only about four blocks away from the lot the library had first appeared in, but Andrew shoved any thoughts of the traveling library firmly out of his head. Eden’s Twilight was packed when Andrew showed up, and the first round had already begun. He pushed his way through the crowd, jabbing his elbow into anyone who got too close. The place smelled of beer and sweat and the ground was sticky and covered in suspicious stains.

Andrew found a vantage point in a small alcove above the main mass of the crowd that surround the ring. Only a few people hung out on the upper deck so it wasn’t as crowded as it was below. Inside the ring, the two fighters circled each other as the audience cheered and placed bets. Andrew mentally placed a few of his own, though he didn’t put money on it or voice them out loud.

The first guy was huge, tall and muscular and covered in tattoos. He beat his fists together to the screams of his fans. Andrew was pretty sure he’d seen him fight in another ring before. It only took him a second to place his name. Gorilla. Gorilla was known for his brutal punches and strength, but he was slow and tired easily.

His challenger was at least two heads shorter than him. She was wiry and thin, with her white-blonde hair pulled into a short ponytail at the back of her head. Andrew watched her circle the ring and sat up with interest. He was too far to see clearly, but he thought he recognized the dangerous glint in her eye as she sized up her opponent. Andrew didn’t think this match would be as cut-and-dry as it seemed.

He was right.

Gorilla attacked first, lunging at the women with a loud cry, but the women dodged easily and aimed two sharp jabs to his ribs. She was fast and deadly, with precise punches and kicks that wore her larger opponent down. She fought dirty too, striking hard at sensitive places. The match was over in a matter of minutes, when the women dug her knee in the back of Gorilla’s leg and forced him down, pinning his arm behind his back until he tapped out.

The audience roared and Andrew felt impressed despite himself. The blonde women gave a sweet wave that was at odds with the way she fought and exited the ring. Andrew hopped down from his perch before the next match started and shoved around looking for someone who could sign him up for a future match. He almost slammed right into the women collecting her winnings.

There was a bruise already starting to swell on her chin from where Gorilla had punched her, but she smiled when she saw Andrew. She was dressed conservatively and her white-blonde hair was dyed into a pastel rainbow at the tips. A tiny silver cross hung from her neck, catching the flashing lights around them. It was hard reconciling the fighter Andrew saw in the ring with the sweet Christian girl in front of him.

“Hi,” she said, waving with a hand taped with bandages. “Are you Andrew?”

“What,” Andrew said. He wondered how the hell she knew his name, and if he should get out of there. If some of the people from his old ring were here, they might still be looking for someone to blame. And Andrew didn’t think he’d want to be on the receiving end of this women’s punches.

“Sorry.” The women smiled apologetically. She put her hand out for Andrew to shake. “Renee. My friend pointed you out.”

That didn’t make Andrew feel any better. His eyes slid past Renee, looking for anyone that might have recognized him. His eyes caught on red hair, a scarred face, and clever blue eyes.

“You,” Andrew said and started towards Neil. “Your fucking pet stole my book.”

Somehow, Neil looked both amused and annoyed. “Are you following me or something?”

“I want my book back,” Andrew said.

“It’s not yours. And I don’t have a pet.”

“Bullshit it’s not mine,” Andrew said, but Neil was already turning away. Andrew wasn’t about to let him get away with his cryptic bullshit again, so he followed him outside.

“Leave me alone,” Neil shouted over his shoulder but Andrew grabbed his arm and spun him around. He got a hold of Neil’s shirt and shoved him bodily against the wall.

“What the fuck is going on?” he snapped. Neil blinked at him, unimpressed.

“Why should I give you anything,” Neil said, “when you’ll just take it?”

Andrew was so fed up with people accusing him of shit. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Neil snatched at Andrew’s wrist, trying to wrench free, but Andrew held fast, “go fuck yourself.”

“You tell me the truth, and I’ll let you go,” Andrew said. “Truth for a truth.”

“Well, you can’t keep me pinned all night,” Neil snarked. “Eventually you’ll have to let me go.”

Andrew glared at him, but Neil only snorted with derision.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he sneered. “Fine. Truth for a truth.”

Andrew released him and Neil straightened, smoothing his hands down his shirt where Andrew had ruffled it. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

“What, exactly, is Foxhole’s Traveling Library?”

Neil looked dumbfounded. “You don’t remember? Wymack said he already explained.”

“Humor me.”

“It’s exactly as it sounds,” Neil said, “a traveling library. Wymack founded it…I don’t know. It’s old. Older than any of us. We – me and the rest of the foxes – collect books and things for it. Anyone’s welcome, but usually only those who need it can find it.”

Andrew took a moment to process that. “It’s magic?”

“Obviously,” Neil said. “Do most libraries you know move every night?”

Andrew ignored him. “You said only people who need it can find it, yet I keep finding it. I don’t need anything.”

“For the record, I don’t believe you. But,” Neil said when Andrew clenched his fist. “you keep finding it because it’s here to collect those books you took.”

Andrew could feel his frustration rising again. He took a few breaths to calm himself down, forcing any traces of emotion off his face. “I didn’t take anything,” he said, once he’d gotten everything under control. Neil snorted again, but Andrew didn’t react.

“Okay, my turn,” he said. “How old were you when you first visited the library?”

Andrew frowned. He’d only found out about the place a couple weeks ago. “Nineteen.”

Neil shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think that’s right. You showed up before Wymack took me in, but he told me about you. Andrew Minyard. You’re the kid who kept sneaking in. He offered you a place there, but you didn’t want to stay. You took a bunch of books and ran with them.”

Andrew stared hard at him, trying to detect the lie. It was impossible – hell, the whole fucking library was impossible – but Neil didn’t seem to be lying. But as Neil’s words began to sink it, Andrew realized that he did remember it. He’d thought it was a dream, but he remembered picking up a book from a shelf and thinking Aaron would like it. He remembered stuffing it in his shirt and running home. He could never forget the bruises Tilda left on him for sneaking out of the house.

It seemed odd that Andrew had almost forgotten, given his perfect memory. But now he couldn’t stop remembering. Rough hands and tears trailing down his face, running through the streets at night looking for the library - his library. With its strange books and gruff librarian who always gave him a book to hold even though he couldn’t read it yet. The librarian had offered to shelter him after he showed up with a bruised and tear-streaked face, but Andrew had refused.

He wouldn’t leave Aaron. That’s why he wouldn’t stay. He’d taken the books because he wanted to bring a piece of the library with him, so he’d never forget. But he’d forgotten anyway.

“It’s your turn,” Neil said.

Before Andrew could sort through his tumultuous thoughts, he heard a shout behind him.

“Neil!” Andrew turned to see a large man with spiky hair jogging toward them. He wore gym shorts and a sweaty black tank top with the logo of some metal band Andrew didn’t recognize. Behind him stood Renee and a woman with short, curly hair, her arms crossed over her chest. The man regarded Andrew with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, but he addressed Neil. “You okay, buddy?”

“I’m fine, Matt,” Neil replied. The man groaned but Neil waved him off. “Really. We were just talking.”

“Alright,” Matt said, not sounding entirely convinced. “Dan was saying it’s about time we head back, yeah?”

Neil nodded and met Andrew’s eyes for a moment. Andrew would have to wait to take his turn, which meant he had time to think of what he wanted to ask. There was so much he wanted to know; it was like a strange itch spreading under his skin. Andrew hadn’t felt so interested in anything in ages. It exhilarated him, and he kind of hated it.

“It was nice meeting you, Andrew,” Renee said sweetly, giving a little wave. “Wymack has said a lot about you.”

Andrew didn’t know what to say to that, so he let them leave without a word. He dug in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes and lit one. He felt oddly drained and he didn’t particularly want to stick around and watch the last few fights of the night. So, he leaned against the wall, one foot kicked up against the patchwork of brick and mortar, and smoked his cigarette to the filter while he did his best to sort out his thoughts and newfound memories into something more comprehensible.

After he finished his first cigarette, he lit another. He was still uncertain, but he thought, perhaps, that he would like to see the library again.

~

There was a smudge of ink on the inside-cover of The Giver. Andrew brushed his fingers over it, wondering why he had never put much thought to it before. It was black and nearly-illegible, but he could make out the words “Fox” and “Library” where the water damage wasn’t so bad. He flipped open his last book, a beaten-up copy of Charlotte’s Web to find a similar ink-stain inside. The words were almost completely obliterated, but he could still see the stamp of a tiny fox that Andrew had seen on the sign hanging in front of the library.

The books that Andrew had kept with him for almost fifteen years belonged to Foxhole’s Traveling Library.

When Andrew and Aaron were eight and Aaron first started getting sick, Andrew would read Charlotte’s Web to him until he fell asleep. He told him about The Giver and how he would have hated to have his emotions taken away from him like that. All this time, they were from the library that Andrew had loved and forgotten. And he didn’t even know.

Andrew slammed his books shut and shoved them under his bed. He watched his sleeping brother for a moment, listened to his steady breathing, and left.

He needed to find Neil.

~

The streets were empty, despite it not being that late out. Andrew didn’t really know where he was going, but he pointed his feet in a direction and walked. It seemed like ages before he found the library, sitting in the middle of an In-N-Out parking lot. But when Andrew tried the door, he found that it was locked.

He waited for someone to show for an hour before he left again. He wandered around until he heard shouting and what sounded like an animal crying out in pain. When Andrew went to investigate, he found two guys smelling of booze. They were shouting incoherently, and throwing bottles at a spitting-mad fox cornered against the wall.

The guy with a white hoodie moved to kick it, but Andrew ran forward and kicked him in the back of the knee before he could. There was a horrible pop and Hoodie fell to the ground in a heap of flailing limbs with an agonized scream. Andrew grabbed him by the front of his hoodie and slammed him to the ground but before he could do it again, Hoodie’s friend wrenched him away and pushed him back. Andrew withdrew his knife, but he was unbalanced and caught a nasty right-hook to the side of his face. His knife fell somewhere to the side, but Andrew didn’t have time to reach for it before the man smashed a bottle against the side of his head. Andrew’s vision went white and he crumbled to the ground.

“Asshole,” the man spat. Andrew flipped him off but he couldn’t see much through the blood streaming into his eyes. The man pulled his arm back for another swing, but movement by the wall caught both his and Andrew’s attention.

Neil staggered over to them, bruised and battered and looking absolutely worse for wear. “Leave him alone,” he snarled and launched himself at the man. Neil was smaller than him, but that didn’t stop him from getting a few good punches in and buying Andrew enough time to get off the ground. He was unsteady on his feet, but he got his balance and grabbed a hold on Neil’s shirt.

“Come on,” he said, yanking him away from getting punched into oblivion. His head was throbbing and he still had trouble seeing, but Neil gripped him under the arm and supported some of his weight while they ran.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at fighting,” Neil panted once they were far enough away. It only took Andrew a second to realize that Neil had led them back to the library.

“Shut up,” Andrew replied, breathing heavily. He used his sleeve to wipe some of the blood from his face. He didn’t think the cut was that bad, but he’d probably need stitches. “You’re the fox?”

Neil flexed his hand, wincing when his knuckles twinged. “I thought that was obvious.”

Andrew stared at him in disbelief. “Yes, because that makes total sense.”

“Magic library. Shape-shifting foxes.” Neil shrugged, and then wrapped his arm around his ribs with a pained groan. “Shit,” he said and slumped to the ground.

Andrew followed him down. He motioned for Neil to sit cross-legged and checked his knuckles. He swiped his finger over them, wiping away some of the blood, and Neil let out a pained hiss.

“Friends of yours?” Andrew asked.

Neil shook his head with barely-suppressed anger. “Just a couple assholes who like to hurt animals.”

“Well,” Andrew said. “I hope I broke that guy’s knee, then.”

“Thanks,” Neil said. He met Andrew eyes. His lips pursed when he saw the mess the asshole made of Andrew’s face, but he held his gaze. “You saved me.”

Andrew shrugged it off. He didn’t know why Neil was looking at him like that, or why it terrified him and made something jolt in his chest at the same time. He looked away, smoothing over his expression into something that resembled boredom. “You look like a punching bag,” he said. “There’s a first-aid kit at the house.”

“No need.” Neil pushed to his feet with a grunt. “The library will do just fine. Coming in?”

Andrew didn’t know what he meant by that, but he followed Neil through the doors all the same. They weren’t unlocked anymore – or at least they weren’t locked for Neil.

The cuts on Neil’s face and hands began to heal as soon he stepped over the threshold. Andrew really shouldn’t have been surprised, but he couldn’t look away as the bruises faded as if they were never there.

“Nothing can hurt us here,” Neil said as Andrew felt his own wounds begin to heal.

They walked through the library, neither wanting to leave their quiet sanctuary. Andrew was sure the other foxes were hanging around somewhere, but the place was huge enough to get lost in and Andrew knew that they would not be bothered. He didn’t really know why he was still here, just a couple weeks ago he had been furious at Neil for stealing his book. But now a small part of him kind of wanted to hold his hand. Andrew shoved that very small part to the back of his mind before he could do something stupid like actually reach out for Neil.

They were on the third floor of the library, in a section labeled Unwritten Books, when Neil rocked to a halt beside Andrew. He turned to him and reach out, stopping his hand just short of Andrew’s face.

Andrew swallowed. He didn’t know what Neil planned to do, but he met Neil’s eyes and nodded once in permission. Neil brushed his fingers over Andrew’s temple, where the bottle had hit him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his fingers pressed to the spot where the gash would have been. “Sometimes it doesn’t heal all of it.”

Andrew touched his temple and felt a bump from a scar. It hadn’t been there before. Andrew grabbed Neil’s hand and moved it away from his face. He squeezed once and Neil tucked his hands in his pockets.

“Do not apologize,” Andrew ordered. It wasn’t Neil’s fault, and Andrew didn’t like the sad expression in Neil’s eyes. “And don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Neil asked.

Andrew ignored the question. It was his turn, and he told Neil so. He’d been thinking of what he wanted to ask, and now he thought he was ready.

“Why are you here?”

Neil looked surprised at the question, but then he motioned for Andrew to sit. Andrew sat with his back to the bookshelf and his arms draped over his knees. Neil mirrored him. He was quiet for a long time before he spoke.

“I was running from my father.” He motioned to his face. “He’s the one that did this. To say that he was a shitty father would be an understatement. He was a monster.”

Andrew knew plenty about monsters that pretended to be human. He’s had monsters of his own. Some being Tilda and her string of boyfriends that varied from strung-out drug addicts to heavy-handed abusers. Sometimes they were worse, but Andrew tried not to think about them. He wasn’t familiar with Neil’s sort of monster, but he stayed quiet and gave Neil his full attention.

Neil rubbed at the circular burn scars on his cheek. “A couple years back, he killed my mother. Beat her to death with a metal pipe. He would have killed me, but I ran. I just kept running, and somehow I ended up here. If Wymack hadn’t taken me in, I would have died.”

Andrew thought of offering Andrew a place to stay, so many years ago. “He takes in a lot of strays,” he noted.

“The old man is soft,” Neil said, fondly. Then he frowned. “Why didn’t you stay?”

Andrew exhaled heavily. “My brother,” he said. “I wouldn’t leave him. This was before he got sick, but he was always mine to protect. If I left him, I am not sure he would have survived.”

“He’s sick?”

Andrew grit his teeth until his jaw ached and gave a jerky nod. “It’s worse these days,” is all he said. He really didn’t want to talk about it.

“Andrew,” Neil whispered. “The library probably won’t come back once you return the rest of your books.”

“I know.”

Neil’s voice had an edge to it but Andrew couldn’t tell if it was from anger or from something else. Something closer to desperation. “You can’t keep them forever.”

“I know.” Ever since Andrew rediscovered the library, he knew he would not be allowed to keep it. The library, Wymack, even the beginnings of this something between him and Neil. Soon enough, Andrew was going to have to say goodbye.

~

Aaron’s condition worsened few weeks into December. San Jose was not a city that froze over during its winters, but the cold months always made him struggle more and the sudden temperature drop this year had been merciless. Andrew checked on him regularly, but Aaron would always make him leave the room. Andrew had a sneaking suspicion it was because Aaron didn’t want to get him sick, too.

When Tilda got home a little after two in the morning, Andrew was fuming. He confronted her in the kitchen while she tottered around looking for food. Her eyes were red and unfocused and Andrew wasn’t entirely sure if she was aware that he was there at all.

Andrew hated her.

“Aaron’s sick,” he said, forcing his voice to be even. Despite his best efforts, his words trembled with rage.

Tilda turned to him, leaning against the counter so she wouldn’t topple over, and regarded him with bleary eyes. “Make him better, then,” she slurred.

Andrew had spent the last decade of his life trying to make him better, with no help from Tilda. Andrew worked two jobs and got into illegal street-fighting to pay the bills while Tilda got drunk and high for days at a time. Her son was dying and she did not care.

Andrew clenched his hands into fists to stop the shaking, but Tilda didn’t notice. She dug around in her purse and withdrew a prescription bottle full of various pills. She shook some out onto her palm and studied them.

Andrew crossed the kitchen and knocked them out of her hand. The candy-colored pills clattered to the ground, scattering across the dirty floorboards. “He’s sick!” he snarled. “He needs medicine.”

Tilda went very still, and for a moment the world stopped spinning. Andrew didn’t register the slap at first, just that his face stung and there was a sharp, metallic taste in his mouth. Everything jolted back into motion with that slap.

“You ungrateful shit,” Tilda hissed. She was shaking a finger in Andrew’s face, but Andrew hardly noticed. He had his hand pressed to his cheek, where Tilda had hit him. “You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me. Don’t go telling me what to do, I don’t owe you anything!”

Andrew said nothing while she stalked away. He could feel his lip starting to swell under his hand. He pressed his finger to the cut and it came away red. Andrew was moving before he really thought about it. One minute he was standing in the kitchen with a stinging face, and the next he was digging for a book from under his bed. Charlotte’s Web. That’ll do.

It was only a couple of hours until sunrise, but Andrew didn’t have trouble finding the library. All the other times he tried to enter without a book, the doors would not open and Neil would have to come out onto the front stoop with him. But this time the doors parted easily, and Andrew was greeted with a blast of warm air and the tingling sensation of his bloodied lip beginning to heal.

Neil saw it anyway and was across the room in an instant.

“Who did that to you?” he demanded.

“My mother.” Andrew spat the word. “I asked her to parent for once.”

Neil looked ready to fight, but Andrew shoved the book at him before he could say anything. He took it, confused, before glancing at the cover. “Oh,” he said. “Are you sure?”

“Shut up,” Andrew said and Neil nodded. He motioned for Andrew to follow him and brought him to a section of the library on the sixth floor.

The shelves up here were filled with more books, but Andrew spied a few strange objects that seemed to defy the laws of physics. Andrew picked one up. It was about the size of his palm, with nine interlocking gold rings that spun around each other. It reminded Andrew of rings circling a planet, or maybe a strange, metal flower.

“That’s Matt’s work,” Neil said once he caught Andrew looking. “He’s more of a creator than a collector. Most of these are his.”

“Most?” Andrew asked. He nudged one ring and it spun backwards. The rest of the rings followed suit.

“Some of them are Allison’s. One or two might be Nicky’s, but he never really got a hang of it.”

Andrew replaced the object back on the shelf, careful not to crush the delicate metalwork, and he and Neil continued through the maze of bookshelves. Eventually, they came upon a shelf labeled Lost Books. The shelf was empty except for a single book: Andrew’s old copy of Watership Down.

Neil placed Charlotte’s Web next to it and turned to Andrew without meeting his eyes, his hand lingering on the shelf. He was quiet for a long moment before he spoke. “This could be yours,” he said and finally looked up.

There was an empty space on the plaque, right under the label. It had enough room for a name, like all the other shelves in the library. Neil brushed his hand over it, finger unconsciously looping around to form a word.

Andrew.

“You could stay here,” continued Neil. “You could be a fox and collect books or make things. Anything. You could get away from your mom.”

“I won’t leave Aaron,” Andrew reminded him.

Andrew could see the disappointment on Neil’s face, but he nodded. “Okay,” he said. He stooped to sit with his back against the shelf, reminiscent of the time they sheltered between the shelves and started their question game. Andrew sat next to him. He left an inch of space between them, but Andrew’s knee nudged Neil’s and they were close enough that he could feel Neil’s warmth.

“You should see this place during the day,” Neil said, as if Andrew would ever be allowed to. “There’s so many windows, the sunlight catches Matt’s creations and everything turns gold.”

Neil wasn’t looking at him, which gave Andrew every opportunity to watch without being seen in return. Freckles dashed across the bridge of his nose, like tiny constellations of stars that Andrew wished to name. His eyes were an even deeper blue in the dimness of the library, and light danced in them as he gazed at the bookshelves full of books and gadgets. A small smile ghosted across Neil’s face. “It’s really beautiful.”

Looking at Neil, Andrew agreed.

“Oh,” Neil said with a small laugh when he noticed Andrew’s attention, “you can stare, but when I do it – ”

Andrew kissed him. He felt Neil’s breath hitch against his lips and Andrew pulled back with a surge of panic.

“Shit,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He started to get up, but Neil stopped him with a hand hovering over his arm. Andrew looked in the general direction of the exit, wondering if he could still make a break for it.

“Wait,” Neil said. “Do we have to stop?”

Andrew pressed his thumb to his bottom lip. He couldn’t stop thinking about the weight of Neil’s mouth against his.

“Andrew,” Neil urged. Andrew gazed at him for a long moment before sitting down again.

“Yes or no?” Andrew asked. If they were going to do this, they were going to do it right.

“Yes,” Neil breathed, and leaned in.

Andrew hooked his fingers in the color of Neil’s sweatshirt as they kissed. He used it as an anchor, soft fabric brushing against his hand while he got lost in the waves washing over him. Time stood still and Andrew’s mind wiped clean. It was just him and Neil, no impending deadline looming over them for when Andrew returned his last book. For a moment, they were infinite.

When they separated, Andrew had to take a few seconds to relearn how to breathe before he opened his eyes. He wondered why they had stopped kissing until he saw the soft light reaching out for them.

“It’s morning,” Neil said. He swallowed roughly. Andrew’s eyes followed the movement of his throat and then skipped back to Neil’s face. His lips were red from kissing, his eyes blown. Andrew watched him form the words as he said, “Library’s closing.”

Andrew extracted himself from Neil, taking a few deep breaths to get himself together. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, fingers wrapping around his lighter and cigarettes. He itched to light one, but he didn’t.

“Hey,” Neil said. Andrew glanced at him. “I’ll see you tonight?”

Andrew didn’t respond, but he pulled Neil in for another quick kiss. He and Neil both knew that he would show up on the steps of the library as soon as night fell and Aaron was asleep. However much time he and Neil had, Andrew would not waste it.

~

Tilda was missing, of course. She had never been there for her sons; not when Aaron lost his first tooth, or when Andrew broke his arm climbing a tree, or when they both miraculously graduated high school. It made sense that she was missing now, when Aaron’s temperature was rising and there was no money left to buy more ibuprofen. He’d given Aaron the last of it an hour ago but he wasn’t getting better.

No money, no medicine, and no mother.

“Mom?” Aaron croaked. It was the first thing he’d said in a while, and it almost made Andrew jump. They both knew that Tilda would not show up, but Aaron seemed too out of it to really understand.

“She ran to the store to get more milk,” Andrew said. It was an old lie he used to tell Aaron when Tilda had gone off on another bender. He’d stopped making excuses for her when they were twelve and Aaron had to go to the hospital when he stopped breathing. Andrew didn’t know why he said it now. Maybe because he wanted to offer this last scrap hope to his brother and he knew that he wouldn’t last long enough to be disappointed.

Andrew pressed his hand against Aaron’s forehead, pushing his hair off his sweat-slicked skin to gauge his temperature. He didn’t have a thermometer, but he didn’t need one to know that Aaron was very, very sick. He was barely conscious, puffy eyes cracked open as he struggled to breathe. The pneumonia had settled in his lungs shortly after Andrew delivered the book, and now he was left to watch his brother deteriorate and wonder if he could have done something more.

Andrew had promised to meet Neil, but he’s barely been able to leave Aaron’s bedside for days. He leaned his head against the bedframe of Aaron’s bed and wondered if he’d ever see Neil again. Andrew supposed that he could leave the last book on the porch for Neil to pick up and take to the library. Their stolen moments together would have to be enough.

It was well into the night and Andrew was still sitting sentinel on the floor beside Aaron’s bed.

“Do you remember,” he whispered, “when I used to read to you?”

Aaron didn’t respond, his breathing too labored, but Andrew continued to talk. “I found a library. You would like it. It’s huge and filled with thousands of books and I’ve almost gotten lost in it a couple times. I’ll take you to it, when you get better.”

Andrew wasn’t sure if Aaron would make the trip. He clenched his jaw for several seconds, not wanting to think of his brother not making it.

“You have to get better, Aaron,” Andrew said and Aaron replied with a weak cough.

A loud thump on the window nearly made Andrew jump out of his skin. He glanced at Aaron before seeing what had made the noise. When he saw who was standing below, he shoved the window open.

“Hey,” Neil shouted up to him. “Grab your book.”

Neil came upstairs a couple minutes later with Matt and Dan in tow. Andrew stared at them, dumbfounded. “I already said that I’m not leaving Aaron.”

“Which is why,” Matt said as he eased Aaron up into a sitting position, “we’re bringing him with us.”

He lifted Aaron out of the bed like he weighed nothing to him. He probably didn’t, Aaron had hardly been able to eat anything these past few days.

Andrew gripped his arm to stop him taking his brother anywhere. “What the fuck will that do except make him worse?” he demanded.

“We reckon the library will heal him,” Dan responded. She raised her eyebrows at Andrew, giving him a stern look until he let go of Matt’s arm. “Now where’s that book?”

Neil darted to the window. “Quickly,” he said. “Before the sun rises.”

Three shapeshifting foxes, one book thief, and a dying nineteen-year-old made it to the library just as the first vestiges of night faded from the sky. It was in the lot Andrew had stumbled across so long ago, it felt like a dream.

Neil was right, the library was beautiful during the day. At night, the interior of the library was dark except for the old-fashioned lamps that hung between the bookshelves. But now light streamed in through the giant windows, catching all the golden details and making it shimmer. The light caught a stream of dust motes that twinkled like tiny golden stars, and dapples of light danced across the white marble.

The strange posse brought him to the self-help desk where Wymack sat. His eyebrows rose when he saw them, but he sat up when he saw Aaron’s limp form in Matt’s arms. Andrew placed the book on the desk between them.

“One book for two places in the library,” he said.

Wymack regarded them for a long moment. “That one still alive?” he grunted, nodding towards Aaron.

Dan pulled over a chair so Matt could set Aaron down. He was so still, and when Matt stepped back Aaron’s head lolled limply to the side. For one heart-stopping second, Andrew thought that they’d failed and his brother was gone. But then Aaron’s eyes blinked open as he let out a small groan.

He squinted in the light, eyes slowly moving around the library before focusing on Andrew’s face. “This your library?” he rasped. It was the most coherent he sounded in days. “Thought it’d bigger.”

Andrew let out a disbelieving huff. He could have been sick with relief. “It is big, asshole.”

Aaron laughed weakly. His face was regaining color by the minute and he didn’t look so gaunt. Andrew knew he was going to be okay. He exchanged a look at Neil, who gave him a small smile. Andrew almost smiled back.

“Welcome to Foxhole’s Traveling Library,” Wymack said. “It’s about god damn time.”

[thepixiepaige]

Shes still got another 2-3k in her I think but here, have the first couple thousand words because I can't sleep.

Tw: misaligned kink, huge misunderstandings,bruises/marking, rough sex,

Pairings: reki/langa, adam/langa, (and soon adam/langa/reki wheneverI can get my tippy typers on board again u.u)

⛓❄⛓

Langas voice went low, smoothed over, and languid around a single syllable as soon as Reki's hands touched his throat, tipped his head up, and held him there with hard, calloused fingers.

 "Oh."

Reki flailed back, pulling his hand away in a flourish of motion, "Oh?! Shit, are you okay? Did I hurt you? I'm sorry I got kind of carried away. "

 Langa grabbed for his fingers, placed them against his throat again almost eagerly. "No! It was good. I... I liked it."

 When Reki's eyes snapped to his face, Langa could almost feel his uncertainty. He shifted his hips up against Reki encouragingly, working a shocked and bashful huff from his lips.

 Reki made a noise like he was drowning and met the motion eagerly. His fingers on Langa's throat stayed gentle.

 "Reki please," Langas voice, high and sharp, begged through their shared gasps. Settled, bone dry and cutting, against Reki's heart.

 He jerked his hands away again, fit them tight around the subtle arch of Langa's waist instead and fucked into him harder. The sound of skin and wailed gasps, the burn of Langa's fingers as he gripped at Reki's wrists and held felt like an apology.

 ⛓❄⛓

 "Would you be upset? If I saw Adam."

 Reiki’s fingers slipped on the truck he was tightening, sending the bolt, the wrench, and the entire board flying even as he shot out clumsy limbs to try stopping them all. “Upset? What? No. Of course not. Why would I be upset? Should I be upset?”

 Langa’s smiles were always a sight to behold. And this one was no different, small, and hidden behind the lock of hair that fell in front of his face as he ducked his head. When he looked back up the smile was still there but it was tinged with something more… heated. Steely.

 “I want to try some of the things you can’t do, Reki. It’s not that I don’t love you. Not that I don’t think you wouldn’t try. But I don’t think that’s fair to you. I don’t want to hurt you but I- I just want to know what it’s like. I think he could do that for me. With me.”

 Reki felt his heart break and mend and stutter all within the span of a minute.

 “Oh?” he said and then followed it with another, softer. “Oh.” He swallowed as he bent to pick up the fallen board and set it back to rights. “Yeah, of course. It’s been years, Langa. I’m not scared of that old asshole anymore. He doesn’t upset me. Of course you can see Adam.”

 Langa’s face lit up and Reki knew he’d done something Good. When he leaned in to kiss him Reki laughed, warm and bright, relieved by the touch he hadn’t known he’d been doubting. He brought his hand up to run gentle fingers through Langa’s faded blue hair. He pulled the taller man down to him, kissed the place where his hair was growing in dark at the roots. 

 “Thank you. Thank you. God, I love you.”

 ⛓❄⛓

 It started with a single day in an another wise innocuous week. The first of the month and a Saturday. Reki knew it by the fact that he had a showcase to work. One of the rare sort where he had to be a professional and talk numbers and couldn’t have Langa by his side so they could goof off and demo the new builds. 

 “I’m gonna see Adam today,” Langa whispered into his shoulder, pressing kisses into the side of Reki’s throat as he tried to shave in the foggy bathroom mirror. Reki angled his head to the side with a hesitant expression that he schooled fast, a skip in his heart that he ignored. 

 “Yeah, have fun with that,” he taunted, sarcasm dripping from his teeth as he tried to run the razor down his cheek without taking his entire face off. Langa’s eyes met him in the mirror. Watched his face as Langa slipped his hands beneath the towel wrapped around Reki’s hips and out of sight. 

Reki dropped the razor into the sink with a groan like satin, gripped the edge of the basin, and held on.

 He came home after Reki did, limping, and favoring one of his sides as he moved but his smile was huge and the relaxation in his frame was obvious in the way he poured himself onto the couch and into Reki’s lap. Reki snorted, cupped his palm over Langa’s shoulder, and kneaded at the knotted muscle beneath. 

 “Jesus, what did he do? Throw you into moving traffic?”

 Langa’s voice was soft and warm, “Something like that.”

 “Did you have fun?”

 “Yeah. Fuck, yeah.”

 Reki chewed on his words for a few seconds, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, “I’m glad.”

 Langa snorted then.

 “No really, I’m happy you’re enjoying yourself, you ass.” Reki pressed with the heel of his hand into the shoulder he had been massaging, feeling Langa’s entire body go taut with something that didn’t quite look like pain. He slid his hand around under Langa’s chin and tipped his head up. “I am, like, a nice person sometimes. Even about him.”

 “You are a very nice person, Reki. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

 Reki kissed him soft and then kissed him harder. Langa went liquid beneath him, rolling to his back and hissing in pain even as he tried to snake himself up for more contact.

 “God, what did y’all do?” Reki laughed.

 Langa pulled back, eyes focused and searching as he pushed Reki’s hair back from his face. 

 “Do you wanna know?”

 Reki thought about it. Remembered months of being jealous and bitter and mean over Adam’s focus on Langa. Over Langa’s returned interest. Remembered the fights and bloody knuckles when the two of them had finally had enough of trying to force too much emotion into wild, reckless, competition. Remembered the days of Langa forcing the two of them to sit down and actually talk it out and smooth things over into an antagonistic truce. 

 The resolution they eventually reached had taken even longer than Adam and Cherry’s had. But Reki got the feeling they’d done a lot more of their, "working it out" with their dicks out, though. He’d rather be forced to endure another month of Adam trying to force-feed him concrete than take part in that.

 And now, years later, that truce still held. Adam had even been at the housewarming party when Langa and Reki had finally decided that paying rent on two apartments was ridiculous when neither of them was ever alone in their own place for more than a few hours at a time.

 “Nah, y’all can have your thing. Just- don’t get hurt too badly, yeah?”

 ⛓❄⛓

 Langa did get hurt. Regularly.

 Watching him strip down in the washroom at the end of another day, one where he knew Langa had spent at least an hour or two at Adam’s, Reki was confronted with the darkening spread of newly forming bruises up the side of his partner’s thighs, cresting high onto his hip and over the curve of one side of his ass. The skin was flushed red, tight, and broken open in a few spots and-

 “Holy shit is that from Adam’s fucking board?!” 

 Langa turned, looking over his shoulder and pressing his long fingers into the forming crossbar shape of the crucifix skateboard Ainosuke had used in their final beef so many years before. “Yeah, kind of-” he breathed, voice low.

 Reki reached out to run his fingers over the mark before laying his palm, cool and comforting in comparison, over the whole of the wretched bruise already blooming. “I didn’t even realize he still had that thing. What the hell are y’all doing?”

 Langa grimaced, pressed into Reki’s palm, “It’s a lot to explain. You could... come. If you wanted.” His expression was nervous, vulnerable, as he watched Reki’s face.

 “Pffft. Trust me, I want nothing to do with whatever adrenaline junkie wild shit y’all get up to. I’m gonna keep my ass firmly planted in a design chair and just… stay out of it.”

 He reached around Langa to start the bath, letting the water warm before nudging the Canadian into it. “Let me wash your hair?”

 “Yeah. Please.”

 The next time it was a nasty cut on the top of his ankle, scraped skin bordering a gash that wrapped itself from the front of his leg almost entirely around to his achilles. It was stitched in one spot toward the center. Neat little sutures that were bathed in antiseptic but kept open to the air. His wrists were bruised as well, shocking and dark against his pale skin.

 “Langa, what the fuck!?”

 Reki shoved a set of chopsticks into his mouth to free his hands up to shove the pot he was stirring off the burner and shut it off. He spat them out unceremoniously and made his way into the entryway in a flurry of grasping arms and spinning limbs.

 “I’m okay, I’m okay. I’m good, Reki. Look at me.” Langa held his frantic partner's face in his hands. “I’m fine.”

 “What happened?”

 “I panicked a little. But it’s alright. Tadashi took me to the emergency room and I got stitched up in no time. Right as rain.”

 Reki’s expression went stormy, “Tadashi took you?”

 Langa turned his hands, fit his fingers over Reki’s mouth. “Not because Adam didn’t want to. It’s complicated. He felt bad about it, I promise. It’s okay, Reki. It was just an accident.”

 Reki believed him, kissed his fingertips where they still rested over his lips, and huffed out a frustrated noise. “I don’t want you getting hurt, Langa. This is the same shit as before and I want you fucking -”

 Langa’s laugh was bright and unexpected, still rare in its verbosity. “No, I can promise you this is nothing like before. Trust me.”

 Later that night Reki’s fingers worked fast over the touch screen of his phone;

[Text to Adam:] hurt him like that again and they wont be able to find all your pieces

[Text from Adam:] Don’t be jealous, Third Wheel. It’s a shitty look on you.

 ⛓❄⛓

 Reki did trust Langa. He trusted him with everything he had, with everything he was. And Langa was happy. For all of his bruises and pains and cuts, he came home from his visits every week or so sated and loose-limbed in a way that Reki could only remember having seen on him under street lights, stretched out and panting after landing tricks that felt impossible beneath the watchful eyes of the stars.

 That must have been why, when Langa came home with what was very clearly not a skateboarding injury, Reki saw red, blood boiling hot and livid with a rage that ached all through.

 “He’s fucking you? You’re letting him. Fuck. You.”

 Reki had his hands fisted in the collar of Langa’s shirt, had him pulled down to his face in a vice-like grip that threatened to tear the fabric at its seams. Beneath the stretched opening was a bruise in the shape of teeth, skin so close to broken it looked almost black at the spots Reki could almost see Adam’s teeth sinking.

 Langa looked confused, his eyes searching across Reki’s face for something. His words were careful, hushed, and so so quiet. 

 “Reki we… you said this was okay.”

 “What the hell are you talking about?”

 Langa wrapped his hands around Reki’s wrists, turned his head to press his lips to Reki’s palm only to have them wrenched from his clothing as quickly as they’d been put there.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me. I don’t know how to handle this right now I-” he scanned the room, brushed his hair back from his face, spun, and took a few hard steps away. “Stay here. I just- I need space for a minute.”

 He had his hands on the deck of one of the boards they kept lined up and neat by the door before Langa had fully dropped his hands. He wasn’t sure if the click of the door or the sound of his knees hitting the floor was louder.

 It was hours before Reki was home, the street lights flickering out with the rising of the sun as he shut the door quietly behind himself. He toed his shoes off and found Langa tear sodden but still awake, wrapped into himself in the corner of the couch.

 “Reki-”

 The redhead held up a scraped palm, condensed it into a single finger. “We need coffee. But then we’re gonna talk.”

 Langa nodded, scrubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes, and nodded somehow harder. When Reki turned to make his way into the kitchen he paused and waited, watched over his shoulder as Langa unfolded himself from the couch and climbed to his feet. When they stood together in the doorway Reki reached out scarred and calloused fingers to the place they both knew a bite lay blooming beneath layers of mindfully chosen fabric. 

 “I want you to tell me everything”

 ⛓❄⛓

[datenightfright]

For Science

Pairing: Yautja x Reader 

Series: Life Mates

Warnings: The usual I s’pose. 

When you spend months playing galactic grab ass with a yautja determined to drive you insane, you learn a thing or two. One of the skills you’re very thankful for, especially now, is your hypervigilance. You know it isn’t right to be so observant, but your reality is different from most, you live with the knowledge that there are bigger, scarier things out in space. Things you didn’t want to piss off.

On your morning jogs, you notice increased activity to the west of town. You knew there used to be a military base there, it was defunct. Now all the activity made sense, an old military base was the perfect place to hide a spaceship. Your theory was confirmed when Big pressed a few buttons on his fancy bracelet and brought up a map of the town, a red dot, the indicator of his ship, right in the middle of the old base.  

You can’t use your car, the government agents are all over your house, so you opt to jog, skirting the edge of the town, only stopping at Walmart to buy some gear. You’re happy you made the stop, it’s a cold night, and your sneakers wouldn’t have made the trip to the base. 

         As you all gather on the side of a hill, the best vantage point for observing the base, crouching low, you felt excited. You have to admit, you missed the dangerous cat and mouse games you and Big played on the reserve. Something within you had fundamentally changed. You felt like a stranger on your own planet. Knowing there were other forms of life out there, and being trapped on this rock had you going insane with inaction. In short, you were having fun.

“Hey, Big Guy?” you put a hand on the yautja, he gave you his undivided attention. “Be careful in there. Guys like these love to get their grubby hands on aliens like you and cut you open for research.” Big snorted, as if, he seemed to be saying. Even so, your concern touched him more than you realized.

“OK, new problem,” Ethan says, interrupting your moment, “saying we do get in there, it’s not like we’re gonna find a map or anything.” Big clicked and held up his arm, pressing a few buttons on his arm band, a fully conceptualized 3D map of the base sat before you, the ship highlighted as a red dot. Ethan mutters to himself for several minutes before nodding. “OK, I got it, let go.” Big looks at you, clearly confused. “He’s not very strong,” you explain, you wince as your brother slips down the slope with a high pitched shriek, “or coordinated, but he’s a verified genius.” You follow him, Big cloaks himself and follows you.

         Getting near the base is easy, too easy. There should be guards patrolling the perimeter. You knew they were probably still setting up, but security came first and foremost in all operations, otherwise there was no work to be done. Ethan leads you to the point of entry closest to the ship, that way you all don’t have to spend forever trying to bypass who knows what to get there, greatly decreasing your chances of getting caught. The easy part done, you cock the gun you managed to steal and smile at your team, “Ready when you boys are.”

         You all approach the entrance, only to jump back when the door opens and men come running out. Your gun is up, ready for the firefight that never comes. The soldiers all run past you, screaming. They’re followed by a yautja, smaller, and apparently female.

You look up at Big as he decloaks. The two seem to recognize each other. Clicking and chittering, you sweep the area, trying to keep things cleared.

When the female does finally notice you, she snarls, jerks her head towards you. “Who is this?” She seems to be saying. Big puts his hands on your shoulders, shoving you to the front. Whatever he tells her, she doesn't like it. She glares at you, clearly wishing for your death. “Are we going to get your ship back or not?” You ask, suddenly very uncomfortable. Big cloaks himself again and your brother leads the way.

Had this been the first time you dealt with the yautja, you would have been surprised at all the carnage. As it was, you barely blinked at the blood stains on the wall. You had a mission, and you’d be damned if you let something as innocuous as blood get to you.

Ethan is like a bloodhound, leading the way right to the ship, no wrong turns. It’s slow going, as no one is sure they know what they’re going to face, but you know for sure that the female is glaring daggers into your back. She must really hate humans if this was the case. You ignore her, eyes on the prize.

You stop when Big puts a hand on your shoulder. You stop Ethan with a hiss. No one moves. You don’t have to see Big to know he’s picking something up that’s not supposed to be there. You’re sweeping the area with your gun when you see it out of the corner of your eye. This is where the months of being treated like prey comes in.

Maybe it’s natural instinct, maybe it’s your training, you don’t know, you don’t care. You swivel to the blob in the corner of your eye. Not blinking, not screaming, you shoot first and ask questions later. Luckily for you, it takes one hit to bring the thing down. It had its mouth opened, right in your line of sight, so your bullet flew through it’s brain with little to no problem. Everyone looks down at your kill.

“What is it?” Ethan asks, crouching down to get a better look. It’s entirely black, with an elongated head, a long tail, and claws. “I don’t care what it is,” You say, pulling him away from it. “It’s dangerous, and there might be more, so let’s hurry up.”

Ethan takes a few moments to study the thing, then takes point once more, you follow, unaware at just how much your yautja desires you. He was right in thinking that you were his Life Mate, he was sure of that, now more than ever. 

Ethan stops suddenly. “What?” You ask, worried. "This door wasn't on the map.” He tells you. You shrug, “Get behind me,” you say, taking point. Big decloaks, stepping in front of you. You roll your eyes. “I appreciate the chivalry Big Guy but the mission is to get you back to your ship alive.” You step out from behind him, cocking your gun, and shooting the panel. The door slides open. 

The room is dark, you can only make out strange shapes. You slink into the room, feeling against a wall for a light switch. You find it and flick it on. It took all of you several seconds to process what you were seeing. 

It was a horror show. Yautja of all ages lay on gurneys, some opened wide for anatomy practice, some just the limbs severed, neon green blood was everywhere. You swallowed the lump in your throat. You and your brother were too distracted to even react to Big's anguished roar. 

"This is so fucked up Sis," your brother chokes, moving out of Big's way as he and the female circle the room, looking at the carnage. Anger fills you. "Is there anyway we can find out who did this?" You ask Ethan. He shrugs, "Sure, but it would take a while, and with whatever things are out there, I think we should hurry." You nod. Walking over to Big, who seemed to be trying to wrap his head around everything. His head snaps towards you when you touch his arm. "Fight now, mourn later," you say managing a smile. He nods, you're right, of course you are.

He rallies the female and you set off again. Ethan, surprisingly without any trouble, leads you all right to the ship. A quick scan reveals no bogies in the area. The only thing stopping them is Ethan, he takes Big's arm, and begins to press buttons. Big is irritated. "Trust me," Ethan says, "I'm hacking into the database here, and downloading it to your ships computer." 

"You can read their language?" You ask, stepping up to him to watch. "I can do anything," he scoffs, when he's done, he pats Big's arms, and you all make your way to the ship. Big presses a bunch of buttons on his arm band as you all approach the ship. 

Your vigilance doesn't slack, even now, and it saves your ass. You cock your gun, and aim, another black thing coming from the shadows. You shoot, this time it takes several rounds to finish it. 

That is the point where chaos rains down on you all. Freaky aliens and gunshots from every direction, screams of agony, you grab your brother and Big, tugging them towards the ship. Big gets the idea, calls the female, who's too determined to fight everyone and everything, ultimately, he decides to leave her. 

You miss Big tossing his armband into the fray in his rush to get into the ship and out of the area. All you know is that you're fighting off an alien thing one moment, the next your brother is screaming. In a fit of hysterical strength he manages to beat the monster off you, and shoot it, he wastes the whole clip, but you're happy, surprised but happy.

You both miss the explosion as he flops down next to you, watching the blood ooze through the ship. 

"That's not going to mess things up too bad is it?" He asks. "Nah," you say, "ship'll be fine." 

[thestarkerisobvious]

Ghosting You -- Chapters 10 and 11

by myself and the late @von--gelmini​

Ghosting You -- Chapters 10 and 11

my amazing art by @mrstarksbaby

The Previous Chapters Are He

Chapter 10: Tony –   Coming Of Age

Tony listened to FRIDAY’s report about Peter. He didn’t listen to the conversation itself. He didn’t listen to Peter’s voice. That would be too much. “He’s questioning himself,” she says. “He’s afraid he’s not… worthy.”

“That’s good. He’s coming of age. He should have half a million questions about himself and his place in the world every day. It’s what your late teens and 20s are for,” he chuckled, remembering his. 

But then he frowned, also remembering his late teens and 20s and how he fell face first into a mountain of cocaine and other drugs and drink. Peter was headed to be more like him than Tony wanted. ‘I wanted you to be better.’ The words he’d said to him on the rooftop echoed in his mind. That tendency he’d have to monitor closely. Find some way to stop him. Maybe just having FRIDAY to talk to would help. Until he got off his ass and decided if — how — he would make his return.  

Chapter 11: Peter  –  It Does Not Do Well To Dwell On Dreams

“You’re up, kid.”

Peter moaned and cringed inside the dream.  Knowing it was a dream didn’t stop him from moaning.  Didn’t stop his heart from pounding.  Didn’t stop his cock from getting hard.

He did a triple somersault and landed effortlessly on the side of the wall.  Not that it mattered.  He bullseyed the fire hydrant and tossed it aside easily, sending up a torrent of water creating a world of steam.  Not that that mattered.  The elemental punched the wall and he jumped aside.  He tried to jump out of the dream, tried to jump to safety.  But of course he couldn’t.  He knew this dream.  It had to happen the same way, no matter how much he hated it.

“No, Beck!  He’s got the carousel!  He’s getting bigger!” he was shouting now (he wanted to shout something else.  Something along the lines of “Liar!” and “Thief!” and a few other things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else but him.  But the dream soldiered on mercilessly.)

Now Quentin was flying in front of him, “saving” him from the elemental, asking “Go to plan B?”  (or, “That hurt him, keep ‘em comin’”) in that breathless, urgent way that made Peter’s entire body hard with pride and longing.  As if they were really partners.  As if they were really equals.  As if it weren’t all a scam.

Then the horrible part, the part Peter never wanted to see again.  If he could have cut out part of his brain to prevent THAT part of the dream, he would have.  The part where Quentin was down on the ground and Peter, the moron, thought the man was actually hurt.  That the man might actually die.  His stomach sinking, his heart racing, he, and rushed to the man’s side.  Shouting “Mr. Beck!  Mr. Beck!” like the naïve child he was.  

Peter cringed at the memory, but even then, he didn’t try to wake himself up.  Not yet.  And then that part of the dream was over and Peter was desperately trying to wake himself up.  Before the next part.

Before the dirty part.

The dream was skipping over Nick Fury’s roll, and that was a mercy.  Sometimes the dream did that, cut out all the middle men, all the minor characters.  It was only him and Quentin now, looking at each other through the smoke, through the haze.  Fury had said something, something vague, something unpleasant, something about the future.  Then he faded into the fuzzy edges of the dream, leaving Peter and Quentin alone.  And Quentin stood.  And there it was…. Quentin’s hand on his shoulder.  Quentin’s hand brushing, for just for a ghost of a second, the side of his face.  

Then the words… “Let’s get a drink.”

And now he was fighting it, fighting to wake up, because this is where the memory always ended.  This is where the dream always launched into the fantasy.

Sometimes Quentin led him back to a hidden place in SHIELD headquarters.  Sometimes it was his own secret headquarters.  Sometimes a gateway that took them right back to Quentin’s universe and sometimes it was just the nearest alleyway where Quentin pushed him up against the wall.  Usually their outfit disappeared magically… although sometimes Peter’s suit refused to come off leaving him embarrassed and frustrated.  Sometimes Quentin mumbled something about the memory of his dead wife in between kissing Peter fiercely, but most of the time he said nothing at all (except for those times he made Peter’s spine light up like a Christmas tree by whispering “kid” but Peter couldn’t admit to those times.)  Every time it was rough.  Every time Peter gave himself to Quentin’s powerful arms (he was stronger than Quentin, so much stronger, but oh it felt so good to let someone else be strong for a while.)  Every time he let Quentin push into him hot and dirty (sometimes teasing him, leaning forward to growl into his ear or turning around to look him in the eye.  “Is that all you’ve got, Beck?”)  Every time they went far too fast, too desperate, for Quentin to ever guess that it was Peter’s first time...  

Peter shook himself, almost shouted himself awake.  This time he succeeded, opening his eyes in his dark bedroom before the real action began.  He bit his lip hard to keep quiet, trying not to wake the sleeping household.  He congratulated himself, even as he leapt out of the bed and tore himself free of the tangled covers.  Congratulated himself on getting free of the dream in time.  He couldn’t always do it, but it felt good when he did.  It was absurd, but it still felt great.   To leave that dream-Quentin behind, alone and frustrated.  The idea of the man in that dream, standing alone facing the hideout/hotel/alley wall, surprised and blinking and confused as hell when Dream-Peter disappeared.  

Real-Peter did what he always did after these dreams.  He went to the kitchen to wash his face and neck with cold water, making sure he was well awake before taking care of himself.  He felt no shame, taking care of himself after a dream like that.  As long as he was completely awake.

As long as he wasn’t thinking about Quentin.

Back in his room he found himself looking out his window wistfully, gazing at the sleeping city.  Dammit, there were a lot of people out there.  It seemed ridiculous, at this moment, that he was alone.  But he WAS alone.  He searched his mind for a nice fantasy, something decidedly anti-Quentin, as his hand found its way into his pajama bottoms. 

As he gazed out upon the dark buildings he realized what it was going to be, and he smiled as he did.  Leaning his forehead against the glass he closed his eyes and smiled, welcoming back an old fantasy like a long-lost friend. 

It had been so innocuous, so random.  It had been a perfectly normal moment in a perfectly normal day.  Tony had walked up to the window to look down on NYC and said something random about a building he had worked in once... Peter couldn’t even remember the comment.

It came to him so suddenly, so completely.  A fantasy in technicolor - it was crystal clear, high definition.  He could hear the bloody soundtrack.  It hit him so suddenly he had to beat a hasty retreat... had to get alone where he could enjoy his fantasy in private.

The fantasy where Tony had him hard and leaking facing the window.  Maybe it was dark, no one could see him (a good thing, Tony had him completely naked.)  Or maybe it was broad daylight.  Maybe Tony was showing him off.

Tony was pressing in slowly and sweetly, working his enormous cock into Peter’s tight, near-virgin body.  It was slow and rhythmic and perfect. 

“Have you ever done it up against a window, sweet Petie?” he would growl, smiling that devilish smile, because he knew the answer.

“You know I haven’t,” Peter would reply, turning to look him in the eye, to look him steadily in the eye.  It had been such a chore, looking him straight in the eye… but that was the old days.  The 15-years-old days.  The never-could-stop-talking-when-I’m-nervous days.  The before-manhood days.  These days would be different…

...because HE WAS 21 DAMMIT yes of course those ‘blipped’ years did most certainly count!!  

 He hadn’t taken that daydream very far when he was younger - it didn’t seem right.  Tony couldn’t have wanted him then, not like that.  It felt wrong to fantasize about it without Tony’s permission, so he just didn’t take it there.  But he was older now.  He was taking it there now.

Tony’s hands would be on his waist just like they had been in the lab - only he wasn’t of age then, so Tony had been polite.  Tony wasn’t polite now.  He guided Peter’s body directly where he wanted it to be and did exactly what he wanted to do.  Sometimes those fingers dug in hard, sometimes because Tony was losing control, sometimes because Tony wanted to assert dominance.  (Sometimes Peter would tease him, leaning back to whisper ‘You can’t leave bruises there Tony, sorry.) 

Tony praised him the same way he did in the lab and, just like in the lab, Peter’s skin glowed and his heart pounded at the words.  And of course Tony wouldn’t say anything horrible like they did in those awful videos... wouldn’t call him a slut or a whore or make him feel bad because he wanted it or because he was taking it so well... and he was taking it well... yes he was inexperienced but for Tony he would do anything, absolutely anything...

When he was finished he poked at his computer silently until the hour was decent enough for a shower.  

For the rest of the day he did what he always did now, nothing.  He napped and fucked around on his computer and killed time until nightfall.  May warned him that summer wouldn’t last forever and he had a long list of things to do before starting Columbia, but Peter wasn’t sure she was right.  Maybe the month of August, like Mysterio and the Elementals he fought, were all just illusions.  All that mattered to him now was the coming nightfall, when he could wrap up in a blanket and lay on a pillow and listen to FRIDAY read the old emails.

It was all he had done for three days.  No more patrolling, no more stressing out about the drugs.  Just hearing and re-hearing all those old conversations, over and over again.  He could do this for the rest of his life, couldn’t he?  Just reliving and re-reliving those conversations again.  Conversations about tech and suit-updates and vibranium discoveries and ridiculous jokes and more tech.

“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.” Dumbledore had once told Harry Potter and when Peter had first read that book he had thought it was ridiculous.   He was much younger than Harry Potter, and he never gave much thought to his dead parents.  Only now he could see the danger that Dumbledore was describing.  He didn’t want to do Spider-Man’s job and he certainly didn’t want to do Peter Parker’s job.  He wanted to sit in his beautiful new car and dwell on dreams. 

Tonight they started out with the month of June.  This would be a particularly long sesion, Peter knew, because they had talked a LOT in June.  FRIDAY was only 3 emails in when she read something that made Peter’s blood run cold.

First she read the date and the time, as always.  Then she started reading the text.

//Remember when I pointed out the security from the top of the Mein-Vol building, where they run the gin business?  The original idea had been drones programmed for a flat radial sweep, but for the suit I thought - what if…///

Peter fought his way out of the tangle of the blanket the same way he had fought his way out of the tangle of bedsheets.  He leapt from the car the same way he had leapt out of bed.  He didn’t explain to FRIDAY, he didn’t say anything at all.  The doors were locked and he was headed back up to his apartment before he gave himself any time to think at all.

[ehstarwar]

flesh stays no farther reason (1/6)

Great, she thinks, another horny creep trying to entice young women to hop into bed with them for roughly 30 seconds.

She reads the post anyways.

-

Five times Ben looks for Rey and the one time she finds him.

-

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5K

Read on AO3

Notes: 

my brain at 2a.m., assuring me that it'll be a one-shot: for the lady, perhaps a salad?

me, 5,000+ words in and only on their first meeting: [chuckling] perhaps not

-

1

what's to come is still unsure

She sees it on Reddit.

She doesn’t normally scroll through the website (certainly not subreddits like this) but she’s bored and can only take the same Buzzfeed quizzes so many times.

She’s not sure what led her to this page, how the rabbit hole of the internet made her search r/mseekingfcorusant but here she was, scrolling through the disjointed thoughts of horny guys in her area.

Posted by u/droidwrangerl88

need hot girl to bang. serious inquiries only.

Posted by u/mycumtastelikesarlacc

Any girls in the Coruscant area looking to hook up this evening? 38M seeking mid-20sF. Will split hotel bill.

Posted by u/hotbountyhunter3483

any females interested in shredded guy for an evening? willing to meet for drinks b4 hand, and will pay for ur drinks if ur hot. (943) 349-9684 ;)

Rey finds it consistently astonishing how gross and vulgar men can be when hidden behind a screen. But she is scrolling on this page out of her own free will, so it does seem a little ‘pot-calling-the-kettle-black-ish.’ Just as her finger goes to press back to the home-screen, a tiny blue bubble appears at the top of the page, indicating that there has been a new post made. Great, she thinks, another horny creep trying to entice young women to hop into bed with them for roughly 30 seconds.

She reads the post anyways.

Posted by u/KyL0_R3N

31M seeking similarly aged F for the evening of 05/17. I have an important meeting on the 18th and sex the night before proves to a good luck charm for me. Nothing too crazy or obscene, fairly vanilla to start off with, but willing to go further based on her desires.

Something in Rey clenches.

It’s by far the most eloquently phrased way of asking for sex that she’s seen thus far. He seems straightforward, which is refreshing, but she knows that the best of psychopaths are good at hiding their true intention.

She clicks to his profile.

He seems interested in pretty common threads. Cooking tips, best laundromats in Coruscant, Galaxy Battles discourse; all innocuous and nothing to indicate he would chop up whoever responds to his post. Maybe that’s why she sends him a message.

From u/R3yoflight

why not just download tinder?

everyone on tinder is looking for sex too.

She bites her lip as she presses send. It’s not the best conversation starter, she’s aware, but their semi-introduction was from him posting about wanting to have sex to preform well in a meeting. Formalities can be forgone, in this particular situation. It’s not like she’s trying to impress him either; she didn’t message him to accept is offer, just merely because she’s curious.

There’s a pang of nervousness when she hears the notification sound out that he’s responded.

From u/KyL0_R3N

There’s too much preamble on dating apps.

Also, I’m looking to have sex, not to date.

It seemed more advantageous

to be straightforward.

From u/R3yoflight

hmmmm

i guess that makes sense

(also advantageous is worth 17 points in

scrabble, so kudos)

have you gotten many interested respondents?

From u/KyL0_R3N

You’re the first.

From u/R3yoflight

who says i’m interested???

From u/KyL0_R3N

Well, you are the one who messaged me?

Also, my post has been up for only a few minutes,

so you’re the first respondent in any capacity.

From u/R3yoflight

oooohhh i feel special ☺️✨

From u/KyL0_R3N

You’ve yet to tell me if you’re interested.

Is she?

Is she really considering letting Mr. KyL0_R3N fuck her after meeting him through a publicly placed internet post and knowing next to nothing about him?

From u/R3yoflight

maybe??

idk v much abt u yet

how do i know ur not a serial killer

or that u actually are who u say u are

which u haven’t yet

said who u are, that is

From u/KyL0_R3N

I’m  31M. I work in Coruscant at a tech company.

I’m 6’3, 190lbs. I’m not a killer in any capacity.

You haven’t told me anything about yourself,

which hardly seems fair.

From u/R3yoflight

24F, 5’6, i’m not telling u my weight

i work at an auto shop downtown so i can

kick ur ass if ur lying abt not being a killer

From u/KyL0_R3N  

In order to kick my ass, we’d have to meet.

So, are you interested or not?

From u/R3yoflight

i shouldn’t be

From u/KyL0_R3N

I have the distinct feeling that you are.

Am I right?

From u/R3yoflight

...

yeah

-

He tells her his name is Kylo Ren, which she thinks sounds stupid and made up, but doesn’t press him. They hammer out some more details, agreeing to meet at the bar of a swanky hotel downtown first, and if all goes well, he’ll have a room reserved for them.

When she tells him that she can’t afford to pay any of the room, he dismisses her flippantly with a quick ‘I’ll take care of it’ that makes her chest feel tight.

They don’t talk much after that, only a message from her a few days before hand, making sure the plan was still on, and an affirmative from his side. But a few hours before they’re supposed to meet up, Rey gets a notification from him. It distracts her from the task at hand (precision shaving of her legs and… other parts), causing a knick on the back of her calf.

From u/KyL0_R3N

While I don’t think that we’ll be doing

anything that would require

a safe word, I’d like to have one in case.

From u/R3yoflight

i’ve never had a safe word.

what’s a good one?

From u/KyL0_R3N

It doesn’t have to be anything special.

We can stick to a traditional scale.

Green means you’re good.

Yellow means slow down.

Red means to stop entirely.

Does that work?

From u/R3yoflight

yeah thats good

why don’t you think that we won’t be doing

anything to justify a safe word?

you planning to go easy on me 😈

From u/KyL0_R3N

That depends, sweetheart.

How far are you willing to go?

Rey thinks for a moment. She should have some hard lines set, especially since he’s a total stranger. In fact, she shouldn’t be fucking a stranger at all. But she was in this far, so she may as well go all in.

From u/R3yoflight

i’m not super into choking but a lil breath play

is okay

no extreme bondage or degradation

maybe at some point but just… not now

anything in my ass will require a lot of work

before hand bc not much has been in there.

any hard no’s 4 u?

i’m on birth control so u can come inside me

if you want

From u/KyL0_R3N

I think we should stick to no

bondage/degradation/breath play for now

I’m not super into those anyways.

I’ll keep that in mind about your ass.

Maybe nothing in my ass. For now.

That about covers my no’s.

What are some of you hard yes’s?

From u/R3yoflight

i like being taken control of, dominated, i guess

kissing is big for me but i get it if u don’t like it

also major daddy kink but that can be

controlled if its not ur thing

what do u like

From u/KyL0_R3N

Very much yes to that Daddy kink and kissing.

I lean towards dom anyway, so that should work out.

I like hickeys. Giving and receiving.

I also have pretty good stamina, just a warning.

From u/R3yoflight

i like a man with good stamina ;)

u gonna wear me out tonight? 😈

From u/KyL0_R3N

Yes. Yes I am.

-

She gets there late. Unlike every other time she runs late for something, this time is purposeful. If he gets angry with her, she’ll know to leave. And she’s counting on that. Him giving her a reason to leave. She needs it so she doesn’t do something stupider than what she’s already doing now.

But when she arrives and see’s the absolute mammoth of a man, with long-is black hair and moles and big ears, Rey just knows she’s in for it.

He stands when he sees her. Realistically she knew that 6’3 was tall, but it’s still a bit shocking to her. One of his gargantuan hands is holding a beer, the other resting on the back of the chair. She spends a second too long admiring his form, earning a knowing-but-slight smirk from him.

“You’re Kylo.” It’s an unnecessary statement, because who else could he be, but one that is said all the same.

“And you’re Rey.”

His fucking voice. It’s too beautiful to be addressing her, she’s sure of it.

“Work ran over, that’s why I’m late.” She wasn’t going to give him an excuse, but the words fall out of her mouth.

“I’m familiar with that myself. It’s no trouble, really.” He holds the chair out for her, and she gracefully takes a seat. A server comes around and takes her drink order of a club soda before scurrying off.

“Nothing to relax the nerves?” He question, taking a sip of his drink.

“I prefer to have a clear head for…” She trails off. What does this qualify as? A hook-up? A booty-call? A job interview?

“Good girl.”

Her breath stops for a moment before she remembers its necessary to survive.

“You said you work for a tech company downtown; is it close?” She asks, hoping she sounds passive.

“Not far. I need to be close for tomorrow.” He never looks away from her; it makes her sweat.

The server comes back with her drink, and Rey takes a giant gulp, just for something to preoccupy her mouth.

“You said you work for an auto shop downtown. What do you do there?” He asks, eying her hands curiously. Rey worries that he’ll realize she wasn’t actually at work if her hands aren’t greasy, so she hides them under the table.

“I’m a mechanic,” She tells him, sitting up straighter.

“You’re…” He begins, but she cuts him off.

“A woman mechanic, yes. It’s not entirely uncommon.”

“I was going to say young.” She bites her lip. His voice doesn’t sound like its chastising her, but she feels bad all the same.

“Most men are uncomfortable with the fact that I know more about cars than them.” Rey doesn’t know why she continues to challenge him, but his reactions always surprise her.

It’s… nice.

“Do I seem like I’m uncomfortable by that?”

She regards him. “No, but you did proposition anyone with computer access, so I think your threshold for uncomfortable must be very high.”

He doesn’t laugh, per se, but the corners of his mouth lift and his cheeks become tight. She smiles at the sight.

“Seems that we’re both very bold. A female mechanic and an online propositioner. We make for quite a pair.”

“Hopefully that means the sex will be good.”

Kylo Ren does smile at that.

His hand is on the small of her back when they get in the elevator and Rey is actively trying to ignore the fluttering in her gut, which is why the words blurt out of her.

“My roommate knows where we are!” It’s a loud noise in an otherwise quiet area, but Kylo doesn’t seem startled by it. He just looks down at her. “I have to be back at the apartment, in person, by noon tomorrow or she’s calling the cops.” Rey is quieter now but her voice still shakes.

“My meeting is at 10, so you’ll have plenty of time to get back to your place. I can have my driver drop you off there, if you like,” He says.

“Thats… not why I’m telling you. But that you. I mean, my roommate will know if something bad happens to me. So it would be wise of you to not kill me.” Rey gulps.

Kylo’s hand comes to her face and brushes a piece of hair behind her ear.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Rey.” His voice is soft. “I’m not going to kill you, or hit you, or do anything you don’t want me to do.” She’s facing him now. “If you feel uncomfortable, I wouldn’t be mad. You can leave whenever you want.”

“But what do you want? You’ve asked me what I’ve wanted in every interaction we’ve had, but all I know is that you want to fuck somebody so that you’re not nervous or whatever tomorrow. Do you even want me? Or was I just the first person who responded to you post? It goes both ways, ya know. You need to tell me what you want, too.”

His hand brushes the side of her jaw, his eyes trail down her face, no doubt seeing the nervous expression she wears.

“I want you, Rey.”

-

His lips are on hers the moment the door is shut. His hand cradles the back of her head as he shoves his body against hers, pinning her to the wall. His other hand grips her hip and will definitely leave a bruise. She loves it.

But his warm, wet mouth on hers with his plush, pink lips makes any coherent thought leave her head. She moans into his mouth, hands trying desperately to pop open the buttons of his shirt. She makes a sound of frustration when the last stubborn button won’t come undone, and his hands are there in an instant, ripping the thing straight off. She slides her hands along his toned chest as his tongue invades her mouth. When her hands venture further south, they find the more than impressive bulge straining against his slacks.

“I should’ve… asked you earlier…” He says into her mouth as he sucks off the remaining shirt and suit jacket, “if you… like… dirty talk.” Rey keens against him, forcing his mouth to go to her neck as she breathes out a chant of ‘yes, yes, yes.’

Kylo makes a noise of approval before hoisting her into his arms. Rey’s legs instinctively wrap around his hips as he walks them towards the bed.

“Good, because it would be a shame not to be able to tell you that I can’t wait to taste your cunt.”  

Rey has died.

She has died and gone to whatever afterlife will have her.

She never wants to leave it.

“You… don’t… you don’t have to…” She manages to say between kisses. Kylo pulls back from her then, eyes dark, hair a mess, lip red and bitten.

“I want to. Will you let me?” Rey nods so fast she’s worried her neck will be sore. His hands ruck up her cotton dress, until he decides that the offending material will need to be off all together. She’s left in her black bralette and underwear and Kylo stares down at her.

“My tit’s aren’t that big. I’m sorry if you were looking forward to-”

“They’re perfect,” He cuts her off by kissing down her chest, mouthing her nipples through the dark fabric. The heat of his mouth combined with the coolness of the room make her nipples stand at attention, pebbling at the fabric.

Kylo depends further, and puts his entire face against her still-clothed pussy, inhaling and licking her through the fabric. Rey is a whiny mess against the sheets, hair in every direction, full body blush. She hopes he thinks she’s hot because, god, she’s never sen anyone like him.

Kylo takes of her panties and immodestly begins lapping at her cunt, no warning or hesitation, making Rey give something of a moan and a yelp. Her hand goes to his hair, feeling the luscious locks between her fingers. His hands go to her ass, lifting her up slightly so he gets a better angle.

“You’re… too good… at this…” She manages between breaths. Rey would bet anything he’s smirking against her.

Kylo uses his nose to rub at her clit before alternating between kitten licks and sucking on it. It takes no time at all for Rey to come. So quickly, in fact, that she would be embarrassed if she could move. Her whole body is on fire as he licks her through it, occasionally using a hand to brush at her nipples. The tears streaming out of her eyes and drool gathering at the corner of her mouth must make her look ghastly, but Kylo doesn’t seem to mind.

When he finally sits back, still between her legs, she can make out the bulge from earlier, now even more prominent.

He’s looking down at her, at the mess he’s made of her, and against every instinct, she lets him.

“I don’t normally come that fast,” she tells him. Her voice is quiet even now, and she knows it’ll be strained tomorrow. Good, something to remember him by.

“It won’t take me that long to come, either,” he admits, having the kindness to look sheepish as he says it.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Kylo represses a smile.

He gets off the bed, shucking his pants, underwear, and socks off in one felt swoop, leaving him gorgeously bare before her. If she though the bulge was impressive, the real thing is even better. His cock is red and pointed upwards as he stands across from her. His hand goes to pump himself a few times, smearing the precome along his length. Rey can’t help but reach out, whole body going with her as she opens her mouth to bring Kylo towards her. His hand stops her, gently, and she looks up at him in confusion.

“I want to suck you off,” She tells him, brows still furrowed.

“Later,” he tells her.

Kylo pulls her back up the bed with him, so that he hovers over her as he kisses her again. She still taste herself on him, but can’t find the heart to care. Her hands go to wrap around him, feeling the thickness for herself. Huge is an understatement. But Rey’s always been ambitious.

She pumps him a little, feeling him nearly whimper in her mouth.

“You gonna let me fuck you, baby?” he murmurs.

“Yes… yes please…”

Rey feels his hand come over hers as Kylo slots himself between her legs and aligns his cock to her core. He slides in, slowly, stretching her the whole way. She pants against his skin, digs her nails into his shoulder.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” His voice sounds strained, like he’s holding back from her.

“It’s good, daddy… so good…” she pants.

He whines some curses against her skin as he finishes seating himself inside of her.

“… so good, sweetheart. Takin’ me so well… taking your daddy so well,” He mumbles, pressing kisses to any part of her skin. Rey can already feel the beginning of another orgasm itch inside of her, and for the first time in a while, she has no doubt that Kylo will get her there.

“Daddy… you can move… please,” She’s breathless as she asks him. He groans above her and rest his forehead against hers.

His hips being to move, still slow, but making her breath hitch ever shallow thrust.

“Tight… so tight for me…” He mumbles. Rey takes a minute to look at him, really look at him. He’s flushed, skin damp, but he’s still so very handsome. Moles dot his face and she can’t resist using a hand to trace them. His hair tickles her nose, so she pushes it back behind his ears, which are a bit too big for his head but she adores them.

Kylo lets Rey take him in, but gets her attention back to the moment with a quick snap of his hips.

“Can you come again?” He asks, and Rey nods. His mouth depends on her neck, sucking hickeys to every patch of skin it finds, as he pushes into her. She can feel the bump of his cock every time he bottoms out, a sensation she’s never felt before, and it makes her clench him every time. His hand skates down between them to get to her clit, and he quickly begins rubbing her there.

“Gonna let me fill you with my come? Gonna be a good girl and hold it all in? Can you do that for me baby? Huh?” His words send shivers down her spine, aiding in his pursuit to get her to come again. She mumbles incoherent words of approval, trying to tel him “yes, yes! I’ll be your good girl!” but speech fails her at the moment.

But Rey knows Kylo understands what she’s trying to say.

She feels his rhythm falter and his hand speeds against her clit. She tightens her legs around his hips, trying to wordlessly tell him she’s close too.

“Please, baby, please come for me…” His voice is desperate and strained and makes her shudder. Her hips find purchase against the base of his cock, in combination with the movement of his fingers, and she’s thrust into the abyss again.

Kylo holds her against him as she comes, whole body vibrating, and he follows after her. He grunts against a pillow as he comes, and Rey is distantly aware that he’s actually biting the poor thing. His come is hot within her, and she feels him pulse as he keeps slamming his hips to hers. The slapping of skin slows as she feels his body let go of the tension, and Rey is boneless beneath him.

He lays on her, still half-hard inside of her, as they come down from their mutual high. They are both breathing so heavily that speaking is out of the question, at least for a while. Kylo pulls out of her, and a mad rush of fluid starts to leak out of her. She clenches, remembering his words from earlier.

Part of her expects a coldness afterwards; after all, that’s what most sex has been for her. Once he’s come, he leaves. It’s the oldest story in the book. And for all Kylo’s talk of ‘stamina’, there’s still a part of her that expects it’s just a façade.

But he doest leave her, cold and debauched, to get redressed and make a hasty exit. Instead, he plants a kiss to the side of her jaw and rubs her torso sweetly before helping her sit up. She’s weak, and he knows it.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” He says when she slouch against him. She mumbles something unintelligible into his skin. Instead of getting rough with her, Kylo just soothes her. “Women are 38% more likely to get a UTI if they don’t pee after sex. That’s not a parting gift I’d like to give you,” he elaborates.

Rey sighs, but lets Kylo get her to the bathroom.

-

They sleep in spurts.

For a few hours after their first time, before Kylo wakes her with the incessant press of his hard cock into her abdomen. (He takes her even more slowly that time, sleepy and still blissed out. He comes before she does, but he uses his fingers to get her there, still.)

A few hours after that, Rey makes good on her promise to get her mouth on him, waking him with her mouth already working him. (His come tastes bitter and tangy, but she swallows it because it’s his.) She sits on his face afterwards, letting his tongue get her off again.

The next time she wakes, Kylo is kissing her chest, licking at her now oversensitive nipples. There’s a faint light peaking through the windows and Rey knows their time is coming to an end. She runs a hand through his hair to indicate she’s awake now, but he keeps on in his pursuit. Only when her chest spit-covered and shiny does Kylo seem satisfied with his work, and lifts his head to look at Rey.

“Good Morning,” She mumbles, voice strained as expected, and still groggy from sleep. He hums his response, and presses a sweet, lingering kiss to her lips.

Rey glances at the clock, noting its just past 7, when they both sit up in bed. Kylo goes to say something, but is cut off by the grumbling of Rey’s stomach. Her cheeks heat as his voice falls silent.

“Sorry… I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning,” she admits. Kylo’s brow furrows for a moment, but the dark expression passes fleetingly.

“Let’s rectify that first, shall we?”

-

The breakfast menu for room service is extensive, and Kylo orders one of everyone instead of actually looking it over. Rey can only half-heartedly try to tell him it was too much, when her eyes catch a glimpse of the fluffiest looking waffles she’s ever seen. Kylo had only kissed her head and ordered before walking into the shower.

It arrives in record time, a result, she’s sure, of the high-class hotel he got for them. The room, which she’d been too preoccupied to notice last night, is opulent. A bit gaudy for her taste (were gold curtains really necessary), but Rey was in no position to complain. She hesitated to put on actual clothes, instead opting for the plush robe that hung in the wardrobe.

Rey is half into the whole meal when Kylo emerges from the bathroom, towel hung low on his hips and hair still damp. Rey bites her lip so hard she draws blood. He sits across from her, picking up the two plates she hand’t touched.

“Greek Youghert and fruit? Don’t you want a waffle? I saved some whipped cream for you.” She extends the aforementioned whipped cream, earring her a slight smile from Kylo.

“You’re very kind, but no thank you. This is what I eat every morning,” he tells her. Rey scrunches her face. Kylo pours himself some black coffee too, and Rey finds the will to keep her mouth shut.

They eat in companionable silence, Rey scarfing down whatever her hands touch, and Kylo methodically eating his healthy-dude breakfast. Rey notes that neither of them are on their phones; it’s perhaps the first meal she’s had with someone in a while where that’s the case. Like everything else that’s made her heart flutter with him, she tries to ignore it.

Once the table is thoroughly pillaged, Kylo gets up to get dressed and says nothing when Rey hops on the bed and continues to watch him. He’s not embarrassed by nudity, clearly, and tosses the towel away for a solid 5 minutes before putting on underwear.

He’s fully dressed shortly and applies some product to his hair that has writing in french, yet Rey is still wearing only the robe and probably still has his come on her thighs. And other areas.

Part of her thinks he’ll just carry on with his routine as if she’s not there. He’ll pack his suit from the night before and leave the room without an second glance her way. Much to her relief, she’s wrong.

When he’s finally ready, Kylo turns toward her, leans down, and plants a soft kiss directly on her lips. It’s an infinitely more affectionate gesture than she had expected going into this, but a welcome one all the same. He stares fondly down at her when their lips part.

“The room is yours to use until 4 P.M., but I remember you have a noon curfew,” He tells her. Suddenly, Rey regrets telling Rose to call the national guard if she’s not physically in her presence before the clock strikes 12.

“I guess I’ll make do,” She teases.

They fall silent again, and for the second time that morning Kylo goes to say something, but falls short. The silence becomes too much for Rey to bear, so her cursed mouth opens of it on volition.

“I’m not sure how these are supposed to work… one night stands, I mean,” She admits. Something in Kylo’s face falls, but Rey can’t quite tell what.

“I don’t have much experience with these either,” he tells her. Rey shuffles onto her knees, so that they’re both eye-level, and extends her hand. Kylo looks at it with a hint of confusion mixed with amusement.

“Well, you’ve been a wonderful reddit-fuck. Thank you for posting,” she says, giving a mega-watt smile. He sakes her hand.

“And you’ve been a wonderful reddit-fuck-respondent. Thank you for critiquing my going about soliciting sex.” Rey opens her mouth in an exaggerated offense, but Kylo cuts her off with another sweet kiss.  

She melts into it, holding his hair with her hands, letting herself mold to his torso as his tongue swipes her lower lip. The kiss is wonderful and hot and sweet all at the same time and makes her head spin.

When it’s over and she’s caught her breath again, a pang of nervousness infiltrates her consciousness. It’s over, it whispers, you’ll never see him again if you don’t do anything. He’ll leave, just like everyone else, if you let him.

“Do you have any more meetings?” She practically shouts at him. Kylo looks confused for a moment, so she goes on. “I just mean… if you needed someone to help… prepare you for your meetings, there’s a chance I’d be available.” Her voice grows softer as she keeps talking, suddenly feeling like an idiot for suggesting that at all. Before she has a  chance to spiral, Kylo brings her back.

“I do… I mean, I will. That would be… very gracious of you, to offer you help.” She bites her lip to keep from smiling too hard.

“Okay, good.” She nods at him, relief washing over her as she realizes she might not be the only one who doesn’t want to let this go.

It’s a new feeling that probably shouldn’t be attached to a person whom was very clear about their desire for a no-strings hook up, but Rey has always had a preference for things that are challenging.

Kylo Ren seems as good a challenge as any.

-

follow me on twitter!

[oneweekoneband]

Lorde, “Liability”

Not just the Lorde, but the Mother O’Connor of Hopeless Romantics

“Go for it.”

“1, 2,....”

Then, the restless silence awaiting heartbreak.

Simplicity can be dangerous territory for any and all musicians. If you’ve ever been in a choir and opened a piece that solely consists of quarter notes, you would probably say, “FUCK.” For those who don’t have that much experience in reading music/performing in the arts or don’t understand why “FUCK” is the appropriate response, the logic (at least for me) follows these liner notes.

You’re given a choice between two pieces to impress your friends at a dinner party with your piano prowess: “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” or “Fur Elise”? The answer to the fictional scenario is a no-brainer. “Fur Elise,” despite its prevalence, is indicative of more talent than some twelve-measure melody a six-year-old could peck out with one hand. Not just anyone can play Beethoven (sidenote: I know the song is the baseline of talent for Asian families with Tiger Moms who force their children to pick their poison between strings or keys, but I digress), and the former is more difficult to sell, dismissed as rudimentary tedium when LITERALLY any other piece has more differentiation.

So it goes with the classic ballad. Instrumentation is kept sparse to prevent itself from becoming a distraction and to provide only the most necessary harmonic context. Interest is difficult to keep. The message remains the same throughout the song, more often than not basic and one-dimensional, no volta from the tried and true topic of love lost. 

Not currently trying to navigate the debris of romance? Chances are, “Liability” will be the first song you skip on Melodrama, a spectacle of melancholia turned into a snoozefest by cyclical piano chords and verse-chorus-verse-chorus song structure. Lorde’s vocal range doesn’t help much. When you don’t have the belts and whistles of Adele and Mariah Carey from “Hello” or “Visions of Love,” melodies can become bland, anticlimactic.

That’s also the entire point.

“Liability” (as well as “Writer in the Dark,” but that’s for another day and isn’t to-the-t analogous considering its variance) is for the one-track mind who will find beauty hidden in the sublimity of words, especially when everything else is stripped to its bare necessities. Akin to the mundanity of Our Town, that means it won’t be for everyone, but if you haven’t felt like “crying in the taxi” (or whatever your town’s equivalent is), then why are you even listening to an album called MELODRAMA?

Uncoincidentally, Lorde is at her most Shakespearean on “Liability.” The verses are her soliloquies, a lamentation of post-break-up life directed towards the audience, and the choruses a one-person table read of the script:

THEY: You’re a little much for me. You’re a liability. You’re a little much for me.

They pull back, make other plans.

LORDE: I understand. I’m a liability, get you wild, make you leave. I’m a little much for it, everyone.

This play probably wouldn’t sell too many tickets on Broadway (see intro: we already know it didn’t), but Lorde doesn’t care. She just wants to tend her broken heart.

The first stage of grief is denial, and Lorde expresses hers in one word: “Baby.” Innocuous on the surface, yes, but the nickname is also endearing, a trace of her relationship she hasn’t let go of yet even after the dejection of rejection, a stereoscope of what was and what is. The piano compounds the numbing isolation, descending slowly as if the chords were tears before sniffling back up for the cycle to start all over again. The knife comes out, a farewell that stabs (“He don’t wanna know me, said he made the big mistake of dancing in my storm”) — a rest to let the words sink in — before being twisted in and pulled out (“Says it was poiiiii-son”), the incision deep, the blood pooling out. From the outside looking in/looking back, you would scoff, incredulous with the overblown poetics (Who calls their soon-to-be-ex “a storm” or “poison”?), but when you’re in the same spot as Lorde is, when you can commiserate with every syllable, the pain becomes exacting. The person you gave your heart to now seems remorseless, criminal, and you can’t help but blame yourself, feel burdensome, too worthless to have people around you. You’re torn between self-comfort (“So I guess I’ll go home, into the arms of the girl that I love/ The only love I haven’t screwed up”) and self-destruction (“She’s so hard to please, but she’s a forest fire”), between forgiving yourself (“Swaying alone, stroking her cheek”), realizing that it wasn’t all your fault, and deprecating yourself, scrutinizing every flaw and chalking it up to a for-the-better fate. And when you’re left alone, the easiest thought is the one that you were told last: That you didn’t deserve the promise of love.

What hurts most is that this wasn’t the first time, and it probably won’t be the last. You remember the bruises on your heart from the last goodbye and the time before that and the time before that. The insecurities and desperation come back in waves, grow into floods; “he” turns into “they.” You weren’t enough for them, not just him (“The truth is, I am a toy that people enjoy/ ‘Til all of the tricks don’t work anymore/ And then they are boooored of me”). The cycle continues through each person, and the only common denominator is you. You can’t help but feel that you’re the problem that no one knows how to handle, that you’re the “liability” as much as anyone speaks to the contrary or as much as you try to run from it (“I know that it’s exciting running through the night”). The past becomes a taunt of irreproducible “perfect summers”; you’re left bereft without any kitschy silver lining to follow, waiting “until [they’re] gone,” words echoing into twilit emptiness and lonerism. 

The loss seems insurmountable. It’s like you’ve made zero progress since the last time, still just as devastated, still just as fragile.

And thus enter “Hard Feelings/Loveless.”

[alleiradayne]

LONG JACKET A DESTIEL-ISH SERIES

Over the last few years, I’ve seen some of the craziest shit hunting with the Winchesters and their angel, Castiel. But this story right here? This isn’t about monsters. This isn’t about the battle between good and evil, heaven and hell. I understand all that.

It’s people I don’t get. People are crazy. And we do crazy things when we’re in love.

PART V - JEANS

Summary: The fruits of their labor (well, some of their labor) pay off and the group lands a lead on the case. But once they learn what they’re up against, their odds of surviving wane. Warnings/Tags: Again, awkward flirting, mentions of rape Characters/Pairings: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Female!Reader Word Count: 1,741

“What is this?”

Sam stared at the list Dean had handed to him. “Businesses around the grocery store.”

“A barber, a record store,” Sam read aloud. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ll start looking into these places, see if anything jumps out.” He took the list to his laptop and dove right in.

I sat on the edge of the bed across the motel room as I flipped through local television stations. A breakfast burrito threatened to spill out of its wrapping as I bit into it, and I barely saved the renegade chunk of beef with a nearby napkin. “See anything strange last night?”

“Not a peep,” Dean stated. He was about to speak again as Castiel exited the bathroom in a fresh pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Dean’s eyes widened but a fraction, so tiny a change that, before last night, I would have missed it.

But since then, every little quirk before and after confirmed my suspicions. A quick, knowing look passed between Sam and I. Though his focus remained on his computer, he muttered through his smirk, “Must have been boring.”

“Really boring,” I added as I hunched behind my burrito.

Palpable irritation bristled from Dean, and he struggled a moment before retorting. “Nowhere near as boring as I bet this motel room was last night.”

“Oh?” I mused. “So, you met up with Detective Williams then?”

He folded his arms across his chest and grumbled a petulant, “No.”

While fully aware that I prodded a sensitive nerve, I couldn’t help myself. “Why not?”

“Because!” he shouted. “Because I didn’t want to! Happy?!”

Nerve finally struck, I dropped the subject. “Alright, I get it. What did you find at the store?”

“It was closed,” Castiel stated as he stepped between Dean and I. “As was everything else.”

“Except the fortune-teller.”

Three heads, mine included, turned to Sam with a collective, “What?”

“The business right next door to the grocer,” he continued as he pointed to the list. “I looked up Madam Drina’s Visions. She’s some sort of fortune-teller or psychic.” Silence from our rapt attention spurred Sam onward. “The hours on her website list her open from noon to 2 am. Every day,” he explained. “That’s… unless she’s got two or more people working for her, that’s impossible.”

Dean dragged the container of breakfast potatoes across the table and popped three into his mouth. “Place looked mighty dark last night. How long she been there?”

“Gimme a second,” Sam replied as he clacked away on the keyboard of his laptop. Not a minute later, he said, “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s not a good sign for the fortune teller,” Dean grumbled.

Confusion clouded Sam’s furrowed brow. “Unless this is a Dread Pirate Roberts situation,” he stated, “There’s no way any of this is possible. Madam Drina’s Visions has been in business for two and a half centuries across various locations. She’s only been here a few months. But, look at this.”

Sam spun the laptop to face us and slowly scrolled through a series of images. Like a portal into another time, the oldest photos passed first, dated and worn. Sam continued to work his way through the pictures, each decade well represented in fashion, décor, and medium. But then, out of the corner of my eye, a photo caught my attention as it crawled up the screen. It might as well have slapped my face, for I launched off the end of the bed and pointed as I spoke.

“Stop.”

Sam snatched his hand back from the laptop, and the screen stilled. I reached the table in two quick steps and scrolled back through the images until I found what had struck me. Recognition flashed in Dean’s narrowed stare, and he stood, ever so slowly, to back away from the table. Sam followed, rising as if the laptop itself might attack him were he to move too quickly.

Castiel, on the other hand, leaned in and squinted at the screen. “Is that what I think it is?”

A thick swallow bobbed Dean’s throat. He continued to back away from the computer as he said, “That right there is a very rare image of a partially revealed succubus. How in the hell does this picture even exist?”

“I have no fucking clue,” Sam replied as he, too, continued to inch away. “The photographer absolutely died right after taking that photo.”

“If the son of a bitch was lucky, he died right away…” Dean stated.

Despite my having spotted the picture, I had next to no clue what they were talking about. I raised my hand and said, “Hi, junior hunter here. Care to explain what a succubus is?”

“Sometimes, Y/N, I envy your innocence,” Dean began. “And I’m not poking fun when I say that. Succubi are…”

He paused then, hesitation hitching his breath in his throat. When he glanced at Castiel, his jaw clenched and his teeth ground. I followed that look and found Castiel still staring at the picture on the computer, squinting with his head cocked to the side as if to see it better.

Indeed, the picture was quite the puzzle. Candid. Mid-conversation. Unaware. Relaxed, even. The photographer must have called out to the group hanging out in what looked like a green room. And the medium itself looked like a Polaroid right out of the 80s, well preserved and taken with an expert hand. So innocuous, I couldn’t blame Sam or Dean for missing it at first.

In many fewer words, the image was dull.

Except for the faintest outline of a curling pair of horns protruding from Madam Drina’s head. And in her eyes shimmered the faintest purple glow, easily mistaken for red-eye or other retinal reflection. Further discoloration of her skin might be the Polaroid medium, but the subtle purple hue only showed on her. And the others? Four men, all staring at her, their gazes soft and smiles so big and bright.

“She killed all of them.”

Sam’s muttered thought interrupted my own, and I found him backed nearly to the bathroom. “What? How do you know that?”

“Look at them,” Dean said as he pointed. “She’s got them, hook, line, and sinker. They’re completely in her thrall.”

When I considered them again, understanding sank to the bottom of my stomach. “I’m getting a really gross vibe. What does a succubus do to its… prey?”

A full flush consumed Dean’s face, pursed lips releasing a deep breath. “They eat souls. Suck you dry until you’re nothing but a husk. And if you’re lucky, that’s the first thing they do to you.”

My mouth dried, and I stumbled over my words. “And… what if you’re not lucky?”

Sam spoke when Dean remained silent for too long. “They take every pleasure of the flesh imaginable from you. Over. And over. And over again. They break your mind, your body, your spirit—all of it. The worst of it is, their ultimate power convinces you that you want it. That you cannot live without their touch, their attention, or their... satisfaction.”

Goosebumps raced along my arms as a violent wave of nausea threatened to undo my breakfast. Holy hell. A real, live, literal rape-demon. Never in my life had I felt such righteous anger at another living creature. “We have to kill it.”

“Y/N, I’d love nothing more than to waste a succubus,” Dean growled. “Were it an incubus, there wouldn’t be an issue. I’d go over there right now and put a stake through its heart, and we’d be back on the road before dinner.”

Castiel spoke when Dean finished. “But succubi only target men.”

“Considering that they’re a particular kind of demon that needs to eat souls to survive, they’re damn picky,” Dean spat. “Bigoted bastards. I fucking hate ‘em. I hate ‘em all.”

Though wildly uncomfortable with the entire situation, I knew what I had to do. I had rarely felt such contempt for someone. Something. God, my skin crawled just thinking about it. Resolved, I spoke.

“I’ll kill it.”

Dean regarded me as if I’d sprouted a second head. “No,” he declared. “No way, we’re not sending you in there alone.”

“Back me up,” I interrupted. “I can distract her, and you take her out.”

“One of us should be bait,” Castiel determined. “I could. I am most likely immune to her powers.”

“Most likely?!” Dean bellowed. “You’re not even sure?! No way. If anyone’s going in there to be bait, it’s me.”

Castiel jumped up from the bed and shouted, a rare sight. “Do you have a death-wish?! Why are you always so willing to sacrifice yourself?!”

“Because it’s the right damn thing to do!” Dean barked.

“Hey!” I shouted, “Calm down! Both of you!” Neither Dean nor Castiel would budge an inch until I demanded, “Now!” Dean turned back first, and while Castiel remained where he stood, his stare dropped to his feet. “Christ, you two need couple’s counseling or something, this is getting ridiculous.”

“What?! We’re not—”

“Dean, it was a joke,” I interrupted. “Look, since none of you are guaranteed to survive as bait for a succubus, I am going in. End of—”

Nothing could have prepared me for the look I found on Sam’s face at that moment. Conflict raged beneath the surface, contorting his too pretty face. All my confidence fled in that instant, abandoning me to freeze in its chilling wake. And in its place, guilt and shame and distrust swelled for a cocktail so potent, the room spun.

“Are you sure, Y/N?” Sam asked.

No. Not anymore. But I heard myself say, “Yes.”

His conflict twisted into pain in his reddening eyes. But he acquiesced, nodding silently and heading for the motel room door. Over his shoulder, he said, “We should get this over with tonight. I’ll start prepping.” With that, he strode through the door, presumably for the Impala.

Dean followed him without a word. Though I knew Castiel yet lingered by my side, I startled when he spoke.

“I trust you, Y/N.” He placed a confident hand on my shoulder. “Whatever happens, we’ll be there to help, should the need arise.”

“Thanks, Cas,” I replied.

“Any time,” he said as he led me to the door. “Let’s give the guys a hand.”

Anything to take my mind off my impending doom. I strode through the door into the mid-morning sun and wondered if the weekend could get any more fucked up.

Reblogs and feedback are awesome. If you want in on the tags, send me an ask or a DM!

LONG JACKET MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

[demonprosecutor]

BLAH BLAH BLAH UNFINISHED ONESHOT LOL

The moon had already reached its zenith when Miles realizes that Phoenix had been watching him steadily from his place at his office door, opened enough to reveal the swallowing darkness of the hallway beyond (a sight that ceased being disconcerting, especially since he had the tendency to pull late nights), shoulder braced against the sturdy doorframe. 

It’s the sight of Phoenix there that jolts him from his work, a jerk of the wrist that fucks up his already-trembling signature. Only one person had the audacity to bother Miles and he was currently standing at the doorway, pushed from the frame and silhouetted by shadows behind him. 

Miles would call it unnerving, but in his exhaustion-addled mind, was more relieved to have his partner there. Phoenix saunters forward with a grace not founded in his younger years, lips curled in a shit-eating grin, as he finds his place behind miles and settles his hands on his shoulders, thumbs resting against the exposed skin of his neck. 

“I thought you were kidnapped or something. Had to call everyone just to figure out that the Chief Prosecutor was still wasting away doing paperwork.” Phoenix leans over him, his chest brushing the top of his head, plucking an innocuous page of paper, scrutinizing it. “Mmmm, yeah. Don’t miss this.” Before allowing Miles to snatch it from his hands. 

“What are you doing here? I thought I was supposed to…” Miles looks at his clock before dropping his head with a groan. “I am so sorry.” The 2 AM blinking back at him was mocking. “I expected to back home far earlier, I guess I just forgot.” 

The hands settle back onto his shoulders, pressing hard and kneading at work-frozen muscles, heat managing to sink into his skin in spite of the vest and dress-shirt he wore. Phoenix shushed him, an action that would normally have bristling him, but coupled with an unfairly limber massage, Miles was in an obliging mood. “It’s alright. I fed Trucy a while ago. Came to rescue you from work. You’re gonna end up burning yourself out.” 

He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Burning the night oil was his reality ever since he was 20, although the throbbing headache that decided to make its appearance reminded Edgeworth that that he wasn’t young anymore and he should take better care of himself. He groans at the stubborn knot that unraveled underneath Wright’s hands. “You are unfairly good at that.” Miles sighs out shakily, muscles shuddering. 

Phoenix leans down, smiling mouth brushing against the curve of his ear, unfairly-clever hands reaching past his shoulders to settle on his chest, a possessive action that makes Miles shudder for an entirely different reason. “My hands are good at rubbing other places,” he nips at Miles’ ear, delighting in the way his shoulders flinch. 

“Wanton mouth.” Miles breathes out, hands white-knuckling his armrests, as Phoenix unravels his cravat with practiced dexterity. 

His partner chuckles, liquid darkness that makes Miles arch, as nimble fingers trace the skin above his waistline, dancing down to the shadowed bulge between his legs. With his other hand, Phoenix turns Miles’ face to his (red and flustered by the show of sensuality made more keen with the door wide open – seconds away from having anyone peep. “You like this wanton mouth.” The words kiss his mouth before their lips press together, a chaste action that juxtaposed the twinkle of metal as his belt and pants were opened. 

Miles grabs Phoenix’s hand before it could touch anything, “wait,” eyes flickering towards the open door. “Someone could see. And don’t say that we should give them a show.” 

Phoenix’s mouth clicks shut before he laughs. “Don’t worry, I checked everything to make sure that no one was around.” And swallowed Miles’ words with a kiss, fingers delving underneath his boxers. All thoughts left his mind.

-------

The first indication that something was wrong did not come from Miles himself, but Trucy. Days later. Wonderful, loving, affectionate Trucy – who stopped short of her daily ritual of tossing herself into her father’s arms, mouth quirked downwards in the slightest of frowns, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. 

Before Miles could ask her what was wrong, she hugged them both quickly before bounding off to her room, door closing with a whispered click. 

He looks over at Phoenix who shrugged lightly, “she must be tired.” Stated with a nonchalantness that should have told Miles that something was up (Phoenix was a doting father and should have followed Trucy to ask her what was wrong), then ended up nodding. It wasn’t his place to speak about the behaviour of one’s child to their parent, Phoenix knew best. 

They retreated to the kitchen after Miles had hung up his dress jacket, and deposited his briefcase in his office. Phoenix rolled up his sleeves, already pulling out ingredients for dinner that night, as Miles prepared to steep his tea. “how’s work? Got any big cases coming up?” Phoenix asked above the sizzled shrieks of onion being cooked. 

Miles opened his cupboard, perusing his selection of tea, settling on chamomile because he wanted to have a restful sleep that night. “Yes, but it’s, mmm, classified.” The latest case was important enough to lure Franziska and Shi-long Lang back to Japanifornia, something about The Phantom. Even if he was the Chief Prosecutor, the case was hush-hush enough that he didn’t have (or more accurately) couldn’t have paperwork. “I’m going to briefed about it tomorrow with Franziska and Agent Lang, so please don’t wait up for me.”

 Phoenix hums noncommittally, returning to his task of cooking dinner. 

Miles assumed that was the end of that. 

But later that night, when hungers were sated and sleep tugged at weary eyelids, Phoenix turned to face Miles in their shared bed. “You really can’t say?” He pouts, heterochromatic eyes filled to the brim with curiousity. 

Miles rolls his eyes, mostly for show, before patting Phoenix’s cheek. “There’s a reason why it’s classified, Phoenix.” He chides, grey hair fanned over the pillow like a bastardization of a halo. “But a tidbit won’t hurt, I guess. There are rumours of an assassin here in our city. We’re trying to find them. Now sleep.” 

It must have his chamomile tea induced tiredness, but there was a look in Phoenix’s eyes that gleamed there for a second. Quiet, unnerving, and most of all, dangerous. However, in a blink, it disappeared. He stared at Phoenix who blinked at him owlishly, the expression shifting towards a goofy smile that prompted him to pull Miles to him, head pillowed on his chest. “Sounds cool. Next thing I hear, you’re going to be part of an action movie about this whole case.” 

Miles laughs at that, lifting his head to kiss at Phoenix’s pulse-point and falling asleep.

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke pirate smut: Hands

Chapter 23 of @schoute‘s and my beloved pirate AU Where The Winds Of Fortune Take Me is up on AO3! Read it here.  It was actually up on Friday but I went away and didn’t have time to post it and I just got home and CAN I STAY HOME FROM WORK TOMORROW PLEASE I’m so fucking tired~

In which... well, the title is relatively self-explanatory. And because I’m still sobbing over it, some beautiful gift art for the previous chapter from the insanely talented @lethendralis-paints!

!- FENRIS - 

Fenris lay on his bed gazing up at the ceiling in a happy daze. His entire body still felt like it was buzzing from his and Hawke’s long meandering conversation on the forecastle deck this afternoon. 

They’d shared little bittersweet stories of their childhoods, and Fenris marveled at the strangeness of being able to share those stories at all, now that Hawke knew his past. She flirted outrageously with him, which he was able to finally enjoy without reservation, and when Fenris flirted back, her delighted laughter was the most thrilling reward. She prodded him to talk about his favourite places that he’d travelled with Piper, and her questions were incessant as always. But for the first time since they’d met, he was able to fully answer them. 

He could look at her beautiful face and he could openly admire her bright and brilliant smile, because he had nothing left to hide. Hawke had seen the worst of his past, and she wanted to be with him anyway.

Somehow, despite his attempts to push her away and his undeserved coldness, Hawke loved him. And Fenris wanted nothing more than to be wrapped in her arms again. 

Unfortunately, Anders had returned to the ship with an armful of new medical tomes and had called Hawke away to look at some blasted thing or another. Fenris forced himself to let her go, and he’d busied himself as best he could by cleaning and sharpening the Lady Luck���s store of weapons. But the afternoon had gradually melted into evening, and it had been hours now since Anders had pulled Hawke away… 

Fenris pushed aside his frustration. He was too thrilled about the turn this day had taken to be truly annoyed. He settled his head more comfortably on his pillow and closed his eyes.

The weight of Hawke’s slender body resting over his hips and her affectionate arms around his shoulders… he couldn’t decide whether he preferred that breathtaking embrace, or the careful stroke of her fingers over his scarred and spoiled skin. For weeks he’d imagined the feeling of her hands on his skin, but the fantasies were always tainted by shame at the thought of being seen. Ah yes, shame: that vicious but well-earned byproduct of the disgust in the mineworkers’ eyes when he was forced to punish them. 

But Hawke never looked at him with disgust. From the first time they’d spoken in the market in Kirkwall, the look in her eyes had been nothing short of enthusiastic. No, even before that: that time when they’d spotted each other while she was standing on the steps of Lowtown, before they ever even spoke. Her smile was mischief and heat and openness, and never even a hint of disgust. 

He wanted her to look at him that way again. Kaffas, he wanted her to touch him again with tenderness like she had this afternoon. No, not just with tenderness, but with urgency like she had when he’d pinned her to the floor and kissed her, right here in his cabin…

A wriggle of warmth twisted in his belly. He shifted restlessly on his bed, then rolled onto his unwounded side. 

He wanted to see her. Surely she was finished studying with Anders by now. And even if she wasn’t, it wouldn’t be strange for him to go and find out what she was up to. He’d interrupted their sessions before, after all. 

But the thought of going to her… Even after everything that had been said, even with everything laid bare between them, there was still a small and visceral part of his heart that balked at the thought of making his feelings so plain, and for the second time in one day. Perhaps these nerves were to be expected after spending the past few years so profoundly alone, but it didn’t make it any less frustrating.

Fenris rolled onto his back again and stared at the ceiling for a minute longer. Then he pushed himself upright and slid off of the bed. But before he could pull on his tunic, there was a knock at the door. 

Hawke? His heart lodged itself in his throat. He hoped it was Hawke. She was the only person he wanted to see right now. 

He strode over to the door and cracked it open, then threw it wide. Hawke was standing at the threshold, and as soon as she laid eyes on him, her face lit up with a grin. 

“Well well, what’s this?” she purred. Her gaze slid slowly over his bandaged chest. “Were you waiting all lovely and half-naked just for me?”

“Perhaps I was,” he said. He stepped back to let her in.

To his amusement, she blushed. She laughed and fanned herself playfully as she stepped into his room. “Well, that’s a treat I won’t turn down,” she said. 

Fenris gave her a half-smile. She was moving around his room in a slow and aimless manner, and when she paused near his rumpled bed, his heart flipped with excitement.

And perhaps a little anxiety. 

She nibbled her lower lip, and Fenris swallowed as the silence between them started to grow heavy. Then she turned to face him. 

His breath stopped for a moment. Her clear coppery eyes were hot with intent, but her next words were very innocuous. 

“Are you hungry? Did you eat anything?” she asked.

Slightly nonplussed, he shook his head. “Are you?”

She shook her head as well. “I had something with Anders. But I’ll come to the galley with you if you want–” 

“I’m not hungry,” he assured her. The buzzing feeling deep in his abdomen was definitely not hunger, at least not of the kind she meant. 

She nodded and nibbled her lip, and Fenris returned her stare in silence. She was standing near his bed, and he was standing near the door, and the gap between them seemed so incredibly enormous, and he wanted nothing more than to cross it. But he felt somehow frozen in place, paralyzed by the terrifying and delicious want that was humming through his limbs more strongly with every beat of his heart… 

He took a step toward her. Then another. Then he was standing in front of her, and her chin was tilted up and her palms were resting lightly on his bandaged abdomen, and her lush raspberry lips were parting–

“Fenris, I don’t think we should, um, make love tonight,” she blurted.

He blinked, and her pinkened cheeks flamed red. “If that’s even what you were thinking, I mean,” she babbled. “That is, I hope you were thinking the same thing as me. I swear half the time when I think about you it’s to think about ripping your clothes off, but I don’t think we should tonight because you’re wounded and I don’t want to hurt you by accident…”

A little squiggle of disappointment and relief made its way through his belly. Perhaps she was right. It would be moving a little fast if they had sex tonight. Even if it would mean bringing his fondest and most intimidating fantasies to life. 

He took a reluctant step away from her. “A wise thought,” he said softly. “There’s no need to rush.” 

She blew out a breath. “Speak for yourself. I’ve been wanting to throw myself at you since I set foot on this ship.” 

Fenris huffed out a quiet laugh. “Would you believe it if I said I felt the same?”

Her eyes and her smile widened. “No, actually,” she said. “I’d believe you if you said you wanted to throw me off the ship the second I set foot on it.”

He winced. She was joking, but her words still struck a little too true. 

He ran a hand through his hair. “Hawke, I… I’m sorry. I have not been kind–”

She grabbed his hand in both of hers. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Maker’s balls, I’m just…” She squeezed his hand and beamed at him. “Honestly, I’m just so happy that you like me. I still feel like I should be pinching myself in case this is a dream.”

Fenris swallowed hard. It felt paltry to say he simply liked her. He meant it when he said he felt the same as Hawke. She claimed never to have felt this way about anyone else; Fenris too had never known anyone who made him feel such a deep and giddy fondness, not even in the occasional dalliances of his youth. 

He loved Hawke. It might only have been just over a month that they’d been on the ship together, but he loved her just the same. But he’d also never confessed those words to anyone before: certainly not to any lover, and not to his mother nor to Varania, not that he could recall. 

But he wanted to tell Hawke. He wanted to return the words she’d said to him, those words that meant so much. But in that guarded and cowardly part of his heart, he was still too afraid. 

He twined his fingers with hers and admired the contrast of her pale golden skin with his darker complexion. When he lifted his eyes to her face again, she was smiling hopefully. 

“Can we lie on your bed?” she asked. “Or is that too bold to ask?”

He nodded, and Hawke smiled more broadly before releasing his hand and crawling onto his bed. 

Fenris slowly sat on the edge of the bed, then laid on his back with his hands resting on his belly just as he usually did. Beside him, Hawke rolled onto her side to face him and tucked one arm beneath her head. 

His heart started to thrum a joyful beat in his chest, laced with just a hint of nerves. He’d never shared a bed with anyone before. When he first became the master-at-arms and moved into this cabin, even having a bed that was large enough for two felt like a needless luxury. To think he now had someone who wanted him, someone who loved him and wanted to share this bed with him… 

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Then Hawke spoke in a soft voice. “Fenris, can I ask you something?”

He turned his head to look at her, and was surprised to find her looking quite serious. “What is it?” he said quietly. 

“How did you leave Minrathous?” she asked. “Varania escaped by winning over a merchant. How did you escape?”

He released a slow sigh and looked up at the ceiling once more. “I didn’t escape right away,” he admitted. “I remained under Danarius’s thumb for nearly a year after Varania left.”

“Why?” she asked softly.

“It didn’t occur to me to leave,” he said. “I… had forgotten what it meant to be free.” He sighed again, then looked at her. “You have not been a slave, Hawke. A slave does not dream of freedom or wonder at possibilities. I thought only of keeping Danarius happy in order to keep my sister safe.”

Her expression was serious and sympathetic, but somehow her sympathy didn’t grate at him the way it did before. Then she reached for his wrist. 

He glanced down. Her hand was sliding over his, and her fingers were twining between his own. Then she shifted a little closer to him and pulled his hand toward her, tucking it close against her chest. 

He swallowed hard at the tenderness of her gesture, then continued to tell his tale. “After Varania left, I was… I felt more hopeless than before. It did not occur to me to run away until I saw some other slaves fighting for their freedom.”

Her eyes widened. “You saw a rebellion?”

“Yes,” he said. “At the lyrium mines. It happened when I was there one day with Danarius. The slaves rose up and fought back. They used their own shackles and their mining tools as weapons. They even managed to kill a few of the slavers.” 

“Wow,” Hawke breathed. 

He nodded. “Danarius made me protect him, but… to see that slaves could fight? That they were willing to die for a chance to be free? It… it forced me to think. And I did think, for months.” He turned his head to face the ceiling again. “Then, one morning when Danarius approached to shackle me as he did every day, I killed him.”

“Just like that?” she said in surprise.

He shot her a sharp look. “It was not easy,” he said. “I had spent most of my life doing what he told me to do. But the disbelief in his face when I crushed the breath from his miserable throat…” He curled his lip. “He never expected such agency from me. He thought I was but a pet that he had tamed. His tamed little wolf.” He scowled at the memory. “An ignominious death was the justice he deserved.”

Hawke was silent for a moment. She stroked his knuckles with her thumb, soothing away his momentary agitation.

“What happened then?” she asked.

“I ran,” he said quietly. “I was pursued by the city guard and wounded, but I killed them and escaped. I stowed away on a Seheronese fishing trawler, but they eventually found me; it was a small ship, after all. And…” He exhaled slowly and shrugged. “Well, you have heard the rest.”

She shuffled closer to him. “You liked being on the fishing boat, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “I did. They were kind and quiet. They taught me to sail, as I told you. I knew them only a few months, but in that time, I felt as if I truly lived.” He shook his head slowly. “It made it all the harder to tolerate the return to slavery when the pirates came.” He took a deep breath and looked away from her. “By the time Piper and Varric raided the slaver ship, I… I had almost given up.”

Hawke was quiet for a moment as she ran her thumb gently along the side of his hand. “I don’t believe that,” she said eventually.

He looked at her. “You don’t believe what?”

“That you would give up. You’re too strong for that.”

He frowned slightly. “You didn’t know me before. I was… cowed. Hopeless.”

“If you were really hopeless, why did you join Piper’s crew?” she asked. “Piper told me she gave you the option to go to the colonies with the other slaves. But you didn’t leave. You stayed on the Lady Luck.”

He shrugged a little irritably. One again, Hawke was giving him more credit than he was due. “I was angry,” he said. “I wanted the slavers to suffer. Being on this ship gave me the option to fight back.”

Hawke shrugged and continued to stroke his hand with her thumb. “That sounds like a strong choice to me. A fighter’s choice.”

He shot her a flat look, but his irritation was short-lived. Her expression was confident and affectionate and perfectly lovely. 

He carefully rolled onto his unwounded right side so he was facing her. “Ever the optimist, Hawke,” he murmured.

She smiled. “That’s me. Rynne Hawke, the insufferable optimist.”

He gazed adoringly at the cheeky twist of her smile and the warmth in her coppery eyes. “You are not insufferable,” he told her. Then he smirked. “I would gladly suffer your company whenever you deign to give it.”

She laughed brightly, then shifted closer to him. “Was that supposed to be a smooth line? Because it was not so smooth.”

He smiled more broadly, but his heart had just kicked into an excited rhythm. Hawke was very close now, close enough that their slightly-bent knees were touching and her nose was a mere few inches from his. 

He wanted to find a clever response, but he couldn’t. Hawke was so near, near enough that he could smell her warm sandalwood scent. She was still holding his hand, but he wanted to hold more than just her hand; he wanted to hold her, to have her body pressed tightly to his the way it had been earlier when she embraced him on the forecastle deck–

And she was moving closer. No, that wasn’t true; he was moving closer, shuffling nearer to her on the bed so that he could hear the gentle sound of her breath as she inhaled through her parted lips–

And he kissed her. After weeks of waiting and wanting and agonizing, Fenris was kissing Hawke for the second time. But this time couldn’t be more different than the last.

The last time he’d kissed her, his mind was a turmoil of lust and anger and uncertainty. That kiss was a moment more bitter than sweet, burned into his memory as a perfect example of passion that he both regretted and idolized, but this…

This was completely different. There was no regret here. There was no anger and no angst. Instead, there was the longing that had been living in his heart for weeks, which Hawke was finally able to fulfill with the sweetness of her mouth. There was the love that she’d proclaimed to him this afternoon in the deck, and he could only pray she was feeling its return in the impassioned press of his lips to hers. 

Her parted lips were soft beneath his own, and her waist was a smooth dip beneath his roaming hand. She was perfect, and this kiss was perfect, and it became even more so when she cradled his neck in her palm and shifted closer still. 

He encouraged her closeness, pulling her body flush to his with his arm around her waist, and when their hips pressed together, she broke away with a gasp. 

Fenris pulled back slightly and opened his eyes. Her eyes were still closed. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

She nodded and slid her fingers into his hair. “Kiss me again, you handsome fool.” 

He smirked, but he was more than happy to comply with her cheeky demand. He coaxed her lips open by gently nipping her plump lower lip, and when he gently lapped at her tongue, she whimpered and pressed against his groin. 

He exhaled shakily against her mouth. Her lithe body was pressed firmly to his, and the skin of her back was soft and temptingly warm where his errant palm had slid beneath her tunic. Despite her words and the wisdom of taking things slow, he wanted… fasta vass, Fenris wanted her, and he could openly admit that he wanted her, and that alone – the simple and joyful ability to confess that he wanted Hawke: it just made him want her all the more desperately. 

He propped himself up on his right elbow and abruptly pulled her closer before kissing her again. She was practically beneath him now, and her fingers were clutching his shoulder in a firm grip, and– 

And then her fingers left his shoulder. She was grabbing his hand firmly and pulling it away from the soft warm skin of her back. She slid his greedy fingers up over her waist and then over her ribs–

Then Hawke arched her spine and pressed his hand to her breast, and he gasped into her mouth. He could feel her nipple beneath his palm, so firm that it was budding through her loose tunic… 

Her tunic. He could feel her nipple through her tunic. 

She wasn’t wearing a breastband or a bustier. 

He broke away from her lips. “Festis bei umo canavarum,” he groaned.

She pressed his hand more firmly to her breast. “What does that mean?” she breathed. “Something nice, I hope?”

He gazed at her with a mixture of adoration and total exasperation. “It means ‘you will be the death of me’,” he said. He reached down and inched his fingers beneath the hem of her tunic.

She burst out a little laugh, but seconds later she was panting fitfully, a rapid desperate staccato of breath as his hand moved higher over her ribs. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I just, I – I don’t want to interfere with your wound…” 

He cupped her bare breast in his palm. She gasped and arched toward him, and he kissed her parted lips once more before pulling away.  “Don’t apologize,” he murmured. “Perhaps I can do something that won’t affect my wound.”

“Like what?” she panted. Then she grinned. “Fenris, are you going to teach me something?”

He smiled back at her and stroked her nipple with his thumb. He was hardly an expert in this arena; it had been years since he’d been with anyone. But hopefully Hawke wouldn’t be able to tell.

“I could,” he said. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” she said loudly. “Maker’s balls, yes. I…” She broke off, then clumsily started pulling her tunic up, and Fenris gaped at her stupidly as she pulled the garment off and threw it to the floor.

Hawke was half-naked, bare to him from the waist up, and she was… venhedis, she was beautiful. Small breasts and tight budded nipples and skin that would be a burnished gold if it saw more of the sun, and the delicate lines of her collarbones rising and falling as she panted for breath, and as Fenris shamelessly admired her, he couldn’t quite believe his fortune. She was here, in his bed with his hand roaming from her slender neck over the crux of her collarbones and down, and as he happily lowered his mouth to her breast, he couldn’t help but marvel at the difference a single day could make. 

In the space of a single day, he now found himself curled on his bed with Hawke’s willing body stretching beneath him as he tasted the delicate tip of her breast. Her hands were pulling gently at his hair and her pleading voice was floating through his ears, and… fasta vass, this was everything he’d barely dared to want, and now that she was here, he could admit that he hadn’t really thought this would happen, not truly. 

Having Hawke here… it had been a hope. A very dear hope that was too close to his guarded heart, and despite his vague intention to tell her how he felt in Afsaana, Fenris hadn’t really trusted that this could all come true. 

But Hawke had brought his hopes to life. She was his hopes brought to life, a lucid dream given colour and form and sound, and as his hand slid down her ribs and over the planes of her belly, he marvelled at how very tangible she was. 

Her breath was sharp in his ears as he unbuttoned her breeches, and the movements of her hands were impatient and rough as she shoved her breeches down, and the glossy sheen between her legs was the most enticing indication of how strongly this foray was wanted by them both. 

She grabbed his hand. “Teach me,” she begged.

He smiled. Only Hawke would make that particular request of him with this particular degree of nakedness. And only Hawke had ever tempted him to want to fulfill such a request.

He pulled his hand from her grip and stroked his fingers between her legs. 

She arched her whole body and spread her legs wider. “Fenris,” she mewled. 

He captured her gasping lips in a kiss. He smoothed his fingers slowly through her slippery warmth, but she was bucking her hips desperately fast, and Fenris eventually peeled away from her lips to whisper against her ear. 

“Move with me, Hawke,” he told her. “It is not a race.” 

She slowed down with a groan of frustration. “But I want you so much…”

“I’m right here,” he whispered. 

“I know,” she whined. “I know. But I really…” She broke off with a gasp as he stroked the swollen bud between her legs. 

“Focus your attention here,” he said quietly. “Tell me if you want more or less.”

She strained against his hand. “A little less,” she panted.

He lessened the pressure of his fingers. A moment later, she twisted on the sheets and spread her legs wider still. “Oh Maker, yes...” 

Her voice was high and strained, and it sent a hot rush of lust burning down his throat. He inhaled slowly and kept his fingers light between her legs, and soon she was rolling her hips in a slow rhythm that matched the gentle slide of his finger around her precious tiny bud. 

Her cheeks were pink and her raspberry lips were parted with pleasure, and Fenris watched her lovely face with an attentive sort of hunger until she threw her head back in the pillow with a rapturous cry. 

She shuddered and pressed her hips insistently toward his hand. “P-please,” she gasped. 

He slid his fingers low to stroke her cleft, and she lifted her hips right off the bed. “Fenris, please!” she sobbed.

He stared at her. She was so beautiful and so shameless, begging him with her pleading words and her twisting golden body, and her lack of inhibitions was… well, it was Hawke. This was who Hawke was. She was uninhibited and open, asking him questions and telling him about her life without any reservations at all, offering herself to him and asking him to love her in return, and he’d been too scared to meet her halfway. 

But he didn’t want to be scared. He wanted to be open like she was, to give her all the affection she deserved and all the heated press of emotion that he’d kept too close to his chest. And this was how he would start. Here and now, with Hawke’s arching body under his hands, he would start to give her everything.

“What do you want, Hawke?” he asked.

She opened her eyes, and Fenris breathlessly returned her heated stare. Her ribs were rising and falling with the rapid cadence of her breaths, but she didn’t speak.

He lightly petted her glorious heat. “Tell me, and it is done,” he murmured. “Do you want me to do that again?” 

“I… I want more,” she panted. “I need… I feel like…” She broke off with a whimper and thrust her hips toward his hand, and Fenris knew what she meant. 

He hovered his fingers over her entrance. “Can I–”

“Can you fuck me? Please?” she blurted. 

Her drew back slightly in surprise – and undeniable excitement. He was going to suggest sliding his fingers inside of her, but if she wanted him… 

She reached for the laces of his breeches, but he gently caught her hands. “I thought you were worried about my wound,” he said. Frankly, he didn’t care about his wounded side; if it started to bleed again, Hawke could simply patch it up. The shining possibility of giving himself to her was overriding any other impulse that he had right now.

She sighed sharply. “I… fuck. You’re right,” she admitted. She pulled her hands from his and pressed her legs together in frustration. “Fuck,” she whined. “I just… Fenris, I really…”

He traced the line of her jaw, then turned her face so she was looking him in the eye. “If you want me, I am yours,” he said softly. 

Her frustrated expression melted into an almost disbelieving look of joy, and Fenris’s heart squeezed at the hope in her face. Then she smiled and gently pinched his chin. “Such a smooth talker,” she murmured.

He gave her a little half-smile. Then, without moving his steady gaze from her face, he slid his hand over her knee to pull her legs apart. 

Her breathing was growing short and sharp again, and even more so when he ran two fingers through her slippery folds. Then, slowly and carefully, he slid one finger inside of her.

She keened with pleasure and arched beneath him. Venhedis, she was so slick and hot, and the smoothness of her flesh pressing around his finger kicked his rising desperation even higher. 

He forced himself to breathe through a fresh and dizzying rush of desire. “Do you want this?” he asked. He curled his finger slightly, and she jerked. 

“Yes!” she cried. “Fenris, please!”

He curled his finger again, and she clawed at the bed and sobbed. “I want you so much, it’s not fair…”

He carefully withdrew his finger from her heat, then stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “Then let me do this,” he urged. “I want to be with you.”

She looked at him worriedly. “But what if I hit you in the side with my knee or something clumsy like that? I don’t want to hurt you…”

“It is worth the risk,” he said. “Being with you is worth the risk.” As soon as he said the words, he realized it wasn’t just the sex that he was talking about, not anymore. 

Fenris didn’t like taking risks. For as long as he could remember, he avoided taking chances when the potential losses were more than he could afford. But not being with Hawke – not taking that risk to let her in all those weeks ago when she’d first offered herself to him: he’d regretted that choice ever since, and he wasn’t going to make that same mistake again. 

He ran his thumb along her cheekbone. “It is my risk to take, Hawke. I want this.”

A slow and brilliant grin lit her face, and she eagerly nodded. “All right. Yes. Yes, let’s–”

He cut her off with a kiss. Her tongue stroked his own, and her fingers were tugging at the laces of his breeches once more and loosening the knots and–

And she was touching him. Her impatient fingers had burrowed into his half-loosened breeches, and she was stroking his cock. 

“Hawke,” he moaned.

She tried to wrap her fingers around him, but his breeches weren’t loose enough. “Please,” she mewled.

“W-wait a moment,” he panted. He pulled her hand out of his breeches and pushed the garment down with his left hand, ignoring the ache in his side as he twisted to free himself. But before his breeches were fully down to his knees, Hawke was pulling impatiently on his hips. 

And her impatience was feeding his own. His breathing was just as harsh and hurried as Hawke’s, and it grew harsher still as she pushed herself up on one hand and kissed his neck.  

Her tongue on the side of his throat, and now her teeth in a gentle nip, fasta vass... Fenris gasped for breath and shoved desperately at his breeches. At long last, he finally kicked them away and settled between her legs, and when he was poised and ready, he looked her in the face. 

Her eyes were wide and her breaths were sharp, and her fingers were clenching against his arms. As Fenris stared at her, he was seized by a ringing sense of unreality. He’d imagined this so many times – what it would be like to have Hawke beneath him, and to have her treasured hands on his marked skin and her treasured body sharing his bed. He’d imagined this and wished for this and rued the thought that he might never have it, and now that she was here…   

Venhedis, he was nervous. It had been so long since he’d done this, and just as long since anyone other than those vile Tevinter doctors had seen his body bare. And no one had ever mattered so much before. Hawke was so important, and this was her first time, and Fenris needed to make it right. 

She stroked his cheek. “Are you all right?” she asked. 

He snapped his attention back to her. “Yes,” he said. “Everything is fine.”

She studied him for a moment, then smiled. “It’s all right, Fenris. I’m nervous too.” 

He sighed and bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he lamented. “It’s… it has been some time.” He shook his head dismissively. “But it doesn’t matter now. You have never–”

She stroked his hair. “How long?”

“Six years, give or take,” he said. 

Her fingers went still in his hair. “Why so long?”

He took a deep breath. “I received the tattoos six years ago,” he told her. “The way those doctors looked at me and… handled me. I did not want to be touched after that.” He remembered it all too clearly: the humiliation of their cold eyes on his naked skin and their clinical hands prodding and cutting his unwilling body, and the months of agony as the lyrium scars healed.

Strange hands on his skin and strange eyes on his naked body. He shoved the memory away and looked into Hawke’s wide whiskey-coloured eyes. “I did not want to be touched,” he told her. “I barely wanted to be looked at. But it is different now,” he assured her. “With you, it is different.”

“Are you sure?” she breathed. She looked quite stricken now. “I don’t mean to…” She covered her mouth with one hand. “I’m so stupid, Fenris,” she mumbled. “I didn’t even think about all of that. I mean, I knew you didn’t want the tattoos, but I didn’t… I just thought you wanted me to keep my greedy pervy hands to myself.”

He shook his head. “You’re mistaken. Yours are the only hands I have wanted.”

She swallowed hard, then dropped her gaze and bit her lip, and Fenris watched her with a fresh and heart-wrenching surge of affection. 

He tipped her chin up until she met his gaze. Her eyes were wet, and Fenris studied her fondly for a moment before speaking.

“Hawke,” he said softly. “I never needed anyone, or wanted anyone. Until now.” 

A tear escaped the corner of her eye, and she beamed at him. “Keep up that smooth talk, you handsome fool,” she said. “It’ll get you everywhere with me.”

He grinned, then flexed his hips and slid his cock against her.

Her smile melted into a look of pleasure and surprise, and Fenris continued to rock himself between her legs until they were both panting fitfully. She was so very slick and warm, and his cock was pulsing with want, and any remaining nerves he had were chased away by the temptation between her legs. 

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Are you ready?” he breathed.

She stroked his face. “Yes,” she panted. “I’m ready.”

He nodded tightly, then reached down with his left hand and positioned himself at her entrance. Then, very slowly, he began to fill her up. 

A breathy moan escaped her lips, and Fenris caught it with his lips and fed his own pleasured moan back to her. Her fingers were tightening on his biceps with every slow shift of his hips, and by the time he was fully sheathed, her nails were biting into his skin.

He broke away from her kiss and pressed his lips to her ear. “Are you all right?” he breathed.

“Yes,” she whimpered. “I… I feel so fucking full.” She burst out a breathless little laugh.

“Does it hurt?” he asked. 

“No, no,” she said hastily. “No, it’s… I...” She shifted her hips experimentally, taking him just a little bit deeper. 

Fenris jerked with pleasure, and she gasped and tilted her hips, and he dropped his lips to her neck. “V-venhedis...” he groaned, and he nipped her damp neck.

She let out another little sob of pleasure and tilted her hips toward him. “I hope that means something nice?” she moaned. 

He couldn’t reply. She felt so good and she tasted like sweetness and salt, and he couldn’t find the words to respond. 

He kissed her hard and flexed his hips, and her cry of pleasure echoed into his mouth. They fell into a slow and rolling rhythm, hips meeting and moving apart in a smooth and steady grind, and a dull pang of pain pulled at his wounded left side with every thrust. But Hawke’s fingers were twisting in his hair and stroking his neck, and the slick pleasure of her body and her tender hands on his skin was more than enough to drown the pain away. 

They moved together in tandem, and Fenris inhaled her scent and her breath and her eager little cries, and with every stroke of her hands and every glorious thrust, his sense of giddy wellbeing continued to grow: Hawke was here, sweat-laced and panting with pleasure and pushing him toward his peak with her every ecstatic cry, and before he knew it, before he meant for it to happen, he was shuddering and releasing his rapture as a guttural groan against her throat. 

She tilted her head back with a gasp, and Fenris nipped her neck, leaving a delirious trail of tiny bites along the margins of her throat until his climax left him boneless.

He sighed and relaxed into Hawke’s supine form. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and as their sweat dissipated into the relative cool of his cabin, her hands began to move. 

He sighed leisurely into her collarbone. Her slender hands were drifting over his back, trailing slowly over the raised scars that traversed his skin. There was something so soothing about the feel of her hands, the firm stroke of her uncallused fingers and the care they left in their wake, and Fenris wished there was some way to capture this moment perfectly in his memory, like a carefully rendered oil painting. With every gentle pass of her hands across his back, it was like she was wiping the old memories away, pushing away the pain and the hurt and clearing space for her own caring caresses instead.

More than the sex, more than the pleasure he’d stroked from Hawke’s twisting body or the rapture she’d pulled from him with the rolling of her hips, this moment of afterglow stood out: this feeling of her hands on his body – her hands and all the love and pleasure and care that she gave to him by smoothing them across his scarred and knotted skin. 

“Do they hurt?” she murmured. “The scars?” 

He drew in a deep, relaxed breath. “Not anymore, no.”

She hummed in acknowledgement, then traced the tip of his ear delicately with her fingers. “Well, if they do ever hurt, I’ve been told that massage is very good for painful scars.”

He huffed in amusement. “Is that so?”

“It is,” she said pertly.

He lifted himself on his elbows to look down at her. “Are you any good at massage?” he asked.

She smiled cheekily. “Well, we’ll never know unless I try.”

He chuckled, and her smile broadened before turning soft and sweet. She reached up and brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. “You look happy,” she said softly.

He regarded her with some surprise. “I am happy,” he said. Then he realized how significant this was.

He was happy. Fenris was happy. And it was a deeper happiness than the momentary amusement of bantering with Piper and Varric. It was a richer sense of wellbeing than the fleeting peace he derived from meditating at the bow of the ship. For the first time in years, Fenris felt peaceful and good all the way down to his muscles and the core of his belly. 

“Are you happy?” he asked her.

She grinned at him. “Are you kidding? This is exactly what I wanted. I’ve never been more happy.” 

He stroked her cheek. “Neither have I,” he murmured. 

Her grin softened into something so heart-poundingly sweet, and Fenris gazed at her in total adoration. That soft smile on her face: this was the smile that had drawn him unerringly since the day they’d met, and which he’d fled for fear of what he might lose. 

But now, in the warmth of Hawke’s arms and the heat of her gentle smile, there was no fear. There were no reservations. There was the desire that they’d finally sated, and there was the love he had yet to speak.

And most of all, there was happiness. 

[thecorteztwins]

And now for this week’s installment of Alt-Marauders stuff! Tagging @sammysdewysensitiveeyes and @littlemeangreen since I know you guys like it. This week it’s: “Building Character” - Shinobi/Sebastian “Daddy’s Girl” -Manon/Sebastian “Flames” - Pyro/Alice “First Resort” - Sebastian/Haven “Human” -Haven/Madelyne

“BUILDING CHARACTER” (Warning: References to child abuse, and no apologies for it) It was evening at Blackstone, and its occupants were there for the first time in two weeks spent seafaring. “I had my reservations about giving you another chance,” Sebastian admitted, standing by the sitting room window, looking out over his domain, “But you’ve done well.” Shinobi hated himself for the pride and happiness that flooded through him at his father’s words. He was still so weak, so dependent on this man’s approval, the same man he hated so much, the man that MADE him like this. “We’ve done well,” he replied in apparent calm, “We’ve not attempted to kill each other, for instance.” His father turned his head and grinned at him, “Oh, I’m sure you have something up your sleeve for me sooner or later. And of course, I’m prepared for when you do.” “I thought about it,” Shinobi admitted matter-of-factually, “But what would it even matter now? You’d just come back. “I did before Krakoa. So did you. Twice, I believe,” Sebastian moved from the window and sat down in the chair across from his son now, “I used to think Shaws were just exceptionally hardy stock, but I’ve learned it seems to be a strange feature of mutants as a species.” “Yet you still worry I’ll off you?” Another smile from Sebastian, almost indulgent, “Oh, I’m not worried. I’m actually rather eager to see how you try to get around the resurrection issue. Trap me somewhere, perhaps, but ensure that I won’t starve or suffocate wherever I am? You were never a bright boy, Shinobi, and I’m sure your lifestyle choices haven’t helped with that---not that I’m judging you, we all have our wild oats to sow---but I’m hoping this new obstacle will start stimulating whatever brain cells you have left. Adversity builds character, didn’t I always tell you that?” “Yeah, mostly after you hit me.” In most families there would be an awkward silence after that. Shinobi was in fact hoping for it, hoping for any sign of shame in his father. Of course he didn’t get it. Sebastian reacted as if Shinobi had said ‘after you took me to a baseball game’ or anything else innocuous and normal in the life of an average father and son...whatever that was. Shinobi only had ideas from television. Although it seemed some stuff his dad did was normal, if Homer choking the life out of Bart on the regular was any indication of standard reality. “Exactly. You had to find some way to stop me from doing that, ideally by improving yourself so I would no longer have reason, though I’d have settled for almost anything else after a certain point so long as it worked,” said Sebastian. Then his tone turned regretful...but not for the reasons a normal person would, “You never did though. I’ve given up on very little in my life, Shinobi, but...” “But you gave up on pummeling me.” “I couldn’t shape you into something better. I realize that now. Only you can do that. And look? Now you are.” “Oh right you were beating me for MY SAKE,” said Shinobi, the bitter venom he felt inside finally beginning to seep out into his now-biting tone. “Yes, but also you just irritated me,” Sebastian said, and there was no bitterness in his, no venom, and no shame, “People seldom have a single motive, even a simple man such as I.” “Simple?” Shinobi did not expect his father to describe himself in such a word. “I never had grand ideals of Xavier and Erik, never wanted to herd an entire planet into my way of thinking. I was only ever concerned with what anyone should be---my own success. Which I achieved. Whereas their dreams are still unrealized, for all their efforts and claims.” “So why care about my success then?” Shinobi asked. And it was a good question, for it gave his father pause. A long pause. Shinobi knew that look on his father’s face---his father was thinking, and hard. And he wasn’t coming to an answer quickly either. “I can’t say it’s affection,” Sebastian finally answered, “You and I both know what a ridiculous notion that would be. Maybe the hope you’d be useful to me, but...” He trailed off, sounding doubtful. Shinobi wished it was that though, because being useful to his father would imply he had worth, his father needed him, the man he’d idolized---jeesus it made him choke even to think of that---would need him. Shinobi wanted that. “...but I doubt that, I’ve never relied on anyone, you know me,” Sebastian picked up again, “I’d rather have an ally I can cut ties with easily with need be, not someone so attached to me as a son. Grooming children as tools was always more Emma’s practice; I never had the patience for it, or the time. I suppose there is some kind of personal attachment--” Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck did he dare hope no he must be lying he must be “---to the notion of legacy. Krakoa or not, I’m not going to live forever, and I’d like what I’ve accomplished to pass into hands related to my own, as illogical and sentimental as nepotism is. But I refuse for them to be unworthy of it.” Shinobi’s hopes sunk back down their proper place. Of course. Of course that was it. His money, his business, his power base---those were what he cared about. that was his child, his real child, and he was just looking for someone with his DNA to care for it after his death. Well, you know what? “I’m going to be,” Shinobi said. And it wasn’t a promise. It was a threat. And his father knew that. And it made him smile. *** “DADDY’S GIRL” (Warning: Casual use of mind control/memory manipulation and no one treating it as bad.) It was a bad situation. The spies sent to Krakoa, spies who were mutants but still owed their allegiances to the American, had been caught. And caught by the Marauders, no less. Negotiations were underway for their safe return, but unfortunately, the Council member they were speaking to was Sebastian Shaw. And he was not in a forgiving mood. ”They’ve already been telepathically wiped, of course,” he said over the phone to the negotiator, “So it’s no matter to us if we give them back to you or not. But, why should we? They are Krakoan citizens. Even if they committed to that citizenship with false intentions, they still are OUR people, and they have committed treason. And you know what the traditional punishment for that is...” ”Please, Mr. Shaw, see reason!” the negotiator pleaded on the other end of the phone in the White House office. “They are American citizens as well, and employees of the American government! Any action against them will be seen as an act of hostility!” ”And sending them into our midst was NOT an act of hostility?” Shaw returned very calmly, but very dangerously. It was a tone that made the negotiator think very, very carefully about what his next words would be. And then he felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down to see one of the Marauders, who were overseeing the negotiations going on. After the spies had been caught on Krakoa, they’d come IMMEDIATELY to make sure that no reinforcements would be sent. It just went to show how ruthless mutants were, that they would send CHILDREN on a team like that. In this case, a little girl, with pigtails and Wednesday Addams dress. She’d have been adorable, if not for her ghostly albinistic coloring and strange eyes. “Put me on!”  she chirped, “He will listen to me, I’m his daughter!” The negotiator stared at her. Well, he was all out of ideas, so... “Okay, Mr. Shaw? Your daughter is here, she’d like to speak to you.” “My what?” “There’s a little girl here,” the negotiator explained, hoping the kid hadn’t just tricked him into losing several lives, “She says you’re her father.” There was a sigh from Shaw’s end, “Well, shes probably right. It’s hardly the time, but fine, put her on.” The negotiator passed the child the phone while her brother giggled in the background, and in Krakoan, she piped, “Hello Mr. Shaw! Manon to the rescue!” “Oh, it’s you,” he said flatly. “Who else did you think it would be?” “Well, when someone randomly claims to be my child, they usually ar---I mean, nevermind, what is it? This is important, you know.” ”I think you should let the spies go, Mr. Shaw.” ”You don’t understand what you’re talking about, and you’re in enough trouble for following the crew through the portal as it is. Put the man back on.” ”But Mr. Shaw, I have a plan!” The negotiator could not understand Krakoan, but he did understand tone, and he could hear the irritation in Shaw’s voice. He grabbed the phone away from her and apologized, ”I’m sorry, Mr. Shaw, she--” ”THAT’S MY PAPA!” Manon shrieked in English, and then yelled something in Krakoan, something Shaw could hear. ”Put MY DAUGHTER back on THIS INSTANT!” Shaw roared at the negotiator, who immediately complied. “Manon?” “I am running the show now, Mr. Shaw!” she said proudly. ”Excellent. Now, the first part of your idea is splendid. Here’s what I want you to do for the second...” They talked a little more, and it sounded much more pleasant to the negotiator, he even heard Mr. Shaw LAUGH, though there was something...devious...in the girl’s undertone he didn’t care for. When she said bye-bye and passed the phone back to him, she smiled...and so did he. Pocketing the phone, he turned back to the other two Marauders who were observing, Pyro and Shinobi. ”Well gentlemen, thank you so much for helping sort that out. I’ll take you to see who you need now.” Pyro and Shinobi looked at each other, and behind the negotiator’s back, Manon winked at them and put a finger to her white lips. ”Sure,” said Shinobi, unsure what was going on. ”Lead on, mate,” said Pyro, likewise baffled but playing along. The negotiator lead them to a room of other men, and after a few moments with Manon---in which she shook all their hands, with Maxime’s empathy POWERS overriding their natural suspicions at doing so--they all bid the Marauders farewell and told them to have a nice day and that it was so nice that Krakoan/American relationships were going so well. ”Alright,” said Pyro as they stepped out of the White House and headed for the nearest portal in DC, “What’d old Shaw make you do, you little witch?” ”Excusez-moi!” said Manon in mock-offense, “I made up half the idea! The first half at that!” ”Yeah but what WAS it?!” Shinobi urged. ”Well, I told Mr. Shaw, why don’t I just make the man on the phone FORGET that we captured the American spies, yes?” Manon explained, “And he said that was a SPLENDID idea, and he said that I should do it, and make him think that we were here about something else, and that he was supposed to take us to everyone else who knew the spies had been captured, and fix their memories too. And then when we get back, he will have me change the memories of the spies themselves, so they will go home with bad information!” ”Holy shit,” said Pyro. ”Damn,” said Shinobi, “Maybe you really ARE his kid!” The twins just giggled. *** “FLAMES”       “Hey, Mr. Allerdyce? Can I bother you?” Pyro looked up from his laptop to see Alice in the doorway. “Sure, love. What’s troubling you?” he said automatically, then regretted that choice of words. If Alice had trouble he’d push her towards Haven or Maddie, they’d be much better choices for her to talk to. “I uh...I wanted some advice,” she said, stepping shyly in. Oh no. “About?” “Writing” His ears perked up and his eyes got wide, “Well why didn’t you say so! Come on and sit down love, I’ll tell you everything you need to know.” Pyro sounded delighted, and he was. People seemed to forget that writing was his real passion, not being a super-criminal or a jerk who burned things. Those were fun but they weren’t his CALLING. Alice sat nervously, “You’re a professional so I thought you’d be best to ask. “Yeah, go ahead, anything,” Pyro urged her. He felt very important right now. “Can you help me not write a Mary Sue?” “...a what?” The wind went out of his sails suddenly. He had no idea what she was talking about. “You know. A Mary Sue.” “I uh, I don’t know, actually.” “A bad character.” “Ohhh.” Alright, this he could do.  “Okay, well first thing is first, gotta be three dimensional, you know? People are people, even the evil patriarch in the gloomy mansion with designs on our gorgeous heroine’s fortune and her body! Second thing is give ‘em a distinct voice when they talk, the wandering wastrel with a heart of gold shouldn’t talk the same way as the well-brought up but dull and dunderheaded fiancee, and---” He went on, listing each of his tricks of the trade out on his long spindly fingers, then more. “That help?” he asked brightly when he had, for the moment, finished. Oh but he could talk about this all day! “I uh...can you tell me more about writing a good female lead? I know not to make her too overpowered, or too beautiful, and not to give her a tragic past or too many love interests or too many coincidences, but--” “WHAT?!” Pyro roared, nearly jumping out of his seat, “Who told you THAT?!” “The internet,” she said meekly, drawing back. “Well it’s wrong, dead wrong! Blimey, you just described half my most popular female leads! The hell kind of advice is that, don’t make her too beautiful or powerful or too many love interests?! Fuck that shit, love, if I’d followed that garbage I’d never have published a penny’s worth.” “So...do do it?” St. John, shrugged, “Do what you want, Alice. I write Gothic romance because I love it. Heaving bosoms, dramatic sighs, improbable coincidences, and tragic pasts for everybody! And I know my readers love it. They tell me so. Got panned hard by the critics and “real” writers but who doesn’t, eh? You can’t satisfy them but you can sure make someody’s day with a good harlequin. But between you and me, I wasn’t even writing for my readers anyway, even though I love ‘em.” “You were writing for you?” Alice was Internet-savvy enough to know the term Mary sue, so she also knew the adage about writing for yourself. But hearing it from a REAL writer gave it more weight. “Damn right! I give my readers what they want but only when it’s what I want. And I want trashy drama and beautiful heroines with six different walking six-packs fighting for her her hand in marriage!” “And...nobody hates you for it?” Well, like I said, critics weren’t too kind, and there’s some real stinkers of reviews on Goodreads and Amazon for a few. But you should see my fan letters! Not everyone’ll like what you make, love, it’s impossible. Even the “classics” has people who can’t stand ‘em---including me, for some.” “Do they....flame you?” “Flaming things is more my specialty. “ “No, I mean...lemme show you.” she said, and pulled out her phone. Later, had to explain to everyone WHY he had torched Alice’s cell into a molten plastic and metal lump and blamed ‘shitheads on the Internet’. *** “FIRST RESORT” It was not the greenery of Krakoa that they walked through today, but the border of Danum Valley in Sabah, Borneo, Malaysia. For most of human history, no one had settled in this part of the country, nor deforested its paradisaical and ancient rainforest, home to orangutans, clouded leopards, Sumatran rhinoceros, and, Haven’s personal favorite, the humble mouse-deer. To actually go into it would be foolhardy, not simply because of the creatures (indeed, really the least of one’s worries, wild animals tended to avoid people) but for the abundance of insects, dangerous plants, and the fact their clothes simply weren’t cut out for the amount of water, mud, and foliage they would encounter. The reason for the lack of proper hiking gear was that they had not come to Sabah to look at its jungles, lovely as they were, but because they had a mission. For most of the Marauders, it was the usual, bringing mutants home should they wish to come; in this case, mutants among the thousands of victims trafficked through this area alone. For Shaw specifically, well...there was a portion of eastern Sabah had long been an area for smuggling into and from Indonesia and the Southern Philippines. He’d been asked by the Council to bring its own unique goods to the black market there. And for Haven, well, there was figuring out what to do with the rest of the trafficking survivors; she wasn’t about to just leave them after the mutants in their number had been pulled from the herd. With all that accomplished, everyone was now, as usual, taking part in essentially vacationing before heading back. Pyro and Shinobi were hitting the bars in Kota Kinabalu, Madelyne was off fighting poachers of pygmy elephants, and Claudine...well, who knew where she slipped off to? No one usually asked. And Sebastian Shaw, waiting for evening when he’d take the boat over to Kuala Lumpur for some fun of his own, was passing the day or at least this particular hour walking on the outskirts of the verdant conservation area, not close enough to be engulfed by the trees but still with quite a bit more plant life in the way than he’d like. Particularly when concentrating on a conversation, even an asinine one. “So you do consent that violence is necessary at times,” he said, feeling he had finally gotten SOMETHING sensible out of her. “I do,” Haven said, who did not feel she had lost anything by admitting this; she had never denied it, “It’s the debate of when. My opinion is not that it must never be used---if someone is about to shoot a room full of people and there is no telepath to put them to sleep, for instance, then sadly a sniper shot may be the best option for the least loss of life---but that it is often jumped to far too quickly. It should be a last resort and not a first, or a second for that matter.” “I disagree in that but I most certainly agree in its necessity---and effectiveness,” he replied, though he knew she of course knew that, “So we do have some common ground then, however small.” “Why, Mr. Shaw, I didn’t realize you cared about that.” “Wipe that look off your face, woman. I didn’t concede to you in the slightest. If anything, the reverse.” “That’s not what I was smiling about, Mr. Shaw,” she said, still smiling and stopping to crouch down. She was adjusting a flower back into an upright position; some animal must had stepped on it. Perhaps one of her precious mouse-deer. “I meant I appreciate that you would appreciate we have some common ground, however small.” Sebastian rolled his eyes, “There would be no point speaking to you otherwise. There is barely any point as it is.” “But you do it,” she said, and began to dig her hands in the dirt, around the flower, so that she could scoop it out without plucking it, without ending its little life, “And, I apologize, I don’t like to make assumptions, but...I doubt you’re the kind of person who does anything he does not see a point in, Mr. Shaw.” She stood back out and held her cupped hands out to him, displaying the bloom, “It’s a Dendrobium lohokii, a type of orchid. Do you think we should bring this back to Krakoa? I don’t know what the policy is on invasive species, but I believe it could thrive there. The climate seems right.” Sebastian reached out and touched her hands with his own...and forcibly made her curl hers into a fist around the delicate Dendrobium, crushing it. “You are correct, Ms. Dastoor, in that I do little without a point. But you also grievously underestimate my boredom with this crew. Including yourself. You are to me as violence is to you---a last resort.” He released her hands and strode on, “And Krakoa has all the flowers it needs.” *** “HUMAN” “You know what the worst thing is, though?” said Madelyne, her black-gloved hand tracing the mouth of the glass. She still dressed like herself---her old self, her first self---when out of costume, but when acting as a Marauder (not as an X-Men, a Marauder) she did put on the ol’ pleathers again, the ones she’d worn WHEN WORKING WITH ARKEA. “I’m shocked you can choose,” said Haven, and there was no humor in her tone. Madelyne sometimes coped with a wry wit and devil-may-care (no punt intended) tone, but Haven only ever spoke of their mutual traumas with solemn gravity. “The worst part,” Madelyne inhaled, “The worst part is...I wanted it, Haven. Just in a dream, yeah, but still. And I’m not sorry that I wanted it. And when I got it...I enjoyed it. And I know I was possessed, I know it wasn’t me---I’m the only one who knows that, it seems, and even I don’t even care most of the time---but the part of me that was still awake? That nasty little greedy bitter part Sym talked to? She liked it. I liked it. I got my revenge, and I deserved it. And I can’t let go of that. I should feel SO guilty for that, it goes against everything I am, that I really am, but...I can’t. I don’t. And I...I don’t think I want to.” Madelyne knew that Haven could never understand. It was a contradiction, really---Haven was the only one here who could really understand what she’d been through, because of the uncannily similar circumstances, and yet at the same time, because of who Haven was, she also was the one person on the ship that Madelyne knew could never relate to this. She’d seen this woman beg for the lives of Purifiers. She’d seen her look with pity on child traffickers. Fuck, could you be so compassionate it was a sin in itself? Because Madelyne felt like it sometimes, watching this woman. Madelyne was harder. And she wasn’t sorry. She’d burned the world once. Now, she focused on just lighting up the parts that really deserved it. “I enjoyed it too.” Madelyne dropped her glass just as she picked it up, her green eyes wide. Had she heard that right? Was she going nuts all over again? “I admit it wasn’t vengeance I took pleasure in,” said Haven, her always-slow voice even more slow, not languid but laborious, every confessing word clearly an effort to let leave her throat, “But that might be only because, unlike you, no one had wronged me. Most of the time...most of the time, what I did tortured me. I slept little, and when I did, it was tortured. I couldn’t even bring myself to do my proverbial “dirty work” most of the time, I left it to my...to my cult.” She swallowed, and Madelyne waited for the other shoe to drop. “But...I was glad, too, part of me. Because I wanted a better world, and I believed, really believed, I was bringing it about in a for-sure way. It wasn’t just helping one person and hoping for the best that small effort would make a difference. It was knowing--deeply and profoundly---that I was bringing peace and salvation closer. I had the divine word on it. And Madelyne, for all my pain...I was proud.” Madelyne stared. And then she...laughed. “Oh gosh. Oh my gosh, I’m sorry Haven, I just...” “It’s alright. Sometimes we laugh because we just don’t know what else to do. But Madelyne---I don’t think you or I are so evil for being human.” “Human?” Madelyne’s tone turned incredulous, “There was nothing human about this!” “Wasn’t there? You were hurt, hurt by those you loved most. It’s the most naturally human reaction in the world to enjoy hurting someone back.” “You don’t. You can’t tell me that, Haven. I used to think you were so full of restraint because you never struck back---but I think it’s not restraint. It’s just how you are. You couldn’t hit Sebastian when he needed it, remember?” He’d needed a charge, and fast, for all their sakes. He’d been screaming in Haven’s face for her to pummel him. Madelyne couldn’t get close enough to do it herself, but she had been close enough to see---Haven couldn’t do it. She’d been sure Sebastian was going to hit her himself to get her to strike him, but Pyro had lit him up and given him sufficient energy from that (it had turned out later he had NOT realized Sebastian was fireproof) but if he hadn’t...Madelyne was fairly sure Haven still wouldn’t have been able to do it. Maddie...she hit back when hit. And attacked when attacked. And Haven was telling her she didn’t think that wasn’t wrong---but how could she claim that, given she never did it? “No, I couldn’t. Not every single human has every single “human” flaw. Myself, I...it’s like there’s something wrong with me, Madelyne. Like there’s some part of me missing that others have that makes them able to do violence, any violence, to feel true hate or anger. But what I do have is the also-very-human trait to want to be a martyr. I think on some level, I wanted to suffer for something greater than myself. I’m a religious woman. You know this. I think the Adversary appealed to that perverse pride, that spiritual smugness in my own suffering for a good cause that no one else understood. It hurt so much, Madelyne, I hated it so much--but I got to consider myself a persecuted savior. I got to have a cross of my own at last, after a life of trying to make up for my privilege.” Madelyne stared more. And started chuckling again, “You know what? I do get that. Because god, if I have one thing I can hang on to, to make myself feel better, it’s that I was wronged, I was persecuted, I was misunderstood...and there’s a kind of weird comfort, a pride in that, isn’t there? Being able to feel you’re not the bad guy, not really, it’s everyone else who’s wrong. I feel sorry for myself, because no one else will.” “Oh Madelyne,” Haven reached over and put her hand on hers, “I will.” “Don’t,” Maddie smirked, and pulled her hand away, “My self-pity’s embarrassing enough for me.” “There’s self-pity,” said Haven gently, “And then there is self-forgiveness.” “Hey, I forgive myself,” she said, crossing her arms and legs and leaning back in her chair, “It’s everyone else that hasn’t. And I don’t need them to. I had my revenge, whether it was on my terms or not. And I have to live with that---the regret, and the satisfaction both.” “You know I’m not a vengeful person, Madelyne,” said Haven, picking up her own cup at last, a tea cup as opposed to Madelyne’s shot glass. “You’ve just said as much yourself. But I do believe very much in one old adage---the best revenge is living well. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a very good job of that these days---and this time, it is on your own terms.”

[betterdaysareatoenailaway]

An Ode to Payphones

    “Mommy, what’s that?”       I looked. A child was glaring suspiciously at the payphone I’d been using moments before. He looked to be six or seven-years old, so it shouldn’t have been surprising that he’d never seen or noticed a public telephone before, but still. The question, and the palpable disgust in his voice, made me feel old.      “That’s a payphone, honey.”      “What’s it for?”      The mother cast an apprehensive look my way. We were on the platform at Spadina station and she’d seen me on the phone, plugging my ear against the shattering noise of a subway pulling in, making arrangements to meet my heroin dealer John at our usual spot at Main and Danforth. I would have to call him again when I got there, either from one of the four payphones inside Main Street station or on one of the two phones outside the church at Danforth. The phones inside Main Station must have all been routed through one line, because they either all worked, or none did.

    As for the two phones outside the church at Main and Danforth, typically one was broken, but they both worked when I went to check them for this article, a miracle perhaps attributable to the Second Coming of Christ on the roof.

     There have been long spells throughout my life as an addict during which I’ve had no mobile phone. Every spare cent went to heroin. The longest such spell was nearly a year. Several spanned three or four months. So it’s safe to say I know the payphones of Toronto as well as anybody else.      One of my old heroin dealers lived near Roncesvalles and Howard Park, where a non-Bell phone sat outside the Meridian Bank on the northeast corner, crooked and somehow wounded looking.

     There’s no trace of it now, but I know there used to be one just north, on the other side of the street where Dundas splits eastward from Roncesvalles. I used to use it all the time. Luckily, there’s another one not twenty steps east, a Bell, just outside the bus stop east of the Starbucks at Dundas and Roncesvalles. I’ve fed that phone a lot of Loonies, cursing its curious inability to recognize nickels or dimes.

     My Roncesvalles dealer was notoriously unreliable, so I often found myself having to take the College car all the way across the city to its eastern terminus at Main Station. While waiting on that corner for John I would commiserate with my fellow drug users, many of whom lacked phones themselves.      The most popular complaint I heard was how hard it was getting to find a public phone. Apparently some neighbourhoods in Toronto are payphone deserts. You can walk for twenty minutes in any direction and not find one.       So I’m going to see how many phones there are within a five minute radius of my apartment. My guess would be at least eight. Maybe ten. I’m about to get evicted, but I’ve lived in Kensington Market at Nassau and Bellevue since February 2017, which is a veritable payphone oasis. It’s too cold to go out tonight, so I’m going to take a virtual tour of my neighbourhood and take screenshots of every phone I find from Google Street View. Yes, the photos look pretty lo-fi but my whole life is lo-fi, so sue me.      Here’s a no-name one just north of Dundas on Bathurst: 

Here’s one just south of Oxford on Augusta: 

There are two Bell phones just outside Nirvana, across from Sneaky Dee’s:

There’s one outside the church one block east of Bathurst at Lippincot and College:

Here’s another no-name phone one block west of Spadina on the south side of College: 

And here’s a bank of payphones outside the internet cafe at Spadina and College:

     All three of the above phones never work at the same time, and some days you’re lucky to find one operational. (Incidentally, if someone ever reads this post a century from now, or maybe I mean a decade, or maybe I mean reads this post at all, I wonder how quaint the term “payphones outside the internet cafe” will seem.)      Here’s one more non-Bell phone, just to the west of the Scotiabank on the northwest corner of Dundas and Spadina. This phone has great personal significance for me, for a reason I can’t get into. Let’s just say I made a phone call on it during a very memorable moment in my life:

     For those of you not counting, that’s ten phones all within a five minute walk of my apartment in Kensington. There are another three are in the lobby of Toronto Western Hospital, for thirteen total. Thirteen is a lot more than I expected. Especially in 2020. And I’m sure I’m missing a few. Maybe payphones aren’t as endangered as they seem. In fact, as I was taking the photograph at the top of this post, a woman came over to me and asked, “are you using the phone?”     So they definitely still serve a purpose. They wouldn’t still be there if nobody was using them. A capitalist venture like Bell doesn’t keep phones around because the CEO is nostalgic. I’m kind of relieved at how many there still are, and how vital they still seem to be.       Still, I have mixed feelings toward payphones. They annoy me, but I also like them for reasons I can’t explain. I like invisible infrastructure. Nobody notices payphones. Ask yourself where the nearest payphone is. Do you even know? They may be forgotten or disliked, but they’re dependable, standing tall at their lonely outposts through sleet and rain, day and night, as we cuddle up with our smartphones in the warmth of our homes. We’ve left payphones out in the cold and most of us don’t even miss them.      I have a mobile phone now, but I still miss payphones. Or maybe I miss the days when they were a normal way to communicate, phone books slung around their waists, swinging on a chain. (Some time in the last decade, phone companies must have got tired of replacing the books nobody ever used and just got rid of them entirely. I guess they figured we could look up the numbers we need on...our mobile phones?)      Yes, there’s a definite note of nostalgia among people who still use payphones. We’re all bitter about the great price jump of 2007, when calls went from twenty-five cents to fifty, an increase of one-hundred percent. If you’re of my generation, old enough to remember life before the internet, then you know that payphones are sad remainders of the technology we grew up with, a visible reminder of the 90s. It’s my firm belief that everybody suffers from chronic temporal sickness for the decade they grew up in. I can imagine a day when they only exist in museums and photographs. Maybe I’ll go to watch the last phone get decommissioned. Maybe I’ll only love payphones once I can never use one again, like the Once-ler becoming an environmentalist only after hearing the “thwack” that felled the last Truffula tree in Dr. Suess’ The Lorax.      I feel this way even though payphones are often more a hassle than a convenience. I once spent half an hour outside the Eaton Centre on Queen Street waiting for a woman to finish her conversation, only to find the phone broken when she finally hung up. Her wild gesticulations should have tipped me off that she’d been screaming at a phantom, but I was too dopesick to notice.        There were and are other cons to payphone usage. It wasn’t always easy to come up with the necessary exact change. Or sometimes you’d have exact change but the phone wouldn’t recognize one of your coins. For whatever reason, payphones have a really hard time reading dimes. Many times I’ve had just enough to make one call but the phone won’t cooperate and I’ve had to throw myself at the mercy of a local convenience store owner or random bystander. Maybe “can I use your phone?” was an innocuous question back in the day, but nowadays people immediately suspect you for asking and they really, really do not want to loan you their phone. I don’t blame them. Our phones contain our entire lives. It’s not the same as handing someone a few quarters.       Despite all the long list of cons, there remains among my fellow payphone users a keen sense of loss. We’re all grieving something indefinable, something that went away with the advent of mobile phones. And I’m not leading up to a gripe about “kids these days on their phones.” As an avid reader, I usually bury my nose in a book when I’m on transit, so I don’t beseech people to “live in the moment” when they’re sitting on a bus. Being a passenger on the TTC for the thousandth time isn’t something that requires one’s undivided attention. I only get annoyed when I see some guy – and it’s always a guy – staggering down the sidewalk with his eyes glued to his phone, walking into people. Or walking into traffic. The feelings of wistfulness among payphone users grows more acute as the years roll on and more and more public telephones are yanked from their moorings, never to return. The sense of loss sometimes manifests itself in the passing down of legend.      When I first heard the story, it was that there exists somewhere in the city of Toronto a payphone that still makes calls for a quarter. I was convinced it was the one just east of University on Dundas, south side of the street, just east of the Royal Bank. It just looks so fucking furtive. Like it’s hiding from the tourist hordes at Yonge and Dundas square, tucked around that corner:

     I went to check that phone for this article but it doesn’t work at all, much less for half price.      In an apt game of telephone about telephones, the legend grew. Only a few months after I first heard the Legend of the Half-Price Payphone, the story had morphed into a unicorn payphone that makes calls for free. People were arguing over which one it could be, though admittedly nobody had ever found it. It was like the leprechaun’s pot of gold.      “It’s the one outside the mall at Kingston and Midland. The one with the Scotiabank!”      “Naw it’s the payphone at Warden Station! Next to the donut shop!”      “It’s the one at Yonge and Charles!”      “What? They took that one out before 9/11.”      “It’s the one in Yorkdale near the GO Station!”      “Seriously bro. Pre-9/11. You’re memory is fucked, bro.”      “My cousin’s in the Hell’s Angels. He can sell you a burner for $5. Why use a payphone when you can get a…”       “No one cares about your cousin, Dwight.”      “Pre-9/11 bro. Seriously. Yonge and Charles? Christ!”       And on and on and on, into the night.       I have a mobile phone now and it’s hard to imagine I’ll ever go back.       The final straw came when I had to go up to Muskoka one summer for four days to work on a cottage. I missed my partner so much by the third day that I walked up and down the length of the lake, looking for a payphone. I probably had a better chance of spotting a lion, but there was no way I was going back to that cottage without talking to my wife. I missed her too fucking much.       At the end of the lake I spotted a house with the garage door wide open. Inside the garage there was a workbench, a fridge, and all sorts of tools. On a hunch, I quietly made my way up the gravel driveway. There wasn’t a human being in sight. Inside the garage, I spotted a wall-mounted phone, and called my wife. She didn’t answer but I left her a message. As I was leaving it I heard footsteps and before I could make myself scarce an elderly lady came around the corner and stared at me. She obviously lived there.       “Um. I was just…leaving,” I said, hanging up the phone and sheepishly skipping back to the main road as fast as I could. The woman frowned after me, watching me go.       A little further down the road I saw an electrician working on a house and asked to use his phone. He said yes and I finally got through to my wife. But I couldn’t talk long or say what I wanted to say because the electrician was staring at me, so I determined right there and then to get and keep a fucking phone of my own. And that’s what I did. I sometimes pay my bill late and find myself cast backward into the land of payphones and useless dimes, but for the most part I’ve joined the 21st century.      As for that mother and her child, the mother did her best, to her credit.              “Some people…can’t afford cell phones,” she informed her son, who looked bored already. “Or else they can’t get coverage on the subway, so they use one of these. Or in emergencies, they work for emergencies.”       “What kind of person can’t afford a phone?” the child brayed incredulously.       The mother looked embarrassed. I wasn’t. Let her stupid kid hate payphones and poor people. Most people do.      I rarely use payphones now but I still get a small shiver of curiosity when I pass one I haven’t seen before, wondering if it’s the legendary free one. The unicorn. The white whale of public telephones. So I check. And I hear “please insert fifty cents” from the robotic lady voice that rules payphone land.      Then I move on.