#at least it would get rid of the refrigerator gag

[animegirl1363]

I really want to write an AU where Pearson is alive during the DS storyline.

In all honesty how would that even work?

[piratekane]

(a "lucy fills their home with things" kacy piece)

Lucy isn’t exaggerating. She travels light.

She brings a few bags of things—clothes, mostly; a few picture frames of faces that Kate recognizes; a sizable shoe collection that forces Kate to weed through her own and finally get rid of a few pairs she’s been holding onto for no reason.

What she doesn’t bring is trinkets.

There’s no novelty mugs, no knickknacks from Lucy’s college years, no potted plants, no paintings or little figurines that Kate was worrying wouldn’t fit on the shelves with her things.

She didn’t need to worry, though. Lucy makes four trips and then stands in the living room with her hands on her hips and a smile on her face. She declares herself moved in and immediately goes to the drawer filled with take out menus; it’s a pho night.

Kate stares in wonderment for a moment. Four trips and that’s it? Her apartment is empty? Not that it would take Kate long to pack up her apartment, really, but it would certainly be more boxes. She’d have to pack the planters, the mugs, the baskets of blankets, the candles, the small collection of books, the stack of games she keeps for the possibility of a game night. It would take Kai and Jesse’s help, at least. But Lucy did it all by herself, up and down the elevator like she was going on a weekend trip, not moving an entire life from one apartment to another.

“I just don’t need a lot,” she tells Kate that night, a sheet pooled around her waist as she lays back on her pillow. “Work, gym, and you. I wasn’t kidding.”

Kate doesn’t need a lot either, but she does have small things. Jane bought her an orchid in a yellow pot that thrives in the living room. She has a few things from Northwestern on a shelf nearby. A stack of books on a side table. Three mugs with silly slogans she got as a gag gift in D.C. that she used to hide in the back of the cupboard before she didn’t care if Lucy saw them. A novelty, oversized fork that hangs by the stove. Just a couple of things that give her apartment a version of a personality without overwhelming things.

Kate ran a finger over the swell of Lucy’s hip and they hadn’t talked about it again.

-

Kate doesn’t notice it at first, rushing in the morning because Lucy rolled across her just before her alarm went off and they got caught up in each other. She needs to start putting her foot down because she’s been nearly late to work too many times since Lucy moved in. But every time she thinks about telling Lucy they can’t, they have no time, Lucy tosses those curls over her shoulder and bats her eyes and smiles that slow smile Kate always gives in to.

So she misses it, sitting on the kitchen counter. She doesn’t see it until later, peeling her silk shirt off with a groan as the fabric sticks to her skin. It was a hot day and she spent too much of it running around. Her texts say that Lucy is finishing up a few notes but she’ll be home soon—home, Kate thinks, smile unconscious—and can Kate please make fettuccine Alfredo if they have the right ingredients? Kate opens and closes the refrigerator and cabinets and they have the basics but she’ll have to go back out to get cream. She fires off a text to have Lucy stop and pick up a few things and finds a wine glass, pouring herself a drink.

When she puts it down on the counter she sees it: a small, golden set of letters, interlocked seamlessly so she can barely tell where one ends and one begins. A K&L so small that she could fit in the center of her palm. It’s tucked next to the coffee maker, inconspicuous. Kate frowns, picking it up and turning it over. She didn’t bring this home, and logically it could have only been Lucy who did, but when did she put it on the counter? Was it here yesterday? Just how unobservant has she been lately?

She holds it for another moment before placing it gently down on the counter where it was. A fingerprint shines on the golden surface but she doesn’t wipe it away. Something about erasing it makes her chest ache with an unknown feelings. She tucks it back a little, tighter to the coffee maker, and makes a note to ask Lucy about it.

Lucy barrels through the front door 10 minutes and half a glass of wine later, already laughing as she launches into whatever Jesse did to Kai today and Kate forgets to ask Lucy where the K&L came from, too caught up in her whirlwind and the bruising kiss she pulls Kate into to remember it.

They don’t have fettuccine Alfredo but Lucy, standing behind her at the kitchen counter as Kate lazily stirs peppers and onions and Lucy presses even lazier kisses to her shoulder, doesn’t seem to mind.

-

Things start appearing.

Kate thinks she might be going crazy, honestly. Every time she looks around, more things pop up. She finds a bonsai tree on the coffee table one night when she gets home from work and Lucy is stretched across the couch, snoring. A new candle is burning on the counter when she gets back from her Saturday morning surfing. A bobble head pops up on Lucy’s nightstand that looks suspiciously like Jesse. Kate blinks and the tissue box in the living room has a strange Dallas Cowboys cover on it that she didn’t realize you could still buy. Then there’s a caricature of the two of them Kate doesn’t remember sitting for tucked onto the wall with all of their degrees. An NCIS mug finds its way into the cupboard and behind it is one with “Aloha Hawai’i” on it.

Kate looks around their apartment and wonders how Lucy keeps sneaking things in without her noticing. Or why she’s sneaking them in the first place.

But she doesn’t mind them. She does thinks the bobble head is creepy and she makes Lucy turn it to face the wall whenever Lucy’s hand snakes across the sheets to Kate’s thigh. But the rest of them, things her mother would probably turn her nose up at, don’t bother her. They’re cute, if a little kitschy. They bring a little life into their home, pops of color that Kate wouldn’t have thought to bring in herself.

Lucy doesn’t say anything about them either. She just keeps adding things: a wooden sign for the bathroom with a giant palm tree on it that takes Kate a week until she decides that no one sees their bathroom because no one visits; a three-candle holder sprayed a deep teal color that Kate thinks looks like the ocean before a storm: a new coffee pod container with a subtle rainbow on it; a small hand-painted pineapple.

Kate just lets these things pile up in their apartment and silently brings Ernie the bobble head after its beady eyes follow her around her bedroom in her towel.

-

“Okay,” Kate finally declares when she comes home to find a small clown figurine on the counter next to the wooden, painted bowl Lucy bought to house their oranges. “We need to talk.”

Lucy looks up from peeling one of those oranges and her brow furrows. “That’s never good.”

Kate frowns before it clears. “Oh, not like that.” She follows her words with her hands curling around Lucy’s waist and pressing a kiss to the top of Lucy’s head. She points to the clown. “About this.”

“You don’t like clowns.”

“I do not like clowns,” she confirms. “But I meant, where are all these things coming from?”

Lucy looks confused. “Where is what coming from?”

Kate sweeps an arm across their apartment and things Lucy has been bringing home. “All of this. The knickknacks. The trinkets. The… clown statue.”

Lucy brightens. “Oh, do you like them? Not the clown, obviously. I will get rid of that. Ernie is strangely afraid of clowns, too.”

“I didn’t say I was afraid. They’re just unnatural,” Kate insists. She shakes her head, getting back on track. “But where are they coming from?”

Lucy shrugs. “Everywhere. Whenever I see something I think you might like, I pick it up. This place was a little… boring. It needed some personality.”

Kate frowns. “It wasn’t boring. I just... wasn’t here a lot.” She leans one hip against the counter. “So you were just going to fill our place with ‘personality’ until we suffocate under screen-printed blankets and dog statues?”

“Well, you never said anything about them.”

“Neither did you.”

Lucy shrugs again. “I figured you’d say something if you didn’t like them.”

Kate softens. She tucks some of Lucy’s hair behind her ear. “I like them. Most of them,” she amends. “The sign in the bathroom is not my favorite. But the rest of them, I like,” she rushes to add. “I just didn’t think you were someone who liked those things. I mean, you literally brought nothing but clothes and shoes when you moved in.”

Lucy abandons the orange, turning until her stance mirrors Kate’s. She looks thoughtful as her gaze slides towards the open balcony doors. “My house growing up was… spartan. Not that it was empty, but we were doing the minimalist thing before it was cool. And so I never had these things. The knickknacks, you know?” She meets Kate’s eyes. “I told myself that when I had a home, I’d do the opposite. I’d get all the weird little things I saw, that I liked. And I’d buy them and fill a whole place with them.”

Something softens even more in Kate’s chest. It melts, warm and slow, through her body. She smiles softly, hands reaching for Lucy’s waist and curling in her shirt. “So you bought them now.”

“I have a home now,” Lucy says simply. “I didn’t before.”

Kate tugs Lucy forward a few inches until their hips press together. Her forehead drops to Lucy’s. “I love them. Well, except—“

“The clown and the bathroom sign,” Lucy finishes. Her lips twitch in a smile. “Noted.” She presses up on her toes, their lips brushing. “What about a different bathroom sign?”

“How about no bathroom sign?” Kate counters. She presses their lips together with more purpose. “And a no bobble head rule.”

Lucy laughs softly. “I’ll cancel my order, then. It’s a shame. You would have been a cute bobble head.” She unwinds from Kate’s grip, picks up an orange slice, and crosses the apartment, grinning.

“That’s not funny, Lucy.” Kate frowns when Lucy only smiles wider. “That was Jesse,” she accuses. “I knew it! Lucy, that was so creepy!”

Lucy laughs and pops an orange slice into her mouth. “I was going to fill the apartment with the team until you said something,” she admits. “But I guess they can go in Ernie’s lair.”

Kate rolls her eyes as Lucy disappears into the bedroom. She looks around the apartment—at the K&L by the coffee maker, the Cowboys tissue box, the half-filled “Aloha Hawai’i” mug, the coffee pod container, the collection of candles growing at the unused end of the counter. All little things Lucy picked up, picked out for them.

Trinkets, knickknacks, souvenirs, baubles—it would take Lucy more than four trips to move out now. And Kate agrees, it makes it look like a home in her with all these things, these novelties handpicked by the woman she loves.

Lucy hums from the bedroom and Kate smiles to herself before she catches sight of the clown figurine. Her smile twists into disgust and she picks it up, opening the trash can and dropping it in. Some of these things she can live without.

Lucy, not so much.

[losersclubimagines]

the coroner’s girl

[the losers club x reader]

warnings: swearing, bullying, blood and body parts.

summary: being the coroner’s daughter means dressing practically rather than flatteringly, carrying your father’s blood samples in your schoolbag, and having maybe too much of an avid interest in human anatomy for your classmates’ tates. you’re an outcast - a loser, something you had always been and been pretty okay with, until the last day of school in 1985, when greta bowie gets a little too familiar with the things you carry in your backpack.

request here

Being a coroner's daughter was never going to be easy.

It was like being the daughter of the exterminator that came to rid your school of rats or termites; nothing inherently bad about it - it was an honest profession, all right - but goddamn embarrassing.

But you knew that. You'd known that since second grade when the teacher said your class had to go around the circle and everybody said what their parents did for a living. There were four temps, one dentist, one taxi driver, a receptionist and a cashier before you proudly said, "my dad examines dead people to see how they died!"

Your teacher had thought it was interesting. Your classmates, not so much. They thought you were dirty. Most of them didn't touch you, if they could help it. You had your own special brand of cooties, creatively named 'The Y/n Touch" that the others would pass and tease each other with at recess and lunch in games you couldn't participate in. Well, fine. They'd decided you were to be an outcast, you'd do just that.

You stopped really trying in third grade. Stopped putting your hair in curlers every night and teasing it with hairspray every morning like the others, stopped dressing fashionably and started dressing practically, stopped trying to fit in at all. A lot of girls talked about lipstick or boys or singers, or else music you'd never heard of and movies you'd never watched. The boys talked about girls and soccer and bikes, or else books you'd never read or bands you'd never listened to. You didn't fit in with anyone else's conversation - you knew hearts and brains and lungs, vessels and arteries and veins, homeostasis and rigor mortis and symptoms of asphyxiation. But when you tried to talk about that, all you got was disgusted or scandalised looks, so you stopped. You kept to yourself.

All through third grade to eighth grade, the closest thing you had to a friend were our various biology teachers throughout the years. You were hopeless at the other sciences, barely passing, and mediocre at everything else, but your biology always came back with a fat shiny A on every report card.

It was the last day of school before summer in 1985. Before you'd gone to school, your dad had passed you three plastic sample jars, half-full of blood. At your raised eyebrows, he grew defensive.

"The refrigerator's stocked again!"

"Maybe it wouldn't be if you did your job like every other coroner in America and stopped-"

"Yes, I know, I know," he interrupted, looking badgered. "Can you just ask your friend in the prep room to store them, just for a day? I'll have the refrigerator cleared out by then."

"Fine." You checked the lids were done up tightly then stuffed the jars in your satchel. "Can I go now?"

"Yeah, go, you'll be late. Don't go throwing your bag around now, those jars are done up tight but they'll burst with pressure."

"Got it," you called, moving to the front door.

"In the fridge as soon as you get to school!" he shouted from the cellar. "As soon as!"

You shut the door in reply, disgruntled.

You did as bid, making your way to the science prep room before class and sweet-talking Mr Keary into letting you store the samples in the huge refrigerator. They kept the stuff used for dissecting in there - sheep hearts and frogs and pig brains. Needless to say, you'd aced that particular section of biology. A scalpel was so familiar in your hand by now, it felt like an extension of your fingers.

They stayed there throughout the day. It grew hotter and hotter, but you kept all your layers on - black jeans cuffed to keep them from trailing on your battered sneakers, a charcoal-grey shirt of your father's that hung to your thighs and a soft, woolly, dark green cardigan that swung about your calves. You liked the comfort that layers of clothes gave you - like wearing multiple plates of armour. The day passed as usual - you ad no biology class, so you spoke to barely anyone and barely anyone spoke to you, you kept your head down and ate lunch alone and doodled in every class until the final bell rang. Great. Okay. Finally.

You swung by the prep room and grabbed your father's samples, placing them carefully in your backpack, ensuring they were cushioned by your pencil case and textbooks before hefting the bag onto one shoulder and making the trek to the front exit.

You were literally twenty feet from the door when it happened.

Greta Bowie stormed out of her history class with a dark expression on her face, evidently having to be held back to be lectured by her teacher. Her mean eyes flickered over the corridor for someone to take her anger out on, and, most unfortunately, they landed on you. You didn't even notice her until her shoulder collided hard with yours, and your bag slipped from your shoulder and sailed through the air, hitting the linoleum hard and skidding away. As you stumbled, Greta hooked an ankle around your's and sent you flying backwards.

"Sorry, Y/n!" she called, sweet as sugar. Sweet as fucking diabetes, you thought to yourself furiously as you reached for your bag - only to draw back in surprise and dread. A large, dark, sticky stain was spreading rapidly through the fabric. You tore your bag open, pleading with God that it wasn't so - but of course it was. The samples your dad had entrusted you with, that you'd chilled all day and packed so carefully in your bag - had burst on impact, and now two were all but empty, and the third was drooling blood slowly, it'd lid knocked to the side rather than all the way off.

"Shit!" you shouted, jumping up, your hands flying to your hair to grab it in despair. "Fuck it all, shit on it you bitch!" Before you even realised what you were doing, you'd lunged at the retreating Greta and shoved her in the back. Hard. So hard she flew into the lockers and slammed her head on the metal.

She yelled in pain, spinning round to look at you. The whole corridor was raptly focused on the two of you, Greta furious and red-faced, a bleeding split on her forehead where she'd grazed a padlock, and you, realising what you'd just done with your eyes widening and your feet beginning to retreat.

"You are so fucking dead!"

Greta ran right at you, her arms catching you in the midriff and knocking you back several paces. You gasped as your back slammed into the floor, hard, and Greta seized a handful of your hair, yanked your head up, and slammed it back down again. You wheezed and whimpered, trying to push and scratch to no avail, and Greta straddled you, her fist raised, ready to punch-

Your left hand closed over something cylindrical, smooth and vaguely wet and warm. As quick as you could, even as Greta drew back her fist, you whipped the lid off the last jar of blood, brought it out from the depths of your bag and tossed what was left of the sample square into Greta's snarling face.

She shrieked like a banshee, rearing back and gagging, and you took the opportunity to throw her off your body. You sprang to your feet, stumbling only a little as Greta retched and choked, groping for you blindly with red in her eyes. You took of running, pausing only to pick up your soaking red bag on the way, slamming through the double-doors at the end of the corridor.

You jumped down the steps double-time, jumping at the end and staggering as you hit the floor, then you ran again. In your haste you charged straight through a group of four boys making their way leisurely down the path. You knocked into two of them heavily, felt them stagger.

"What the fuck, dude?" someone called after you furiously, and you turned your head, still running, to look back at them.

"Sorry!" you yelled hoarsely, tearing out the front gate and out of sight.

"Fuckin' weirdo," mumbled Richie Tozier to Bill Denbrough, who was bending down to help Eddie stand after that girl had barged into them. Richie hauled Stan, who had also fallen, to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder, before picking something up off the ground.

"Stan my man, you dropped your yokefellow!" Richie told Stan cheerfully, holding a brimless cap up with a flourish.

"Yarmulke," Stan corrected tiredly, snatching it back.

"Bless you."

"E-Eddie, I think that g-g-girl left a suh-suh-stain on your sh-shirt just now," Bill interrupted demurely.

"Is that fucking blood?" Eddie squeaked, his eyes widening in horror.

"What the fuh-fuh-fuck?" Bill laughed.

"Maybe it was that time of the month," Richie said wisely.

"Buh-beep beep, Richie."

Richie looked seriously at Eddie, who was frantically scrubbing at the dark red patch on his perfect pink shirt. "Werewolves," he told the littler boy sagely.

"Shut up, Richie!" all three of the boys said together, as they crossed through the front gate, making for the Barrens.

——

a/n: just a lil something to get my creativity going while i work on requests. let me know if you want to be tagged in coming parts!! i’m thinking there will be at least two more <3

[gyromitra-esculenta]

Even If the Waters Rise 2/3

Shadowrun inspired Mermay part 2 out of 3 - this thing turned into a monster because this here is like 9k words. Also, contains anime fights, and too competent people. (Honestly, like 95% of teams I ran would fuck up this scenario spectacularly).

Also, warnings for the whole planned thing: blood, gore, and violence; cannibalism (human on metahuman); questionable jokes and questionable totem choices; ambiguous relationships; referenced limb loss/cybernetics/etc; mating cycles.

*

The whole inside of the sub stinks of the cigar smoke.

The ventilation system manages to get rid of the smoke itself, but the reek remains. Jack would call bullshit on Jesse's insistence it's a vital part of the ritual - the justification itself a steaming load of bullcrap.

Point is, even if he's pretty sure that's the fact, he won't, because he doesn't know enough about the subject to not make a fool out of himself. He finishes fitting the exo jacket and does a cursory check of its mobility and the armor plates layered over it.

The next is the pistol and the rifle, both at full capacity, unlikely he will end up needing another power unit for either of them. The hip pack holds eleven demo charges and the pad, Jack threads the cable with the plug under the armor and leaves it hanging for now.

"Much longer?"

"Nah, about finished," Jesse answers without opening his eyes and takes another deep drag of his cigar. Seeing this, Jack feels almost nauseated in his stead.

The visor clicks neatly into the sockets of the frame, integrated jack connecting immediately. He plugs the pad cable into the remaining port. The tactical overlay reloads, feeding him new data.

"Som, want to ride tonight?"

"No, thanks, I'll go through the tac, I have an idea what we'll find and I'd prefer not being flooded by your sensory output."

"I'm feeling a bit bloodthirsty, anyway."

"Don't you always." Sombra flashes his display in response. In time for Jesse to turn around in the chair as the coyote fades back into existence on the serape.

"And done. We're in the clear from this side. I have the entire array down to a pat."

"No good if anyone with a moderately adequate sense of smell can, and will, smell you downwind." Jack rolls his eyes while putting the face mask on.

"All part of the process."

"Sure. Not dragging your sorry ass back."

"Dude, it's going to be the other way around."

"Even if," Jack grabs the rim of the hatchway and pulls himself up, bracing against the railing and leaning back inside, "it will be your fault alone."

"There's a ladder for a reason, dude, you don't need to show off yet." Jesse hands him the drone he sets off flying right away. The thing veers away and gains the altitude with a subtle whizz of its rotors. Sombra will keep it at a distance until Jesse does his thing.

"See if I pull you up now. Genji?"

"Waiting for the signal." The reply comes on the spot, the voice metallic even through the comms.

Jack jumps off the sub, landing softly on the shore. The wall is at least four meters tall, four and twenty according to the display's measurements. His fingers dig into the concrete as he scales it - feels like nothing - the boots keep his feet anchored to the surface. On the top, he surveys the area. No-one is standing guard, probably too lazy and too comfortable with the alarms set up, the only thing to worry about another gang or triad wanting to move into their turf as unlikely as it would be considering the current power balance. But then, with the worth of one facility and the specialists in the trade involved, probably everyone gets a piece of this pie to not upset the supply chain.

Jack lets down the rope, waiting for Jesse to clip it to his harness before he pulls him up.

"You need some kind of diet."

"You're the only one complaining. There's just a lot of me to go around. Love handles are a thing, you know?" Jesse wheezes, finally joining him on the wall. "Thatta way," he points to the closest building. "Cover me while I negotiate."

"Don't die on the way."

"You're just jealous I got some healthy fat on me."

"The only person insisting it's sexy is your recurring ex, and that's because it gives you higher blood volume."

"Wait, dude, seriously?" Jesse looks up from the spot Jack let him down.

"No idea. I'm making it up as I go."

"Well, shit, you really had me consider dieting for a sec there."

"Should've kept the charade up." Jack lies down on his side at the top of the wall, the rifle held precariously with no additional support. Its matte coating disperses the light. "I have fov. Go."

"You expect me to run?" Jesse snarks holding down his hat - incidentally running - stopping a few steps from the building, more a shed than anything else.

"Kind of." Jack centers the reticle on him, noticing the coyote is gone, again. Which doesn't bode well. "Where's the friend?"

"Working, shush!"

Jesse plops down, cross-legged, the prosthetic hand in his lap, the other holding something close to his chest - probably one of his amulets - and Jack briefly entertains the thought of shooting the stupid hat off his head just to make a point. In truth, keeping half his attention on Jesse allows for a smooth feed of environmental data from the surroundings, and if anything goes wrong, though magic, the spirits usually go down well enough when treated with sufficient amounts of very mundane munitions. His are several grades above that.

"The fuck is it...?"

The spirit forming out of the wall in front of Jesse looks nothing like any other he had ever seen before, standing as tall as a troll, a mass of mangled flesh and fur sloughing off its skeletal frame in gag-inducing half-liquid scraps. The half of whatever is supposed to cover its maw is missing, showing off the strange shape of the skull and the frankly terrifying fangs from between which bubbling drool dangles.

It roars soundlessly and Jesse shudders, breaking the first amulet.

The spirit moves forward, sluggishly, against the invisible force pushing it back. Jack puts his finger on the trigger, wondering if he'll even notice the entire thing going south fast enough. If he doesn't, well, Jesse's in scalding water.

Jesse discards remnants of another focus.

The moment Jack's half a mind to light the ugly motherfucker up, a flash of grayish-brown jumps to the spirit's back. The coyote sinks its teeth into the spirit's nape and closes its jaws, twisting. Jack swears there's some kind of cracking sound that's not a sound at all. The rest of the rotting flesh dissipates and the bones burn before following suit.

"Okay, done," Jesse spits to the side, disgust clear in his tone. "All were bound to this one."

"Jesus. What was that?"

"Bad Ainu spirit, powerful," the answer is surprisingly somber. "Feral."

"Tells me nothing." Jack slips off the wall, the drone navigating overhead filling in the gaps in the tactical overlay with new data, finding and pinpointing heat signatures.

"Corrupted bear spirit, someone brought it inland. Nasty stuff, dude." Jesse pats the coyote. Predictably, it snaps at his hand, and he pulls it back with a quiet curse - staring the coyote down until it turns and walks away, unbothered. "Anyway, the one who set it up is gonna feel it, but the further away they are, finding out what that was will take longer."

"No change of movement patterns so far. Genji, take over 'Love Handles' here," Jack snickers at the indignant look Jesse directs at him. Genji confirms, his marker shifting on the display. "I'm moving along."

He follows by the wall, the sparse lamps providing enough contrast to shadow to have him blend with the surroundings. The complex itself - if it even could be called such - was not built with defensibility in mind, but rather adapted for the utility away from the prying eyes. It had to be a port before, maybe even a regular fishing dock, the layout betrays it with the repurposed boat sheds corroding in the sea air - the wall ending abruptly obviously there to protect from the wind and the waves coming in from the side.

Jack departs the relative safety of the wall towards two vehicles parked sideways in relation to the main building where the heat signatures congregate. One is an armored personnel transport, the escort most probably, the other a massive truck with a refrigerator. He takes two charges out of the hip pack and changes the frequency on both of them. The first one goes under the truck, just behind the join with the cabin, the second under the transport. All while keeping his attention on the lone signature exiting the building.

Jack clips the rifle to his back, focusing on the hostile. A smoke break, judging by the movements. Slowly shifting his weight, Jack moves into the position, tracking the motions of the enemy. The tac display flicks between the straight visual feed and the heat map.

Ten meters, turning away from him.

The smell on the air is stronger this close to the building; the mixture of the toxins in the blood is palatable on his tongue here, kicks off his fight-or-flight instinct and the adrenaline floods his system. And for Jack, it's always fight, never flight. The first limiter is off, an overkill, but he doesn't care.

He springs from behind the transport - jumping as the hostile is turning - left palm grabbing their forehead, right fist coming to stop in their nape with a crunch.

His feet hit the ground in front of them and he shoulders the weight, lowering the soon to be a corpse man down. The dropped cigarette still smokes. With a smile, Jack puts one explosive in front of the wildly moving eyes.

"Damn, that's cold even for you," Sombra whistles.

"I'm in a bit of a mood." Jack pulls the rifle into his hands and puts his back to the wall. "That's Arasaka gear."

"Adding their chatter to the monitored."

The display flickers, overlaying structural scan on the tac. Jack glances at the sky - the drone is nowhere to be seen. As it should be.

Genji and Jesse both catch up, sheltered by the vehicles.

"Genji, upper floor. 'Love Handles', find somewhere else, demos underneath."

"Where?" Jesse's heat signature unmistakably turns around with one arm outstretched.

"Go for the fridge. Two inside." Jack takes a deep breath and turns, walking inside with the rifle braced against his shoulder, trying to not be too quiet about it, as if he's the unlucky guy outside.

Five in the room past the corridor, visibly relaxed - four at the table, one lying down. Three on the level up.

"Genji."

The command is followed by a crash above and a scream. Jack falls into a crouch as soon as he gains the visual on the four hostiles turning to the metal staircase on the other side of the room.

The recoil on each shot is cushioned by the exo jacket. Mostly.

On the tac, the fifth one is scrambling in the corner to get up. One from the upper floor gets halfway down the stairs before Genji is on him, pushing him down to the ground, his katana sliding in easily at an angle between the shoulder blades. Jack rushes inside the room - flipping his own direction with a foot planted in the floor past the doorframe - the butt of the rifle slightly off balance as he fires. This one, he's going to feel in the morning.

The plasma projectile rips the meat off the target's throat.

Genji nods once, rising. He flicks the blood off the blade.

"See if you find any paper trail, I'm going..." There's the unmistakable sound of Jesse's revolver going off in the distance. Jack's not worried, not really, he had seen this thing vaporize someone's midriff once.

He shrugs and throws two charges at the opposite walls of the room, down to six now, and backtracks outside, leaving Genji to go through anything that may be in the open.

"Jesse?"

"One's inside."

"There's no-one inside."

Unless... The cold room. Someone went into the freezer. One big heatsink on the tac. Anyone outside would show.

Jesse is leaning against the corrugated metal, revolver in hand, few paces away from the body lying face-down - unarmored, precise shot to the back that blew out half of the chest on the way out, judging by the spray.

"Follow. Som, can you...?" Before he finishes, the drone does a dive fly-by by the entrance, returning to the sky after.

"Clear. Closed shut."

Jack shoulders the rifle. The smell of blood and meat is stronger here, will be worse inside - something about it always sets him off. The building's layout is as simple as it gets: built around the freezer block with a small makeshift separate space to the side to provide for temporary living arrangements.

"Jesse, check it out." Jack walks to the freezer's door. The lock panel shines with glaring red. He moves aside to let the drone pass - unholsters the pistol as Sombra connects to the door's interface. They open with a quiet hiss, expelling clouds of frigid air.

The smell is horrible, hooks into his brain. The urge to kill something - someone - anything - is unequivocal.

"Clear."

Jack rounds the doorframe, pistol at the ready. Rows of tables, singular iceboxes, all the equipment needed for the processing.

"At least a dozen..." The tails being bled in the beginning stage hang from the ceiling in the back. One sways minisculely. "Fifteen."

With deliberate slowness, Jack makes his way towards it - focused on the back area, cursorily glancing at the compact cooling units - nothing unexpected: hands, organs, two heads probably to be sold as centerpieces, all partially treated already.

"Found you."

A bit of a shoe is poking from behind one table. He smiles. The man flinches with his whole body when he sees him. Any other place, any other situation, Jack would consider him a non-combatant unless otherwise provoked into action. But here, surrounded by all the evidence...

He wants - needs - to kill something.

He barely listens to the jumble of the language he doesn't understand, could ask Sombra for a precise translation, but he doesn't care. She provides some, anyway.

"Says they were forced to."

"He's lying."

"No shit," Sombra chuckles.

For a brief moment, Jack considers his options. In the end, he pulls the trigger. The pistol has a substantially lower yield than the rifle - it still very well could dislocate the joints of someone unaugmented - and a limited use against heavily armored targets. Against anyone unarmored, it kills as well as anything else, leaving behind burnt gore.

The smell of seared meat, keratin, and fat does nothing to hide the odor of the toxins from the remains of dead mermaids.

"We have a transport incoming," Sombra pulls the drone from the freezer. "Nine minutes for a clear exit."

"Jesse, Genji, grab what you have and clear out." Jack listens for the confirmations while deploying the remaining charges inside the cold room. He wants everything in here vaporized, with no exceptions.

"Five minutes."

"I know, Som, you put the clock on the tac."

When outside, Jack breaks into a sprint - there isn't a reason to hurry that much but the exertion helps to work the adrenaline out and push the smell from his lungs. He scales the wall and jumps over it.

"Three minutes," Sombra speaks, the tone making him think she might be working now on her nails - ridiculous, but he can't help a chuckle at the image it provokes.

"I know." Jack pauses on the top of the sub to grab the drone and pass it below before he slides inside into his chair. He puts the rifle braced between his legs and sinks forward, bending his knees. "Floor it, 'Love Handles'."

Jesse does, muttering something along the lines 'I see this is what we're doing now' as Jack digs the pad from the pouch - waits a moment before keying in the frequency. The sub shudders, punched by the crump following the demo charges going off on the surface, and just like this, it's time to crash.

"It all reeks of your shit cigars."

Jack does a double-take, looking above the back of his chair at Genji sprawled over the boxes. Genji, who shouldn't be here with them.

"It's good tobacco and they're expensive!"

"I'm bred and born Yakuza, I know my quality drugs."

"Genji," Jack begins carefully, "You left your ride there?"

"No. I walked."

"You... what?"

"Walked."

It's beyond ridiculous.

"How...?"

"Thirty-two hours, to be exact," Genji interrupts the question Jack's been formulating. "A pleasant hike."

Jack decides he's not going to question it anymore. The only downside is he will have to listen to them bicker about meaningless drivel for hours. The other hindrance being the obvious fact he has to peel the armor and the exo off in the front instead of in the back, behind the seats. He manages.

The third unobvious drawback: with three people more-or-less breathing, the temperature rises to levels comparable with a sauna.

State-of-the-art, his ass.

The riveting bickering Jack can tune out as the combat high fades and his system goes into the post-adrenaline crash, leaving him slightly shaking and nauseous - tired and heavy - drifting in and out of bouts of light sleep. When they finally arrive, both he and Jesse look like boiled rats while Genji is no worse for the wear.

It makes Jack think how much - and if anything - is left of Genji himself, with the work he had done on him easily exceeding whatever Jack had, and Jack himself is teetering on the edge. And if Genji runs off a BTL, it's not his fucking business, so he had never asked, and neither had he asked about why - and how - nothing past the part of his head and the upper chest buried in the metal remains. They aren't both that much different, after all.

But that aside, he has about enough energy left in him to slap McCree's stomach flab - ignoring the smirking 'you're only doing it 'cos you're green with envy' comment as it wobbles - and stumble to the temporary bunk, burying himself under the flimsy covers. If anyone's going to bitch about him not helping with the unloading, they can bitch about it later, preferably tomorrow, and, anyway, he's been the one doing most of the work, so they can suck it.

He wakes up too cold, with the shoulder bruised and giving him hell.

Going by the light, it's late afternoon. His gear is laid out on the tables, as is the carry-on he had left before the departure. Jack considers a swim against Jesse's earlier advice, but a spiny back that flashes him in the distance finally dissuades him from the idea. Pity. Quick shower it is.

The rest of the evening he spends putting away the equipment back in the containers first, later scanning the data for Sombra while eating.

"The security was lazy and too lax, they had to have been operating there long enough to grow complacent."

"I'm not so sure about it. From what I've seen," Sombra murmurs, "they might have bet too much on the magic, it was good."

"According to Jesse." Jack pauses with the fork full of the awful reheated mush when she ‘ohs’ suddenly. "What?"

"I think we've hit the jackpot."

"Elaborate?"

"With a bit of luck and time, with this info, I think I might be able to pinpoint the fleet that has been supplying this plant, among the others. We hadn't found one of those in two years."

"Full-on naval run? Fun."

"Trying to appear disinterested? I know you secretly got a boner."

"You know me so well," Jack laughs. "By the way, where are you now?"

"Frisco. You'd like it here, half the time feels like you're breathing water because of the fog."

"My kind of city."

"The views aren't bad either. Have fun tonight once in your life, okay?"

"Why would I...?"

"Trust me."

Her thoughts fade, leaving him perplexed as to their meaning. At least until Jesse barges in some fifteen minutes later.

"We're going drinking, dude, and I don't take no for an answer."

"No."

"Oh, c'mon, dude, it will do you good."

And, frankly, Jack does not understand how Jesse manages to talk him into it - the word 'chaperone' might have been mentioned in the passing - but after two drinks and an hour or so on the dance floor, he does feel relaxed and wired at the same time as he navigates back to the bar. Genji is still nursing the same scotch, slightly emptier than before. Probably that one glass is enough to keep him buzzed for the duration of the entire night, what with the amount of the actual blood he has in his system. Jesse and Lucio are talking animatedly. Jack takes the free stool and flips through the pages of the price-list built into the bar, stopping on the more interesting cocktails.

"Bloody Mary. The other menu."

The bartender looks at him quizzically.

"You don't look like one to enjoy the more sophisticated drinks."

A rather quirky and unfitting word to describe what is basically a cocktail catering to vampires that are apparently a welcome clientele in the club.

"Hey, dude, JJ, he's a freak," Jesse yells from the side over the music, "but he's our freak, so give him what he wants, would you, dude?"

It turns out to be watered down blood with hardly any trace of alcohol in it and a celery stalk thrown in, served in a wine glass with some damn goofy bats on it. Way to stay inconspicuous - Jack snorts before taking another sip, surprised at how agreeable the concoction is. The flavor spills on his tongue and teases the sense of smell, not quite there yet, has him drink the rest of it in one go as he chases after the climax of the taste, and leaves him waiting on the last drops. Licking his lips with a sigh, Jack places the glass back on the bar counter.

Only now he notices the place next to him has been taken in the meantime.

"The same, again, JJ." The man has a deep voice and an eye-catching cybernetic, high grade. Definitely a designer shell on it built for aesthetic value.

"Change the water for ninety-proof, would you?" Jack nods at the bartender. The alcohol adds a layer to the impression, biting where the taste of blood fades. Jack shifts his attention back to the man, and the suits lounging nearby. They fit in the awkward way any corpo rat in a place like this would, if not for their attentiveness. "Counting on something, rich boy?"

Metal fingers grip his jaw, turning his head to the side, put the pressure in, the grab far too familiar in how it applies the force to the bone.

"Those are some fine cock-sucking lips, pity for them to go to waste."

As his eyes drift lower and stop at the rich boy's crotch, Jack catches himself on the fact he's considering it. But the thing is, nobody touches him like they own him, except for Gabriel - because Gabriel does own him. There's something vicious and cruel winding up in him.

"Say what, rich boy, you beat me," Jack flicks his eyes visibly towards the stage, "you get them."

"Even better without the teeth," the rich boy laughs, nodding to the bartender, and the hand is off. Oh, it's a risk Jack's willing to take because there's a point to be made.

"Put it on the ice." He gestures to the drink and hops off the stool, moving towards the stage without looking back, knowing he's being followed. The lights and the music change, people knowing the club's gimmick move back from the marked spot and pull the stragglers with them.

Jack jumps over the rising waist-high barrier and stops slightly off the middle of the ring. He turns around and rolls his shoulders, the right still sore and hurting. Somehow, Lucio is already on the stage chatting up the DJ. The rich boy gets right in his face. Smirking.

"Your bitch ass is mine."

"Sure."

All the lights not focused on the ring and the stage go out.

Jack dives under the first swing. The second one he sidesteps, it's his turn to smirk as he judges the technique and the speed, the coiled spring in him ready to snap. There’s momentum behind the punches, but the speed and the precision are lacking. The footwork is not especially good, either, but the rich boy might feel cocksure because the pure mass and strength probably won him some scuffles, not to mention the monkeys at his heel. To pass the real judgment, though, he does have to get hit.

Jack fumbles partially the next dodge, the fist connecting with his face carries a surprising amount of force behind it even as he's moving away from it - the hand is not only for show, it seems - the second jab comes abruptly. As he hits the floor, the thought he's not the only one to con this fight is unexpectedly exhilarating.

Goddamn fucking McCree screams 'five hundred on the blondie' from the side.

Jack rolls away from the punch that leaves a dent in the spot he had occupied a moment earlier. He pivots on the ball of his hand evading the following hit and jumps to his feet. This would do some serious damage. The stakes just got higher.

Jack licks the blood off his lips, the taste now undiluted, coppery, wipes the rest of it with the back of his hand, smearing it and smiling widely.

"That one's a freebie, enjoy it while it lasts."

The punches come reliably in pairs, the cybernetic hand is favored over anything else, probably at the cost of other techniques.

The coiled spring snaps, and Jack goes into the offensive, dancing out of the way and turning. The first punch misses him completely, the second one catches the sleeve of his jacket as he puts his elbow with the added momentum of the movement below the joint - skirting under the other hand immediately to find himself at the rich boy's back. He plants a foot on his ass and pushes, sending him tumbling to the ground. The surprised look of someone who just realized they bit off more than they can handle is a cherry on the top of the fucking cake.

Jack, swaying to the rhythm of the music, waits for him to get up. The flash of anger - closer to rage - at the obvious disrespect fuels his interest in the fight. He baits the guy two or three times - gets away in the last moment driving home the point he's untouchable until he allows it - watching the rich boy’s coordination and control go to shit.

It's a dangerous kind of game, pushing the opponent until they feel cornered and lash out, but the rush makes up for it.

Jack meets the rich boy in the middle as he changes his approach from evasion to the offense; goes for a quick jab below the ribs followed by a hit below the jaw. He deflects the grab aimed at his head - the fingers close around his forearm - he drags the hand holding him in front of the rich boy's chest while turning on his left foot and throws his other leg up in with a half-turn - hooking the ankle behind the man's neck.

Then, he brings his leg down with force, noting, again, the sheer surprise on that face - the grip on his arm seizing and taking with it the sleeve of his jacket and leaving the synthskin under it scraped by the fabric.

Jack puts the knee in the rich boy's nape as he lies. With the cybernetic trapped under him and his left arm twisted, he is in no position to try anything, especially when Jack adds more pressure to the wrist. He leans down, chuckling, bringing his lips closer to the man's ear.

"Who's the bitch now?"

He gives the arm another cautionary shake before he jumps off the rich boy's back and leaves the ring. At least, compliments due where they are, he knows when he's beaten and doesn't follow to make a scene.

Back at the bar, with Lucio fretting over his face, Jack finishes his drink. Genji is already gone, and Jesse’s nowhere to be seen - until Jack catches the sight of him leaving the club with a bob of white hair on his shoulder. Fucking moron. If Jesse turns up later as a vampire or a desiccated corpse lying in some ditch, it's not Jack's problem anymore.

He hisses briefly as Lucio sets his nose proper and dabs it one last time with a tissue for good measure before making his way back to the stage. Time to get going, he can feel the interest of the spectators in him growing. Jack waves the bracelet at the reader. It blinks red. His tab is paid.

Maybe Jesse, with the money he made off him.

Outside the club, Jack briefly considers catching a cab before his eyes land on the luxury car one of the suits from before is leaning against.

Fuck it.

It's the night of poor decisions all around, Jack thinks as he strides towards it.

"Move," he barks at the monkey, not waiting for the tensing man to comply before he opens the side door looking inside. The rich boy puts away his phone and the other suit aims at Jack's head with the handgun. "Send the monkeys away, or have them sit in the front."

Their displeasure is visible and only serves to heighten Jack's amusement, more so when the rich boy nods. He gets in, gives the approximate address of the dock, and the car starts rolling down the street to join in with the traffic.

"One rule. You touch me only when I tell you to."

He makes quick work of rich boy's pants and grips the already half-hard length in his hand - looking up with a clear warning on his face before he goes down on him, feeling the cock properly fill out and become rigid between his lips. Makes sure his teeth scrape against the skin. He pulls away when the hips under his palm start to jerk with the motions and swats with a warning growl at the hand reaching to hold him in place.

Still kneeling on the floor, Jack strips out of both the jacket and the shirt underneath in one go, throws them to the side. Unbuckling his belt, Jack moves to the opposite seats, braces against the back, and looks over his shoulder.

"Need a special invitation?"

The inside of the car is too small for anything like this - for both of them - Jack delights in how it puts the rich boy in an awkward position. A moment later, he has his face pushed into leather and a hand fumbles with his pants. He hisses first at the burn, the cramping pain deep inside rips an aborted whine out of him - cold metal planted between his shoulder blades keeps him down, not that he minds.

Jack’s fingers rip up the upholstery.

Greedy and selfish, it's what the rich boy is, as is Gabriel himself, but how the same quality differs so intricately between the two of them is something illuminating in its simplicity.

The rich boy takes and tries to assert his dominance when he has none, whereas Gabriel knows Jack belongs to him and Jack knows back he himself is, in a way, his prized property to be taken care of - the bullet to be fired at whatever Gabriel wishes him to destroy.

The sex is barely satisfying and ends too soon with the rich boy falling against his back - Jack shoves him off unceremoniously and tucks himself back into the pants - but it manages to scratch the itch he didn't even know simmered under his skin for the whole evening.

"Save it," Jack nips in the bud whatever the rich boy wants to say as he gathers his clothes from the floor. "No matter what mommy and daddy let you play with, you can't afford me."

He puts the period on it with a slam of the door behind himself.

The lone security guard at the gate with maybe a tad too secretly amused expression on her face buzzes him in. Jack doesn't worry about giving out the location, no-one with any sense tries to get too deep into the seaside properties, and tomorrow he's gone from here, anyway.

In the morning, flowers wait for him at the gatehouse: a basket overflowing with white, gold, yellow, and blue. The card attached holds an unsigned phone number. He pockets it.

"Keep the flowers."

"What am I supposed to do with them?" The guard sounds offended, her face scrunched in something between offended and bewildered.

"Eat them?"

"You don't eat flowers."

"Artichokes?"

"That's one flower, and it's green."

"Fair. Leave them, throw them out, I don't care."

"The basket's nice, don't want it?" The guard leans on her elbows, thinking. Jack lifts his carry-on up for her to see.

"That's all I travel with."

He leaves her still pondering the flowers to catch his train moving inland - a first-class ticket and the whole compartment to himself, all booked by Sombra. Sometimes Jack wonders if she ever sleeps.

The itch is back with a vengeance, and he taps an anxious rhythm into his knee. An hour before his stop he realizes it's another episode coming, the prickling shifting deep into the bones, yet on the verge of becoming an outright ache above the everyday static of pain he can keep under the edge of his awareness. Just his fucking luck.

Until now, it's been possible to navigate around the days he got reduced to jittery nauseated mess hardly capable of logical thought and any movement besides dragging himself to the bathroom, maybe back if he didn't collapse on the way.

Keeping from lashing out is taxing.

It disconcerts Jack more Gabriel will witness him in this sorry state than Gabriel seeing the bruises and other marks left by someone else on his body - at least on parts that were still his body and not artificial filling for what he had lost. The need to back out of the earlier-than-usual meetup and the sudden surreal hope that maybe Gabriel will fuck him through it contradict - he doesn't even know if either is a viable option, each for a set of different reasons.

He's paler than normal when he steps off the train.

By the time he reaches the hotel he's sweating and breathing shallow, the pain in the imaginary joints rising well above the threshold and crashing in waves rolling over to his chest and stomach. His fingers swipe over the keyboard, too uncoordinated - sending the customary text. Getting the reply only acts to exacerbate his anxiety and question the reason to arrive. The hesitation proves to have substance when he notices two suits standing guard in front of the door, an ork and a bluish-skinned elf.

"She's waiting for you," the elf addresses him.

Against his better judgment, Jack enters the suite, ready for... For what, he has no idea, just hopes his clenched jaw radiates apprehension rather than anything else - a tall order, he knows.

'She' gets off the sofa with a strange flowing quality, at least Jack suspects so. The wide-brimmed hat decorated with dark fabric shaped into flowers hides her frame behind a veritable veil of darkness from behind which only two glowing mismatched eyes are visible.

"Gabriel can't make it." The voice is without a doubt feminine. She circles him once, observing him like some exhibit on a display. Jack feels anger floating to the surface at the unwelcome scrutiny he's subjected to. "Fascinating," is the ending conclusion. The gloved hand emerges from the curtain of darkness holding a familiar object.

A pillbox.

"This is a new formula that should be more effective in treating your unique condition, you should start administering it immediately." Her tone is flippant and uncaring. "I am told you are careless with taking the medication as recommended."

Jack grabs the box from her hand; the gloved finger his hand brushed against is either ended in an elaborate manicure, or tipped with a claw.

"I don't see how's that any of your business."

"I am, after all, the one manufacturing it. I would hate to see my work go to waste."

Without another word, covered by her own bubble of darkness, she glides to the door, leaving Jack alone and glaring at the pills.

The temptation is there, enticing and futile. He made the mistake once, he's not going to repeat it.

The first time, popping the pills one after another for a brief relief from the hurt: the few seconds of bliss when nothing ached forgotten immediately after when the pain slammed back into him without warning - screaming in frustration when there were no more left to take. The first time was the worst, the rest he just suffered through.

His fingers shake when he sets the pillbox down on the table - the dancing twitches playing off the connected nerves sending out random signals in confusion.

Jack stumbles to the bathroom and sinks to his knees. Forehead resting on the cool raised edge of the tub - terrifyingly conscious of every single inhale and exhale - skin clammy and cold and hot. Slowly, he sets the parameters, stopping each time he has to swallow the tasteless saliva gathering in his mouth.

He almost gives up twice: once before finishing the setup, the second time as he's trying to undress himself - the drive to just curl up on the floor barely losing to the prospect of some relief.

Sitting on the rim with his feet submerged in the water, Jack plugs into the pad.

"Som?" He reaches out after wrestling his thoughts under some semblance of control. When she nods back, he concentrates on the memory. "I want to show you something."

She pulls it up and watches while Jack smiles, feeling the wave of emotions and sensations wash over him. The dragon glides in the water again.

"Wow. That's why you purged the drives?"

For a moment, he loses track of his thoughts.

"Yeah."

"You sound strange, I know Gabe couldn't..." There's a shift in her voice and her distress banishes the rest of Jack's control sending it spiraling as he clenches his jaw. "Your cortisol levels are off the charts, as well as... Why didn't you tell me you're in so much pain, I'm sending something right..."

"No!" Jack interrupts her, too sharp and sudden. "No," he repeats after a deep breath. "It's normal. I just have to... It won't help."

"Jack."

"It happens. Flare-up. It will pass. Just... could you loop it for me? The dragon?"

Sombra stays silent for seconds ticking away before the scene plays out again in his mind.

"It will stop when you unjack."

"Thanks, Som. I mean it."

"I know. Fuck. This isn't right. I'll work on it."

"It's okay," Jack slips into the water, the momentary temperature shock providing a short respite before the nerve endings become accustomed. "You did what you could."

"Hang in there."

"Thanks."

He sinks to the bottom.

Arms wrapped around knees, Jack lets his mind flow with the memory. Under the surface, shortness of his breath makes no difference and the saltiness of the water flushes away the horrid taste in his mouth. Almost enough to keep thoughts from forming- coast over the waves of pain. Between this, and the moments he relives, time becomes meaningless, counted only by the steady movement of his chest.

The sensation that shouldn't be there sends him spiraling into confusion and panic - a brush against his back becoming a grab - breaking the layer - drowning.

While trying to fight off whatever - whoever - it is, and coughing out the water, his hand catches on the cable and rips the plug out. Only when something puts pressure on the bone below the hinges of his jaw, Jack realizes he's lying down and grabs at the arm holding him.

"Stop struggling."

The voice and the command register slowly, and when they do, he lets his palms fall away from Gabriel's hand. His head is turned to the side and the vertigo of the renewed connection provokes another wave of nausea Jack protests with a whine.

"How many times?"

He has to hear it twice with the fingers digging into the vulnerable points of the bone emphasizing the words for the question to parse.

"Eight... ten?" Jack licks his suddenly dry lips, tracking with his eyes the syringe Gabriel holds with his other hand. "..'s not going to help."

He had not needed to talk during any of the previous episodes and he winces hearing his own slurred words, more than he does at the prick of the needle and the numbing cold propelled by blood crawling from the injection site in his neck. The freezing pain is almost the polar opposite of the sensations thus far - he panics, again, trying to fight off the unmoving hand until the ice sinks its teeth deep into the marrow and shoots through his brain as he jolts on the bed with a scream before he blacks out.

When Jack comes to, the light is too bright, the contrasts too strong, and it floods his vision even through the clenched shut eyelids. He's hot, far too hot, the back of his head is damp - warm hair sticking to his neck, slicked to his forehead and temples with sweat. What is worse, whatever he's lying on - and under - is coarse and abrasive, even the minimal friction caused by his chest rising and falling with each breath is nigh unbearable.

Moving his arms proves to be an exercise in futility with how sluggish and weak they feel. Through the cotton fog swirling in his mind Jack wonders about the malfunction - how much the limbs are fucked if they refuse to cooperate with the nerves, the intent itself should be enough to prompt the action - or is it him who's fucked with the neural pathways misfiring.

He manages to kick the sheet down, it's enough to get it past the hips. The synthskin's not reacting to whatever's going on – otherwise, he'd go crazy from this. The cool touch on his stomach makes Jack jump in place and groan as the surprise forces his eyes open.

Unsticking the tongue from the roof of his mouth requires some work.

"Why are you here?" Is what Jack intends to say. What makes it out instead is garbled and croaking.

"You were experiencing a toxic hormone buildup," Gabriel replies like that's the answer to his question.

"...what was?"

"Artificial hormones to counteract, and stabilizers."

"Huh?" It's even harder to focus with the fingers gliding in slow circles over his skin - soothing - almost enough to forget the discomfort. "Would pass, normal."

There's no response, of course. Jack licks his lips. The points where Gabriel put the pressure when he held him down still hurt. Funny how he can recall only one other time something like this has happened.

He had his arm blown off and caught several slugs with his side. It had been his own fault, probably, and Gabriel had a discernible aura of anger and irritation to him when reaching for the hand and lifting the shirt to check on the stitched injuries. And being manhandled like this didn't sit well with Jack, yet. Ended with him pressed against the wall, Gabriel's hand on his throat - fingers digging into the bone and his knees going weak - and mind-blowing sex. The first fuck of his new life, and no questions asked.

"We could talk?" Jack suggests, finally able to see in the dimming light. "Don't think... I'll remember it, anyway," he adds when it obviously falls on deaf ears, but Gabriel's always like this, this being this, no explanations, no nothing. It bothers him now, surprisingly, between feeling like a wet cloth, the fuzz, and Gabriel's aloofness.

Eerily, brings up the same mean streak as before.

"Did you... you and him, did you fuck?"

The thing about Gabriel is, he never lies. Just doesn't answer if it's inconvenient. The palm lying flat on his stomach, now motionless, gives merit to the question one way or the other.

"We had... a relationship, of sorts."

But Jack gets his answer and it fucking hurts to hear Gabriel say it. Must be the hormones. The curiosity, too, because for years he had managed to not give a fuck about it all until now.

"What was he like?"

The chuckle has him turning his head to confirm its actuality - the plug catches on the cloth - he's still jacked in. The cool air on his wet hair sends shivers down his spine as Gabriel puts away a book, a paper one, to help him move to rest on his side.

With the bent arm trapped underneath, it's almost bearable. The pillow remains damp and warm.

"Impudent and fearless, the two definite qualities of his."

"Got it. Stupid and bitchy." The irony of basically badmouthing himself does not escape Jack. "Sounds like someone I know."

"Does it, now?"

"He's dead," Jack blurts out, the words following thoughts without a moment's hesitation, tumbling out one after another with no consideration. "I'm the one in here. If he comes back, it's not going to be him."

Gabriel tips his chin up with his thumb.

"Impudent and fearless, and so very clever, too clever for his own good. At least, with you, I can hold a conversation."

It's Jack's turn to chuckle.

"You could. If you ever talked to me. You're only talking to me because I won't remember it, remember? That's what you think."

"Probably."

"That's. Fucking. Cruel."

"Or maybe because you are asking now."

"I don't ask because you never tell me shit." Jack's sure his weepy frustration - and the emotions all over the place - can be easily read in his voice. "Who was he to you, anyway?"

He's steeling for the punch when Gabriel appears to be mulling the question over in his mind, his thumb tracing Jack's lower lip.

"Someone special." It hurts. He should fucking stop doing it to himself. "And, so are you. Both alike, yet unique in ways you could never comprehend."

"Maybe I could. But you won't tell me."

"No." The finger leaves his lips and travels down along his throat, past the dip between the collarbones.

"See. Herein," Jack laughs at the word, giving in to the fog, lightheaded as if drunk, "lies the problem. You never tell me shit."

"It is for your own good."

"Bullshit. You don't want to deal with the fallout, do you?" The last part barely makes it out of his mouth before Jack flinches at the touch with a high-pitched inhale cutting off anything else he wants to say. Fuck. That's one way to end the conversation. He's really fucked up if he didn't notice he's fucking hard since some point in time - and Gabriel is taking his sweet time too, teasing with his hand - it's not enough, and Jack reaches out to pull him closer barely registering his limbs finally cooperate with him. "Fuck. Don't... please."

He's choking up on words. Gabriel shifts to lean over him, continuing the deliberate motions with no intention of letting him finish, and his desperation is growing, punctuated by small sounds of distress slipping out as Jack digs his fingers into his back. The sensation of being filled arches his spine - it doesn't feel right - not wrong - just not right - but he clings to it with a needy whine and jerking hips - trying to pull the body above him closer, giving up any kind of control in lieu of chasing the denied pleasure.

The first rolling wave has him biting on the fingers between his teeth - toe-curling as it spills down the phantom nerves and runs back - still not enough, and he pleads with the whole of himself for release only to be rebuked with Gabriel's voice in his ear leading him through it. Again and again - until he's a crying mess gasping for breath and begging for Gabriel's mercy - and when it is granted, he's unprepared: coming with a soundless scream caught in his throat and his back taunt like whipcord before sinking under the surface into the depths.

Pliant, shaky, and raw, is how Jack feels waking up tangled in sheets; still too warm but not burning hot anymore, sticky with old perspiration and damp with fresh sweat. Alarmingly... lucid. The light speaks of early morning, or that peculiar breaking moment of the evening. Either way, it no longer pains his eyes.

The itch in his bones lingers, but gone is the urgency - and the memory of yesterday redefines his concept of mind-blowing.

Parched, Jack sits up looking around - feels his heart fall before he spies Gabriel sitting on the covered balcony, working, as usual, judging by the screens surrounding him, but Jack will count his blessings because Gabriel wasn't even supposed to be here according to that woman that has his skin crawling even now when he thinks about her.

He slips out of the bed, standing on wobbly legs.

The sheet feels too coarse around his waist and he discards it, walking the rest of the way naked. The artificial breeze feels wonderful on his skin. Jack halts in front of Gabriel - trying to grasp the vague recollection of... actually having a conversation with him.

"We talked," he blurts out at the questioning gaze of black and red eyes, surprised. "Yesterday."

"Yes." Gabriel holds out his hand in an invitation to him.

"What did we talk about? Was it important?" He waits for a rebuttal and laughs when Gabriel remains silent, puts his palm in Gabriel's waiting hand, and lets himself be pulled to sit on his lap, conscious in an instant of the fact he's ruining one of those ridiculously expensive suits just by touching it. "It was important. But you won’t tell me what it was, will you?"

"No."

There's a glass pressed to his lips and Jack eagerly drinks the water in big thirsty gulps, some of it dripping down his chin; he stops Gabriel from taking it away before he finishes all of it, and then just leans against him with his cheek cradled to his neck. He winces at fleeting nausea when Gabriel plugs his jack in, but, even so, the mood settles soon into comfortable silence - and he had learned to treasure those rare quiet moments with Gabriel. There's just something bothering him, more humorous than anything else.

"You know," Jack finally gives voice to it, "I'm willing to bet my meager possessions you actually knocked me out with an orgasm."

"You would lose them in the wager."

"Oh. Fuck. I was being only half-serious."

"You should be 'half-serious' about your health."

Straight to what Gabriel considers being the issue.

"It has always passed before, so that's..."

"Then you would notice those 'episodes' of yours are regular and take place approximately every five months."

Jack winces at the unusually irate note in Gabriel's voice.

"They do?"

He feels that sigh with his entire body.

"At the moment, the foremost concern is finding an adequate formula to mitigate the unaccounted symptoms. You will sign in with Sombra every day so she can gather current metrics."

"If it happens in five..."

"I accept no objections.”

Jack turns his head so he can look over the screens in the air - most of them blurred with personal encryption, and probably nothing he would even understand - but he notices one static picture with live readable feed and his stomach plummets for a second.

The perfect explanation for Gabriel's general disposition.

The rich boy.

And Jack has to breach the subject, somehow. Because Gabriel won't. He shifts and points to the holoscreen in question.

"Are you... Are you angry about it?"

"I am irritated by your negligence."

"And this?"

"It is of no consequence. It's understandable," Gabriel continues without missing a beat, "that you would find other sexual partners."

The dismissal should put him at ease, not threaten him with the inexplicable urge to cry.

"Tell me I'm not allowed to."

"Would that change anything?"

"If you tell me I'm not allowed to," Jack pushes his face into the crook of Gabriel's neck in some form of trying to hide away from the tumultuous swirl of emotions it brings up, "then I won't. Please, tell me I'm not allowed to."

Fucking pathetic for a grown man, to fight against tears and fail, but it's what happens when Gabriel remains silent on the subject, and Jack tangles his fingers in black fabric, the stifled sobs raising in force. Fucking pathetic, losing it over a thing he always knew. And fuck hormones for making him feel shit - now he would take the pain over this complete mess. And fuck Sombra for telling Gabriel on him.

And, honestly, fuck himself for harboring some kind of misguided hope against any logical rationale, Jack notes with the angry spite. Angry is often better, but now, it's not helping at all. It only makes matters worse.

Slowly, he drifts off into a fitful sleep, waking only when carried: by his own hand slipping loose off his lap. Gabriel lowers him into the water, the temperature slightly higher than his usual.

"There are other matters I have to attend to." The words are accompanied by the palm lingering on his cheek and the thumb tracing the arch of the bone before Gabriel moves away. Jack waits for the sound of the doors closing behind him. He's just tired as he sinks below the surface.

What the fuck is even his life?

[kamen-rider-zed]

Artiste et Muse Ch3

So yeah, this chapter kinda broke my heart to write, so fair warning, if you have emotions, you might want to get rid of them before reading this.

AO3

Nathanael rolled over, pushed his longer hair out of his face (seriously, what was future him thinking growing it out this long?) and rubbed at the knot in his neck. He would have much preferred sleeping in the bed, but Chloe had refused to let him in the bedroom even well after sunset. He made a mental note to never buy this particular model of couch once he and Chloe got out of this strange world, then pulled the blanket back around him and attempted to drift back to sleep. However, a small sound kept his consciousness from sinking back into slumber. It came only every few seconds, faint against the hum of the air conditioning and refrigerator, but it was enough to occupy his thoughts and force him to roll back over on the couch and investigate.

Chloe sat in the recliner opposite him with a lamp on beside her and her knees pulled into her chest, small sobs shaking her whole body. On the replacement coffee table in front of her lay an open book, the pages covered with pictures. Nathanael blinked to clear his vision and focused on the book. One of the pictures seemed to be of him in a button up shirt.

The wedding album.

Why was Chloe flipping through the album? She didn’t seem too keen on ‘reliving’ their wedding yesterday, so why…

“Chloe?” he said, though he wasn’t sure why he called out to her. She lifted her head, her eyes widening when she realized he was awake, then squeezed them shut and turned away from him.

“Leave me alone,” she whispered.

Normally, he would have told her off because she was the one who came into the living room where he was sleeping, but he remained silent, listening to her grieve over...what?

“Chloe, what’s wrong?”

“Why do you care?” she snapped.

An excellent question, but one he’d have to worry about later. He almost threw off the blanket, but remembering that he was still pantsless, wrapped it around his shoulders and padded over to the recliner. Chloe must have heard him coming because her head snapped up, her eyes widened, and she scrambled out of the chair and towards the bedroom door. Nathanael managed to catch her about the wrist and pull her closer, but she kept her head turned away.

“Chloe, talk to me. Why are you crying?”

“Again, why do you care?” She still refused to fully look at him and made several half-hearted attempts to remove herself from his grasp.

“I…” He sighed. He didn’t really know how to answer that. There was a reason he always left the words to Marc. Maybe...it was best to start with the obvious and go from there. “I...I’ve never seen you cry before.” She stopped pulling away from him, but still did not turn her head. “It always seemed like...you wanted to appear strong, so you never showed any emotion other than arrogance. Not to mention you hate me, so it has to be a big deal if you’re crying in front of me. And even though I don’t like you either, I’m not completely heartless, so please, Chloe.” She slowly turned to face him and he could just make out the redness in her eyes from the weak early morning light streaming through the windows.

She sniffed and opened her mouth a couple of times, but no sound came out. Without warning she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest, allowing her sorrow overtake her. Stunned for a few seconds, he eventually returned the embrace, not sure of what else to do, and let her shake and sob in his arms. He chanced lifting a hand and petting her hair, which seemed to do little to stifle her tears, but stopped her shoulders from heaving with her sobs.

She mumbled something into his chest, and when he asked her to repeat it, he finally heard, “She’s not in it.”

“What? Who?”

She sniffed again. “Mom…” Her face curled up and a fresh wave of tears flowed down her face. He guided them both to the couch, wrapped his blanket around her, then turned his attention to the wedding album, which he pulled closer to him and flipped back to the first page.

Photos of Chloe, himself, the groomsmen, with what may have been Marc as his best man, the bridesmaids...was that Sabrina as the maid of honor? She and Chloe must have made up at some point. Photos before, during, and after the ceremony. And so many familiar faces. He saw the mayor standing beside Chloe, him standing beside his mothers. The Dupain-Chengs carrying a massive cake, Marinette and Adrien with two small children hugging their legs. An older woman who looked so much like Adrien...she must have been Emelie Agreste. Nino and Alya with cameras around their necks. Alix, Kim, Ondine, Max, Rose and Juleka, Luka, Kagami, Ivan and Mylene.

But not a single photo of Audrey Bourgeois.

(#)

After convincing Chloe to change and finally getting himself some clothes, Nathanael managed to drag her out of the house and down the street to what was, at least according to Alya, their favorite cafe. They sat across from each other, wordlessly swirling their coffee, trying to pretend this wasn’t technically their first ‘date’, and trying to pretend they were as familiar with their server as she was with them. The girl must have known them quite well, because she sensed something off and brought them fresh croissants ‘on the house for the newlyweds’.

“Is she dead?” Nathanael paused with his coffee halfway to his mouth at Chloe’s question, but didn’t answer. “Is my mother dead?” When he still didn’t answer, she continued, “You called Marinette before we came out here. I know you asked her about my mother, so is she dead? Is that why she wasn’t in…” She clapped her hand over her mouth and sniffed back her tears.

It was true. After sunrise, he’d called Marinette to get more insight on the Audrey situation, which was only possible because he’d had the foresight to ask Alya for the passwords to their phones and laptops in case they needed them. He nearly gagged when he saw Chloe’s number listed in his phone as ‘My Queen’, but chalked it up to the Chloe and Nathanael of this universe being sappy romantics.

“...no, she isn’t. She-”

“God, what kind of daughter am I?” Chloe murmured. “I was...almost wishing, hoping she was dead, just so she’d have a decent excuse for...for not being there.”

“Why were you looking through the photo album anyway? You said last night-”

“I know what I said!” She snapped, then glanced around at her outburst and took a deep breath. “I’ve...had this picture in my head of what I wanted my wedding to be like for years. Granted, it was always Adrikins at the end of the aisle, but...I just wanted to see how this matched up to my fantasies.”

“So…?”

“My dress was a tad lackluster for my tastes, but I didn’t really pay attention to most of the pictures after I realized...” Chloe met his eyes for the first time since they’d arrived at the cafe. “Why wasn’t she there? This was my wedding. Why couldn’t my own mother be there for my special day?”

Nathanael rubbed at the back of his neck. How to sum it all up… “Marinette said...when we first started dating, Audrey immediately hated me. She said you deserved better, that dating someone like me was...how did Marinette put it?...’beneath a Bourgeois’. This...Marinette told me this led to our first big fight as a couple.”

“Let me guess,” Chloe mumbled, propping her cheek on her fist and stirring more sugar into her coffee. “You wanted me to cut off my own mother.”

Nathanael shook his head. “The opposite, actually. You wanted to cut her off.” Chloe froze and lifted her eyes. “I...I wanted to break up with you, because…” He tore off a piece of croissant and brought it to his mouth, but didn’t take a bite. “I...didn’t want to force you to choose between me and your mother.

“So we argued, you made your decision, and you ended up severing ties with Audrey. She moved back to America within the week and hasn’t spoken to you or your father since.” He shrugged. “Then a few months ago, you got mad at me because I looked up her address and sent her an invitation to the wedding. You wanted nothing to do with her, but I thought she’d at least want to be at her daughter’s-” he bit his tongue and sighed. “Yeah, I guess you know the rest.”

Chloe stared at him for a few seconds. He wanted her to have a relationship with her mother. He was willing to sacrifice his own happiness for her, and even after she’d made her choice, he still wanted to reach out to Audrey, to try? Her heart thumped in her chest in a way she didn’t appreciate, and she had to remind herself that this wasn’t her world, her future. She snatched up her own croissant and pulled the butter dish closer to her.

“Why do we keep talking like it’s us doing all of this? This isn’t us and this isn’t our world. We aren’t the ones all lovey dovey with each other, it’s the Nathanael and-” she gagged “-seriously misguided Chloe of this world.”

“Because referring to ourselves instead of saying ‘this world’s Chloe’ or ‘this timeline’s Nathanael’ makes the conversation go by quicker.”

“And we both don’t want to talk to each other longer than necessary.”

Nathanael slid his coffee cup aside and folded his hands on the table. “Alright, if you hate me so much, then why were you crying into my chest an hour ago?”

Chloe sniffed. “I needed emotional comfort and you were convenient. I would have preferred if Adrikins or Daddy had been there-”

“Or Mommy?” Nathanael interrupted.

Chloe dropped the bread knife and turned a gaze to him that would have made him recoil in fear if his time as Paon hadn’t steeled his confidence. “Low blow, Kurtzberg.”

“Oh, I can go lower.” He glared and smirked at her. “Kurtzberg.”

Chloe slapped her hands on the table, but this time she had no reservations with interrupting the other cafe patrons. “Hey, I’m the one in emotional distress here!” she hissed. “If you’re going to be an absolute jackass while I’m still processing that my own mother didn’t bother even RSVP-ing to my wedding then I’ll just-”

“What does it matter if she was there or not?” Nathanael countered. “You keep insisting that this isn’t our world or our future, but you get your panties in a twist over your fake future mom not coming to your fake future wedding? God, pick one, Chloe!”

Chloe opened her mouth, but soon shut it, her lips quivering. She lowered her gaze to the table and released a slow sigh. “I think...some part of me always knew my mother would never fully approve of me.” She sank lower in her chair. “That no matter how hard I tried to live up to her standards, I’d alway fall short one way or the other. I guess, this world kind of felt like proof. Even bringing someone home I lo-” She cut off the word, glanced to Nathanael, then back down to the table. “S-supposedly love, she…” A dry laugh choked its way up her throat. “Beneath a Bourgeois? Is that what Marinette said? My own mother was more concerned over the family image, than...than my happiness?”

Nathanael’s gaze and voice softened. “Hey, like you keep saying, this isn’t our world…”

“But it still feels so...appropriate for her. So...in character. Now that I think about it, what would happen if I dated someone she did approve of?” Chloe’s eyes wavered back and forth, as though searching for the answer in the space between her and the table. “Nothing would change. She might approve of someone like Adrien, but only because of the social advantage. It would be...it was…” Her eyes widened. “Just like her and my father, she only married him because of his political connections. It…

“It was never about love.”

It started small, the faintest glistening in the corner of her eye, the lightest tremble of her lips, the muted shaking in her ragged breath, but each action compounded and snowballed, and soon, whatever wall or barrier Chloe had erected to maintain her composure finally cracked and crumbled. She wrapped her arms around her middle and wept, her head bowed over the table and her coffee forgotten. Nathanael, surprised by his own actions, rose from his chair fast enough to send it crashing backwards, rounded the table, and settled his arms around Chloe’s shoulders. Her tears did not slow; the only effect his comfort had was for her to shift and wrap her own arms around his chest, and continue to wail into his chest. They sat like this for several minutes, oblivious to the staring patrons around them. While Chloe wetted his shirt with her tears, Nathanael’s mind buzzed with so many questions.

Why was he comforting someone he hated? Was it just to maintain the appearance of a married couple in this world? Why did Chloe feel so comfortable crying into his chest, seeking comfort from her enemy? What could have happened between them to create this world, this future? But most of all...

Why did it feel so right to hold her like this?

[love-allthingsmarvel]

Way Down We Go

Requested: Yes! “Back then, I lied when I told you I didn’t love you. You needed to move on from me– I needed to protect you from me.” with Peter please!! - Anon

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Alcohol.

Word Count: 1K

A/N: Sorry this took so long! But i got some inspo and I have a lot of ideas for this. I think the ending gives you a little hint of where im gonna take this. Also, this is when Reader and Peter are older–like 21. Also I couldn’t find a gif to match this story, sorry!

You always had love in your heart.

Maybe that made you weak, but you honestly didn’t care. You were always told to love no matter how hard it may seem, and no matter how hard the world tried to beat you–you promised you would always love.

Maybe you knew high school would change you, maybe you had the strange feeling that high school was going to rip you to shreds and make you wonder why you ever moved to New York.

But high school didn’t ruin you because of bullies, or rumors, or teachers. High school ruined you because you met the love of your life.

Peter Parker.

You had met him in chemistry class of your Freshman year, just two freshmen trying to find someone to hang around for the next four years, but you never thought that it would be for love.

He had a sweet charm to him–when you first met him he was dorky and clumsy–but god he was so cute.

And all you could think in your mind was love.

Love. Love. Love.

You were always taught to love. And maybe you did love him, but not that way.

Not that way yet.

5 years fast forward, and here he stood in front of you–no longer yours to hold or love. He was the worlds.

You were on top of your apartment complex when you had received the ‘I need to talk you, now.’ text, making your heart jump. You had told yourself you would never talk to him, but here you were. Ready to hear what he had to say.

He stood in front of you, his mask off and eyes glaring at you.

The wind nipped at your skin, all you had on was one of your pajama dresses and a grey cardigan protecting you from the winter of New York–your feet grew cold on the pavement of the roof, immediately thinking how badly you did not wanna be up here right now, facing him–but you were.

“Y/N.”

You bit your lip and looked down at your feet, trying to hold the tears back. You closed your eyes and breathed in heavily, you thought you were over this, over him–but you weren’t. Not even a little.

God to this day it still hurt.

“Pete, I–I really don’t have the time–”

“I know–I–I know you don't, but I had to just talk to you. You deserve to know the truth about everything. About us.”

Your head shot up, as you continued to hold your tears back, your knuckles began to grow white.

“What else is there to know Peter!? It’s been almost a year and a half! S–So now, now you decide you wanna fix it?!”

“T–That’s not–”

“Of course it’s not Peter.”

He huffed, as you watched the air leave from his lips. Wanting nothing more than to reach out and hug him. He continued to look at you, finally examining your outfit.

“I–I'm sorry, You must be so cold–Go back inside.”

Your mouth hung open as you grew angrier.

“How dare you.”

Peter gulped, his hand nervously going through his messy brown hair.

“Y/N–”

“Peter Parker, for fucks sake–tell me what you wanted to say and leave, just like you did–”

Your voice gave away, proving to Peter you were about to crack. That everything you were holding in for so long was about to come out, and my god there was nothing you could do to stop it.

“You left me–” you finally said the words out loud as your voice broke.

“I just wanted you to be safe Y/N–”

You began to walk closer to him–close enough to touch, as you began to say everything you wanted.

“I wanted nothing else but you! I didn’t care about Spider-man, I didn’t care about anything but you! And–And then you told me–You didn’t love me, the night before graduation!? What–What kinda sense does that make Peter?!”

Your tears spurred out of your eyes, as your voice echoed through your his ears.

“I–I wasn’t even able to enjoy graduation night. I–”

You began to shake your head trying your best to continue, “You don’t deserve me, Parker.”

“You’re right.” He said firmly, almost breaking your heart more than it already was.

“Now. Why the fuck, did you call me up here.”

Peter bit his lip, then looked down at the pavement below him.

“I lied to you.”

You backed away from him, blinking–not sure what he meant.

“About w–”

“Back then, I–I  lied when I told you I didn’t love you. You needed to move on from me– I needed to protect you from me.”

Peter’s words made you step back more, “You pushed me away Peter. All you did–was hurt me”

He felt the lump in his throat form, as he tried his best to keep himself from falling apart. His main goal, even to this day was to make sure you were never hurt or ever experience pain.

“I just wanted to protect you Y/N”

He spoke so low he wasn't even sure if you heard it.

“Then you should've never let me go Peter.”

There was a silence in the air.

“Peter, once you left me–”

There were a million things going through your mind, and here the only man you ever loved was in front of you, for god knows why. To apologize? To tell you he loved you? To work it out? You didn't know, and honestly, At this point, you didn't care.

“I was no longer yours to protect.”

And with that, you turned your back on him and to the door, not saying another word leaving him there to think.

Alone.

_

After you slammed the roof door on Peter, he stood there for a second. Letting the words linger in his head.

You were right, and you had every reason in the world to be mad at him–but there was a piece of him that was hoping you would forgive, maybe even start over with him.

What happened to the two of you, he blamed it all on himself. There was so much more going on then just villians–it was himself as well.

When he and the team fought Thanos–he felt a piece of him go missing. He wasn’t the same person after it all, but honestly who would be. The things he saw, the things he had to do and what he tried to overcome, it was just too much for him.

He broke up with you the night before graduation for you and your family’s safety, and in the moment he didn't tell you why. All he said to you was ‘He couldn't do this anymore’ and as you protested, he said ‘I don’t love you anymore’.

That was one of the biggest lies he’s ever told, but he didn’t want you to fight his decision, because he knew you would–and even after he told you a lie. You were too shocked to actually understand what he said.

The day of graduation was torture for him, while you plastered on that beautiful smile–doing your best to hide the pain.

Peter huffed wiping his face with his hands trying to wash the memory from his mind. Feeling the lump crawl its way back into his throat.

_

You silently opened and closed your front door–you holding in any noise your body was trying to make.

You wanted to wale, kick and scream, but all you did was let the tears fall down your face. You quickly ran into the kitchen opening up a cabinet to grab your safe haven.

Alcohol.

You open up the bottle with shaky hands and took a long swig, gagging a little after the alcohol went completely down. You breathed in deep again–and took another. Letting the tears stream down your face.

You soon found yourself on the kitchen floor with a half empty bottle, cursing Peter’s name under your breath.

You found yourself lost in memories and good times. Everything that seemed real before that night of graduation. All the promises had seemed lost like they never existed–and all the love in your life seemed to have vanished. You missed his skin on yours, and what it all used to be like before you worked at a shitty office, with shitty people–before you decided your best escape was alcohol, or sitting at a bar with men 10x older than you–sleeping with them to erase the pain.

You felt your body shake as your stomach flopped–knowing the alcohol was finding its way back up.You spent the rest of the night at the kitchen sink–getting rid of anything that was once in your system.

____

When you woke up you were tucked in your bed, a trash can at the edge–just in case you got sick. You rubbed your eyes looking at your phone that was plugged into the charger, reading the time ‘2:16pm’. You slowly got out of your bed, groaning as you did so. You slowly found your way to the refrigerator and chugged on a bottle of water. You rubbed the back of your neck–confused on how you got into your bed until you saw the note.

‘Drink lots of water, and eat some bread, or something. I heard screaming so I came in to check if you were okay, and you were so drunk you didn’t even realize it was me. I’m sorry for everything. I’ll check on you later.

Peter’

You re-read the note at least three times, then ran to your room to get your phone. Calling him. It rang–and then quickly stopped.

“You’re awake.”

“Stop trying to take care of me, or protect me, Peter. I am not yours. Stop coming into my life, stop acting like we weren’t once in love and then you broke it off like we-we were nothing. I’m done with this. I'm done with you. Im done needing someone to protect me. I'm done. I do not need your help. Leave me alone.”

There was silence.

“Y/N.”

“Peter! Good–Bye. For good. Forever.”

And with that you hung up, throwing your phone to the floor.

Maybe you were being hard headed, but all you knew was you didn’t care. You were done being the damsel in stress.

You quickly grabbed your laptop, sitting at your desk–typing in ‘boxing classes.’

You no longer had love in your heart.

The love in your heart was gone.

And so was anything good.

so i actually think im gonna make a lil series out of this! hope yall liked! 

[fly-pow-bye]

Powerpuff Girls 2016 - “Musclecup”

Written by: Haley Mancini

Written & Storyboarded by: Kyle Neswald, Benjamin P. Carow

Directed by: Nick Jennings, Bob Boyle

Buttercup used BULK UP! It wasn't very effective...

The episode starts with a superhero flexing his butt cheeks. Let that set the tone for the rest of the episode.

That aforementioned butt belongs to Totally Not Terry Crews from the old Old Spice commercials, or Abs Man for short, a superhero that loves to advertise his Muscle Maxifier. He's opening up the Briepot Depot, a cheese store, and cuts the "now opening" ribbon with his abdominals. That cheese store ends up being a running gag that doesn't really go anywhere.

Buttercup makes it quite clear that she is a super fan of this character of the week. No real reason in particular, though it's implied that she loves those muscles as she slowly flies across them in an exaggerated pan. She tries to introduce herself in a way that makes her look like a dork.

They introduce themselves as The Powerpuff Girls, Townsville's superheroes. Hey look, they found a use for the hearts after getting rid of the Narrator! Bubbles adds that they are not to be confused with Townsville's Super Gyros. We get an advertisement for those gyros, because we needed a scene where Blossom "noms" a gyro in an off-model way. Much more needed than actual superheroic acts.

Abs Man isn’t swayed by this, and starts to mock them for being so tiny. I will say this is not going to be a total ripoff of Members Only. One will wish this was ripping off Members Only.

Abs Man: (practically bullying these poor little girls) Who are your villains, hmmm? Insects?

It's a good thing Buttercup initially likes this guy; the last time someone Buttercup never met did something similar, Buttercup destroyed an entire Renaissance Fair over it. Buttercup instead politely tries to correct him by saying they have real villains to fight. Before she can talk about that silly monkey with the silly hat, the pink fuzzball that actually cameos in this episode, and that shadow guy that whines about his toys, we get a gnat riding on a giant hairspray can.

Specifically, the Gnat, who proclaims himself to be the Powerpuff Girls’ most notorious arch-nemesis. He even gives a flashback on his last encounter, where he was just a tiny gnat getting sprayed by the Professor. I may have problems with this episode, but this gnat isn't one of them. Sure, he seems to be only here to prove Abs Man correct, but they sure make him ham it up.

Another part of the reason is that Buttercup just swats him away into a airplane that happened to be flying by. After all the Monster Punch, Girls Down scenes, it’s so refreshing to see a Girl Punch, Monster Down instead. Despite her easy victory, Buttercup realizes that Abs Man was right: she is puny. Blossom tries to reassure her and offers her some of that soft cheese, but Buttercup made up her mind. She's going to a gym to become a beefcake, in her own words. And not just any gym...

...JayDeep's Gym Jam! It's very fitting for something that could turn Buttercup into a monstrosity to have the name of one of the people behind that Buttercup muppet shot from the last episode. Don't think this name on the sign is just an one-off case of writer vanity, either.

It’s also the name of this character of the week! The writers sure like to write in their co-workers, and I feel I should just stop there because it's not that bad here and the original did it too. JayDeep asks Buttercup why she wants to be welcomed to the Gym Jam, and Buttercup practically blurts out one of the lessons of this episode.

Buttercup: Don't say peer pressure, don't say peer pressure...PEER PRESSURE! I mean...fitness! Totally fitness.

A week passes by, as told by a title card that says "one week l8r". Is txt talk even relevant in the age of phones with touchscreens? One would think they would know this when they gave the Powerpuff Girls smartphones. Blossom and Bubbles, chalk this up as another episode where two Reboot Puffs are playing the same role, open the refrigerator to find nothing but Muscle Maximizer.

I knew from this scene that I was going to see something horrific. Maybe it won't be that bad?

No, that's not my rating for this episode, that was a representation of my face. Because somebody really wanted it, we get an overly buff and swole Powerpuff Girl, complete with stubby "hands" that make her look like an overly muscled chicken. We even get gratuitous use of photos to show off these muscles, which I won't screenshot because I don't hate you that much. I guess it's supposed to be disgusting, but intentional disgust is still disgust.

Blossom tells her she's taking this too far, but Buttercup assures her that this is what she is now. Blossom tells Buttercup that she doesn't have to look like a superhero to be one, a general lesson the Powerpuff Girls prove by existing, at least in the original. Buttercup just walks away, busting through the door as if the Powerpuff Girls busting through walls wasn't a normal aspect. I guess it isn't in this reboot.

Also not a normal aspect of this reboot, Blossom gets a call from the Mayor, telling her that the Gnat is doing the same evil deed downtown. Bubbles asks if they should get Buttercup, but as the strong independent superheroines that they are, Blossom decides they don't need Buttercup. Well, except for those last six times the most boyish one had to save the two girly ones. I counted.

The Gnat is back, and he's doing the same plan he was trying to do earlier. Of course, he was thwarted by a single Powerpuff Girl, and now there's two of them to take him on. Unfortunately, by the time they get there, Townsville is covered with clouds of hairspray. You would think something would come of this, like a funny hairstyle joke, but it doesn't. It does lead to Blossom and Bubbles getting lost in it, making them targets for the Gnat's other plan.

With his sinister knowledge on where to get giant terrariums and how to lift and drop them, The Gnat drops a giant terrarium on Blossom and Bubbles. As revenge for humans feeding gnats to their pets, he intends to feed the Powerpuff Girls to a pet of his very own: a giant horned frog. Blossom and Bubbles narrowly avoid his tongue and charge towards it to "make this frog croak", but, guess what?

Frog inflate, girls down. Womp, womp. Buttercup easily dispatches monsters, while Blossom and Bubbles are victims. Okay, even in the original, they had trouble with a giant fish balloon monster. Granted, that fish balloon was about 10 times bigger.

I would also ask how these girls can smash through walls, but not through this glass. There's no mention that this is a special superhero-proof terrarium. Maybe they’re afraid of smashing through the glass because they could get stabbed by giant glass shards! Huh, if only there was a way for them to make some sort of giant protective barrier around them. An aura, if you will.

The overly-muscled Buttercup shows up to save those poor little girly ones with her strong muscles, which the Gnat is completely disgusted by. Another reason to like this guy! Buttercup treats this as him being jealous, and tries to fly towards him for another beatdown. Unfortunately, Buttercup falls into a problem. Literally, she falls because can't fly with her overly-large muscles. I shouldn't get into the science of little girls flying, because there isn't one, but I feel like they're just trying to find excuses to make those muscles not work.

Rolling her overly "swole" body, apparently heavier than buildings full of people, to the gym, and she cries out to her idol of the week. The short answer, he doesn't help at all. The long answer is actually pretty clever. Her idol betraying her, she finally realizes she's just not built to be a muscle-woman, but she was good the way she was.

JayDeep, infuriated that Buttercup used his building for selfish purposes but easily forgiving her, offers a new "fitness" plan with his brother Sundeep. He represents the "Jam" portion of the Gym Jam, and they meant the preserves. Not the ''Come on and slam! And welcome to the jam!'' kind.

He’s going to try to make Buttercup lose all of that muscle mass by making her lazy. We get a workout montage showing some sort of workout equipment, which immediately pans to Sundeep and the overgrown chicken sitting down and watching television. How does this new way of working out help out Buttercup? Well, I'm sure somebody was happy to see this.

Buttercup: Nooow I can saaaave my siiiisteeeeers! (slumps)

Overly large muscles, inflation, and now weight gain. I guess they realized this reboot wouldn’t be popular enough for that kind of “special interest” art, so they decided to do it themselves.

JayDeep, the character, not the storyboarder, is insulted by this conversion of muscle fat to regular fat, and forces Buttercup to do some cardio. Persumably, with no weight lifting. Meanwhile, how are Blossom and Bubbles doing?

Ah, yes, the classic "if only Buttercup can save us" scene! I would say they took the "Buttercup, she's the toughest fighter" line too seriously if they were still using that ending theme song. Maybe it's a good thing Bis has nothing to do with this. This reboot doesn't deserve them.

Buttercup shows up, all back to normal outside of a spray tan and some flabby arms. She is a superheroine, maybe her metabolism is super, too. Gnat gets punched into the aquarium’s walls, spurting out the closest thing to blood they ever shown outside of those unicorn hearts in The Last Donnycorn. Buttercup then lifts the terrarium to let her sisters out, and The Gnat gets eaten by his own frog in an ironic death. Why couldn't Blossom and Bubbles lift it from the inside? Pineapples.

The episode ends with Buttercup opening her mouth super wide and eating Blossom and Bubbles whole. With the way this episode went, would it even be surprising if that wasn't a total lie?

Does the title fit?

The title promised us Buttercup with muscles, and it gave us that.

How does it stack up?

It’s a bad idea done as well as they could. I said the same about Wrinklegruff Gals, but it's more true here. I certainly want to see more of The Gnat, and I can't exactly say they were not creative. The characters of the week aren't too horrible, either.

However, outside of the muscles, this is just another "Buttercup does something wrong, the other Powerpuff Girls get into trouble, and Buttercup has to learn the lesson to save them" episode. The reboot has done far better episodes with that concept, and they should have done something new instead. It's not the worst, but it's no Man Up 2.

Next week, it's a special Father's Day episode about the Professor. Hopefully it's more Fashion Forward and The Big Sleep than any of his other major appearances.

← The Tell-Tale Schedule-Bot ☆ Take Your Kids to Dooms Day →

[anavoliselenu]

Heart of stone chapter 12

There was a stabbing pain that pierced through my right eye. I tried to blink to rid myself of it, only to find myself blinded by the bright sunlight coming through the blinds of my bedroom window. I brought my hands up to my head and squeezed my temples. I moved to sit up and felt my stomach pitch. I felt like I had been run over by a bus. I slowly opened my eyes and allowed them to adjust to the light.

 When my vision finally came into focus, I remembered the amount of wine that I had consumed the night before.

 I’m such an idiot – why did I drink so much?

 I glanced over at my nightstand clock to check the time and saw a bottle of aspirin and a note propped up by a mug. I groaned out loud as the rest of the memories from the previous night came flooding back.

 Please, let it be just a dream.

 A nightmare was probably more accurate. But I knew that was it neither as I reached over for the note on the nightstand.

   Take two aspirin and drink this.

 There is more in your refrigerator if you need it.

 Dry toast will help you, too. No coffee – it will make you feel worse and I want you better for later. Looking forward to tonight.

 Affectionately,

 The Devil on Your Shoulder

   “Oh, no!” I said to myself, and threw myself back onto the pillows. The action didn’t exactly help the rolling in my stomach, but nothing could be more terrible than the mortification I felt at that moment. I could only imagine what he thought of me.

 Did I have to tell him about that? The angel and the devil? The stupid, childlike subconscious that had been ruling me lately?

 I couldn’t think of a time when I’ve ever felt more foolish in my life.

 I looked over at the mug on the nightstand and peered inside at its contents. It was an amber colored liquid with a lemon floating in it. I picked up the mug and took a whiff of the concoction. It smelled like herbal tea. I slowly took a hesitant sip and had to force back a gag at the sickly sweet taste.

 What the hell is this stuff?

 It certainly wasn’t anything that I kept in the house.

 However, after a moment, my parched taste buds recognized that it was in fact something from my kitchen. It was brewed chamomile tea with a ridiculous amount of honey. The lemon was probably to help me detox. Having finally realized what I was drinking, I greedily threw back the entire mug, my mouth and body desperately screaming to be hydrated.

 Surprisingly, my rolling stomach settled after only a few moments, allowing me the strength to climb out of bed. I grabbed the bottle of aspirin and went to the kitchen to get more of Justin’s miracle elixir.

 When I entered the kitchen, I found a loaf of bread waiting for me on the counter.

 Dry toast.

 Justin must have left the bread out for me. And, as promised, there was more tea waiting for me in the refrigerator. I smiled at his thoughtfulness, but his actions made me feel even more ridiculous.

 I thought about how to handle the events of last night, as I put two pieces of bread in the toaster. My brain felt fuzzy and putting my thoughts in order was a struggle.

 I owe him an apology for sure, but I definitely don’t want to call him.

 There was no way I would be able to have an actual conversation with Justin after my irresponsible drunken behavior. After the way that I had acted last night, I was sure that he’d want to cancel our plans for this evening, however tentative they may have been. I had to come up with a way to give him an out, as he was probably just trying to be nice in his note.

 I needed to be realistic.

 Why would the sophisticated Justin Stone want anything to do with a boozing twit like me?

 I wanted to just send him a text, but that seemed too impersonal for some reason. Then I remembered that he had programmed his email address into my phone.

 Maybe an email would be better.

 In an email, I could say a bit more, and maybe even make a joke about my embarrassing angel and devil revelation. Then I could give him the opportunity to bow out gracefully.

 The bread popped from the toaster, and the smell of it provoked a hungry growl from my stomach. Skipping the butter as Justin had suggested, I placed the dry toast on a plate and went back to my room. Once there, I sat at my desk and fired up the laptop. On the screen was the agreement that I had written up the night before.

 Probably no need for that now.

 But I saved the document just in case. Once it was saved, I archived the document into a folder and exited out of the screen to open my inbox.

     TO: Justin Stone

 FROM: Selena Cole

 SUBJECT: My Apologies

   To The Devil On My Shoulder,

   Thank you for taking care of me last night, but I must apologize for being such a lush. I am not in the habit of losing self-control the way that I did and I hope that you do not use last night as a reflection of my true character. But, either way, after my behavior, I would completely understand it if you wanted to cancel our plans for this evening.

   Sincerely,

 Selena Cole

     I thought my words were apologetic and tactful all at the same time. I gave him the chance to withdraw his invitation, without sounding too pathetic.

 Perfect.

 Pleased with my email, I hit the send button.

 However, after I clicked the key to send my apology into the world of cyber communications, a wave of sadness came over me. I felt like I was saying good-bye in a strange way. Justin had cracked open a door that I had managed to keep closed for so long, and it pained me to think that I would have to close it again.

 What if he decides to take me up on my offer and cancel our plans for tonight?

 For the first time in years, I had left myself vulnerable and I was afraid of the rejection.

 Maybe I shouldn’t have given him such an easy out.

 After about ten minutes had passed, my computer pinged, signaling the arrival of a new email. It was from Justin. I eagerly opened the incoming message.

     TO: Selena Cole

 FROM: Justin Stone

 SUBJECT: No Apologies Needed

   To My Angel,

   No worries. It happens to the best of us. As for your behavior, I must admit that I rather enjoyed your loose tongue. You gave me a small insight as to what you are really thinking, something that I find myself struggling with frequently.

   I am looking forward to our evening together. Do not consider canceling. I’ll be waiting in anticipation until I can see you again.

   Until Later,

 Your Anxious Devil

     I smiled to myself after I read his response. It looked like I was about to have a very busy day.

     ****

     I knew that I couldn’t go to Justin’s tonight without a lick of knowledge about BDSM. He was insistent that I know what I was getting into. And if I was honest with myself, I knew practically nothing. Research was key to a better understanding. I had felt very naïve last night, more times than I cared to admit. I needed to broaden my horizons, expand on my awareness – if for no other reason than to protect myself. This was an unknown world to me, but one that I wanted to explore. Walking into it blind would be extremely foolish.

 I made myself comfortable in sweats and a T-shirt, and then sprawled out on my bed with my laptop. It was time to get an education.

 My initial search results of BDSM turned up descriptive online encyclopedia definitions and various shopping pages.

 Boring.

 I wasn’t looking to shop for vibrators and leather outfits, and I certainly wasn’t interested in clinical definitions.

 Hard limits, soft limits, safe words, blah, blah, blah.

 I wasn’t even sure what all of it meant.

 So what is it that I’m looking for?

 I bit my lower lip, trying to decide on what exactly I wanted to find out. I thought perhaps something with pictures would give me more to go off of. I clicked on the images tab.

 Holy fuck!

 The extreme images that filled the screen were nothing like what had happened in Justin’s penthouse last night. Even his crazy insinuations would never have led me to envision the things that I was viewing. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw on the screen.

 The pictures were borderline frightening, and some were out right disgusting. Women brutally tied up and caged, with weird contraptions hooked up to their female parts. It looked painful, and a lot of it looked dangerous.

 Is this what Justin wants?

 I thought that I had at least a mild understanding of what he wanted, but now I wasn’t so sure. My eyes grew wide and I felt my heart begin to pound inside my chest as I tried to decipher what the pictures were portraying.

 A Nine Inch Nails song began to sound in my head and I slammed the laptop closed. I couldn’t imagine how any sane person would get off from being bruised, burned, or poked at with needles. To me, there was nothing sexual about the sadistic images that I had just seen. They were beyond extreme, for obvious reasons. I could not believe that was what Justin wanted.

 Wait…what was it that I was reading about hard limits?

 I hesitantly opened the lid for the laptop and went back to the link that I had initially considered boring.

 At least that page won’t give me nightmares for the rest of my life.

 I read the dry and very long explanations about the history and culture of the dominant and the submissive.

 There has to be something better that this!

 It was impossible to believe that there wasn’t just a basic explanation available. After reading for more than an hour, I still felt like I knew nothing.

 I finally found a page of S&M resources and began scrolling through the articles. The more I read, the more I found that kinky play was actually very normal. But more importantly, I learned of the different levels of BDSM.

 Most people’s kinks were fairly mild, practicing only my initial ideas of BDSM. A few spanks and some role-playing. Yet, there were other people who were more extreme – like the scary pictures I just saw. I just couldn’t figure out if there was a middle ground in it all.

 This shit is way too complicated.

 I could research all day and into the night and still not really understand it. There was only one thing I was certain of – Justin had some serious explaining to do.

I pressed the button for the intercom on my desk, ending the call with George Canterwell. Leaning back in my chair, I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck. It was shaping up to be a long week, and it had barely even started.

 Stone Enterprise had been purchasing properties from Canterwell for a couple of years. Our transactions had been easy at first, as he was pulling up stakes, retiring and traveling the world. He wanted to be done with it all, and scooping up his properties for a cheap price had been simple. But old age, and his new young wife, had made him a greedy bastard. And while I could appreciate his ruthlessness, I wasn’t willing to pay more than market value for what he had to offer. It was time to cut ties with the old man and move on.

 The intercom buzzed and I groaned.

 Laura better not tell me that it’s Canterwell calling back…

 “Yes,” I clipped into the speaker.

 “Mr. Stone, Kimberly Melbourne is here to see you,” Laura informed me.

 Good.

 My appointment was twenty minutes early, but would be a welcomed change of pace after a stressful morning.

 “Tell her that I’ll be right out. Also, I’m going to send over some info regarding a property in Westchester. I need you to set a meeting time with the property agent. I’d like to negotiate a selling price.”

 “Yes, sir. I’ll have the date and time uploaded to your calendar within the hour.”

 “Thank you, Laura.” I quickly sent her the link that contained the information about the listing. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the land as of yet, but I liked what I saw. It would be a great investment if I could obtain it for the right price.

 Once the computer gave the swooshing sound that signaled the email was sent, I got up from my seat behind the desk, threw on a navy sport coat, and made my way out of the office.

 I found Kimberly Melbourne sitting on the sofa in the waiting area, picking invisible pieces of lint off of her pricy business suit. Her hair was pulled tight into a severe twist that matched her perfectionist personality.

 “Kimberly,” I greeted when I approached her. The design engineer looked up at the sound of my voice and stood to extend her hand for me to shake.

 “Mr. Stone,” she nodded in return. I took hold of her outstretched hand. Her grip was firm. No nonsense. It was why I appreciated her so much. She was confident, efficient. And she worked fast.

 “Thank you for taking on this project at such short notice. I know how busy you are, but my new marketing director will begin her employment sooner than I had anticipated. I would like her space completed before she starts.”

 “Oh, don’t even think twice about it,” she brushed off with a wave of her manicured hand. “It’s been a while since you’ve sought my expertise. When you called, I was more than happy to accommodate.”

 And I’m sure that the sum I offered had you dropping your other clients to be here.

 However she managed to juggle her schedule was no real concern to me. What mattered was that she was here, and that Selena’s office would be completed before Monday.

 “I appreciate that. Now, if you’ll follow me this way, I have a large space that I want you to take a look at. The thirty-seventh floor vacated about six months ago, and the old tenants left a bit of a mess. Rather than clean it up, I had the floor gutted until I could decide what to do with it. That being said, you’ll have a fairly clean slate to work with.”

 Together, we headed to the elevator and began the decent down to the floor that would soon house the marketing division of Stone Enterprise.

 When the doors opened, a dusty construction site was revealed. Plastic sheets hung from the ceiling, blocking off certain areas where work was already underway. The loud vibrations of machine sanders could be heard from various points of the floor.

 “I didn’t realize you had already begun work, Mr. Stone,” Kimberly said, seeming somewhat surprised by the mess before us.

 “Only the walls, Kimberly. I wasn’t kidding when I said I had the floor gutted. I had my construction engineer get started on the basic drywall work, since that takes some time. Rooms still need to be divided, flooring has to be picked out, paint, the works.”

 “And that’s where I come in,” she finished with a smile. “You’ve given me a blank canvas, Mr. Stone. I’m looking forward to the design.”

 “Before you leave today, I’ll get you in touch with all parties needed for the job. Very little will be brought over from the existing offices. I’ve already instructed Gavin, my computer technician, to purchase the workstations that will be needed. And as for the blank canvas, you’ll also have a blank check. My accountant will see to it that you have everything you need on this project.”

 She didn’t even flinch at that, having worked for me in the past.

 “Perfect. Any thoughts on what your Marketing Director might like?”

 “Her name is Selena Cole. And honestly, I don’t know much about her décor preferences,” I said with a frown. “She loves music. I think its safe to assume that she will use it often in her radio or television advertising strategies. Whatever you decide, her office needs to incorporate a high end sound system at the very least.”

 “That will be easy enough. What about the other areas of the floor? Do you think Miss Cole would want the space divided up into separate office spaces? Or perhaps cubicles?”

 “No cubicles. I detest them,” I told her.

 “I didn’t think so, but I thought I’d ask just in case. Since this floor will be for marketing, separate offices will most likely work out better. They will allow people to think creatively, without any interruptions from the person at the next desk over.”

 “My thoughts exactly,” I agreed. Kimberly placed a finger on her chin and looked around contemplatively.

 “Any preference on room sizes?”

 “Miss Cole’s office should be spacious. You can’t see them from here due to the plastic that’s hanging, but there are large windows at the far end of the floor. Incorporate those in her personal space. She’ll need a sizable conference room of sorts, a place for meetings and design planning. As for the other areas, I think eight to ten offices should be sufficient enough. You’ll have to get with Josh Swanson on the space layout. He’s here somewhere…” I trailed off, scanning the floor for the whereabouts of the construction engineer.

 As if on cue, Josh came out from behind a hanging plastic sheet, his dark hair, shoulders, and arms completely covered with drywall dust. He removed a pair of safety glasses from his face, giving him a raccoon-like appearance. He looked surprised to see us standing there.

 “Mr. Stone, I didn’t realize you were here. You’ll have to pardon my appearance,” he joked casually, attempting to remove some of the dust that covered him. “What can I do for you sir?”

 “Josh, I’d like you to meet Kimberly Melborne. She will be the designer on the project. Kimberly, this is Josh Swanson, my construction engineer.”

 “It’s nice to meet you ma’am,” Josh told her with a nod. “I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, I’m full of dust and drywall mud.”

 “That’s okay! You can keep the mud to yourself,” Kimberly said with an easy laugh.

 “We just started work. So far, we’ve managed to get the drywall up and seamed. We’re just finishing up with the sanding today.”

 “You’ve made great time, Josh. I’m happy with the progress,” I appreciated. “From this point forward, you can take direction from Kimberly. I trust her judgment. Whatever she wants, build it.”

 “I have a tight time frame to work with. I promise not to come up with anything too extravagant,” Kimberly assured him.

 “Do you want to take a look around? I can show you what we’ve done so far?” Josh asked us.

 “Absolutely. I want to get a good look at the space that I have to work with, as well as take some measurements,” Kimberly said. She reached into her oversized shoulder bag and pulled out a tape measure and a pad of paper.

 “The two of you can go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you momentarily,” I told them.

 Once they had stepped away, pulled out my cell to call Selena and ask her about any specifications that she might have for the office. I dialed her number, but paused before hitting the send button.

 If I called her, she would know what I was doing. As of right now, she had no idea that I was giving her an entire floor in my building. She didn’t know that she would have her own domain, her own world within mine, and full access to every convenience Cornerstone Tower had to offer. I wanted her to be surprised.

 Deciding to keep her out of the loop for a little while longer, I pocketed the phone rather than calling her. I looked over to where Kimberly and Josh were standing. Kimberly was pointing to something on the ceiling.

 What would Krsytina want in a workspace?

 I thought about Selena’s apartment as I made my over to the engineers. Her home wasn’t flashy, the colors more muted. Her bedroom was much of the same, only slightly more eclectic, with its Maya Angelou quotes and lily printed bed comforter. Her space was soft. Feminine.

 “Josh and I were talking, and we thought about opening up the ceiling. Exposing the ducts will give the floor a more industrial and modern –,” Kimberly started when I reached them.

 “No, nothing too trendy,” I interrupted.

 “Oh, um…okay,” Kimberly said, glancing at Josh.

 But neither of them knew Selena like I did, even if my knowledge was limited. She had a conventional way about her. She would want her office to be warm and inviting, not looking like a busted open industrialized warehouse. It would be too cold for her tastes.

 “Stick with traditional. Earth tones will be best,” I advised.

 “I can work with that. Once we figure out the floor plan, I’ll collect some paint chips, and then Josh and I will go through them together to decide what color is going where.”

 “And lily’s,” I added as an afterthought. “Miss Cole likes lily’s.”

 They both took on a curious look, but neither of them asked how I knew that piece of information. They knew better than to question me.

 “Music, earth tones, and lily’s. I’m sure I can find a way to tie it all together,” Kimberly said confidently.

 Josh looked skeptical, but I paid him no mind. Kimberly was the best in her field. She had twenty years of experience, and five of them were spent working for me. I knew she would find a way to incorporate my wishes into a design that would flow seamlessly.

 “I don’t care how you do it, as long as it’s done right.”

     ****

     I left Kimberly and Josh to tackle their new project and headed back to my office. Once I was there, I went through the last few remaining items in my calendar. I sent off an email to my accountant with an update on the construction, and I responded to a few others that needed my attention.

 I noticed that Laura had scheduled an appointment with the selling agent in Westchester, and I was pleased to see the notes that she had included in the calendar. Laura was the best PA that I’ve had in my employment to date. Not only was she efficient, but she also had a knack for obtaining useful information. Apparently, the seller was anxious to move on the property.

 Back taxes.

 That would make negotiations all that much easier. I made a mental note to give Laura a raise.

 A call to Justine was the last order of business. I almost dreaded it, only because I knew she was probably waiting for an update on the Charlie situation. However, as much as I wished that she’d let it go and let me handle things, a call to her was a necessity today. We needed to discuss the charity dinner that would take place in a few weeks.

 Justine was the driving force behind the fundraising efforts for The Stoneworks Foundation, and I wanted to check on the progress of the largest annual fundraiser that the foundation hosted. The success of this dinner would ensure that Stone’s Hope Woman’s Shelter would open on time.

 I dialed her cell number and waited for her to answer.

 “Hey, Justine. It’s me,” I said once she picked up.

 “I’m so glad you called. I don’t know what you did, Justin, but Charlie hasn’t called or text in the past twenty-four hours,” she launched in immediately, just as I knew she would.

 “I told you that I’d take care of it, and I did.”

 “Can I ask? What did you do?”

 “We got him to sign off on a gag order, or else face an extortion charge. It was a piece of cake. Don’t worry about it. The contract is air tight and the secret is safe.”

 “I know that you’re only doing this for me. I’m so sorry,” she said regretfully. “I didn’t want to have to involve you. You don’t know how much it means to me.”

 I leaned back in my chair and sighed.

 “Yeah, well…if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have to worry about the media. Besides, I don’t want a media fiasco any more than you do. Have you talked with Suzanne?”

 “Yes. She knows the gist of what’s going on. I had hoped we could meet for lunch today, but she was tied up at work. We planned a spa day for later in the week. I’ll fill her in more then.”

 “Glad to hear. How is the planning going for the Stone’s Hope fundraiser?”

 “Oh, that’s another thing I’ve been worried about! Charlie knows about the amount of work that goes into this event. It would be just like him to ruin it,” she said, voice full of scorn. “He gets off on causing a scene. I could just see him running his mouth the day of.”

 “So, what’s the status on the dinner?” I asked her again, reeling her back in from her rant.

 “Oh, sorry. Yes. Actually, things are going smoothly. The tickets are almost all sold. We have some big donors stepping up with large ticket items for the silent auction. Florist is all set and the menu has been decided. I only need to meet with the band and discuss their fee.”

 “If you think they’re good, pay them whatever they want. That will be my donation from Stone Enterprise.”

 “We’ll see. I have yet to actually hear them play myself. If I don’t like how they sound, I’m going with the band that was used at last year’s Chamber of Commerce Ball. I already have them lined up anyway, but I thought I’d check out someone different than the usual. Once I decide who I’m going with, we can discuss who is paying.”

 I was happy to hear that she had everything under control. I was right to appoint her as Head of Relations and Fundraising for the Stoneworks Foundation. Justine was better when she had a focus, a cause that she could throw herself into. Stone’s Hope was a perfect fit for her.

 “It sounds like you have a good handle on things. I gotta run now, Justine. But let me know about the band either way.”

 “Will do. And Justin…thanks again for Charlie.”

 “I got your back. Always,” I said earnestly. Justine was like a fragile bird with a broken wing. It was my duty to be strong for her, to get her through whatever shit was thrown at her. I had to break the endless cycle that was her life – that was our lives. “I’ll talk to you later, Justine.”

 I ended the call and eyed the clock. It was a good day – a productive one, but the time had gotten away from me and I still had a few stops to make before seeing Selena tonight.

 Satisfied that I was leaving everything in good order until tomorrow, I dialed Hale.

 “Calling it quits for the day, boss?” he asked upon answering.

 “You got it. Bring the car around. Selena is coming by tonight and I have a few errands to make before I send you to get her.”

 The silence on the other end of the line at the mention of Selena ticked me off. I hung up, rather than waiting to hear what Hale might have said.

 I could admit that a woman at my place two nights in a row was a rarity for me. But Hale didn’t know how bored I had become as of late. I was tired of the predictable woman. They were mundane. Simple to figure out and easily influenced. Selena was everything but those things.

 I locked the desk drawers and then turned to power off the computer. Before I hit the shut down key, I reread the emails between Selena and myself from earlier in the day.

 My Angel.

 Selena had understandably been embarrassed, but there was no need for her to try to push me away.

 Again.

 I wouldn’t allow it to happen anymore. It was time to break through her defense mechanisms and tame the firecracker that she was. However, the path ahead was going to get rough, for I knew that Selena wouldn’t go down without a fight.