#but now my heartrate is high even while sleeping???

[semiotomatics]

does anyone else find heart palpitations just. extremely unpleasant? like i know theyre not ~bad or anything but i still Hate having them

[creepswrites]

Hi there! I just recently discovered your page but I already love your writing style! Can I request a oneshot with poly Sinclair brothers (either just Bo and Vincent or all three, whichever you like better) and gn reader? Maybe the reader usually doesn't get involved when people come to Ambrose, and just stays at the house while the boys do their thing, but this time things get a bit out of control and they have to step in to help? Like prevent one of the victims from getting away or one of the boys from getting hurt?

Feel free to ignore this though, no pressure. Have a nice day! 😊

omg hiii i see you in the comments on a lot of my posts!! i'm so glad you like my writing, you're very sweet :) i loooove writing the Sinclair boys so i hope you enjoy!! sorry this took so long, lots of things kept popping up in my life

SINCLAIR BROTHERS x GN!READER (they/them)

SUMMARY: "There are people! A-A truck! Headin' towards town! They- They have guns, and, and!" Words spilled out of your mouth and you felt your heartrate skyrocketing. The idea of anything bad happening to Bo and Vincent just made you feel...

WARNING: graphic death/violence

Living in Ambrose had not been exactly your choice.

Bo had found you and a few of your friends on the side of the road and Vincent had convinced him to let him "keep" you once they had killed your friends. Not as a wax figure but as a real, living person. At first you'd kept to yourself, staying in the workshop to avoid Bo's anger and pretended you didn't hear the screams. You'd turn your back to Vincent when he worked, sitting and sobbing in the corner of the workshop with your hands over your ears to block out the sound of screams.

Now? It was perfectly normal to you.

"Hey Sweetpea!" Lester called to you, snapping you back to the present. Right, you were helping Lester this morning. Bo had tried to keep you inside to clean the house but the youngest Sinclair had begged to have you help him collect roadkill.

You liked Lester. He'd been sweet with you since the moment you'd arrived and, despite Bo and Vincent's constant arguments on the topic, you'd started a relationship with Lester before either of them. The two of you had just clicked and you'd been attached at the hip ever since. He was big on physical affection and would often make you little charms to hang in your bedroom - you had your own room, something you'd put your foot down after Bo had pitched the idea you just ocellate between sleeping in all their rooms. You wanted your own space.

Giving you choices wasn't always Bo's go-to. He'd been the toughest to wear down, always high-strung and he didn't exactly have a great role model as to what a good partner should be. Your relationship with Bo always felt rocky and unsteady. But he was sweet in his own way. He was terribly possessive of you - often to the detriment of everyone in the house - and wasn't afraid to flaunt you in front of guests. It always made your face flush hot when he did.

Vincent was the complete opposite. Shy and quiet, even after he'd insisted on you staying with them. He never tried to push you to do anything and always expressed his gratitude even for something as simple as doing the dishes. He liked to spend time with you, even if you were doing separate tasks. Vincent made you little wax figurines for your room - no people statues, you'd told him one afternoon - and they sat proudly on your windowsill beside a deer skull Lester had got you.

The term "dating" didn't really fall on any one particular brother. You were sort of "dating" all of them, in your own way. They knew this, you'd all talked about it, but it was still a relatively new shift in the dynamic.

"Gosh, you're awfully far away, huh?" Lester said with a warm chuckle and you startled a bit. He was much closer up now, dirt smudged on his cheeks and work gloves that he was careful not to touch you with.

"Sorry, yeah, must be." You trailed off, not meeting his eyes.

He tilted his head curiously and raised an eyebrow. "Good things?"

You hummed approval and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, relishing in the way he blushed. "Thinkin' 'bout you, if you can believe it."

Lester barked out a laugh. "Sometimes it still ain't feel real, Sweetpea. Flattered though, 'm always thinkin' 'bout you. But you know that."

The evening was calm, a beautiful pink-purple sunset and a cool breeze to offset the exhausting heat of the day. Cleaning the roads wasn't exactly your idea of a fun time but it beat cleaning the house for the fifth time in the past two weeks. The three weren't exactly the cleanest people but even they weren't that bad. Besides, you knew that some new "guests" were going to be coming to town in the next day or two and you wanted some time outside the town before Bo cracked down on you.

Sometimes it felt like he still didn't trust you.

You were climbing back into the truck with Lester when you both heard gunshots coming from down the road. "The hell?" He mumbled, squinting as he tried to get a good view of what was going on. "Are they headin' this way?"

A large truck was speeding towards you, bright headlights the only indication of where it was. The headlights were getting closer and you could hear people shouting as the truck picked up speed.

They were trying to hit you two.

You grabbed Lester's arm and yanked him off the road, the two of you falling over into the grass with the force of it. The people in the truck cheered and mocked you as they passed by, flinging an empty beer can at you and soaking through your shirt. It stunk but you were just glad it wasn't a glass bottle.

"Shit- Are you okay?!" Lester sat up with a wince as he rubbed his arm. You two hadn't landed gracefully, you were just happy he wasn't really hurt. "Jesus, Sweetpea, did they throw a-?"

"They're headin' towards Ambrose." You gasped, watching the blinding red taillights disappear down the road. "Bo and Vinny, they don't-!"

You both shot into action, scrambling to your feet and tossing your gloves in the back of the truck with the carcasses. It didn't matter, all that mattered was warning the twins. You winced at the stink of beer as you reached into your pocket to pull out your cell phone. It was old, something Bo stole from one of his many victims, and you only ever really used it to call Lester if you needed something at the store.

But you punched in Bo's phone number despite shaking fingers as you and Lester got in the truck. You took off after the truck, Lester's anxious fingers drumming on the wheel as you held the phone to your ear.

It felt like an eternity in between each thrum of the dial tone.

Bo picked up after the third ring.

"Hey, what's goin'-"

You cut him off. "There are people! A-A truck! Headin' towards town! They- They have guns, and, and!" Words spilled out of your mouth and you felt your heartrate skyrocketing. The idea of anything bad happening to Bo and Vincent just made you feel...

"Shit, fuck, didja see how many?"

"No! I- They sped right past, they, uh, they threw beer at me and-"

You could hear the sound of what must've been a wrench clanging to the floor. So he was in the autoshop. Okay. At least he wasn't far. "Like hell they did, I'll kick their asses when they get here!"

You swallowed around a dry throat and a tearless sob wracked your body. "Guns! They have guns, Bo."

"So do I." And he hung up before you could say anything else.

Lester could tell you were scared, reaching gingerly across the center console to over you his hand. You took it and squeezed tight, trying to hold in your anxiety and fear. "Shh, hey, it's alrigh' Sweetpea. We've done this all before, Bo'll be fine."

You just nodded, swallowing back the feeling that this felt different. More dangerous.

You wanted your boys to come out of this okay...

The truck was parked outside the entrance to town and you felt your heart sink at the sight. Lester hadn't even come to a complete stop before you were out the door and grabbing the old rusty shovel from the back of the truck. Usually, you'd never even dream of touching that thing without gloves on.

Now, you didn't even care.

You started your march towards the house, shovel tight in your hands and Lester's footsteps close behind. He must've grabbed his shotgun from the backseat since you heard him reload it. "Stay close, Sweetpea. Ain't no tellin' what those folks'll do."

"Okay," you mumbled, slowing only enough for him to catch up.

Screaming could be heard from inside the house. You and Lester shared a look before you both took off running. The front door was wide open and a dead body lay sprawled out on the porch, blood leaking from the back of it's head. You didn't even give it thought as you pushed inside.

Some guy was loading up his shotgun as Bo held a knife dangerously close to the throat of some girl, one arm around her squirming body as he shouted at the guy to drop the gun. The girl was begging the man not to shoot and you locked eyes with her for a brief, fleeting second.

Then you descended upon the man with ferocity you didn't even know you had. You slammed the shovel into the back of his head and sent him tumbling to the floor but you didn't let up. You swung over and over, the floor splattering with blood as you began to chip away at his flesh and skull. Bits of bone and brain began to splatter across the hardwood floor and you felt tears rolling down your cheeks.

With a final swing, you lodged the shovel into the guys head, his dead eyes lolling at nothing.

Both you and the girl were screaming and crying.

You fell to your knees with a heavy thud, sobbing openly over the dead body. You'd never had to kill anyone before, the brothers never made you, and you felt horrified with how angry you were. How afraid you'd felt at the idea of the man firing on Bo.

And, more importantly, how you didn't even regret killing him.

"Sh, shhh, it's okay," Lester's words washed over you as he wrapped an arm around your back. You sobbed into his chest as he rubbed your back, trying to soothe as best he could. Your ears were ringing and everything felt as though it were underwater.

Footsteps bounded up the stairs and you looked up to see Vincent. He was kneeling between you and the body, looking you over as though expecting to find injuries.

When Vincent helped you stand up, you could finally process the rest of the house.

The place was in shambles, the pool table flipped over as some poor attempt at cover and a few picture frames had fallen and broken. Glass scattered across the rug and a few more bodies littered the downstairs. Bo must've shot most of them and Vincent may have chased down the others.

You felt silly, in retrospect. Obviously they could handle themselves. But you'd just felt so scared. There'd never been an ambush before, nothing like this. Or, at least, not while you'd been living there.

Vincent and Lester helped you stand, your feet crunching in glass. Without hesitation, you slumped forwards and wrapped your arms around Vincent in a tight hug, hiding away your face as you tried to steady your breathing. His fingers traced gentle patterns on the back of your shirt that helped to steady you.

Bo had knocked the girl out, her limp body laying across the floor inelegantly. You suspected you'd see a polaroid or two of her on Bo's basement walls in the next few days, when he'd had his fun torturing her.

"Hey, doll," Bo's voice was close and you lifted your eyes to see him. He looked concerned but there was pride there. "Got 'em real good, huh?"

You gave a glance down at the man with a shovel lodged in his head and shrugged. "I was... worried."

"Well, shit, if that's what you do when yer worried, remind me to never miss yer calls." Lester huffed with a playful grin. Vincent grabbed his hat and smacked him with it, making the younger brother laugh.

Bo rolled his eyes and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Awful sweet of ya to come protect us, doll." He said as Vincent and Lester bickered. "I do appreciate it."

You hugged him and felt yourself finally relax. The bickering, the soft affection, everything seemed to be back to normal. Perfect.

Though it seems like you'll need to be cleaning the house again this week...

[elliewiltarwyn]

ellie's journal: Second Astral Moon, 17th Sun

My mind is still reeling, so I brook no criticism if this seems a little discombobulated.

As of today, I’m now a member of a secret organization known as the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Normally I’d be suspicious of such underground movements; indeed, I’ve learned too well to always be nurturing such suspicions of everyone around me.

Yet when I learned that in this organization dwell others with the “gift”… that is, others who have been having visions of falling stars and an enormous crystal that speaks to them… I must admit my heart skipped a beat. The leader—she bears the title of Antecedent, and her name is Minfilia Warde—made it quite clear this was an invitation, not a conscription, yet how could I not take her up on that? It feels like an even clearer version of the path Raya-O laid out for me a few moons ago: a path that has already seen me defend Gridania and the Guardian Tree from the Ixali and strange black-masked mages. I’d kick myself forever if I didn’t walk this road as far as I can, to see what lies at the end of it and beyond.

Minfilia seems earnest enough, mayhaps too much, but it’s endearing… though I’m unsure if I am blinded by the way my heartrate is already increasing, my cheeks already reddening, whenever she looks upon me. Gods, I’m too easy a mark for pretty women; woe betide me the moment I come across one with ill intentions again.

Speaking of intentions, I was not the only new Scion recruit; there were two other adventurers beside me who even now are sleeping in bunks on the far side of these quarters. I would not have noted them much… except for the fact that our paths before converging here in this secret headquarters were uncannily similar: all of us recently rescued an Eorzean city-state from primal-tempered threats, followed by a triumphant confrontation with a fearsome black-masked mage — all the while experiencing these visions. It’s too easy—and too early—to say my fate is tied to theirs already… but I have to admit it’s one of the more intriguing ways I’ve made friends.

Well. I say friends… The miqo’te is nice enough: bubbly, enthusiastic, and cheerful. Lilyana is her name, and she claims to be an alumnus of the secret guild of rogues that take up residence in Limsa Lominsa. ‘Tis possible, especially since I haven’t been there in six years, and I’m unaware of how things may have changed or even what seedier elements laid underneath the surface of my “dear” home turf. I just wouldn’t expect someone like her to be a rogue; albeit, ever since our induction she has been juggling and twirling one of her knives in a highly skilled manner, without once cutting herself. Her disposition is sweet, and if she in fact is capable of defending herself—all the better.

The other adventurer is the primary source of my hesitance to claim “friends” just yet. She is an armored hyur with naval blue hair, trained at the Gladiators’ Guild in Ul’dah by the name of Mia Longhart. She is practically Lilyana’s opposite: looking every bit the honorable gladiator but with a begrudging personality that has, quite frankly, been off-putting to experience. She sniffed out my role in the siege of the Guardian Tree and looked too satisfied in having done so, and she’s been abrupt and curt ever since. I’m sure I don’t know what I’ve done to earn her ire—well. Okay. I did retaliate by tying her to a rumor I heard this morning as I departed the Quicksand, of a blue-haired gladiator who saved the sultana. (“Her crown,” Longhart had corrected as she rolled her eyes. Details.) Surely that isn’t enough to warrant this chill from her? My skin crawls whenever she looks at me, and it always feels like she’s sizing me up when she does. I really don’t appreciate it.

Admittedly, we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I suppose we’ll see if that changes: Minfilia said she will have our first assignment prepared by the morrow. Lots of high-minded talk about transcending the realm’s boundaries; it’ll be interesting to see how that takes shape.

It’ll be less fun if Longhart doesn’t stop shooting me suspicious glares from her bunk. Don’t think I don’t see you.

[salt-baby]

#please tell me anything you may know about propranalol bc i've been on it for a year for tachycardia #that they can't find the reason for - and recently it's either getting worse or the dosage isn't strong enough anymore #they want to put me on metoprolol but the side effects listed are ... not appealing #and the fact you can't just stop taking it scares me but also i'd like to lay down to sleep #and not feel like my heart is gonna vibrate out of my chest #it's even more disconcernting when i check my bpm and it's in 70s but i still feel like i just got off a rollercoaster inside #they checked my heart and it looks and is functioning fine and don't seem to know what else to do # my bp is very slightly high so they latched onto that and like ok but they haven't even looked at #like adrenal gland issues even though my thyroid is also acting up #it's currently fine while i'm walking and moving around but trying to lay down i 'feel' my blood pounding in my ears #it's terrible trying to concentrate but i also can't sleep i am so tired also my legs keep cramping #idt it's pots though bc up til now the increased heartrate was if i was standing up and moving #thenit was under control for months #then suddenly the thyroid stuff kicked up and the tachycardia too just in the last month or so #they keep saying the propranolol was also 'off-label' for anxiety which they seem to be trying to say i have #but like yeah having a heartrate that untreated shoots up to over a hundred when sitting down doing nothing #does cause some level of anxiety you know?

I’m glad you asked! your tags prompted a bunch of research (which i had an absolute blast doing)

I feel very strongly about the usage of propranolol in pots because I think its extremely frequent prescription is reflective of a misunderstanding of how POTS works. to walk you through this:

I recently attended a talk given by a neurologist on forms of dysautonomia in children - POTS was a central focus. The presenter showed head-up table tilt data like this (which is from Cheshire et al.):

[image ID: a line graph from a scientific paper. the graph is of head up tilt testing data, specifically SBP, DBP, and HR. the graph is labeled “Postural Tachycardia Syndrome”, and the axis of the graph each have a short line labelled “50 mm Hg or beats/min) for the vertical axis, and “1 min” for the horizontal axis, to indicate scale. Below the lines of the line graph, testing periods are labelled “Supine”, “Head-up tilt to 70 degrees” and “Supine”, from left to right. All lines are variable, fluctuating up and down a few mmHg or BPM. the SBP line remains mostly level, the DBP line increases around 10 mmHg during the “Head-up tilt to 70 degrees” portion of the graph, and the HR line increases over 50 BPM during the “Head-up tilt to 70 degrees” portion of the graph. DBP quickly returns to normal in the second “Supine” section of the graph, with HR slowly returning to normal over the course of around 2 minutes. End ID ./. ]

The presenter went on to say that this proved that people with POTS don’t have any drop in blood pressure when they stand up, just a sudden increase in heart rate. which, isn’t how pots is understood to work.

in general, when you stand up, gravity is suddenly acting on your body (and the blood inside it) in a different way - suddenly, its a lot harder to get your blood up to your head (and to your arm or fingers, where blood pressure is measured). in healthy people, the blood vessels in the lower half of your body constrict automatically, and push blood back up to the heart. In people with pots, this is impaired, and blood starts to pool in the legs. 

As a result, sensors near the heart called baroreceptors (among others) realize that the blood pressure coming from the heart is low, and speed up the heart rate to compensate. This compensation happens almost instantaneously, hence why there’s no sign of it on the tilt table data, but regardless the blood pressure did still drop out. All the tilt table data tells us is that the rest of the body, those baroreceptors and other blood pressure mechanisms, that’s all working fine. In some people with POTS, there’s even a little dip in blood pressure before the HR shoots up. 

Eventually, though, if the drop in blood pressure is severe enough, the heart just can’t keep up, and the lack of blood to the brain makes you faint (syncope). People with POTS don’t have symptoms of just high heart rate, they have symptoms of low blood pressure as well. But some doctors think that because they can’t measure the drop in blood pressure, it doesn’t exist, and heart rate shoots up for no clear reason.

propranolol is a type of medication called a beta-blocker, which means it acts on certain kinds of receptors called beta receptors (and on certain types of those receptors, but I’m not getting into that here). in effect, it lowers heart rate, and can lower blood pressure as a result. It’s a very familiar medication to any cardiologist, and generally regarded as safe and mild.

But in people with POTS, that heart rate rise didn’t pop up out of nowhere - it’s really important to keeping you conscious! so decreasing the heart rate without thinking about the blood pressure isn’t really a great idea.

That said, there’s evidence its effective in people with POTS, from a variety of different studies, and its one of the first meds usually prescribed for POTS. However, in recent years, I’ve started to see some others arguing against it as well. 

for more on your specific symptoms:

What you described rang a bit of a bell for me. supine (laying down) and resting tachycardia aren’t really associated with the kind of POTS I know, although not completely unheard of. that said, you said you weren’t sure if your heart rate really was increased while lying down, but you were pretty sure you felt it (and I trust you - something is going on, even if you can’t catch it with a sensor). and you described yourself as slightly hypertensive - if its under 130/90 ish at most of your appointments, I wouldn’t worry. nurses don’t always have the best technique in taking blood pressure, and can often measure falsely high readings. over 140/100, and they’re probably on to something with the hypertension thing.

Anyway, those symptoms (hypertension and supine tachycardia) remind me of a subtype of POTS (a less common one) called hyperadrenergic pots. It’s proven pretty difficult to find stuff on this subtype, but I was able to find a couple papers. From Conner et al.:

“This form is characterized by a gradual onset with slowly progressive symptoms. Patients report experiencing tremor, anxiety, and cold clammy extremities with upright posture. Many patients note increased urine output when upright. True migraine headaches may be seen in over half of patients. Gastrointestinal symptoms in the form of recurrent diarrhea were seen in 30% of the patients.”

One paper mentioned those with a hyperadrenergic form of POTS had supine tachycardia that gets worse when upright (Ross et al., second paragraph of the introduction).

You’re on the right track with the adrenal gland stuff - to confirm this, there should be about a 10 mmHg increase in systolic blood pressure upon standing, and there should be elevated catecholamine levels (which has to do with adrenal hormones). Your doctors will have to rule out something called a pheochromocytoma, which is a benign (NOT CANCER) tumor on the kidney that can cause similar symptoms. (and if it is a pheochromocytoma, which they’d figure out using a scan like an MRI or CT, then they’d want to remove it surgically).

Your doctors likely didn’t test your catecholamine levels because its a pretty finicky test, and can be time intensive for both patient and administer. additionally, as a wild guess, this doesn’t seem like the kind of test insurance likes to cover.

So lets suppose you do have the hyperadrenergic form of POTS - what medication options are available to you? According to Conner et al., a couple! They list bupropion (wellbutrin), escitalopram (lexapro), clonidine, and labetalol (a different kind of beta blocker). Clonidine was recommended by other papers as well. Worth mentioning is that I did come across a study that suggested midodrine WON’T work for the hyperadrenergic subtype (Ross et al.), which Conner et al. agrees with.

And if you have the more common form of POTS (neuropathic), then it may be helpful to try fludrocortisone (or florinef). Some studies also suggest increasing blood volume (ie, drinking a lot of water and eating a lot of salt), which is what florinef does, can be helpful in the hyperadrenergic form, so florinef might be worth trying either way.

anyway, i hope all of this was helpful. you’re welcome to reply back with questions or comments, or send them to my ask box. i’m glad you liked my post, and hopefully my response wasn’t too overwhelming! I wish you the best of luck with your symptoms.

POTS Medication Vocabulary

after about the third time a doctor prescribed a medication that made my POTS drastically worse, and about three doctors visits past giving up on being an easy patient, i started asking my doctors the following questions whenever they prescribed a new long term medication:

is this medication a hypotensive? (will this medication lower my blood pressure?)

does this medication have a risk of tachycardia? (can this medication raise my heart rate?)

is this medication a diuretic? (will this medication dehydrate me?)

can this medication cause hyponatremia? (will this medication cause my body to lose salt?)

your doctor likely doesn’t know all of this off the top of their head for every medication, but they should know the most common adverse reactions. some may simply tell you they have no clue. i still think it’s worth asking to force them to consider these mechanisms.

for additional consideration:

Keep reading

[memorymessage]

almost fainted at the animal shelter today :)

i don't even want to undermine the severity—this is the scariest feeling i've had in many, many years. which is saying a lot, since i'm a chronically ill bitch.

had to embarrassingly sit outside, could barely walk back to the car, felt weak and faint in the car, felt weak and faint at home, the blood left all my extremities, i was freezing cold, my mom wanted to take me to the hospital but i refused, then it got worse and i seriously thought about going to the hospital.

(i detest going to the hospital where we live, since the quality of care has tanked. this hospital left my grandma screaming from pain in the waiting room.)

i'm only now starting to feel better, 5 hours later. still weak, heartrate wonky.

my mom decided to spend the night just to make sure i'll be okay (🥺)

i just...i can't explain what happened. sometimes i get weak and have to squat down after just getting out of bed, usually when i'm washing my face or making coffee. but that's not overly unusual considering i take very strong meds to sleep and am lethargic with low vitals after waking.

but this was many hours after i had been up. it was actually mid-late day, and i had woken up in the morning.

after spending some time with the cats at the shelter, i felt my ears plugging up, like the feeling of when you're changing air pressure while driving up a mountain and you have to yawn to pop them. then, I started feeling really faint. i had to grab my mom's arm, and she excused us from the employee so we could go sit out in the hall, then sit outside in their backyard area.

the scariest part about it is i have no idea what caused this. i assume it was my blood pressure, because of the ear plugging, as i've had issues with ear plugging due to high blood pressure before. but i have no idea why my blood pressure spiked.

while i was still feeling faint at home, the highest reading i got was 140/90. i usually run quite low on the bp side, so that is fairly high for me. but assume it was like 160/100 when this all happened, or something. is that actually high enough to cause a fainting spell that impacts my body for 5 hours? now my bp is back down to 100/60, and i am still feeling weak and ill.

it could have been my bitchass heart, who still has tachycardia issues. that, combined with the high blood pressure, might have been enough to do it. my rhr just now came down to 80 from being at 100 while laying down for the last few hours.

but, again...like, why? i've had issues with feeling weak or overheated when out and about in the world, but it never got to the point of feeling like i was going to pass out in public. a full blown episode. and it's not like my body is completely out of commission—i've been doing walks lately.

usually i can trace it back to at least something, but this was wholly unprecedented.

[vuulpecula]

Fox watched him move, letting out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "...I do want to," she admitted, waiting for him to get settled before she shifted to join him. Mirroring his posture, though her eyes remained open. Looking over the ceiling, the little bumps and imperfections. She wanted to sit beside him, lay beside him, but she also wanted to sit across from him, if only to be able to look at him for longer.

"Do you want me this close?" She dared to add, heartrate still high. Heartbeat thrumming. Not quite recovered from the way he made her feel. It had softened now into something more like slow kisses and whispered nothings. Hours and hours spent intertwined, panting, warm, washed in euphoria--that thought alone was far more dangerous though.

"Hm? Something about myself? You mean you haven't read my personnel file?" There was a soft smile that graced her lips, indicating she was only teasing him. There wasn't much in the file anyhow. Yet, what was something she could tell him that he would find interesting? Their lives now were so similar that nothing felt important enough to say--and this felt like a moment to say something important.

"I grew up on Ruushya, in the outer rim. There are mountains and a dangerous sea that covers half the planet and snow, so much snow. More even than here, I suspect." She paused, it had been so long since she had seen her home and yet, she could still feel the bite of the cold, smell the rock and salt and ice. "I was a kid during the Clone Wars, I remember seeing them in the streets--the clones--and to be honest, I wanted to be one." Had she ever told anyone that before? "Then the Galaxy changed and my life with it. I went with my father," that was a generous way to say she had no choice in the matter. "My mother and my sister stayed behind, which is for the best. My sister caught the eye of the Queen, she became her protégé--even if now her title is in name only. While she was trained in politics, I was trained in everything else. We both had big expectations thrust upon us." She went silent a moment, thinking of the sister she had not seen in years.

"--Sorry, I'm rambling...that probably isn't very interesting." Perhaps it would put him to sleep, help him rest. "...will you tell me something about you?"

Cal gave a weak, but soft, gentle smile. He turned his head towards the ground, specifically at the hem of his brown sweatpants. He's gotta give it to her, there weren't many women he knew that wouldn't have jumped at the opportunity to be his for the night. Additionally, he has morals and standards (surprisingly, considering his position and what he has done on behalf of the Imperial regime), that would forbid him to ignore her crystal clear negative. "...Guess we could just talk for now," the Grand Inquisitor concluded. He stood from the position in which he was seated, turned, and stepped onto the couch. Then, he retreated to the backrest. Again, he was careful with the way he settled against it; slowly lowering his knees until he was able to sit on the cushions again to avoid further agitating what ached in his body. He extended his legs out and gently pat the spot next to him. "And you don't have to sit so close to me if you don't want to." He drew in a breath through his nostrils and leaned his head back, over the top of the back cushion, face parallel to the ceiling above. Cal extended his arms to rest one on the armrest, and the other on the pillows. The redhead wasn't quite sure how he would last another three rotations, living a civilian life with Fox. He shut his eyes. It'll almost be like they're living together, in an alternate reality where the Empire is in the distance. And then his intrusive thoughts came in with a chokehold on his mind. Living together. Marriage... Children? Can you imagine? What would the children he has with Fox look like? Would they have her bleached wheat hair? Or his fiery red-- Cal coughed, as he choked on his saliva. He squeezed his eyes tighter as he tried desperately to erase those thoughts. Why are you thinking like this, imbecile? You don't even know her well enough. To you, Cal, she's just another name on the roster. Another personnel accounted for by a string of numbers in the Imperial database. Identity was ignored in the Empire, as it sought uniformity. You don't know anything about her, other than her name. The Grand Inquisitor breathed in deeply through his mouth and out through his nose. Wishing to distract himself from these galling thoughts, he spoke again, still with his eyes closed.

"...Tell me something about yourself." A pause. "And no, I already know your full name so spare me from the redundancy."

[roo-bastmoon]

Some red flags

Disclaimer: not a medical professional. Not a nutritionist. Not Korean. Not trying to diagnose anyone. Only sharing my own personal thoughts as a compulsive overeater. Feel free to keep scrolling if not your thing.

In the past, Jimin has called himself an ugly pig and confessed to Hobi that he was worried because he “can’t stop eating.” And we all know about how he fainted because he went 10 days with only one meal but was constantly rehearsing. (Jimin is a perfectionist who used to rehearse until 4 in the morning during his school days, so I think it’s fair to call him an extremist.)

 But to hear him talk about it, that’s all in the past, he doesn’t starve himself any more, he eats well and he’s fine.

 And yet… in my opinion, Jimin still exhibits signs of binging (both food and alcohol) and food obsession.

 In the most recent V Live, Jimin ate for 25 minutes and commented:

·       He only feels 10% full

·       His face was too round these days

·       He can really put on weight

·       Once he starts eating, he can’t stop

·       Before he came to the US, he ate 5 meals a day and gained so much weight

·       It was really hard to lose that weight

·       He can’t have leftovers; he eats everything that’s in front of him immediately

·       He can eat an entire fried chicken by himself and then is puffy the next day

·       When dieting, he watches mukbangs (videos of other people eating)

·       He didn’t intend to eat but food was right in front of him and he couldn’t resist 

·       He no longer starves himself but he exercises a lot

 Some of this could just be differences in culture (I’m told binge drinking in Korea is quite normal, as is an obsession with diets, skincare, and plastic surgery), but when I hear Jimin talk about food, it’s just red flag after red flag for me.

 Also just my own opinion, but I think JK is exhibiting signs of an exercise obsession…

 After traveling internationally, being diagnosed with COVID (thankfully only mild symptoms), and under quarantine with orders to rest, he was dancing around and working out with weights in his hotel room. He insisted on doing this because he didn’t want “to get out of shape” or gain weight… from a few days of not exercising. (He also complained exasperatedly that all he did lately was eat and sleep... while sick with COVID.)

 On the third LV concert day, after 3+ hours performing, JK also was:

·       Running

·       Doing back lifts

·       Doing ab exercises

·       Boxing

·       Sparing

 And yet he refused to eat during the V Live, saying he’ll save it for tomorrow.

Because Jimin and Jungkook are always together (*casually looks into the camera like in The Office*), I think they both trade habits to some degree and shape each other’s perspectives.  

Overeaters Anonymous has defined as “symptoms of unhealthy food behaviors” to include:

·       Obsession with body weight, size, and shape

·       Periods of strict self-control followed by eating binges

·       Grazing on food that is there

·       Extremely restrictive diets

·       Inability to stop eating after the first bite

·       Preoccupation or obsession with food

·       Using food as a reward or for comfort

·       Over exercising 

·       Exercising to combat feelings of guilt for eating

Now I don’t know if the boys have an Eating Disorder™ but I do think they have an unhealthy relationship with food (due to their industry’s image standards--let’s not even start with Jin’s malnutrition from only eating chicken for a year). I think this because I’m a compulsive overeater and binge comfort eater myself (as are approximately 30% of the human population), and some of this just resonates loudly. I don’t mean to project, though.

 I wish with all my heart that Hybe would get each of the members their own trainer and nutritionist who will calculate their exact basal metabolic rates based on heartrate measurements during high intensity days, then ensure they get adequate calories with at least 3 meals of protein, fat, and carbs plus one snack on a daily basis. (I also think the members—like all human beings—would benefit from regular therapy sessions, but that’s a whole other post. Doubt my little tumblr blog is going to impact cultural stigmas on the other side of the world.)

 Maybe I’m way off base. Maybe they are just men in their twenties who are very active and then like to eat a lot and complaining about their lack of control is just a casual way for them as celebrities to relate to their image-conscious fans.

In any case, I hope they are doing okay. I’m gonna love and support all members of BTS even if they don’t shower or wear makeup or have pimples or stuff their faces or smoke or forget English words or fall down on stage or crack on high notes or miss their choreography from time to time. In fact that stuff often endears them to me more. I don’t love them because they are perfect; I love them because they are authentic, talented, kind-hearted people.

 These are just my thinky thoughts what I needed to think out loud. I appreciate others’ perspectives if folks feel like discussing the topic (just please keep it kind)!

Here, have a cute Jikook smiling compilation pic as a palate cleanser:

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Star Wars Wednesday

(Based on the prompt: What if Luke was captured on Hoth?)

The room was dark when Luke woke. That, in and of itself, was unusual. The medical bay in Echo Base was always painfully bright. Luke squinted through the thick bacta and tried to make out his surroundings. Why was the room so dark?

Luke thought he remembered warning sirens pulsing faintly through the tank. A sense of fear and urgency. Had they cut the power to hide from a probe? No...that didn't feel right. This place was too empty. Han and Leia and Chewie weren't here watching over him, as they had been since Han found him in the snow. They wouldn't have left him if-

...if everything was okay.

Despite the warmth of the bacta around him, Luke realized that he felt cold. Maybe he was still in the base. But then, where was everyone else? Had he been left behind?

They wouldn't leave him!

...would they?

The increase in his heartrate sounded an alarm on the outer controls of the tank. All at once, the bacta began to drain out, and the harness rose. Relief washed over Luke. Obviously someone had to still be here, or nobody would have noticed the heart monitor. It was probably 2-1B. He couldn't really sense droids, after all. The medical droid would know what was going on.

A wave of heat staggered him as soon as his bare feet touched the ground. At a control panel beside the tank, a jet black Artoo unit hooted at him in a suspiciously judgmental manner.

This was not Echo Base.

This isn't right...

Luke swallowed, grimaced, and spat out a bit of bacta that had gotten under the oxygen mask.

"Droid!" a harsh, modulated voice barked, "Why did you release the subject without authorization?"

Luke whirled to find a guard in crimson robes entering through a door behind the tank. His heart sank when he recognized the design of the uniform.

Empire.

Oh no. No no please, Force no!

He had been captured.

But then, why would they let him heal? He had a pretty high price on his head! Usually Imps were scrambling to kill him, not heal his wounds.

"Put him back under. Now!" The guard approached slowly, brandishing a spear at Luke. "You. Hands where I can see them."

Luke backed away, on the verge of panic. Where was he? What had they done to his friends? Why was he unhurt?!

"What the kriff is going on?" he croaked.

Watch him, watch his movements. If that spear isn't electrified, maybe I can grab it...

"You aren't here to ask questions, Rebel, you're here to answer them. Get back in the tank before I give you a reason to need the bacta," the guard snapped.

He swung his spear closer, and Luke jumped back. His bare shoulders collided with a tank wall, and the Artoo shrieked at him in dismay. A swift glance behind him revealed that Luke had not backed into the same tank he'd come out of.

There was a second tank beside his, and it was still occupied.

Luke felt the cold again, as if the tank had been filled with ice water. Inside the cloudy liquid, a battered figure seemed to hang frozen. The figure's limbs ended abruptly in scarred amputations that looked old, but aggravated. Dark contusions spread across what little of the person's torso Luke saw before returning his attention to the guard. Was this someone else they'd been interrogating?

The guard advanced again and held the spear to Luke's throat. "That's enough, Rebel. By rights, you shouldn't even have been brought here! We're wasting perfectly good bacta on scum like you."

Fear and adrenaline swirled together into an indignant mixture not too far off from courage, and Luke spat out, "Yeah, because I'm so eager to walk forward with a karking spear at my throat. You been out in the suns too long? I'm not impaling myself on that!"

The tip of the spear pressed closer, and this time Luke felt a low humming from it that promised a nasty shock if it made contact with his skin. He could almost swear he felt faint amusement in the red guard.

"Well that's what the bacta's for, isn't it?"

A spark arced from the point of the spear, and Luke instinctively jerked his head backward. But the jolt never struck. Luke tried to look, but it was as if the air itself had turned to stone, locking them all in place where they stood. If he strained his eyes, he could just make out the spark, flickering pathetically in midair, never to land. He could breathe, at least, but it was labored and shallow. The guard seemed to be having more trouble than he was -- the only indication to Luke that this was not some kind of paralysis weapon.

"Touch him and your life is forfeit."

The voice was soft, barely audible through the transparisteel of the second bacta tank, but it seemed to ring in their ears all the same. Luke couldn't turn, or shift his eyes far enough to see the speaker, but he could guess who it might be. The other prisoner had awoken. How was he holding them in place? Was it-

Was he a Jedi?

The guard collapsed, and suddenly Luke was free to move again. He turned slowly to look into the tank, barely even noticing that the guard lay where he had fallen, unmoving. The bacta was still cloudy, pumped full of heavy antibacterial solutions. But now that the man's eyes were open, they were impossible to miss. The fiery golden eyes of a dragon pinned Luke in place; they weighed him down with their gaze as surely as if he had been manacled to the floor.

Whoever the other prisoner was, Luke understood instinctively that he was a very dangerous man.

"No harm will come to you while you sleep," the man vowed. He appeared to be making some attempt to soften his dragon's stare, while simultaneously sifting through Luke's very soul. It did not alleviate the young man's fears.

"Thank you...?" Luke managed after several failed attempts at speech. "I can...keep watch while you sleep, if you want." Not that I can help much without my-

The lightsaber.

His father's lightsaber was gone. Was it still in the Rebel base? Or had the Empire taken it? Luke gripped the side of the tank for support. No friends, no weapons, no connection to his father; he had nothing but the shorts he'd been wearing when 2-1B first put him in the bacta tank.

I'm sorry! First Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen, then Ben, now I've failed you too, Father. I'm so sorry!

"Have you failed? Or did Kenobi fail you?" The man in the tank interrupted his thoughts without warning. The cold grew sharper, and shadows crept from the corners of the room to curl around the tanks. Golden eyes burned in the darkness of the occupied tank.

"What?" Luke gasped, pulling away from the tank.

"Sleep, Luke. When you have recovered, there will be much to discuss."

As Luke felt the chill close in on him again, it struck him that the dangerous stranger knew his name. And he spoke it as though he were familiar with Luke.

Luke had questions. But he wasn't sure anymore that he wanted them answered.

[annaizscribbling]

Angst : Logan vs the vague sense of having to do Something, Anything, Everything but not knowing what to do, or worse, knowing what to do and not doing it, like you’re locked inside a bubble and you’re screaming to b let out but instead u just watch time fly by and the thing doesn’t get done

Thank you for the prompt! I kinda focused on the comfort in this surprise Hurt/Comfort. This was really cathartic to write!

Summary: Logan can't start the huge pile of work he needs to get done and it's wearing on him. Virgil lends a hand.

Lowkey big brother Virgil.

Wordcount is 1292

Heads up for spiraling, anxiousness, and some self deprecation.

-------------------------

Logan’s fingers drummed along the side of his desk at a frantic pace. The wobbly rhythm did not comfort him. It did not relieve the clawing urgency that was piercing the middle of his chest.

The stack of unfinished paperwork was looming on one side of the desk while the other side was occupied by his laptop, equally brimming with a metaphorical mountain of tasks. They all sprung on him at once. They all demanded his attention. They all rang with urgency.

He didn’t sleep last night. Not enough.

The new tasks all came in just moments before he was going to bed the night before. Logically, he knew that it would just have to wait until morning, as he couldn’t sacrifice his sleep schedule that easily, and it would be tough but perfectly possible to finish it in the morning.

That information did not stop his mind from racing all night.

It was only a matter of minutes until he had spiraled further than he intended, and sleep would evade him.

All he could do was lay there as his dread grew and grew. He tried mentally sorting what order he should tackle the work in, what steps he would take, how many hours he could spend on each category.

He just let himself sink into a dizzy panic as he soaked in just how much work he would have to do the coming hours. The time kept slipping away more and more each time he anxiously glanced at the clock.

Logan gave in to his nerves at 5:00 in the morning and drank much more coffee that Patton would approve of on a normal day, much less one where Logan was so high strung.

So, there he was, too much caffeine and one sleepless night later, sitting at his desk, spiraling and thrumming his fingers.

There was too much to do. Too many tasks. Too little time.

His heartrate was elevated more than comfortable. His whole being felt buzzy and upset. Caffeine on top of sleep deprivation.

Not enough time. Not enough strength. Not enough help.

The task was so big he couldn’t begin.

Even though he knew that his only course of action should be starting.

His fingers drummed faster in a lopsided beat.

Logan needed to start. He needed to begin. He needed to start so that the sharp buzzing feeling of urgency will relinquish its hold on his heart.

But the feeling was so miserable he couldn’t start.

But the feeling won’t go away until he finishes.

Oh, what a wicked contradiction.

Now he would never start. Logan will only stare aimlessly, drum his fingers, sit uselessly, and rot away into a worthless husk as the task grows with each coming day.

He can’t start, but he can’t walk away.

His blood felt electric with dread. His head throbbed with pain.

Was he doomed to never escape his agony?

A firm hand on his right shoulder shocked him out of his miserable thoughts.

“C’mon Buddy, talk to me.” A gruff but far from unkind voice said beside his ear.

“Virgil?” Logan’s own voice sounded raspy and sore, tight with unshed tears.

“Yeah,” Virgil said gently, some relief spreading over his face, “How about we go chill somewhere? I think you need a sec to relax.”

Logan’s anxious heart jumped in his chest. “No, I-I can’t. I really shouldn’t, but thank you, Virgil. I appreciate your intervention, but I really need to work.”

Virgil raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You just said ‘work’ with as much enthusiasm as me saying ‘phone call’.”

“That was not my intention, I apologize.” He said quietly. “But it’s probably best that you leave me, I really must be at least a little productive today.”

“Dude,” Virgil bit the inside of his mouth unsurely, “You look really tired and out of it, and you didn’t even notice me until I shook you. You’re stressed out of your mind.”

“I’m alright, Virgil.”

“Who’s the expert in stress here?” Virgil rolled his eyes. “Me. That’s who. And I know a stress overload when I see one. It’ll only get worse if you keep doing the thing that’s causing it. So break time, let’s go.” He jutted his chin toward the door, gesturing for Logan to get up.

“No, Virgil.” The bespeckled side said gravely. “I’m fine, but if I was stressed it wouldn’t be due to work,” He swallowed. “It would only ever be due to a lack of work,”

Virgil crossed his arms, unamused but quite determined. “So that’s how we’re doing this?” he huffed. “Fine. Hypothetically, how would a lack of work stress you out?”

“It’s unimportant.”

“Logan come on.”

Logan suddenly felt very, very small under Virgil’s withering stare in addition to the already heavy burden of his job. His voice sank to a pathetic whimper. “It’s too much,” he said, voice breaking as he did. “I can’t start.”

Virgil’s features softened quietly.

Logan rubbed his moist eyes beneath his glasses. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. There’s so much work and I can’t start, but because of that I can’t finish.”

His friend put his steadying hands on his shoulders again and gently rubbed circles into his back as Logan continued.

“I didn’t sleep, I can’t calm down, and I can’t just start. It’s pathetic.” Logan spat, fury at his own actions settled atop the anxiety already in his system.

“No, it isn’t.” Virgil said in his usual gravelly voice. “You’re stressed and tired from a boatload of surprise work. Your reaction is normal and you’re just too overwhelmed to see that right now, which is perfectly fine.”

A new fiery streak of anger shot down his stomach. “But-”

“Nope.” Virgil cut him off almost cheerfully . “You’re about to pull a ‘me’ and start self-deprecating, so I’m stopping you there. It’s fine that you’re overwhelmed and it’s fine that you need some help and a break.”

Logan gritted his teeth, seething. “Take a break from what? I haven’t done a single thing today.”

“You need a break from putting all of your energy into panicking. Let’s go.”

“But-”

“L, if you don’t cooperate, I swear that I will carry you out myself.” Virgil threatened.

“I need to work.”

It was in that moment he learned not to ever call Virgil’s bluff, as he was promptly and unceremoniously picked up from under his arms and carried out of the room like a misbehaving cat. His legs dangled some distance above the ground.

Virgil deposited him on the couch in the living room where he just blinked, still startled and confused.

“You’re strong.” Logan said blankly.

“I’m fight or flight.” he shrugged. “Sometimes I choose fight and you gotta be buff to help guarantee a win.”

“Oh.”

“You’re also short so that helps.”

Logan glared.

“Now I’m going to grab Janus and let him wrangle everybody else from the imagination.”

“Is that where everyone is?”

“Yup, and once they get here, we’ll help tackle that workload together.”

Logan drummed his fingers on the side of the couch, deliberating.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Virgil asked delicately as he slipped onto the couch beside his friend.

“I don’t wish to burden all of you just because I couldn’t handle my job.” He admitted in a raspy whisper, throat tight once more.

Virgil thunked his chin atop of Logan’s messy hair, smiling fondly. “You aren’t a burden, Logan. You’re family.”

He pulled away just enough to look into Logan’s exhausted brown eyes. “And you know us, we do anything for family.”

Logan smiled weakly and shut his eyes, letting tired tears leak out. He leaned against Virgil’s shoulder.

“We’ve got you Buddy.” Virgil whispered as he tugged him closer to ruffle his hair, “We’ve got you.”

[hereliesanotherfic]

Albert James Moriarty x Reader

A/N: Just a little drabble, nothing too intense. More an admiration for our handsome Albert ^^ But I hope to write more for Yuukoku no Moriarty! I just got into the anime so I know nothing of the manga. So in this fic, I had to make up an aristocrat family/servants. The more I learn of the series I might not have too! xD Let me know what you think!

Rating: PG 13 (probably) Triggers:

(Mentions of) Family member death, thoughts of suicide,

(Actions of) Murder but no heavy details.

You weren’t anything special to the world, or at least never felt like it for a long time. You had ‘worked’ for a wealthy family in Durham for more than 5 years now and most of your work was shared with your older brother. You haven’t been allowed to see him lately though, and it was concerning. He began to fall ill, and you did your best to care for him after serving all your duties to the family. But it’s been a long…long time since you’ve seen his face now, almost a year. The Lord of the house, Lord Vincent told you not to concern yourself and they had a handled on it, but over the time those words have been of no comfort. The fact that you cannot see your brother after so long makes you fear something awful has happened. After all, the noblemen and family weren’t the kindest to lower class like yourself. You’ve gotten smacked and hit, drinks thrown at you, belittled, and shamed beyond what is humane. Your only string to life is that your brother might truly be alive and struggling, but you’ve never felt a depression and despair this deep before.

At this moment, you were on your hands and knees scrubbing the dining room floor, the maids setting a table fit for five. You overheard Lord Vincent had invited some noblemen who were new to the area over for a feast, and once the reply came back, he demanded all get to work in preparations. The butler had stepped in, clapping his hands. “Alright, quickly now, clean up and make yourselves presentable, they will be here shortly!” You placed your sponge in the bucket and hurried it to the washroom. Racing back, you stood in your spot at the end of the line of maids, brushing out your uniform of wrinkles or dirt. The butler scanned down all three maids, his eyes scowling at you. The butler was a bit of a prick like the noblemen, he had no respect for you since you were on the bottom of the barrel. You looked to your feet, wishing for nightfall to come so you could sleep again.

“Come with me,” you heard Lord Vincent cheer and you dared to glance up at the guests. First was a very tall, slender brunette with gorgeous green eyes and a strong jawline. Following him were two blondes, striking ruby red eyes, a little more build but just as attractive. You quickly stared back down at your feet, praying you weren’t caught by anyone in the room. If Lord Vincent or his mistress found out you were eyeing the guests it’d mean another punishment. Your food, injuries, sanity? They liked to change it to see how far your threshold could go.

As proper maids do, you each stepped up to a chair to pull it out for the noblemen. You weren’t sure if you were lucky or doomed to seat the brunette. Allowing him to sit and then aid pushing his chair in, he glanced over his shoulder to you and your peripheral vision could see his small smile. Without thinking, your eyes looked up and locked to his, which made his own eyes soften slightly. You immediately looked back down to the floor and took your place back to the side of the room. It was only an interaction of maybe 5 to 10 seconds, but it felt so impressionable. You admired how his tux made his shoulders and back a bit broader, whatever fancy cologne he was wearing was practically intoxicating, and his eyes and smile could get you dangerously lost. It wasn’t often young noblemen appeared, and now you were glad they didn’t.

The five aristocrats talked and ate the delicious food. You never really knew what the foods were or how to cook them, but it always looked mouthwatering. Time seem to go faster today, but you felt it was because of that damn brunette. You locked his image to his voice after threatening another glance, his voice smoothing through the conversations like melted butter. In a moment, you heard the famous finger snap of the Lord, signaling for places and leftovers to be cleared from the table. As a good maid, you took action and stood besides the brunette, clearing his space leaving no crumb behind. You felt eyes on you, but you couldn’t tell if it was him, or the Lord on your left side. You did every mental trick in your mind to not be too nervous. But it was already failing you.

“Your maid seems unsteady, Lord Vincent, is she alright?” the blonde you learned to be William spoke. He was across the table but he still noticed the slight tremors in your fingers? What the hell?! You stood straight with your couple plates and cups and looked to Lord Vincent, who looked pleased, but you saw his little ticks to know well enough, he was pissed.

“Do not fret about the service Lord Moriarty! She has been failing my family repeatedly, so a change has been due for a while now.”

…What?

“It’s so hard these days to find high class maids,” his wife sighed loudly, a look of disgust lingering on your backside.

You heartrate increased dramatically while your skin paled. You slightly bowed to excuse yourself from the conversation (even though you were just the topic) and headed towards the kitchen to dispose of the plates. You practically dropped them in the skin and held onto the counter. Your suspicions about them killing off bad service wasn’t just a rumor, it was true! You knew now because you were next! Your brother—you had to find a way to get out and save your brother! …

Your eyes started to water at the realization. ‘They had a handle on it’, in aristocrat terms, in the Vincent family terms, they eliminated him. And dragged you on to play the fool believing your brother was alive just to suck out whatever they could from you. You dropped to your knees as your tears poured, fingertips turning while you still gripped the counter above you. And the thought of joining your brother now…maybe he would forgive you if you join him for letting him die.

“Why are you crying?” a voice behind you spoke softly, startling you out of your self-pity and turning around instantly. To your utter shock, it was Lord Albert James Moriarty, and he was less than two feet from you, one hand outstretches as if to catch you.

You harshly wipe the tears from your face and eyes with your sleeve, standing up as quickly as physically possible and giving your uniform a couple messy pats, yabbering your apologizes as if your ending life still depended on it. “I am so very sorry Lord Moriarty, you should never have seen me in such array. Please forgive my improper-ness.” You didn’t know where to look, what to do with your hands, your anxiety was eating you alive! So you did your only method, stare at the floor with your head down and grip your uniform, your hair falling slightly forward as it was falling out of its bun. You could feel your body shaking and tried to stop it, your embarrassment eating you up on the inside for making a fool of yourself in front of not just a Lord, but a handsome one at that. He couldn’t have been more than a couple years older than you, and he could be placed in a museum and you were the cement floor.

“Please, don’t be afraid of me,” Albert begged softly, the gentleness of his voice being completely unexpected. You felt his large hand wrap around one of your clenched ones, making you remove your grip from your dress and be held in his hand. In the same moment, his other hand swooped under your jaw gently and lifted your face to look at him, swiping the (still) falling tears with his thumb. He locked his eyes with you (e/c) ones, a small smile came back to grace his lips. Just as you feared, you fell into a trance. You felt his other thumb rubbing small circles in your hand as he spoke his velvet words again.

“Come, it’s time to leave,” he hummed, closing his hand fully around yours before turning and heading out of the kitchen. You immediately started to panic at the though of Lord Vincent seeing the guest of honor so close to you, let alone touching you or speaking to you.

“L-l-l-lord Moriarty, I can’t do—this isn’t rig-okay, I mean!—” You choked to find the words, not wanting to offend him in any way, but terrified of not stopping him before re-entering the dining room like this. His grip was strong and you couldn’t pull back more than he pulled forward. He stopped for a moment and chuckled, looking over his shoulder to you with a smile and slender eyes.

“Do not worry about that miss, Lord Vincent has no more hold over you.” And he continued walking. You had no idea what that meant, but you were about to find out.

After he pulled you through the doors into the dining room, the sight was appalling. The head Maid was sobbing on the floor, a bloody knife fallen from her bloody hand. Lying hunched dead over the table were the Lord and his mistress, each suffered one to three stab wounds. The smell of all this blood was too strong and you covered your mouth with your hand. Before you could take in any more of the messy scene, Albert was already dragging you along outside, the two blonde brothers finishing up inside with the maid. You were practically speechless.

“L-..Lord Moriarty?” you said just above a whisper as he opened the door to his luxury carriage, looking at you. “…What’s happened?”

“Lord Vincent and his wife have both paid their debt for the slaughter of lower class servant workers, that’s all,” he stated matter-of-factly. Your eyes widened at his words, but they were soft. How did another aristocrat family know of this, not to mention care?

“We in the Moriarty family are…different,” he chuckled, before stepping to the side. “Please, hop in.”

“Why?” You asked, forgetting for a moment he was a nobleman.

“I’d like to give you some time to think if you’d like to be a maid for our family, or if you’d like to start a new life elsewhere. In the meantime, I can provide you a safe place to stay.”

You cheeks reddened slightly at the word ‘I’ and he must’ve caught on, closing his eyes for a brief moment before looking back into yours. If it wasn’t so dark out, you could’ve confirmed or not if he was blushing a bit too.

“We, my brothers and I,” he corrected, and motioned you into the carriage. At this point, your former Lord was dead, you brother was dead and you had little hope immediately on the street. Maybe serving the handsome Albert James Moriarty wasn’t such a bad deal after all. Especially if they are taking away some of the scum of the world.

Albert couldn’t have been more pleased when you stepped inside the carriage. This operation William put together has been brewing for a few months. Truth be told, Albert has seen you more than a couple times, but he’s never interacted with you since that wasn’t part of the plan. It was obvious to William you were being tricked, and your heavy depression blocked your brain from the truth. Only once you feel your life was truly on the line would you snap out of it. Albert was just as happy as his brothers to save another lower-class citizen from harm. Not to mention Louis lightly teasing him about keeping his eyes on you a little too much.

[lulaypp]

Note: While this is meant as a mini follow-up of my Three Dark Walls And A Collar, it can be read seperately.

Warnings: Panic, Flashbacks, Mentioned Nightmares, Referrenced Torture, Injuries

----

Nightmares were common for them. Far from pleasant, but definitely not a rarity.

Jason bit his lip as he panted, his chest sore as he tried to control his rapid breaths. The night light by his bed softly illuminated the room enough to stave off part of his panic as he fumbled to untangle himself from his sheets.

It had been a week after Black Mask had caught him. Dick and Alfred had deemed Jason well enough to leave the med bay but not the manor, which was fine by him. At least he got to stay in his own room without people crowding around him all day long. But as peaceful as the solitude was, it made nightmares a bit harder to wrangle down. Even so, it was nothing he wasn't used to. He had been living alone with his nightmares for years.

But it would be easier without the rain and flapping branches outside, a storm brewing quick and heavy.

His breaths and heartrate were still running fast by the time he settled under the blanket again. His healing ribs were protesting at his movements and curled up position, but he stubbornly tucked his knees to his chest. He kept his eyes on his dim nightlight, trying to ignore the non-existent smell of mud, the shadow that clung to the far walls and the solid pressure on his neck.

The rain pattered heavily onto the window and he could almost hear the sound of the drops hitting the earth and grass despite being indoors and far too high up. Nearby tree branches rapped against each other and onto the brick walls as the wind swept them back and forth. If the pitch is heightened up a notch and the sound sharpened, it could almost sound like-

Jason sucked in a breath, blinking away images of a glass wall standing far too close and pulled the sheets tighter around him. It frustrated him to no end that the effects of his short-lived captivity still lingered in his mind, randomly throwing him to little fits of panic. He understood that it was natural and normal, even for his insane family of vigilantes and ex-assassins-in-training, but it always bugged him.

He could hardly stand any sort of sharp clicking anymore. He discovered that the hard way after he was helping Dick looking over a case and he had been idly fiddling with a retractable pen. He had been putting it back together after dismantling it when there was a strong pressure on his neck and the pen’s clicks grew louder. On hindsight, he felt rather foolish for accidentally triggering himself, but at least he knew that now and avoided all computers and clicking stationaries.

In the privacy of his bedroom, he allowed himself a soft whimper, trying to will himself back to sleep yet attempting to stay away from it with equal measure. He was exhausted, but he was tired of nightmares. At the most, if he got tired in the morning, he'll get a nap once the storm blows over. Maybe Damian would be generous enough to be a pillow.

Thunder split the tapping at his window and he jumped, burrowing further into his thick blanket. His chest was throbbing horribly and the injuries littering his arms were aching. His still-kind-of-broken fingers screamed from where he was clutching at the sheets, but he didn't let up his tight grip.

His neck hadn't yet healed. It probably had suffered the worst damage, along with his throat. The collar had left burns from where the metal had charged volts straight onto his skin and his trachea had been mangled after suffering repeated strangling pressure. It wasn't as bad now, but Alfred had insisted to leave it bandage-wrapped to help the healing process. No one mentioned the fact that it also deterred Jason from accidentally clawing at the burns and scratches, be it during his nightmares, panic attacks or absentmindedly. He didn't quite appreciate having something around his neck, but he understood the benefits.

His sight was blurring slightly and he hoped that it was sleep finally coming to take him again. Until he realised that it was just his breathing running out of control. Air was shallowly entering his lungs at a quick pace, his neck turning fiery.

He squeezed his eyes shut and slowly worked himself back from near-hyperventilation. The noise outside was really starting to get into him. He doubted he could get any sleep right now. Especially not a decent one.

With his mind made up, he gathered his large, fluffy blanket more firmly around himself and shuffled out of bed. He gingerly rested his weight onto his injured ankle before slowly making his way to the door and out into the corridor, a headache slowly brewing the longer he stayed up. After a short pause at the top of the stairs to catch his breath and right his tilting vision, he carefully limped down and crossed multiple winding hallways before finally reaching the kitchen. Which was, unfortunately, occupied.

His headache was reaching a brain-pinching level and he had been too focused on not tripping over his blanket and his own feet that he didn't realise the other person, jumping when a deep voice greeted him.

"Jason? Are you supposed to be up?"

Jason blinked at the hazy figure approaching him. "Bruce? When did you get back?" As far as he was aware, Bruce was supposed to be on an outer space mission with Justice League and wasn't due back until a few days. Maybe Jason was actually asleep and dreaming.

He let Bruce push him onto one of the stools at the kitchen island. Bruce took a seat right beside him before answering, "Just over an hour ago. What are you doing up this late?"

Jason scowled, realising that he probably looked a little pathetic, childishly wrapping himself in his fluffy blanket. "'m not a kid." His throat decided now to remind him that talking was still not a wise thing to do. "'s'not like it is that late either."

"It is four in the morning and you are injured. You're not shouldn't walk around with a sprained ankle."

Just because that was true, didn't mean that Jason would agree, even if his leg did. "That was days back. Besides, it is not like you can judge how badly I'm hurt and what I can and not do just by staring at me for-"

"I read the reports, Jay. Damian told me what happened last week which is why I came back early."

"At least I'm not stupid enough to fling myself back onto the streets." Jason rolled his eyes, huffing as he leaned against the counter. He tried to ignore the blooming warmth bubbling inside him at the thought of Bruce coming back from space just because he was hurt. "I'm fine and old enough to take care of myself, old man."

Bruce's lips were pressed into an unhappy line but he let the silence reign over them. Jason had forgotten why had he thought going downstairs it was a good idea, regretting it now that his head and leg were throbbing.

Just as he was weighing the pros and cons of getting up to make himself tea, Bruce spoke up.

"Is there any reason why you decided to come down to the kitchen?"

Too tired to make up a lie or to deflect, Jason mumbled as he tried to make himself comfortable with his head on the counter top, legs tucked under himself and the blanket firmly covering him. "Couldn't sleep." The marble tile was cool against his forehead and he closed his eyes, burying his nose into his soft blanket.

He didn't see Bruce coming closer, but fingers were running lightly through his hair. While they were nice, it also meant that the man definitely noticed the supressed jump when a loud thunder cracked and rumbled. The sound made him aware of the noise again, the insistent pattering of rain drops.

The blanket around him shifted slightly before Bruce said, "C'mon. Let's get somewhere more comfortable."

Jason didn't quite feel like moving, finally finding a position comfortable enough that his ribs wouldn't protest, his back wouldn't hurt and he wouldn't fall off the small stool, so he stayed put. But the decision was made for him when he was ripped away from the counter. He blinked in surprise, taking a while to realise that Bruce was lifting him up before leaving the kitchen.

He wriggled in Bruce's arms. "Bruce, put me down. I'm an adult and heavier than you are. You don't get to carry me."

Bruce only held tighter the more Jason struggled. "Well maybe I don't get to carry you, but you get to be carried and seeing as I am the only one around..." Bruce was obviously hiding a teasing smile.

Jason huffed, resigned to the relative comfort, and closed his eyes. Just as he thought sleep might come to him, another lightning split the darkness of the hallway as thunder shook the windows they passed. He pressed his head into Bruce shoulder, heart running loud in his ears. Dirt was tacky on his tongue and bandages around his neck felt suffocating. His chest ached worse with the effort to keep his breathing even and his head was spinning. His fingers reached up to assure himself that the thing strangling him wasn't metal.

Something squeezing his shoulder startled him. It was Bruce's hand rubbing and lightly patting, the angle awkward from where it crept up from under Jason's shoulder. He felt momentarily embarrassed at the thought of Bruce noticing his spiralling panic but the feeling was gone when the thundering outside kicked up again.

"How was space?" He probably shouldn't be making small talk with his sore throat, but he really wanted something to overlap the storm.

Bruce must have caught up on that as he started talking. A lot for a man whose native languages were incoherent grunts and growls. "It wasn't really eventful. I don't really see why I was brought along since it was a negotiation mission and the Lanterns and Clark could have handled that on their own, but I assumed that they wanted me for the budget handling."

As Bruce went on about funding and budgets, Jason closed his eyes, paying little attention to the words but wholly to the voice and tone. He never thought he'd ever willingly listen to Bruce drone on about finances of all things, yet here he was feeling comforted by it.

By the time Bruce stopped, Jason was already in a half-asleep daze. He felt himself getting lowered and blinked slowly to take in his surroundings. It was darker now, but the blurry silhouette of Bruce pulled him back from any rising fear. The sound of the storm was also gone. Where were they?

His blanket was pulled away from his loosening grip and he was about to protest when it was adjusted to properly drape over him. "Where're we?" he mumbled. The surface under him didn't feel like a bed so it couldn't be his or Bruce's room. And the place lacked any windows. Not to mention that it had to be deep enough in the manor to block out the noise of thunder.

"Theatre room." Bruce was hovering somewhere in front of him, fingers running through his hair.

"Oh." That made sense. The theatre room was designed to be relatively soundproof.

His eyes were slipping close when a kiss was pressed to his forehead. Call it placebo, but he felt his headache starting to clear away from that one gesture. He let out a contented sigh, melting into the figurative warmth around him.

"Sleep, chum. I'll be right here." Bruce shifted closer, pulling off what felt like a makeshift hug while still keeping his carding fingers as he started humming a tune.

Jason heard himself mumbling something in response as he pressed into Bruce's shoulder, eyes closing and breaths evening out.

[moony-meadow]

Going for Goldie (6)

Pt. 1 / Pt. 2 / Pt. 3 / Pt. 4 / Pt. 5

After Beelzebub departed, Mammon and I were once again alone together. The white-haired demon had resumed his place on the sofa, only now he was laid out on it with his back propped up against the armrest. This left me inside his stomach at a kind of incline. I’d taken to leaning against the back wall and was taking advantage of the surprisingly relaxing warmth the fleshy surface provided.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck in here for hours,” I moaned, flopping my arm over my face dramatically. “So much for having a midnight snack.” It wasn’t uncommon for Beel and I to run into each other at the kitchen in the middle of the night. We both seemed to have a habit of craving late night treats.

“Well,” I felt Mammon’s hand plop down onto his stomach, causing a small tremor around me, “I could always swallow somethin’ for ya to eat.”

My face instantly formed into a grimace. “Don’t be disgusting, Mammon,” I chided. The idea of eating someone’s second hand food was positively repulsive. Though I knew the demon was joking, I still didn’t appreciate the crude commentary. A chuckle rumbled around me, but otherwise Mammon said nothing more.

“You know, I think since this turned out to be a lot more than a quick trip into your stomach, that you owe me Goldie privileges for at least three days,” I stated. Had I not already committed myself to helping Mammon keep his credit card from Lucifer, I might have abandoned the whole thing as soon as things got complicated. But, if I gave up now and made Mammon cough me up, then the whole thing might end up being for nothing.

A strangled noise of outrage came from Mammon. “Three days?! Ya gotta be kiddin’ me!” The stomach walls all pressed in around me slightly, I could only assume as a result of Mammon clenching his hand around his middle. “I--I’ll give ya two days, but that’s it!” he exclaimed after my lack of response displayed how serious I was about the matter.

“Fine, but you also have to take me out to dinner some night,” I declared.

Mammon unclenched his hand from around his stomach, but I could tell that he’d now tensed up all over. “Wha? You can’t be--pfft, like the Great Mammon would ever be caught goin’ out to dinner with a--with a human,'' he stammered. I had to stifle a giggle, I could just tell his face had become all blushy.

It was a pretty common occurrence that whenever I took part in some playful flirting with the Avatar of Greed, his face would heat up while he stuttered out insistences that he had no interest in humans. I knew it was just one of his defense mechanisms, so I had stopped taking offense to it a long time ago.

“It can be lunch if you prefer,” I replied, feigning ignorance.

“Huh? No--I’m only havin’ a meal with you if you’re the main course,'' Mammon finished the sentence proudly.

I rolled my eyes. “This is the last time I’m ever going to be in your stomach.” While I felt pretty sure of my own statement, there was a part of me that wondered if I really would be able to avoid being eaten again. Yesterday I would have said I would never let a demon eat me under any circumstances, and yet here I was sitting in the belly of the beast.

The pressure at the front of the stomach returned as Mammon rested both his hands on top of it. “Well ya better not end up in any other demon’s stomach,” he warned, a hint of possessiveness in his voice. “You are my human, after all.”

Being the Avatar of Greed, it wasn’t surprising to me that Mammon tended to be overprotective of his belongings. However, I never would have guessed I would be considered among those belongings. His possessiveness over me wasn’t only in regards to me being eaten, he had also expressed jealousy when his brothers tried to get a little too close to me. In a way, it was kind of endearing. Although, I always made a point to make it clear that I was not an object to be owned.

“I’m your friend,” I corrected smoothly, “and you don’t have to worry about anyone else eating me, at least not with my permission anyway.”

Mammon was silent, and for a moment I wondered if I’d made him upset in some way. But then his hand began to slowly and gently rub his stomach. I smiled softly and leaned forward to pat the outermost wall in response. The guy wasn’t the best at accepting compliments or genuine displays of affection, but he had his own little ways of showing his appreciation.

“Hey, Y/N?” Mammon spoke up, now idly trailing a finger over his stomach. “You’re not...I dunno, scared of me or nothin’, are ya?”

My eyebrows lifted in surprise. The genuine concern in the demon’s voice threw me off guard. He usually made an effort to try to convince people that he was an incredibly powerful demon that ought to be feared. And while his brothers often treated him as though he were weak, I knew better. Mammon was the second eldest of the seven Avatars, and therefore the second most powerful. However, the thing with Mammon was that the guy pretty much never flexed that power. For whatever reason, even when his little brothers smacked him around or called him names, Mammon never lashed out.

As a result of all that, it was easy for me to sometimes forget that I hung out with a potentially deadly demon on the daily. Of course, when Mammon had shrunk me I’d been reminded of that latent fear. However, I wasn’t about to tell him that. I didn’t know how he’d react to the knowledge that my natural instincts insisted I be wary of demons like him (especially when they were giant sized), but I certainly didn’t want him getting the impression that I was some scared little thing. Besides, logically I knew Mammon could (mostly) be trusted. Plus, having a pact with him meant I could stop him if he ever were to do something that really freaked me out.

“Oh please,” I dismissed. “It would take a lot more than an overgrown demon to scare me.”

“Hmmm,” Mammon hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe next time I should eat ya in my demon form, that might really give ya a fright.”

The joking tone of his voice was obvious, but I still sent a kick into the nearest wall in retaliation for the comment. “How many times do I have to tell you there won’t be a next time?” I huffed.

“Is it really so bad in there?” the demon inquired, once again prodding at the outside of his stomach.

I took a moment to assess my surroundings. It was just as pitch black as ever so I could only imagine what everything actually looked like. Surprisingly there was no foul odor, the stomach acid that was pooled at the bottom didn’t seem to have a scent to it. The temperature was a bit warmer than I’d prefer, but it was thankfully tolerable. And while the squishy stomach walls still kind of grossed me out, I had gotten pretty used to them already.

Being in the stomach itself wasn’t terrible, really it was the mere fact that I was in someone else’s stomach that I disliked so much. It was a matter of pride. Being in the Devildom, it was very important that I keep my head held high. Showing weakness would just encourage potential enemies to target me.

“It’s...well it’s not exactly the Ritz,” I responded, unsure of how exactly to explain it to Mammon. “I have no idea how I’m supposed to sleep in here either.” I couldn’t deny that it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, but I wasn’t really sure if I’d be able to fall asleep with the knowledge that I was literally inside someone’s stomach.

As if on cue, Mammon gave a yawn that caused everything around me to tighten for a moment before loosening once again as he exhaled. “Well, let’s test it out,” he announced. That was the only warning I got before Mammon sat up and got to his feet.

With Goldie safely tucked away in a pocket, I was able to easily brace myself against the walls with both hands. I felt quite secure--that is until the floor suddenly became a wall and one of the walls I’d been holding onto suddenly became the floor. “I suppose I should have seen that coming,” I thought to myself.

After a few moments of shifting as Mammon got situated, everything around me finally settled and I was able to get myself comfortable. It wasn’t like there was a ton of room to spread out, but it was plenty of space for me to lay flat. The stomach acid had seemed to dissipate shortly after Mammon had laid down, as if his body had finally caught on that I wasn’t going to be digested so it had no business sticking around.

“Comfy?” the demon asked as he went back to gently rubbing his stomach in a circular motion.

I snorted. “About as comfortable as someone can get in a stomach.”

“Good,” Mammon replied cheerfully, unphased by my grumpy tone.

“You better not roll onto your stomach,” I warned. While I figured the action wouldn’t necessarily hurt me, I doubted it would be comfortable being squished by the entirety of the giant demon’s bodyweight.

A chuckle echoed around me. “Don’t worry, I’m not much of a stomach sleeper,” Mammon promised.

With nothing else much to say, and exhaustion beginning to heavily set in, I said, “Okay...then goodnight, I guess.”

“G’night, Y/N.”

In a matter of minutes I could tell Mammon had already fallen asleep. His breathing was slow and even and his heartrate had dropped to a resting level. Honestly, the natural ambience of his body was kind of relaxing. The up and down motion his breaths caused almost made me feel like I was on a gently floating boat. It didn’t take much longer for me to drift effortlessly into a deep sleep.

The next morning, as soon as Mammon and I woke up, I demanded he quickly get me out and unshrink me. My urgency was in large part spurred by the fact that my bladder was absolutely screaming at me after having not been emptied in so long. I didn’t even get the chance to relish my return to normal size before I darted out to the bathroom, but not before ordering Mammon never to tell another soul about the previous night’s events.

After dumping everything I’d been wearing into the wash, taking an hour and a half long shower, and then absolutely stuffing myself during breakfast, I actually felt back to normal. Of course, I wasn’t about to forget the experience of being eaten anytime soon. And something told me Mammon wouldn’t either.

[need-a-fugue]

Trustworthy (Chapter 6)

Summary: You’ve spent the last three years teaming up with Santiago Garcia on every mission you had a hand in coordinating… and the past several months plotting with him to take down the biggest bad to hit your radar. But even all your time at the DEA and all your experience in the field couldn’t have prepared you for this.

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader (slow burn)

Warnings: language and just plain being miserable

It’s cold and wet and fucking miserable.

Your day so far… wake at the ass crack of dawn to a jerking, sputtering, clearly about to go down helicopter. Get – essentially – tossed from said helicopter into the midst of a bunch coca farmers out in an Andean valley. Become an accomplice in the unwarranted deaths of a few said coca farmers. Mill about the tiny community – wary eyes watching your every movement – as Santiago trades money for those lives… and for a handful of donkeys. Or mules, or whatever the fuck they are. Load up said donkeys with millions of dollars – certainly the type of cargo these poor animals are used to carrying – and head off into the jungle. With a sprained ankle. And a probable concussion. And – you realize just as that familiar ache begins to set into your hip – a shit ton of rain headed your way.

You’d lost track of how far precisely you’d gone, how many miles you’d traversed through this treacherous environment. And you refuse to ask, afraid that it’ll be just a fraction of how far you feel it’s been. By the time the sun descends and everyone hunkers down beneath a cluster of heavily rooted trees – just enough of an overhang to provide a bit of shelter from the once-again assaulting rain – it feels like you’ve all piled four damn marathons one on top of the other. But looking around at the thick foliage around you, noting the relatively small trail tamped down by your group as you climbed and trampled and fought your way up and out of that valley, it’s very clearly been closer to the length of a 5K fun run. Minus the fun. And the free T-shirt.

You let out a ragged, rather dramatic harrumph, the sheer annoyance at your predicament currently outweighing any fear or discomfort. But the discomfort is there none the less, every single nerve ending either on fire or vibrating from the utterly depleting fatigue that this day has caused.

Benny scoots closer to your side, tucking you back behind his shoulder just as you let loose with another full-body tremble. The action pins you even tighter to the wall of roots and mud and bark behind you, and to Frankie, who flanks your right side. “This fucking sucks,” you mutter, the final word coming out in an odd shuddering trill as the chill works its way out of your body.

“Yeah,” Ben breathes out with a soft chuckle before leaning back with an exhausted sigh. “Well, we’re dancing with the devil now.”

“Dancing?” Frankie returns, causing your tired gaze to swivel his way. “We were dancing when we got on the plane to come down here. I’d call this full intercourse.”

You all release a threadbare laugh, little more than a trickle of amused breaths being about all anyone has the energy to emit. Your arms wraps tighter around your core as you tuck yourself a bit deeper into Benny’s side, your eyes still trained on the man to your right. “Let’s just pray this is a one-night stand,” you smart, lips pulling into a sly smile the moment Frankie turns your way.

It takes a moment for his face to falter, the pained set to his features slowly melting into something just a little bit more relaxed as he snorts out an amused breath of his own. He gazes down at you, watches as you lean further back, burrowing even more into Ben’s warmth. He stares deeply, his dark brown eyes cutting through the onslaught of rain that continuously dribbles from the brim of his hat. “How’s your ankle?” he says finally. And the question catches you entirely off-guard. Not because it’s so strange or unwarranted, but because you’re certain that whatever thoughts and questions were just tumbling through his head, that rather benign inquiry wasn’t among of them.

You offer a small shrug. “S’fine,” you lie, biting the corner of your lip as the twisted appendage continues to throb. “Not like I got shot or anything,” you say as you lean forward and peer around Benny, trying to catch a glimpse of Will through the heavy rain and dark surroundings. “How ‘bout you, Ironmaiden? You still with us?”

You hear a short snicker from the man – and from Ben too – just before a deep rumble of, “Not dead yet,” cuts through the impending night. His face remains hidden in the dark, but you’re convinced that a hint of a smile flitted over it at the very least, and that’s enough to make you feel like a good deed’s been done.

But when you look back at Frankie, his shoulders heavily slumped as he leans away from the relative shelter of the trees, out into the pounding rain, you feel that tiniest hit of triumph swiftly uncoil and fade away. “Hey,” you bark out at him, nudging him with your foot as you lean back once more. “You’re gonna freeze out there.”

His lips tug up at the corners, but the small, closed-mouth smile never reaches his eyes. He makes no move to duck back beneath the leafy canopy, instead turning away and letting out a long, deep sigh. You nudge him again, saying nothing, but raising a questioning brow when his gaze connects with yours. “Pretty fucked up,” he mutters blandly before dropping his head again to stare down at the wet earth beneath his boots.

“Yeah,” Ben agrees beside you. “Pretty fucked up.” He uses his shoulder to jostle you a bit, get you to sit up and turn towards him. He holds up a giant, ripe mango, giving a little nod in place of an order to take it.

“Thanks,” you say, plucking it from his grasp. He merely nods again, this time a silent no problem, before shifting to present another to his brother. You look back at Frankie, his broad shoulders still slumped, now thoroughly soaked as well. “Hey,” you begin, the word coming out more as a pained grunt as you reposition yourself and fold the twisted ankle up beneath you.

His eyes fly up, wide and worried at the hurt in your voice. But the last you thing you want is for him to feel even worse than he obviously does right now. So again, you brush off the pain, shaking your head and rolling your eyes at the unasked are you okay? emanating from his stare.

“A little help?” you ask, holding the mango out to him. He reaches for it with a look of confusion. “My hands are so cold, fingers are numb,” you state with a shrug just before leaning forward and capturing his arm. Before he has the chance to even register what you’re doing, you’ve already wrapped yourself around him, tugging him with the only remaining energy that you have back beneath the tree’s canopy.

He lets out a little groan in protest, but appeases you all the same, scooting back until he’s flush with the wall of roots behind you. “You could just bite into it,” he mumbles as he settles back and uses his thumbs to break into the fruit.

“Mmm,” you hum out, no real response at all. His left arm is still held tight in your grasp, your cold – though not actually entirely numb as you had led him to believe – fingers pressing into his bicep, gliding along the soaked-through fabric of his windbreaker. You scoot closer to his side, still feeling Benny at your back, but now craving the heat being put off by the man in your hold instead.

“Here,” he breathes out, handing you a mangled chunk of mango.

The smallest titter of a laugh blows past your lips as you accept it and drop your heavy head down to his shoulder. “Don’t you have a knife?” you ask before shoving the food into your mouth.

He stills in your grasp. “Huh,” coming out of him in a surprised sort of grunt. He moves the mutilated, dripping fruit up to his lips, licking at the juice before tearing into a hunk of orange meat with his teeth. He shakes his left arm free from your clutches and deftly wraps it around you to tug you close, all without ever disturbing your cheek’s perch atop his shoulder. His wide open palm slips down to your hip and presses its warmth right over the dull ache of that damn old injury, and the deep tenor of his voice resounds in your ears as he says simply – mouth still full – “didn’t think of that.”

000

The sun rises somewhere around your second or third hour of hiking. You think. The burner phone you’d brought along had long since gone dead, and it’s been ten years or so since you’ve worn an actual watch. But it certainly felt like two to three hours went by from the time Santi roused you from your shivering near-sleep and the ominous birth of a new day.

Thick mist and fog gathers round, clinging to the ground, the trees, obscuring the way and growing heavier the higher into the mountains you climb. You take to doing rollcall every fifteen minutes or so, each calling in turn to the person behind, making sure that no one’s been lost to the surrounding haze.

You lose all sense of time, not even realizing how long it must’ve taken to get to the terrifying and precarious footpath cut into the side of the mountain until you look up to see that the sun is now high in the sky, closer to its journey down than up. The fog had just begun to abate as you all reached the narrow trail, and while that was very clearly a good thing – because if ever there was a time when you needed to see exactly where your feet were stepping, this was it – a part of you cursed the cloud for lifting and allowing an unobscured visual of all that lay below.

You can’t help it. With every step you take, your eyes veer from the placement of your feet along the narrow, rocky trail over to the steep drop off and then out to the endless acreage of mountainside and jungle below. Every step. Every plodding, breathless, horrifying step. And to make matters worse, to ratchet your heartrate and blood pressure just that much higher, the children in front of you have chosen this time to begin petulantly arguing and hurling accusations.

You roll your eyes and try to tune out the thinly veiled allegations and insults being tossed back and forth, each man’s voice carrying a different shade of I’m tired and hurt and hungry and I need a damn nap.

It was really only a matter of time, you figured, before the grumpiness managed to overflow into conflict. That’s just what happens when people – men in particular – go without rest for this long, carrying the burden of survival on their backs for endless hours of drudgery. Sure, you’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this… if anyone could find their way through unparalleled stressors without cracking, it’d surely be a team of elite special ops guys. But, then again, these men were all retired. They had real lives that they’d left just to get sucked into this shit. They had families and jobs and car payments waiting for them back home. And they’d been under the mistaken impression that they’d be able to get back to them all in just a handful of days. A week, max.

Also, one of them had been shot… and everyone else harbored at least some injury from that helicopter crash that you still hadn’t been able to fully mentally process. So, sure, it makes sense that they’d eventually devolve into juvenile bickering. But did they have to do it on the side of a fucking mountain?

You stop short, a small gasp of surprise shooting from your lungs as you nearly faceplant into a donkey’s ass, Will and Ben both having come to a sudden halt in front of you. “The fuck” you nearly shriek, but neither of the men so much as toss a glance your way. You peer around the animal in front of you and glare at Will, tired eyes burning into the side of his skull. “Fucking move!”

He turns then, shooting you a confused look, taken aback, it seems, by your sudden irritation. As though this moment of impatient annoyance should be reserved for just him and his brother. But before you can say another word, before he’s able to come to the obvious realization – that there are other people in this world! – on his own, his stare veers, eyes blowing wide as they lock onto something behind you.

A crunch of rocks, a shuffling sputter of movement, a terrified scream blossoming from the mouth of the donkey in the rear. By the time you’re able to maneuver yourself around to see to what’s happening, all that’s left is a cloud of cash slowly trailing behind the fallen animal, and a stricken Frankie cemented up against the side of the mountain. You catch his horrified gaze, hold it for a moment before finding the words, “Are you okay?”

He gives a weak nod as he pulls himself upright, slowly making his way behind your – now nervous-as-hell – donkey. Ahead of you, the arguing has intensified, though what’s being said, you can’t quite glean. And you don’t honestly care. Frankie pushes past, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze on his way, and finally makes it to the front of the group where he directs everyone to keep moving… convinces them, somehow to let go of whatever the hell it is that they’re bitching about.

Had to get all the money…

Fucking Lorea…

Just move, damn it!

That’s about all you manage to get from their conversation. It’s all you care to get. Blame, accusations, words in general, none of that matters right now. Frankly, the sudden loss of a donkey and millions of dollars doesn’t matter to you right now. Nothing matters right now except continuing to put one foot in front of the other for however long you have to do it… however long it takes until you reach a place where you can collapse into the exhausted, pained heap of a being that you are and simply sleep.

Taglist:

@tweedlydumbtweedlydoo @icanbeyourjedi @greeneyedblondie44 @mrscrain-x7 @kyjoraven@elephants-are-a-thing @nakhudanyx @thirsty-flygirl @leannawithacapitala

[dustofbrokenheart]

The Lost Boys: Promised Prize

Dwayne x Reader

Word Count: 1,768

Summary: After final exams are over, Dwayne makes good on the reward that you guys worked out. 

A siren blared as a police car zoomed by your building, waking you from your impromptu sleep. Where the sun had previously forced its way through the gaps in the blinds, nocturnal darkness had completely taken over and doused everything in shadow. You stretched leisurely on top of the sheets, giving your eyes time to adjust as shapes blurred into focus.

Propping yourself up on your forearms you reached for your alarm clock, the glowing red numbers flashing 10:14 pm.

Well then.

It appeared that you had literally slept half of the day away and then some. You blamed it on your body’s post-finals bid to finally catch up on the sleep that you had been depriving yourself of for the past two weeks.

You also hadn’t seen much of your boyfriend during that period, although that wasn’t by your choice. When he found out how busy you were with finals prep he basically disappeared which was his way of giving you space so you could be productive. He didn’t even talk with you about it, he just straight up stopped coming to your apartment. 

It was a good thing you knew him as well as you did otherwise you might’ve taken his ghosting to mean something else entirely and you told him as much when you finally saw him over the weekend.  

You went down the hall, switching on lights as you walked by on your way to the kitchen. A cool glass of water from the fridge always hit the spot after waking up. The water was extremely refreshing and several large gulps followed the first.

You took the water bottle with you so you could continue sipping from it while you went outside to get your mail. The small metal door creaked open and you juggled everything in your hands you flipped through the stack of envelops and inserts.

Junk. Pizza coupon. Bill. Bill—oh! Something from the college!

Unable to wait until you were inside, you tore open the envelope with shaky fingers. The paper unfolded and you scanned over the typed font with nervous determination.

You lowered the grade report in shock. Did you read that correctly?

You held it up again and, sure enough, the verdict was the same—you aced all of your final exams! And in doing that, your semester grade point average was high enough to make the Dean’s list.

The whole apartment complex was treated to your victorious banshee yell as it echoed off the concrete and glass of the apartment complex. Even some of the wildlife scattered.

High with endorphins, you scurried back to your apartment, laying the paper smack dab on the center of the kitchen table. There was another person who needed to see it as well.

The sun had been set for a few hours, plenty of time to find a first meal of the night, which meant that he would be dropping by at any time.

You found it impossible to sit since you were still feeling the excitement so rather than sit around and wait for him, you decided to channel the energy into something productive.

Cabinet doors were opened and closed as you took out different ingredients that were all thrown into a mixing bowl and kneaded together with your bare hands. Some of the mix stuck under your fingernails but you were more than happy to suck it off your fingers.

Separating the tan dough into small balls you carefully placed them on a cookie sheet and stuck it into the oven. Ten minutes later and they were out, cooling on the counter.

Dwayne still hadn’t arrived even after your cookie quest. You blew a couple of strands of hair away from your face. Time to do some dishes.

You slipped a Ratt cassette into your boombox, cranked it, and got to scrubbing. In the middle of cleaning the tines on a fork, you heard him enter.

He was bent over, taking off his shoes when you met him by the door.

He stood up and leaned in for a sweet kiss, but you stopped him to wipe some stray blood droplets off of his lips before you allowed it.

“Come on, there’s something I wanna show you,” you insisted, pulling him to the kitchen.

He sniffed the air.

“Peanut butter?” he asked hopefully.

“Yep. Sit down and I’ll bring you some.”

He sat down obediently and you knew he wouldn’t be able to resist reading the only readable thing in front of him. While you took your time with the cookies, you watched him out of the corner of your eye and saw the exact moment he took the bait.

He slid the paper closer with his pointer finger and read it silently. Even when he faced you there was no discernable reaction that most people would’ve noticed, however, you weren’t most people. The warmth in his brown eyes and the slight softening of his mouth were very clear to you.

“I aced everything,” you boasted, setting the plate pile of cookies in front of him.

“And the Dean’s list,” he added.

You were touched that he remembered that bit and gently scratched his scalp which had him rolling his head in a feline manner. “That means I get my reward too.”

He reached out and stroked the outer rim of your ear. “A promise is a promise. Wanna do it now?”

Back when you were stressing out all the tests and essays, and before Dwayne ghosted, he promised to give you a gift to keep you motivated. Anything you wanted. You told him you wanted a piercing done midway up your ear after seeing some people at school with them and he promised to do it for you.

You swiftly nodded. You really wanted the piercing.

Without another word, he shoved two peanut butter cookies into his mouth for safekeeping and tugged his shoes on. For being as old as he was, his inner child was always near the surface and you loved that about him. Most of the time.

“Heathen,” you razzed as you playfully hip checked him out of the way so you could grab your silver boots.

Opting not to retaliate, he merely winked and ushered you out the door, cookies still in his mouth.

The drive to the cave was short and uneventful. A benefit to the apartment being closer to the bluffs than it was the pier or the boardwalk. Dwayne expertly guided you down the rickety, wooden stairs and to the mouth of the cave.

Earlier in the relationship he always offered to fly you down so you didn’t have to use the stairs, but he respected the decision to do it yourself unless you were too tired or tipsy, in which case he made the final decision.

He prowled around the cave, grabbing supplied from seemingly random spots. “Do you still want it on the cartilage?”

You told him yes and sat on the cool edge of the fountain, noting how quiet it was with just the two of you here.

“What’s the rest of the crew up to?”

“I left the boys on the beach and Star wanted some more stuff for her bed. It’s not even midnight so they’ll be gone for a while yet.”

“I need to hang out with her more now that classes are done for now,” you said resting your chin on the tops of your knees.

“She’d appreciate any company that isn’t us at this point.”

You remembered the blood he had on his lips earlier. And the crumbs he left on them after eating the cookies. “I can’t imagine why...”

He plopped down next to you on the fountain and spread everything out, handing you a box full of earrings so you could pick one out.

“Fingers crossed you guys didn’t rip these off of your meals.”

Dwayne chose not to say anything, preferring to watch your squirm at the thought.

You did have to admit that there was quite a nice selection to pick from, no matter the source. There were shiny studs, pieces with all manner of materials dangling from them, and delicate hoops both decorated and plain. But a small, snug silver hoop with a pearl-colored sphere attached caught your interest.

Dwayne noticed and started rubbing your ear with alcohol to disinfect the area. Then he held the piercing needle over a small candle flame to sterilize it. Star had taught them a lot about piercing procedure and etiquette; not wanting to jeopardize your mortal health, he put her words to use.

Needle ready, he swung around with one of his legs resting in your lap.

“For grabbing onto if it hurts,” he offered and you settled your hands onto his jean-clad thigh. The needle was poised against the cartilage midway up your ear and you couldn’t help it when your heartrate sped up. 

The last time you had your ears pierced you were a little kid and you couldn’t remember the pain. You hoped this new one wouldn’t be too unbearable.

He nudged you gently to see if you were good to continue.

“I’m good. And you’d better not hit a nerve and paralyze me cause then I’ll have to beat you up.”

Were there any nerves to hit in that part of your ear? You weren’t sure but it came out of your mouth last minute.

“Good luck punching if you’re paralyzed,” he smirked punching the needle through the flesh as he spoke. He had a bottle cork pressed on the back of your ear so that the needle didn’t stab into your neck when it came out on the other side.

Your lids slammed shut and your finger nails dug into his leg. It wasn’t the worst you could imagine but it was still a sharp, noticeable pain.

Dwayne was quick with it removing the needle and dropping the cork in order to work the earring through the freshly made hole. He clicked the earring closed and gave the area one last wipe down with a water soaked q-tip.

“Well? How do I look?” You were impatient and he wasn’t moving fast enough for you. 

He held up a mirror so you could see it. You weren’t sure how he conjured it since none of the vamps in the cave used them, but you were more interested in seeing at your ear at the moment.

You gasped as you turned this way and that to admire it.

“I love it, Dwayne!” You peppered him with kisses.

Dwayne looked at you with evident pride. Pride in your smartness, pride in how you handled the pain, pride in the way the piercing turned out.

Beautiful, he thought.

_______________

Congrats to everyone that’s finished with finals and good luck to those who are still working through exams. Thanks so much for reading! 

[andveryginger]

Fictober Day One: “Elephant in the Room” (1/1)

Title:   “Elephant in the Room”

Prompt:   1. “I need you.”

Fandom:   Marvel Cinematic Universe/Multiverse (Clint/Tasha AU)

Rating:   Teen

Warnings/Tags:   Language!

Notes:   Real life sucks. But hey... it got done. Something of a follow-on to my MCU Ladies Fanwork Exchange piece, “By Example,” written in 2016... what seems like a century ago. In it, Tasha is wounded during exfil, following an operation that wasn’t quite as expected. The original story focusses on Maria Hill/Steve Rogers, but this snippet shifts the focus back to our favorite SHIELD spies. Decidedly AU at this point, and written with the idea that maybe the multiverse can fix it.

Posted without beta, and after months without writing fic; essays and non-fiction don’t flex quite the same muscles. Apologies if it’s a bit rough around the edges.

*****

“I need you.” Natasha Romanov heard the strained whisper, felt the familiar presence somewhere off to her right.  She felt weightless, floating in darkness, yet somehow aware of the coarse texture of the medical ward sheets beneath her fingers. To her left, her heartbeat echoed through the telemetry monitor, the steady rhythm fluttering slightly. Exhaustion, pain, and no small amount of medication weighed heavily on her, pressing her back into the thin mattress, discouraging any attempt to move, to acknowledge the whisper at her right.

“I know we don’t…talk… about stuff like this, but…” There was the rustle of clothes, and, even in her limbo state, Tasha could almost see Clint Barton rub his hand over his face. His voice was quiet, low, reflective, barely audible over the hiss of the oxygen. “We’re the normal ones – no armor, no invulnerability, no super strength – and we just go charging in. We don’t stop, don’t think too hard about what we’re getting into; we just do. ‘Cause it needs to be done, and it’s what we’ve always done. But now…” He paused, taking a breath and forcing it out in an audible exhale. “When you climbed back into the ‘jet today, I felt that good ol’ adrenaline rush: Job well done; world saved – Hell, maybe even the galaxy! I was looking forward to beer and pizza back at base, trading fish tales with Maria and Cap and, well, whoever else. But now, Tash, I’m sitting here, watching you breathe, and I… realize there’s a lot we don’t say that maybe we should. “I need you,” he continued. “I need you in my life. Not just because you’ve saved my ass more times than I can count – though that’s a damn good side benefit – but you’re my best friend. My partner in crime. We get into so much shit, and we just… understand how it affects us.” Tasha again heard him shift, his leather jacket squeaking slightly. She imagined him wedged between the wooden arms of the too-narrow bedside chair, leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His chin was down, wide eyes lifted to study her face. There was a long moment of silence, and she could almost feel his struggle with his words and his voice. He wasn’t, as he frequently pointed out, known for his eloquence.

“Fuck.” Clint snorted, gave a sarcastic laugh. “Why is this so fucking hard to say?” There was another heavy sigh, the soft brush of his hand over his hair. His voice shifted to a low rumble as he tried a different tack. “Had a talk with Cap a little while ago – you prob’ly heard him come in,” he said. “Stark told him Maria was in the medbay, and he came all barreling down here, thinking she was on her last breath.” Another dark chuckle. “Seems our favorite meat popsicle has a bit of a thing for the boss. Hearing she might not make it made him recalculate a few things and… well, let’s just say they’re going out for coffee later this week.” “The whole thing got me thinkin’ I don’t wanna wait till it’s too late, Tash,” he said. “You’re gonna be good – Doc Cho said as much. But watching you collapse, catching you before you fell…” The marksman drew a sharp breath. “…and then talking to Cap, it made me realize I don’t wanna quit running into the line of fire, but I damn sure want you to know how much I care – fuck, how much I love you – ‘cause, in the end, maybe one of us doesn’t make it home, and I don’t want there to be any question.”

Drawing a deep breath, Tasha struggled against the heavy weight of unconsciousness. She forced her fingers to move, followed by her toes and lips. Pain gripped her side, crawling across her rib cage and back as she emerged into the dimmed lighting of the room. Her heartrate fluttered in response, echoed in the high-pitched beep of the monitor. When she finally opened her eyes, she found familiar blue-green depths watching her, glassy and sparkling at the same time. His voice was soft, gentle, and warm as he greeted her. “Hey.” Still feeling the weight of the medicines, of the fatigue, of the need to sleep while her body repaired itself, Tasha blinked sluggishly, frustrated with the lack of cooperation from her eyelids as she fought to stay awake. “Hey,” she whispered in response. Relief and affection filtered into his gaze, emotions she allowed to reflect in her own. Abruptly, however, his attention dropped to his palm. Tasha frowned, confused for the instant it took to follow the shift. Then recognition settled: A small, silver arrow pendant and chain lay in the palm of his hand. Her necklace – the one he had given her. It had apparently broken in the fight and fallen off confusion of the extraction.

She licked her lips, drawing her attention up toward the mass of unruly hair atop his head. Her voice was groggy, rough as she spoke. “There’s no question, you know.”

He raised his head and looked up at her. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a rueful smile even as a rosy tint crept over his cheeks. “So you heard everything.”

“Unconscious, not dead,” she replied. Her lips twitched. “One of the things about sharing a brain… we already know how we feel.”

“Even when we’re in denial?”

Tasha chuckled, though she immediately regretted it. “’Specially then.”

A long moment of silence followed as Clint swept his rueful and affectionate gaze over her features. Swallowing, he reached his empty hand through the railing and, pushing back the scratchy sheet and thermal blanket, clasped her own. It was warm against her chilled skin, the callouses on his palms and fingers as comforting as they were familiar. A somber tone settled over his features. “I’m done with denial,” he said. “I… can’t take it back, and, well, I don’t think I want to. Love isn’t just for kids, Tash.”

Taking a deep breath, Tasha then swallowed back the lump in her throat. She forced a smile, a teasing one, though she knew he would see through it. “That’s a heavy word, Clint.”

“I know,” he conceded. His lips thinned. “I think we both know what it really means, why we always seem to avoid it.” His gaze dropped back to the necklace. “Lots of rumors about us. Those I don’t really care about; let ‘em wonder. But… I’m in this for the long haul, Tash.”

Warmth flooded her, creeping up her neck and sweeping over her cheeks. She arched a red brow. “…’till death do us part’?” Clint nodded. Sleep tugged at her once again, and she grimaced. There was a lot more to talk about, but it seemed all else was going to have to wait. The grimace gave way to a soft, lopsided grin. Her speech was starting to slur, despite her best intentions. “If I go first, I’m haunting your ass, Barton.”

Giving a laugh, Clint pushed forward. His lips gently brushed hers, hand offering an affectionate squeeze. “Wouldn’t expect any less,” he murmured. “And you know I’d return the favor. Now… I’ll get your necklace fixed while you get some rest.”

“Not because you told me, but because I don’t seem to have a choice in the matter,” Tasha replied. She allowed the lopsided grin to widen. “Oh, hey… tell Steve thanks. Then give him Hell.”

He laughed softly, and his lips curved into his own mischievous grin. “Already on the agenda.” With one final squeeze of her hand, he dropped a kiss to her temple. He slipped from the room just as sleep reclaimed her.

[aries-rising-on-an-aquarius-tide]

Spoilers: Futility 4x22

Trigger warnings: references to sexual assault and murder, angry sex, biting, marking

Evocations: XIII

Going through the motions and the paperwork after finding Gardner dead in Erin Goss' living room seemed to take a long, long time. When Olivia finally let herself into the apartment, it was so late that Sky High didn't even budge from the sofa when the door clicked open and then softly shut.

But Alex was still up. Noises drifting out of the kitchen drew Liv in that direction, where she found the blonde amid a disastrous mess of baking supplies. Open cannisters, boxes and bags were everywhere; flour, drips of mixtures, dropped chocolate chips, and empty egg shells ran from one end of the island to the other.

Alexandra baked when she was angry.

That was fine by Olivia, as they both had plenty to be angry about. The Gardner case had been a thorn in their side right from the beginning, and now it had ended less than optimally - to say the least. A rapist was dead but dead wasn't exactly justice, and none of them really believed that Erin had been defending herself.

Luck had been on Alex and Olivia's sides in the two years they had been together, in that they hadn't gone to the mat over cases very often. It was often commented on by those who knew they were together, how unusual this was.

"He's dead," Liv said flatly.

"So I heard," Alexandra replied, hands on her hips as she blew a section of blonde hair off her forehead.

Five rapes, three indictments dismissed, now a murder, and the perpetrator was dead. They were going to the mat this time, and they both knew it. Had known it since Alex had blown up over Gardner's motion to call Bethany to the stand. Very little of it was about pride; it was about the futility of it, of all the energy expended trying to protect the women, only to have things fall apart. Both women felt impotent, everything they had tried having only resulted in further complications.

"She was sleeping with him," Liv added.

Alex snorted, wiping her hands on her apron. "Well that was obvious."

The oven timer went off, and Alex slipped on oven mitts, yanking a tray of cookies out. Sighing, Olivia slumped into one of the bar chairs at the island.

"We never should have had Carrie waive her privacy," Alex tossed out.

"So the jury could have deadlocked over the ID? It still would have given him the chance to run and kill that woman."

"That woman would still be alive if we had done our jobs!" Alex slammed a spatula against the counter, every inch of her tall body wound tight with anger and inexpressible sadness.

"We did do our jobs!"

It wasn't that Olivia didn't understand; just two nights before she had been singing the same tune to Elliot, about the fine line between doing the right thing, and doing too many right things. There was just no soft place to land when they were both feeling like this.

"I can't do this anymore," Alexandra said tersely. Liv stilled in her seat, her heartrate leaping. "It's bad enough that I never know when you're going to come home with bruises from some predator attacking you. If I can't get justice for the victims, I'm failing on both fronts."

"Alex, I can take care of myself."

"Not always."

"Most of the time," Liv insisted. Alexandra made an irritated noise in her throat and flipped pages in her cookbook angrily. "If you want to drop SVU, nobody's stopping you," Olivia told her then, taking a page from Elliot's book.

Alex scoffed openly at that.

Liv rose from her chair and rounded the corner of the island counter. "Hey, it's true! Just because you're the best ADA that the unit has ever had, doesn't mean you can't move on. But I know exactly what I signed up for - and the bottom line is, a lot of the time this job is hell. That's not going to change."

The truth of the statement hung in the air between them.

"You don't get it, do you?!" Alex snapped, stepping up to the brunette, their sparking, angry gazes meeting. "I see what this job does to you - to us - and I can't lose you. I can't."

Alex's hand grabbed Liv's forearm, fingertips biting into the skin with the force of fear and guilt and anger. Worse, though, was that Olivia did understand; she knew exactly what the pressures of their jobs was doing to their relationship. It kept her awake some nights, wondering how long they could both sustain things.

Liv put her hand over Alex's and attempted to pry the fingers away, which resulted only in Alex's other hand, locking onto her bicep and pushing her hard against the counter.

"Alex," Liv warned, but it was obvious from the blonde's stormy gaze that it wasn't going to do any good.

Alex tightened her grip so that Olivia couldn't raise her arms, and leaned in, dragging frustrated kisses along the lines of the brunette's throat. The kisses included plenty of teeth, nipping and scraping the skin, leaving red marks in their wake.

Liv struggled under the weight of Alex's body pushing her, both women breathing angrily and fast. "For fuck sake, Alex!"

The blonde sank her hands into Liv's short dark hair and pulled, dragging a hiss from her throat before she clamped a hard kiss onto her mouth. Their fear, and impotence and exhaustion with the case poured into their angry touching, ramping up with every motion.

Olivia yanked at the apron that Alex was still wearing, her hands fighting to untie the strings as Alex tried to keep her pinned. Changing tactics, Liv used her weight against her, pushing forward and away from the island altogether. They stumbled across the space between the counter and the refrigerator, crashing into the appliance and sending magnets clacking to the floor.

Grunting with surprise, Alex steadied herself and fisted the bottom of Olivia's shirt into her hands, tugging it swiftly up over Liv's head and off, shoving her backward. The brunette crashed back against the island where Alex immediately pinned her with another kiss.

Olivia bit into the blonde's bottom lip, and Alex drew back, eyes wide. "Christ!" Blood welled where teeth had cut, and when the kiss began again, Liv sucked it clean.

The apron was finally untied and, Liv's hands slid down Alexandra's back, pulling her sweater up, wrestling to get it off. When it was gone, more biting followed, over the blonde's neck and shoulders until she was slapping Olivia's hands down. Pushing her in her hold, Alex got her turned around so that she was facing the counter.

One hand slid up Liv's back, curling to a stop at her neck, holding her in place while the other hand snaked around Liv's waist to open her pants. They had never really done this - fucked out of anger, out of fear - and it felt dangerous and electric. Alex's hand manoeuvred into Olivia's pants as she struggled, and when she was met with clamped thighs, she brought her knee up to wedge between her legs from behind.

"Fuck you!" Olivia panted.

Alexandra dropped her mouth to the warm skin of Liv's back and bit her there. "That's what I'm doing," she told her evenly. Spreading Olivia open with her long fingers, Alex stroked mercilessly over the swollen clit she found there.

"Fff-agghh!" Liv cried angrily, her forehead against the cool marble of the countertop.

The blonde released her grip long enough to jerk pants and underwear down together, then sank her fingers into Olivia's hair while the other hand stroked at the dripping wet heat of her entrance from behind. Both women growled unintelligibly when Alexandra filled Liv with her fingers.

She was not gentle, nor did Olivia want her to be, as Alex pulled her head back by the hair and fucked into her hard enough to stutter her feet forward on the floor. Liv stretched her arms across the island, fingers slipping on spilled flour and other sticky ingredients.

"You're going to come for me," Alex panted, then groaned at the responding clench of Liv's cunt around her fingers.

"Fuck . . . fuck!" It seemed to be the only working word left in Olivia's vocabulary.

Come she certainly did, screaming with anger, with relief, while trying to thrust into Alex's fingers yet somehow away from them all at once. Before Liv had barely caught her breath, she spun on the tall blonde and grabbed her with both hands, planted on either side of her ribcage.

Trailing remnants of flour and sugar in their wake, Liv shoved her hands beneath the bra Alexandra had on, squeezing her breasts gracelessly, pinching her nipples hard enough to make her hiss in pain. Then Alex's mouth was on Liv's again, her arms encircled her waist and she hoisted her onto the counter.

Olivia sank another bite into the blonde's throat, her hands working to get the bra off. When she succeeded, she raked her nails down Alex's back, getting a roar of lustful anger in response. For the first moment since they'd started, Alex stepped away from her, their eyes still locked like dogs growling through a fence.

She popped the button on her pants, unzipped and shoved her pants off her hips to the floor, kicking out of them. The scratches down her back were hot and stinging as she stepped back up to Olivia and brushed her lips close to her ear.

"Fuck me," she breathed, then bit down on Liv's earlobe.

"Make me," Liv rasped out, shivering as the bite was followed by Alexandra's hot tongue.

"My pleasure." The blonde grabbed one of Liv's wrists and pulled, dragging it low and forcing the fingers to uncurl.

As soon as her fingers made contact with the damp, wiry curls between the blonde's thighs, Olivia's resistance evaporated. Her fingers straightened so Alex could guide them where she wanted them, and where Alex wanted them was deep inside her. Then Liv took over, withdrawing and then sinking her fingers back in to the hilt, over and over again.

The last of their anger and fear burned down as the sound of Liv fucking Alex filled the kitchen, not stopping until the blonde was quaking and dripping and gasping for mercy.

.

.

"Another cookie?" Alex asked quietly.

"Mm, yes please," Liv nodded against Alex's chest.

Alexandra reached across to the plate of cookies that they'd rested on the toilet cover and took one, passing it off to the slippery, wet brunette that was atop her in the hot bath.

They had been there a long while, reheating the water each time it cooled, tending to their bites and scratches, washing off flour and sugar remnants. And, of course, eating cookies.

"Lex?" Olivia mumbled, serene but tired.

"Yes?"

"I promise you won't lose me, as long as I can help it."

Alexandra took a deep breath and combed her fingers through Liv's short, wet tresses. "I know, Babe. I know."