#feel free to drop thoughts about them at any time i will eat them voraciously

[wraith-caller]

hii!!! just wanted to say i've been seeing a lot of your stuff about the d twins and wanna say that i love everything you're talking about !! they mean a lot to me and my sister and are glad that other people like them just as much as us

:] thank you for saying so. i enjoy thinking and writing about them, and i am always happy to meet others who like them too. like pretty much every character in the game, they are compelling and tragic and flawed and relatable all at once. darian's kindness coupled with his dedication to such a cruel order is especially interesting. i just love that he and devin were treated so terribly by the world, but darian still has it in him to have concern for a stranger's safety and is so eager to call you a friend. but that he isn't this perfectly rational being who can look at what the order has done and refuse them - he is desperate for acceptance and belonging, and he won't risk losing it once he's found it. while devin is harder to get a bead on since we are seeing him in a freshly traumatized state, he serves as the sort of 'darker' side of what this lifetime of complete societal shunning can do to a person - the anger and rage and guilt and shame, all lashing out at the ones who have hurt him. darian wants to be accepted and find kinship with others, devin is the moment of duress and mourning after losing it. bleh sorry. i can't help but ramble about them. d twins fans are one of the smaller slices of ER fandom, but we're still kicking!!

[juminly]

As The Rush Comes III (Ikémen Vampire Theodorus Van Gogh x Reader)

Summary: As the events of the night unfold, you finally find yourself at Theo’s apartment. Tension is high and your bodies are hot. Would this be the night you finally leave the friend zone? What happens after that...? Keep reading. You’re going to want to. Part I, Part II. AO3 (all 3 parts)  Rating: Explicit, Mature (sexual content).  Word Count: 5600 approx. PS: Proceed with caution.Things get real hot.  --------------------------------------- There was no point in thinking or in trying to process any of the thoughts in your head. Theo was under you and the heavens knew that you were under some spellbinding curse (or blessing) and nobody could break it until you got what you wanted. All of him. Completely driven and overwhelmed by your lust, you could only feel and all your senses screamed for him, intoxicated by his mere presence, to lay your eyes on him, taste him, touch him, smell him, listen to him as he would make you into the most beautiful masterpiece. You pushed his shoulders down until his back hit the mattress, kissing his lips softly. “Master… I’d like to give you a treat. If you’ll allow me, please.” you cooed beseechingly, seeing him swallow hard and the tips of his ear turning into the lightest shade of pink. He probably wasn’t expecting you to be so... bold, to say the least.   Taking that as his response, you rubbed your nose against his, grinning widely. “Thank you, Master.”

Assuming a crawling position, the bed shook beneath you as you straddled his chest, moving your body forward until his head was cradled between your knees. You looked down at him, your eyes shimmering with anticipation and his own mirrored the same. 

“It turns out my Hondje wants a treat of her own before she gives me mine?” He taunted,  lifting his index, rolling the pad of his finger on your swollen clit before you swatted his hand away with a sharp smack. “I’m not a selfish ass like you.” you bit back as you switched the position of your body, angling it towards his own and laying your palms on his chest. “See? You better give your Hondje the credit she deserves.” “Touché. I’m rather enjoying the close view of your ass right now.” you chuckled as he gave you a long lick between your folds, catching you off guard, blessing you with longing strokes on your butt while he began his quest to pepper your inner thighs with kisses and obviously, more marks. He was such a biter and you were definitely not surprised.  “Since you’re so thoughtful, baby. I’m not going to start until you do.” You almost fell face first onto his crotch but you held yourself up with a firm push on his abs… God you wanted to lick them so much but… nothing could stop you from doing just that. You were going to lick them. Fumbling to unbuckle his belt and open his zipper, you tasted the saltiness of sweat coating his skin, feeling the muscles clenching under the wetness of your tongue as you traced the V line, leading down to where he needed you the most and where you wanted to be. You hooked your fingers into his pants and boxers, sliding them down his hips. “Oh God... you’re big….” Your innocent remark of surprise escaped you unwillingly as his throbbing erection sprung free, his tip an angry shade of red. You unconsciously thumbed at the tip, forcing his slit to spill more of pre-cum and he hissed loudly and bit down on your inner thigh making you do the same. His back arched slightly at your sudden touch before letting out an arrogant chuckle. “Is that so, Hondje? I had no idea.” Fucking hell… how were you supposed to shove that in your mouth? You honestly didn’t say that to stroke the man’s ego. He definitely didn’t need it. He had the assets to match his big dick energy vibe and there was no shame or harm in admitting. Maybe? Still, you freaking said it because it was true and you were going to have some trouble swallowing it whole but you would challenge the whole world before you gave up on making this man tremble under your touch. “Come on, Hondje. You’re gonna keep staring at it?” His hands stroke the back of your thigh, pushing your cheeks apart to get an intimate view of everything you had to offer him. You felt so exposed… but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You squealed as he smacked one of your cheeks sharply, your whole body rocking forward with the force of it. “Suck my dick, baby and you’ll get what you want.” Lifting himself lightly, he trailed kisses up your inner thigh and murmured, husky and low. “I want to taste you...” Your legs quivered around Theo’s head and you obeyed his demands. You lowered your hips down to his mouth where your own lips were met with his own. He tongued you voraciously, paying attention to each part that you had to offer. Sucked your drenched folds intently and sliding his tongue between them in an oscillating motion, your hips thrusting against his face of their own accord as his tongue swivelled over the peak of your cunt. Your Master was giving you so much attention and you couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him. Was it a challenge on who could make the other come first? Probably. With a soft lick over his slit, tasting the precum that dribbled along his shaft, your tongue languidly brushed under the head before you swirled it around the tip of his cock, kissing it softly. Your lips quirked into a smile as you began to suck on the head softly, the relentless circling of your tongue around him not ceasing until you drove him deeper into her mouth. You wanted to scream “Yes! Theo! Right there! More!” but your cries were muffled moans against his cock, stimulating him further with a vibration that made him switch inside the warm cavern of your mouth. He was applying more pressure to the sensitive nub, flattening his tongue on it, before flicking it teasingly again and again and then plunging it deep inside you, mimicking the motions of what he would do to you… soon. While he did so, you revelled in the taste, humming deep in your throat and moaning and the magnificent… oh, the glorious sounds emanating from him, fuelling your own impending release. As he rubbed small circles on your clit so eagerly, you stopped rocking against his mouth, your insides clenched around his tongue as he slowly moved the warm muscle in and out of you, well aware of the climax that came crashing down on you, tasting you right through it while you squeezed his head tightly between your spasming legs. As you tried to calm down from your release, your lover decided to take matters into his own hands. Theo thrust his hips into your mouth with resounding groan, he reached the back of your  throat and you immediately choked, the fullness of his girth almost too much to bear. You began bobbing your head up and down his length, encompassing him with the warmth of your mouth, wrapping lithe fingers around his base to stimulate him where you couldn’t reach. You tried to suck harder on him until he found his release, his seed spurting down your throat in hot gushes that you swallowed, not letting a drop of it fall from your lips. You choked lightly but continued to bob your head as he fucked your mouth, a series of moans tumbling from his lips as you helped him ride the wave of his climax, sucking on his tip before letting his dick fall limp on his thigh. Giving him a small kiss on his hip, you fell to your side, gasping for breath. “Fuck… that wasn’t so bad, Hondje.” He meant “it was mindblowing!” obviously and you couldn’t help but agree with your Master’s words. You both laughed as you laid there for a few silent moments, the sound of your breathing was the only thing that filled the room. Propping himself on his elbows, he cast a wicked grin at you as he sat up and you returned it with a sultry one of your own. Licking your slick from his lips, a look of triumph in his eyes and a semblance of boyish wickedness washed over his face momentarily as you smiled at him, as he stepped off of the bed. You mirrored his same actions and opened your mouth wide, showing him that you swallowed every drop of his desire that he stuffed your mouth with.  “Good girl.” Those two words of praise filled you with childlike giddiness. You bit your lip to keep you from gasping and even worse, drooling. The anticipation in you skyrocketing almost instantly at the sight before you. Theodorus had stripped off his pants and was now sitting on his knees before you, his hand stroking his shaft as his eyes lingered on you, traveling from your head to your toes.  He licked his lower lip, his throat bobbing as a shit-eating grin made an appearance on that handsome face of his. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead while his cheeks burned hot, a light shade of crimson adorning his handsome visage. “I’m not going to touch you before you show me what dirty things go through that head of yours. I want to know how to make my Hondje feel good.” With a smouldering and sadistic gaze, riling a mixture of bewildering emotions in you, ranging from arousal to deadly embarrassment, he chuckled before inquiring. “Have you touched yourself thinking about me pumping my big cock, fucking my fist at the thought of you, baby?” Your eyes looked everywhere but at him, embarrassed to admit that you pleasured yourself to the thought of him but he was able to know every single thing that crossed your mind. “So naughty.” he chuckled. “I’m gonna have to teach you some manners, some other time. But for now, show me how you touch yourself.” You shakily pushed your body back to the cushions at the top of his bed, laying completely bare with your legs spread wide open, a spectacle for his pleasure as he was your own.  Your legs threatened to kiss with the intense need to rub them against each other as your eyes scanned the handsome being before you, the erratic rise and fall of his chest as he pumped his length, fast and slow. You opened your mouth slightly, trailing your tongue across your curved lips, breathing out loud enough for him to hear the quick pants that matched the movement of your heaving chest. "I dreamt of your lips... your fingers touching me…in different places…” Arching your back, you let your hands travel from your shoulders down to your breasts, circling your fingers around your sensitive peaks, letting Theo watch them as they beaded. “Here." With a light pinch, a quiet yelp escaped your lips before you giggled, your voice growing huskier by the second. Your eyes widened as Theo stopped pleasuring himself and sauntered towards you, lifting your foot to his mouth and began kissing his way up to your ankle and across your thigh. “I didn’t ask you to stop now, did I? Keep going. You’re not stopping until I tell you to.” His teasing was too distracting, your breath hitching as he sucked on the back of your knee, as he lowered himself onto the mattress that meekly creaked under the shift of his weight. His eyes never left yours, narrowing on you while you both fell into an insufferable plight of denial. You lifted an index to her mouth, sucking on its tip softly before bringing it back to your breasts, repeating your previous motions, gaze still locked with his. "Your tongue... tasting me… Just like it did… Before..." “I keep thinking about how it would be like to… ah… wake up to you… rubbing against me.” You continued, racking your brain to even form proper intelligible words and give your Master what he wanted. As he marked your body with marks of his love, each one of a sign of his claim on you, that he owned you. With every word you managed to utter, his resounding grunt was the only confirmation you had as he coaxed more of your lustful ruminations. As one hand traced the curve of your waist, you let your wet finger trail between your breasts, over your stomach and around your navel, your muscles dipping in reaction to your own tantalizing touch as you neared your lower abdomen, a gasp mixed with a whine falling from your lips. “You’d use your… fingers to get me…to get me… wet.” Lowering himself onto his elbow, he examined you thoroughly as your hands reached between your legs, stretching your folds open, allowing him to see the source of the honey that dripped from you. While he lost himself in his contemplation, a vile smirk adorned his face as his index slid between the petals of your exposed core. Just seeing him look at you like that, so devilish and between your legs… you were in heaven, even as he made you sink in pure sin. “Someone’s greedy...” he stated derisively, being the taunting Master that he was. “Yes, Master…” You moaned loudly as he thrust two fingers inside of you and curled them ruthlessly, your walls clenching around him, seeking more of the fullness that you craved.  He clicked  his tongue as he saw your jaw drop open and you helplessly attempted to rock your hips against his hand. “Keep talking and maybe... just maybe… I’ll give you another treat.” Theodorus licked droplets of sweetness that fell from your folds, his warm breath fanning over your core, tickling you in the most pleasant way but driving you absolutely nuts. He watched you intently as you fucked yourself with his fingers, before his eyes. He knew that you wanted his tongue inside you and flicking your clit like he just had. But he was gonna make you work for it. With every conscientious motion, marking you seemed to be the only thought that was driving him, along with making you absolutely batshit crazy with need as his lips found their new rightful place on your inner thigh where he brushed his nose against the plump flesh, exploiting your weakness as your legs quivered from the lightest touch. You wanted it, you needed it. A validation to the culmination of what transpired between you and the strings that bound you. You wouldn’t have it any other way. The amount of times you dreamed of being teased by him… it was such a Theo thing to do and he was cruel, dominant and so damn talented with his fingers and tongue… You wondered how good he would be with his dick. The dick that you had the pleasure of getting intimately acquainted with as he shoved it deep down your throat.  You began panting, the rhythm of your whines matching the cadence in which he pummelled his long digits inside you and curled them, oh so cruelly. “See, Theo… Master! This is exactly what I do at night… when… I’m alone… fantasizing about your hard… thick cock inside me… Mhmm…Fuck… Fuck… FUCK!” It was unlike anything you’d ever felt before and you were already reeling from the insurmountable heights that your desire for him had reached. His eyes were voracious and your body trembled from the eminent danger that you craved and was begging for. “Theodorus…” He slowed down at the sound of his name spilling from your lips so beautifully, locking those ocean orbs with yours. “I want to see how much you can take… Are you really ready for me, Hondje?... Tell me. What is it that you want?” You couldn’t mask your irritation from the teasing but was glad to finally hear him voice his yearning through that rough huskiness of his. Something that you wanted to see more of. You choked on a gasp as he inserted a third finger inside you, curling them once again with dispassionate resolve that had you questioning how much control you had over yourself. The answer was… none. You could see his Adam's apple bobbing while you admired his godlike and satanic physique. His eyes didn’t leave yours for a moment though, those lips of his curled in a wicked smile that made you want to slap him and devour him too. You could only breath out a meek “I want you” before he pulled out his fingers from you, making you grieve from the deplorable emptiness that he dared to assault you with before shoved his tongue deep inside you, drinking in all the wetness that he was so culpable of. Spreading your legs even wider for him, his bed creaked as he shifted across it, finally finding his place between your legs… where you both wanted him to be. Hovering above you with one arm propped on one side of your body, you relish the thought of feeling his weight encumbering you and joining your bodies together. “Tell me, baby. Are you ready for me?” How was he capable of being so indisputably irresistible? His lips were slick with your moisture and his visage adorned with a famished gaze, you couldn’t help but squirm and feel a current of electricity making your skin tingle with sparks like the crackling of a firecracker. You whimpered as he held his length, laying heavy in his hand and angling it to glide between your lips, tearing the cry from the depth of your throat, the friction clearly insufficient and his main goal was to make you lose your mind. And he succeeded in doing so. “What is it that you want, baby? Use that pretty mouth that sucked my cock so well…” honeyed words fell from his sweet lips, stirring you deep down and making you snap. His chest heaving with silent pants, the gentle tint of crimson dusting his cheeks and the beads of sweat pearling and meandering down his chiseled jaw propelled you into an unhinged state that you never found yourself in before. “I want you, Theo… Fill me up, split me open… “ You were completely delirious and your brain and mouth weren’t connected, so you just kept rambling, continuing with an exasperated giggle and your fingers were digging in the skin of his shoulders, slashing down until your nails marked the length of his back. “Fuck, Theo… I couldn’t even fit half of you in my mouth and I was practically choking as I tried to fit as much of you as I could in my pretty little mouth… Do whatever you want me to me… Fucking hell… Theodorus… I’m all yours.” “Shush. Down, girl. I heard you loud and clear. But did I give you permission to use your claws?” his reprimanding tone made you whine in frustration, shaking your head in response to his question. You wanted him inside you too much and he was just going to prolong the torture. Which would make the pleasure even more worth it. You wanted him to fill the emptiness inside you and he fully intended to do that.  “You want my cock inside you that badly, baby?” Involuntarily, your hips began to jerk upward, seeking any contact, friction, touch from Theodorus that would help alleviate the ache that was burning and throbbing in your core. Pulling away from you, he smiled down at your trembling figure, distancing his body from yours even further while he allowed his fingers to travel around the curves of your body, your hips and the bumps of your stomach, the contour of your small perky mounds and the small beads that called for him. Only from feather-light touches and you were panting, needy and frustrated. "Patience is clearly not one of your virtues…. Neither is it mine.” He chuckled derisively as his hands settled on the flesh of your hips, gripping you so tightly, you were certain that he had bruised you. “You’ve been so good before now… So , I’ll give you what you want, baby. Turn around.” Without a moment of hesitation, you shifted yourself onto your knees and elbows, arching your back so you could give him a good view of your behind. A pained cry ripped from your throat as he struck your behind with sheer force.  “AH!... Hah… What did I do, Theo!?” “Did I tell you to stop talking?” Another hard slap and a whimper from you. “No, Theo!! No… I’ll keep talking… I… I pr-promise.” He hummed disapprovingly under his breath while his hands brushed over your reddening skin with longing strokes. “What did you call me just now?”  Another hard strike, the tears pooling in the corner of your eyes from the foreign feeling of pleasure that he aroused in you through the pain. “Master!... I want you, Master!” You wiggled your hips and pushed your chest down so your ass was even higher, a deep arch forming in your back. “I want your cock inside me… Please” His fingers were now stroking your folds and you felt him looming over you, painfully nipping you from the length of your vertebrae, from your tailbone to your nape. His slickness of his chest pressed against your back while he breathed hard down your neck, sucking on the junction between your nape, biting your skin aggressively before letting it go. “Say that again, baby.” you yelped loudly, tears trickling down your cheeks as he slapped you between your legs, your nerves feeling completely shot as you had never thought you’d experience such delicious pain. Was he turning you into a masochist? It felt so good but you heaved, breathless as you suddenly felt his nose brush against your cheek and murmuring huskily under his breath. “You’re driving me crazy, Y/N… Absolutely crazy for you.” You turned your head to the side and your lips connected, tongues tied in a dance full of passion and a love you didn't dare express. Yet. His hands traveled from your ankles, slowly caressing and trailing up the length of your legs, his touch lingering on your inner thighs. You trembled and whined in your kiss, your legs quivering and parting widely as the tip of cock slid between your folds, teasing your sensitive bundle of nerves, teasing your entrance. Your body was obedient to his will, just as you were, submitting yourself to your lust and love for him. With an animalistic growl, he thrust into you as you welcome him fully, feeling the burning stretch of your core just to accommodate his size and his length. It hurt but it hurt so good, you mewled and broke your kiss, looking at him pleadingly as he rocked his hips back, almost completely out of you before entering you again, his pace excruciatingly slow as you revelled in the emptiness that he just filled. “You’re going to cry, baby? You’ve been begging me to fuck you all night long and now you’re sobbing at how big I am.” Sapphires gleaming with frenzied passion, he pushed his cock deeper inside you, sheathing himself fully in your wetness and groaning loudly in your ear. “You’re so fucking tight for me…”  His cock pulsed as he began ramming into you, erratically splitting and forging your insides with it, his motions almost wild as the slow-burn of heat escalated from your stomach, the coil that you knew too well from all those times you’ve imagined him beating into your cunt. “Let me hear you cry for me, Hondje.”You gripped the sheets under you so hard, the sheer power he plowed you with would be enough to have you screaming, a mix of pleasure and subtle agony washing over you. You were afraid you were going to pass out from the influx of assaulting sensation that came crashing down on you and missed out on the best night of your life. “Yes… Yes… Theo.. Master… Fuck me, please...” You keened helplessly, the pleasure creeped through the rest of your body like a shock into your blood, a rush of adrenaline and serotonin overdosing your mind, body and soul,  propelling you into an eventual spiral that would soon hit you, the eminent pulsing of your core announcing it. “Fuck, Hondje… You feel so good… Keep milking me like that.” He filled you up to the brink, your core almost ached as he pummeled you mercilessly, a bulge in your stomach forming  every time he thrust in and out of you. His panting, resounding and heavy, only made you burn hotter for him. All the teasing made him into the man he was now and you thought that he couldn't love him more… But seeing him completely unhinged for you, you never dream of it.  “Come on, baby… You’re driving me crazy...” He grunted as he smacked a hand on your behind as he pulled out of you, then pumped back in you. Your legs quaked almost violently and your hips undulated rapidly to meet his onslaught, the knot that was building in your core finally snapped. The hard waves of pleasure crashing down on you in heaps, your cunt clenching hard on him as every part of you quivered beneath him. As you came undone and your body seemingly grew limp when your lover wound an arm around your waist and his hand now pressed against your throat, hoisting you up in his lap, panting over your neck. “Can’t take my dick anymore? It’s too much?” He fiercely hammered you, his groans turning into disconnected moans of your name, his hold on your neck growing tighter as he chased his climax. “Too bad… I’m not done yet.” He was so close and you could feel his cock twitch inside you. His motions flurried as he slid you all the way down to his base, the sounds of your skins slapping against each other only driving him even more wild, your body bouncing against him with ease as he dug himself deeper and deeper inside of you. His groans grew rougher as you rolled your hips back and forth, and he moaned loudly, as he continued to thrust in and out of you, his body shuddering violently under you, painting your walls white with his essence as he poured all his desire in you. He filled you up so well and he remained inside you, allowing you to go lax with him as your support. He pressed his forehead against the back of your nape, peppering you with soft and lazy kisses when he wasn’t trying to regain his composure and catch his breath. You could hear him still heaving as he had yet to descend from the height of his climax. “Did I hurt you, babe?” He mumbled against your shoulder, gruff and breathless, rubbing his hand gently on your throat. He was borderline about to choke you but thankfully, he didn’t. Kind of. Hearing a hint of fear in his voice made your heart clench with happiness. He needed some sort of reassurance to calm him after losing control to his carnal desires and instincts. You opened your mouth to speak but couldn’t find your voice, especially after he had fucked your soul and voice out of you. You simply shook your head and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, resting your head back on his shoulder. He exhaled in relief, as if he hadn’t been able to breathe properly without making sure he was okay. This Theo… this is the man you were in love with. It felt so good as he stayed inside you, still connected even after he was done fucking you to tears. Releasing you from his hold, he kissed your shoulders, the nature of his kisses more gentle and with a softness that he did show you before now. “Lay on your back, babe and spread your legs for me.” You did exactly as you were told, displaying yourself completely to your lover as viscous trails of your mixed  desire dribbled out of your center.  Drawing a long strip with his fingers through your core, he brought it to your lips. “Open up… Don’t make me repeat myself. Tell me how good we taste.”  You opened your mouth and licked the length of his fingers, tasting the bittersweet saltiness of your mixed essence before you grabbed his wrist, pushed his digits even deeper into your mouth, which earned you a wider grin from your man. “So greedy… Suck. Imagine if it was my dick fucking your mouth right now.” Opening your mouth wider, Theo watched as you greedily lap your tongue around his fingers so hungrily but with a latent sense of exhaustion, sucking off every bit of you that covered him. Your bold actions made your core tighten and ache, the fierceness in his eyes was electrifying, even after all he had done to you. But even more than thought, Theo seemed to be brimming with pride. Collapsing next to you, he placed a hand on your hip, urging you to lie on your side so he could look at you. He seemed so different. That softness in his gaze and the small quirk of his lips that exuded nothing but pure bliss. Unusual… and it did things to your heart that you were not sure you would be able to handle. You bit your lip to keep yourself from crying, your chest tightening in the most bittersweet way possible. You couldn’t believe that any of this actually happened. Trying to distract yourself from the rush of emotions, it was time to let yourself explore him a little bit more, reveling in the afterglow of your fuck… lovemaking. His fingers found home in the lock of your hair, threaded through them softly, brushing the loose strands that were sticking to your face while your fingers ambled deftly from his abdomen, seeing his muscles clenching under your smooth touch, reaching his pectorals before resting on his shoulders. “You still want more, mijn liefje?” He smirked lazily, an expression of absolute contentment painted on his features. With a weak shake of your head, you leaned closer until your tired breath mingled, whispering against his lips. “I just want you, Theodorus.” Before your lips finally met, he uttered a response that you couldn’t even hear yet he silenced you with a tender kiss that slowly grew passionate but remained slow, not giving you the chance to protest and make him say it again. He nipped at your swollen lips and licked his way past them, exploring the love you were so willing to give and in that moment, you were certain that he was there to take it all. And much more. Breaking the kiss for only a short moment, he spread the slickness of your kiss over your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb before pressing down on it gently, your lips parted and eyes wanton with need for his affection.  “You already have me.” he mumbled against your lips with a smile before kissing you once again. With a smile so sweet… a smile that maple syrup couldn’t even rival, even if it tried. It would spoil you, turn you completely rotten, straight to your core. It would be all worth it.

Epilogue:

Standing in all his naked glory, Theo has just stepped in the bathroom where he had left you. Was he the perfect lover or what? He went to change the sheets of his bed while you soaked in his bathtub, relaxed and cleaned up after he made you delirious with lust.

“I don’t think you’ll fit, Theo.”

He gave you a huge grin, extremely suggestive and had you blushing even though he had just plowed you into the mattress. “Damn, Hondje. Still hungry?” You giggled and moved to one corner of the bathtub, hugging your knees to your chest. “Maybe...”

“Well, Hondje... “ He stepped into the tub and lowered himself, smirking at you as he sank his body in the water. “I hope you’re not going to regret those words after your bath. I already did quite a number on you.”

You gulped and bit your lip. Wait, your cunt was already well-pounded and you knew that your insides had just been so un-delicately and ruthlessly forged to fit him. Almost every part of your skin had been decorated with love bites and you were certain that this was just the beginning of his quest to paint you as he pleased. You squirmed just thinking about going at it again, excitement and trepidation ghosting your face.

He chuckled as he could clearly read you like an open book. With a come-hither bend of his index, you made your way to him, straddling his hips as the water swooshed around you. He raised an arch brow as your small hand found his cock, stroking him over and over again.

He didn’t question you, simply keeping his hooded eyes on yours, curious to see what you were planning to do. Once he hardened enough, he angled his tip to your entrance and let yourself sink down on him, a low moan reverberating deep in your chest while he breathed out sharply, the warm of your cunt enveloping him so deliciously.

You wound your arm around his neck, placing your ear to his chest, listening to the sound of his beating heart. “Let’s stay like this. Please.”

“Didn’t take you for a cockwarmer, baby.” he tried to sound abrasive as he usually did but his deep voice was laced with the affection that you yearned for.  “I’d do anything for some good dick, Theo.” you quipped.

“Oh, so now I’m just some good dick, Hondje?” his affronted tone was warm and you could definitely hear the smile in it. 

“No” you pouted, nuzzling your face against his neck, inhaling his scent and kissing his weak spot right under his ear. “I just want to be close to you. I don’t want this to end…”

Holding you tighter, a loud exhale left him, lifting one of your hands to kiss your knuckles before placing it over his heart. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m not gonna go anywhere.”

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Tagging le Theo simp squad + tag list: @delicateikemenmemes @sweetlittlemouse​ @nad-zeta​ @nafeary @raymiazaki @munarisblog​ @karmaaf​ @kisara-16​ @ikefool​ @cinnatwisted​

Thank you wifey @shhhlikeme​ for your support  💜

Hope you enjoyed this 💜 Please feel free to leave comments/feedback!

Masterlist

[kitkat1003]

If Dying Slowly was a Competition, I’d  have Won the Grand Prize.

Dot knows her role.  The tragic, ill woman, whose purpose is to give the men in the movie something to fight for.

She hates clichés.  She hates dying.

AO3 link to Series

@asilcorner :)

Dot, for as long as she can remember, has had a single parent—his name is Yakko and he’s only four years older than her.  Had anyone tried to tell her that was strange, she would have struck them hard with her mallet, for even suggesting such nonsense.  Yakko’s her brother and her parent, and that suits her just fine.

Growing up in a dying orphanage certainly isn’t the best environment, but Dot charms just about anyone she interacts with, which works wonders when one needs extra food (for Wakko, who needs to eat more than most) or needs to get themselves out of a hairy situation.

She and her brothers are thick and thieves, in both the figurative and literal sense.  They take extra food from the cupboards at night, for Wakko’s voracious appetite, and occasionally they pickpocket adopters.  

Is that morally wrong?  Probably, but from a young age they learned that they only matter to each other, that they have to stick together and forget the rest of the world, because the rest of the world will forget them without a second thought.

And that’s fine by her.  She likes being independent, with her brothers.  They’re their own unit, strong and determined and zany and wild.  

The orphanage closes down, because their town is poor and there aren't funds for such charities.  The rest of the kids are easily adopted off, but...

Nobody wants them.

And that’s fine, because they don’t need anyone anyway!  Dot has Yakko, and he’s her parent and oldest brother, and Wakko, her friend and second oldest brother.  Who needs anything else?

She holds onto that attitude for a while, until she starts seeing how tired Yakko is, day after day when he comes home from work.  Thinks about someone only a few years older than her acting as an adult, and thinks about how she would feel.  And then she feels awfully selfish, for thinking that everything was fine because they have each other, because they do have each other, but Yakko’s the one doing all the work, and she and Wakko are hardly a help.

She asks, one day, if Yakko will be okay.  If they all will be okay, when he’s wearing himself down to the bone.

Yakko laughs.

“I’ll be fine.  We’ll be fine,” He ruffles her hair, and grins wider when she reaches up to smack away his hands.  “Promise.”

She learns to cook.  She teaches Wakko to clean.  They do what they can, to make what was once a working orphanage, now abandoned save for them, comfortable, so when Yakko comes home he can eat and relax.  He takes them grocery shopping, in the town market, on his day off.  They never ask for anything that can’t be shared between the three of them, and that’s if they ask for anything at all.  Yakko teaches them how to tell when vegetables and fruits are ripe, and once he graduates them from the School of Food Identification, he lets them run wild and grab some of the items they need, so the trips to the market take half as long.

It’s an especially useful tactic in the winter, when it’s bitterly cold and no one wants to be outside.  They’re lucky, since they’re insulated first by fur, but they still shiver.  

Sometimes, Dot is jealous of Wakko’s sweater.

It’s the winter after she turns 8 where she starts to get a cough.  It’s not too much of an issue—it’s winter, and it’s to be expected that one might get sick, especially as the town gets poorer and poorer and food gets more and more scarce.  She can tell Yakko is giving himself a pittance to eat while splitting half of what should be his full portion between her and Wakko.

He hasn’t had a job in a month.  She doesn’t want to worry him.  So she keeps the cough to herself, and takes it easy the next week or so.

Then, one day, she’s chasing Wakko around in the snow, throwing snowballs and giggling like kids are supposed to.  Yakko is hiding somewhere, waiting to ambush, and Dot is having a wonderful time, forgetting about any of the terrible things that are a part of their life.  Except, somewhere along her strides, her breath catches in her throat, and when her body searches for oxygen to use, there is none.

She drops to her knees, and a hacking cough rips through her.  Her throat burns, feeling scraped raw and bleeding, and every breath is a gasp that doesn’t give her enough.  She’s on the precipice of passing out with every choking heave, and there’s a ringing in her ears that muffles the sounds of Wakko and Yakko’s shouts of her name, as well as their approaching footsteps.

Yakko slides on his knees to her and picks her up off of the ground, holding her in his lap, and he hugs her against him tight, and she doesn’t think she can ever remember him trembling this much.  The warmth, somehow, helps her breathe.  She takes in hot breaths instead of cold ones, and it’s like the blockage in her chest melts.  She still coughs, but they slowly peter out.

“Dot?” Wakko’s voice sounds far away, but Dot looks for him.

He’s kneeling in front of Yakko, face looking pained and teary eyed.  

“I’m tired,” she mumbles, but hearing her talk is enough, apparently, because Wakko drops his head in relief.  She can see his smile anyway.  

“You’re going inside.” Yakko’s voice sounds brittle, like iron melted down, rebuilt, and struck so many times that it’s one more blow from cracking.  He stands, clutching her close, so tight it’s as if he’s scared she’s going to slip through his fingertips if he goes lax for a second.  She leans into him-he’s warm, and she feels very, very cold.

She’s half asleep by the time they’re halfway home, and she’s completely out before they get there.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When she wakes up, Yakko is sitting on a chair in front of the big bed, and Wakko is sleeping in his lap.

“How long have you had that cough.” It’s not really phrased like a question, and she’s never seen Yakko this defeated.

“A couple weeks,” she says, and her voice sounds hoarse, not cute at all.  “It wasn’t this bad—I just thought it was a passing cold, so I took it easy,” She coughs, and her shoulders shake.  “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Yakko is quick to assure her, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  “You just didn’t want me to worry, right?”

“You always worry,” she grumbles in reply, and Yakko laughs.

“Yeah, well, you’d worry too if you were me,” he says it like a joke, but she doesn’t like the implication.  It must show on her face, because he raises his hands.  “Kidding!  Kidding, sis, promise,” He smiles.

She has a sinking suspicion that his lies and his promises are very similar, as long as they’re made in an effort to make her and Wakko happy.

“You’re going to be fine,” Yakko says it more as if he’s convincing himself than her, but she doesn’t comment.  “Say, why don’t I tell you the story?”

She perks up at that. He doesn’t need to clarify which one; he knows her favorite.

Yakko sits up—she hadn’t noticed how slumped over he was—and pats Wakko’s head once, clearing his throat to speak in that ever familiar storytelling voice she and Wakko have known for as long as they can remember.

“Once upon a time, a brave knight married a beautiful princess...” he begins, and she knows her lines by heart, too.

If she coughs through a few of them, he doesn’t comment.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

For a week or so, things aren’t too bad.  Sure, she’s sick, and it isn’t exactly pleasant, but she thinks she’s getting better.  Wakko offers her his sweater, which is almost a surprise, because he likes his sweater more than almost anything, only taking it off to shower and clean.  She waves the offer off—the last thing they need is to have another one of them getting sick.  Besides, Yakko has basically smothered her in all of the blankets that he could find.

Needless to say, she isn’t exactly chilly.

She does miss them all sleeping in the same bed.  Yakko moves to a bed frame close by, but at a safe distance, and she doesn’t even know where Wakko sleeps.  She wouldn’t be surprised if she found out he was sleeping on the floor.  Her brothers are so predictably self sacrificing.  Maybe they all are, she doesn’t know.  She’s never had to sacrifice anything for them.

She’s the one they’re always taking care of.

The thought sticks in her mind and refuses to vanish, not even when she sleeps.

She doesn’t get better.  It’s an up and down process, for a year.  Some days she can run without any sort of issue, chasing Wakko around like she could before she ever had a cough, and the next she won’t be able to find the energy to get out of bed.  Yakko worries, like he always does, but on the worst days he doesn’t dare leave her bedside, like if he turns away she’ll wither to dust before he can look back.

It’s draining, and some days she just wants to curl into a ball and disappear, because she’s so tired.  Every breath becomes a challenge, every waking second is a nightmare of pain and exhaustion.

She wants to sleep forever, she wants this to be done, she wants to be able to rest, but her brothers would never recover if she died.  That, at the end of it all, is the only reason she keeps fighting.  Sure, some days she can delude herself into thinking she’ll magically get better, but it’s hard to keep hope.

Dr.Scratchansniff, after hearing about Dot’s predicament, offers a free examination, so they can at least know what’s wrong with her, see how they can fix it.  Yakko practically jumps at the opportunity, walking Dot over to the doctor’s office with a fervor she hasn’t seen from him in months, since before she was sick.

The examination is odd, and unpleasant.  Scratchy has her breathe while using a stethoscope on her back, and then she blows into a tube, and then she takes a breath and holds it for as long as he can.  He’s very gentle, and explains everything he’s going to do before he does it, and if she was better she’d mess with him.  But she doesn’t want to mess this up by being a prankster so she stays quiet and lets him work.

“She has a teeny hole in her lung,” he tells Yakko, gesturing to the size of it with his fingers. 

She sees Yakko pale, eyes wide and uncomprehending.  Wakko grips her hand tight in one hand, and fiddles with his sleeve with the other.  She doesn’t quite understand what a hole in her lung means, but she knows it’s bad.  

“It is allowing fluid to slowly get into her lungs.  In order to fix it, we would have to operate.”

“What would that cost?” Yakko asks, and he sounds so much older than he is.

“A hay penny.”

Yakko flinches.  Wakko looks away. Even she knows they don’t have that much.  A hay penny is a lot of money, especially now.

Yakko takes a few steps forward, gestures for Scratchy to move away from her and Wakko, and whispers a question that suspiciously sounds like ‘How much time does she...,’ and it makes her furious and terrified all at once.

“Thanks, Doc,” Yakko mutters, once he gets his answer, and Scratchy looks a mixture of pained and sympathetic and nervous, unable to fix things for them, because he has as much money as they do, which is practically nothing.

They leave.

“I’m sorry, Yakko,” She tells him, their feet crunching the underbrush as they walk.

“What for?  It’s not your fault.  I just wish...,” he trails off.

“I could go to another town,” Wakko suggests.  “I could work and get the money.”

And Dot hates this.  Hates that her illness puts a weight on her siblings shoulders, hates that all she can do is lay in bed and wait for someone to get money, to save her.

She was never born to be a damsel in distress.  She’s a fighter, a doer.  No wonder the world had to give her a handicap, because she and her brothers would be unstoppable otherwise.

“No, I can figure something out, Wakko.  Promise,” Yakko tells him, but he sounds unsure, and she can tell that he has no idea what to do, even though he acts like it’s all going to be fine.

She’s getting tired.  Yakko has to carry her for the second half of their walk home.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Wakko leaves around a few months later, after he turns 12, and she can tell it tears Yakko apart, but she’s heartbroken too, so she can’t find the energy to comfort him.

Wakko is smiling when he goes, but she can tell, she knows that Wakko is terrified, knows that he shouldn’t be out on his own.  They’re a unit, a trio, they’re not supposed to be separated.

What a cruel universe to tear them apart for even a second, let alone a year.

She can feel herself getting weaker, too, so she knows they’re in dire straits.  It takes all of her energy to see Wakko off, and she sleeps through the rest of the day and night.  Yakko wakes her up only to force her to eat.  She’s never that hungry anymore.  She doesn’t feel much of anything anymore, besides pain and exhaustion, but he still manages to make her smile.

Frustration builds, as it has over the entirety of her illness, as Yakko tries to smile and joke his way through this Shakespearian tragedy. The tight band of self control she has has to snap eventually.

“Do you think Wakko’s okay?” she asks, four months in, and Yakko hesitates.  

It’s rare for him to do so, when he’s about to lie, or promise, because she knows he’s been doing it longer than she can remember, so used to covering up the things that should make her terrified, and the fact that he’s hesitating now turns her heart to ice.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he tells her, in the same sweet, placating tone of voice he’s used since she was four, and it grates on her ears. “He’ll be back in a few months, and he’ll bring back the money we need for your operation, and everything will be fine.  Promise.”

Promise.

She snaps.

“Stop lying to me!” she shouts, even as it tears her throat in two.  “Stop acting like you know how Wakko is, stop acting like you know if things are going to be okay, stop acting like I’m not dying!”

She doubles over, hacking and coughing, hands clutching at her chest and neck because it hurts, it hurts so much, and she can’t handle it anymore.  “Just stop it!  You don’t know!  You don’t, so stop acting like your promises aren’t lies!”

It takes her a full five minutes to catch her breath, and when she looks up she flinches, because oh no.

Yakko is crying.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, miserably, and she wishes she had never said anything at all, anything to take the heartbroken look off of his face.  “I’m sorry, sis-I was just trying to-I just,” he buries his face in his hands, body trembling with the effort to stay upright, to not just curl into a ball, and this isn’t what she wanted at all.  

She reaches for him, but he stands, and her hand catches nothing but air.

“I’ll...,” He sniffs, and wipes his eyes, but she can still see the tears building there.  “I’ll leave you alone.”

And he goes, and Dot feels like the most awful, selfish person in the whole world.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She wants to run after him, but the thought of standing seems impossible, much less walking.  She has a hard time catching her breath after that bit of shouting, so needless to say she won’t be actually doing much of anything for the next few days.  It only adds to her mounting guilt and regret, and she doesn’t even know where Yakko is.

She hates being alone.

She’s sleeping on and off when Yakko returns, eyes red and whole body slumped forward in something like defeat that she hates, and he sits down on the edge of her bed.

“I’m sorry,” She says quickly.  She needs him to know that.  “I was stupid-you’re not a liar-you’re trying-I know that-I-”

“Dot, it’s okay,” Yakko smiles at her, weary and yet somehow still standing.  “I get it.  I’m more surprised you didn’t get frustrated sooner, honestly.  We’ve been dealt a pretty bad hand when it comes to life.  You don’t have it easy.”

She reaches over and holds his hand.  “You don’t either,” she tells him, because he needs to understand that he deserves better, too.  That her life isn’t the only one that’s unfair.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound like he believes it.  “I’m doing the best with what I’ve got, I think,” he chuckles to himself.

“You are,” She assures.

“Yeah.”  He sighs, after a moment of silence, and she scoots over so he can lay back in bed.  He does, and it’s just like they were younger and she wasn’t sick at all.

“I’m terrified that you’re going to disappear,” he tells her, and it’s so soft she doesn’t know if she’s meant to hear it.  “You and Wakko—you’re everything, okay?  You’re it, for me.  I know it’s awfully selfish to ask, but can you stay?  Promise me?”

She can’t be certain.  She doesn’t know if she’ll live, if she’ll survive this, after all this time, but she suddenly understands the desire to say ‘Promise’ anyway.

If this is the lesson he’s trying to teach her, he’s doing it well.

But she knows Yakko well enough that she knows this is just him, at the end of his rope, letting himself be vulnerable for a moment, when he doesn’t have the energy to be the put together big brother who can take care of anything.

“Promise,” she says, and the taste of the word on her tongue isn’t as bitter as she expected it to be.  “You’re stuck with me.”

The second part, at least, is true.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Wakko comes home with a single hay penny and a haunted look in his eyes you can almost miss if you haven’t spent your entire life with him, knowing just how his eyes used to shine, and she mourns the shimmer in his eyes that has dimmed in his year’s absence.

But he has what they need, so she lets herself hope, for a moment, that she can finally be useful. Be okay. Be something other than the bedridden Warner that needs to be taken care of lest she withers away like a rich Victorian aristocrat whose corset is on too tight.

But Plotz steals their dreams as if he enjoys it, and she watches everyone slump like balloons who’ve been pricked, air flowing out of them.  Yakko’s face flashes to something like rage, hate, despair, and it vanishes behind a cool mask and acceptance before she can comment on it.  He heads over to cheer Wakko up, and she wonders how often that happens to him.  That he has to hide.

She wonders how long he’s been doing it.

And then Wakko makes a wish, and they’re off to chase it, with the desperation of children who have nothing to lose but their lives, because that’s really it, isn’t it?  It’s almost comical, how the wishes she hears from the other townspeople are for such material possessions.  She wonders how desperate they’d be if they were dying, or if one of their few people in the whole world were dying.

She wants to be selfish, and tell them to stay away.  This is their last chance, her last chance, they don’t deserve it.  But that’s not fair.

Sticking it to King Salazar, on the other hand, is more than fair.  Their journey is as much of an adventure as it is a mission, and even though she’s still mostly bedridden she gets to breathe in the open air and be chased and mess with people like she did what feels like decades ago, though she hasn’t been alive that long.  She gets to, for a moment, feel normal.

And then they’re running to the wishing star, hand in hand because they refuse to leave her behind, and the boom of the canon rings in her ears and there is only pain in her back and her chest, as everything inside her shatters.

She feels nothing but pain and cold, collapsed in the snow, and she doesn’t hear anything, doesn’t feel anything until Yakko pulls her into his lap, clutches her close, bruised and beaten like her.

She realizes, suddenly, that making a promise you were doomed to break isn’t easy.  It hurts, deep in your heart, because you know you did it to stay the hurt, but the person you meant to protect is hurting anyway.

She wonders how much Yakko hurts, with how many promises he’s made like that.

“Tell me the story,” she whispers, voice weak because she can’t breathe, and when Yakko can’t she starts it up for him, because after years of him repeating the same words she wants to be the one to tell him. She wants to give him, everyone, one last thing before she’s gone.

The words fall off of her tongue, the world turns to dust and her eyes close.

Suddenly she’s floating in a white space.  There’s no pain, no hurt, just warmth and breath and love, and she sees two faces that seem so familiar, crowns and capes and warm smiles, hands outstretched.

Princess, They say.  Come home.  We’ve missed you.

And it’s tempting, because she’s tired.  She’s been tired for years, fighting just to breathe, but as she looks, she doesn’t see her brothers anywhere.

“I’m sorry,” She says, and she means it.  “But I made a promise.  And I’m not breaking it.” 

Because she’s a fighter, a doer.

She turns back and reaches for the hurt, because living is hurting is loving is thriving is home with her brothers, all curled up in a single bed because they couldn’t be happier or safer cuddled up together, Yakko’s arms around each of their shoulders.  Through thick and thin, she can depend on them.

She keeps reaching, and it’s slipping through her fingertips, because her body has been through too much to keep going, but she fights, and suddenly it’s ten times as easy, hearing the voice of spirit Wakko spoke of when first bringing up the wishing star.  He looks like a middle aged, balding man, and she bites back a laugh.

You deserve home, He tells her.  So let’s get you back to it.

She opens her eyes to Yakko’s crying face looking down to hers, and this is for kids, so she jumps up and pretends.  She feels lighter than she has in years, and Wakko is turning around with two hay pennies, and the King is nothing compared to this, to joy and life and winning, for the first time since she can remember.

The operation is terrifying, and she’s told that while she’ll be fine to breathe, her lung capacity will forever be diminished.  That’s fine, because anything is better than being bedridden, being dead.

And they’re suddenly royalty, and isn’t that something.  She thinks of the words said to her in the white light.

Princess, they had said.

They looked like the two figured in the portrait, the royal one.

She cries a little, when she sees it.  When she realizes.  Yakko asks, and she just says she wishes she got to properly meet them.

It’s not technically a lie.

Yakko is King.  He is made such, with them as his co-rulers, and she finds the royal garments rather fitting.  She wears clothes that won’t easily tear, for the first time ever.  She gets three big meals a day.  She gets a warm home.

Yakko wears the crown like one not worthy of it, like one not ready for it, but she knows him.  He’s never been more ready for or worthy of anything, and as he addresses the crowd at their coronation, she stands by his side and smiles.

“I will be a fair and just ruler,” he says.  “I want what’s best for my people.  I know how hard these past few years have been.  Believe me.” 

He looks down, almost sheepish.  “I lived in a shack most of my life.  So I’m going to fix this,” he looks up, certain, “And this Kingdom is going to be more than fine, prosperous and peaceful.  I promise.”

And when she hears him say it, it is the first time it seems like he believes in himself, too.

So she makes a promise too, deep in her heart.  That no matter what happens, she will make up for the time she lost.  She will be the rock her brothers were for her, steadfast and strong.

And like every promise Yakko’s made before, she knows it’ll be true eventually.

Because finally, finally, they’re going to be fine.

[hale-13]

Euarthropoda

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 9 - Bugs

Peter enjoys visiting Tony out at the lake house - even though his mentor insists on going hiking.

Words: 1924, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark

TW: Light Discussion of Mental Health

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

“A hike?” Peter asked, his voice dubious and still heavy with sleep. Tony had dragged him out of bed at an ungodly hour to shove a homemade breakfast with all the fixings down his throat before their supposed foray into the ‘great outdoors’.

“A hike,” his mentor confirmed, putting an ungodly amount of ketchup and sriracha on his omelet, making Peter crinkle his nose in disgust. “Eat up! We want to get out there early so we aren’t out in the hottest part of the day.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed,” Peter pointed out, talking around a mouthful of hash browns with grilled onions – it still blew him away that the Tony Stark he remembered severely burnt or set everything on fire before the Snap but now was perfectly capable of cooking a delicious meal. Wild. “But neither of us is what one might call ‘outdoorsy’,” Peter pointed out, air quotes included, adding another mound of bacon and sausage to his plate when Tony nudged the platter closer.

“Sure we are!” Tony protested. “You spend most of your day outside and I live at a lake house.”

“First of all,” Peter said imperiously, using his fork to point at this mentor and speaking with his mouth full. “Living at a lake house doesn’t mean that you’re suddenly a skilled outdoorsman. It just means that you have money. And second,” Peter continued, speaking louder over Tony’s spluttering, “I spend no time outside at all whatsoever.”

“Lies and slander,” Tony argued. “I’ve seen the logs for your suit so I know just how much you aren’t in your apartment no matter what you tell May.”

Peter threw his arms up in indignation. “Time in the suit does not equate to time spent in the wilderness! It’s climate controlled for fuck’s sake.”

“Language,” Tony admonished with a glance toward the stairs. Morgan had a penchant for creeping around to eavesdrop and had picked up lots of new… vocabulary… that she was all too pleased to teach her multitude of friends at school much to her teacher’s anger, Pepper’s embarrassed rage and Tony’s chagrin. Peter just rolled his eyes – he had super hearing, he would know if Morgan was creeping up on them. “Finish your breakfast.”

“Ugh,” Peter groaned but gave in. He knew a losing battle when he saw one – he was pretty stubborn but, if anyone could beat him out, it was Tony Stark. “Where are we even going?”

“Just around the lake,” Tony answered, spreading Nutella liberally on his toast. “It’s a few miles and I realized I hadn’t shown you the trails yet.”

Peter hummed and looked out the window where the watery light from the early morning sun was cascading over the kitchen and leaving long shadows. It was so much quieter here than the city, the only noise coming from the birds and the gentle lapping of the water from the lake onto the shore. It really was a beautiful place and, despite his verbal protests, Peter actually wasn’t that upset about spending a quiet morning walking around the shore of the lake and relaxing – it had been a rough week of Spider-Manning and he was ready for a break.

“Pete?” Tony asked, pulling him from his musings. “We don’t actually have to go if you really don’t want to. You know that right?”

“I know,” Peter reassured him. “I think I do want to.” Tony gave him a bright smile before grabbing his empty plate to put in the dishwasher.

“Go get changed,” the man said. “I’ll meet you by the dock in a few minutes once I get this put away,” he gestured to the few dirty dishes left on the table, completely empty due to Peter’s voracious metabolism.

“Sure,” Peter agreed. “I’ll do my best not to wake up Mo.”

“Oh God,” Tony groaned. “Please do. We’ll never get out of here if she wakes up.”

Peter laughed, leaving the kitchen to climb up the stairs and enter his room. It was supposed to be a warm day so he pulled on a pair of shorts and a worn out tank top along with a pair of beat up sneakers. Tony was already down by the dock when Peter made his way outside, stretching out his calves, two HydroFlasks sitting in the dirt next to him.

“Ready?” Tony asked, tossing him a bottle which Peter caught easily.

“Yep,” he agreed, stretching his own arms over his head to pop his back and release the tension in his shoulders that was a constant from all of his web-slinging. Tony set an easy pace, following the dirt trail around the lake and Peter fell into step next to him, their conversation light and lulling into comfortable silence in some places as they hiked, just taking in the scenery.

The area truly was stunning; an uncovered gem that Tony had been lucky to find. Land like this didn’t sit around unoccupied for long in the upstate area and Peter could see himself – one da, hopefully – retiring somewhere similar. Maybe Tony would let him build a house out here someday, he was certainly developing a taste for peace and quiet.

“May said you’d had a tough week,” Tony finally brought up lightly, confirming Peter’s suspicions for the alone time away from curious and meddling ears. The two were the absolute worst gossips at their bi-weekly co-parenting lunches – Peter was just lucky Happy hadn’t started joining them since he and May had started dating. Peter wouldn’t get away with anything if all three of them were involved.

Peter mulled the question over for a few minutes before shrugging, deciding to try for nonchalant. “It wasn’t great but I’m okay,” he finally conceded, voice carefully light.

“You can talk to me Webs,” Tony said carefully, his tone neutral. “If anyone knows what this business is like its me.”

They continued in silence for a minute more before Peter stopped in the path and leaned against one of the trees overlooking the lake, watching a Great Blue Heron wade in the shallows a few hundred feet from them pursuing its next meal. “I lost somebody,” he ground out. “I was right there and I’d already webbed up the bad guy but I guess one of his arms was free enough to still aim and fire his gun and…” Peter sniffed, eyes dry but stinging.

Tony sighed but didn’t offer any platitudes. “It sucks and it’s not fair,” he agreed, reaching out a hand to squeeze Peter’s shoulder quickly in solidarity. “And its going to happen again; all that matters is how you handle it. How are you handling it?”

“Mostly by punching a brick wall until I break my knuckles,” Peter admitted, carefully not looking at his mentor’s facial expression which he knew would be disapproving – Tony wasn’t really a fan of Peter’s penchant for using pain and violence to work through his emotions. He held up his right hand though, allowing the man to inspect the unmarred skin and healed bones without protest knowing he would be fighting a losing battle.

“I think we should talk about healthy coping mechanisms again,” Tony joked without humor. “Because this isn’t it.”

“I know,” Peter admitted.

“You give any more thought to my offer?” And Peter had. After the ‘Blip’ both Tony and May had tried to talk Peter into seeing one of the therapists the Avengers had on retainer. His identity would remain secure and he could vent and develop healthy coping mechanisms. Work through some of the issues he knew that he was repressing. Figure out how to deal with the PTSD WebMD told him he had. He had refused them a couple times over the months he had been back but now…

“I‘ve thought about it,” he admitted.

“And?” Tony asked, voice patient but with a hopeful undercurrent he couldn’t quite hide.

“I’ll try it,” Peter agreed, grunting in surprise when Tony pulled him into a firm hug that Peter leaned into, returning it with equal force and closing his eyes to rest his forehead on Tony’s flesh shoulder, tension he didn’t know he was carrying releasing from his muscles.

“I’m so proud of you kiddo,” the man whispered into his ear and Peter felt a watery smile pull up his cheekbones.

“Thanks,” he said as he pulled back to meet Tony’s eyes only for his mentor to be looking at Peter’s shoulder instead of his face. Peter knit his brows in confusion. “Tony?”

“Hold still Pete,” he said, gesturing to Peter’s shoulder. “Got a little wolf spider on you. I’ll get it.”

“A WHAT!” Peter screeched, jumping backwards and yanking his tank top off, ripping it to shreds and tossing it before running his hands over his arms, hair standing on end and skin crawling like he was covered in bugs.

“Uh,” Tony said, looking caught between laughter and confusion. “You okay bud?”

“I HATE spiders,” Peter said, shuddering and climbing halfway up the tree behind him to get away from his shirt on the ground and the arachnid that may still be in it. He was taking no chances. “Aren’t you going to kill it?”

“Kill it?” Tony asked faintly before letting out a snort. “Hate to break it to you Pete, but we’re in his territory not the other way around.”

“He lost the chance to live when he climbed on me,” Peter spat out venomously, eyes still locked on the shirt. He wasn’t letting the little bastard escape. “Can you please just kill it?”

“Pretty sure you flung him halfway to the city already,” Tony choked out around his laughter, picking up Peter’s discarded shirt and shaking it out to check it. “Think your shirt is toast.”

“You’re sure its gone?” Peter asked suspiciously, still perched on the trunk of the tree and feeling over his arms to make sure it wasn’t still on him.

“Yes Peter, Christ. Can you get down from there?” Peter narrowed his eyes but dropped back to the ground, scanning the area nervously. His Spidey sense was tingling uncomfortably from the adrenaline that was working its way through his system. Tony looked him over for a second to make sure he was okay before letting out a snort and then bursting into laughter. “Spider-Man afraid of spiders. Oh this is good!”

“Yeah yeah,” Peter grumbled, crossing his arms over his bare chest and feeling his cheeks heat up. “Laugh it up.”

“Aw its okay buddy!” Tony said, draping his arm around Peter’s shoulders and pulling him back down the path toward the cabin. “We all have at least one irrational fear. Say,” he said, voice teasing, “does May kill them all for you at home?”

“Hell no!” Peter said, shaking his head. “She’s worse than me – Ben always had to handle the various vermin that would come in the apartment uninvited.”

“So what do you two do? Go ask a neighbor?” Tony teased, lightly elbowing Peter in the ribs and causing him to scowl. “Scream until someone comes running? Call Happy?”

“We just… leave. You know, let it do it’s thing. Then we come home and are just really uncomfortable for a few days,” he said squirming a little in discomfort at the thought.

Tony let out a bark of bright laughter, pulling Peter into a side hug. “We can work on something to help you with that later in the lab I think.”

“Please,” Peter agreed in pure relief, following along back towards the house and keeping a weary eye on his surroundings… just in case.

[sirensmojo]

“Returned” - Reader x Hvitserk x Ivar The Boneless

Summary: Imagine being the lover of Ivar until he disappeared during a raid, two years later, he reappears out of nowhere and is acting as if nothing has changed between the two of you, but now you’re married and have a child with his older brother Hvitserk.

Warnings: fluff, smut, angst

Word Count: 2,358

*Masterlist*

You were in the kitchen with the thralls, preparing a plate your husband was crazy about, truth to be told Hvitserk was obsessed with food in general, but whenever you took the custody to cook, he was excited beyond measure. The spoon in your mouth, you were leaning above the cauldron, tasting the mixture you made. "Hm, something's missing" You mutter to yourself. Two arms suddenly embraced your waist, without you panicking, you knew exactly who it was. "You're never tired of sneaking in the kitchen, my love?" "I do not even surprise you anymore, what a regret" Hvitserk teased with his nose tucked in the hollow of your neck. A shiver came down your spine feeling his fingers stroking the end of your back, you were very sensitive to his touch "You're scaring the thralls..." You managed to say as you gasped for air, his touch became more and more greedy. "Do I scare you?" "Of course not Hvitserk how-" You began but couldn't finish as his lips crash on you. You smile against his mouth before voraciously kissing him back. He managed to hook your leg around his hips and bunched up your dress to your waist with haste as your moans echoed in his mouth. "May I grab something to eat before you make another child?" Sigurd asked, standing right in front of you both. You frantically duck your hair and your dress with it as the brother of your husband grab and bite into an apple. "Brother" Hvitserk smile as if all of this was normal, "I'm gone, you can continue" Sigurd let out as he disappeared beyond the door. You shook your head "All of this only an apple, a damn apple" Hvitserk exclaimed, and that made you laugh. You turned back and add some herb to your dish, no need to say you were turned off.

***

Later on, you were finally eating, all around the table; King Ragnar, Queen Aslaugh, Sigurd, Ubbe, and Margaret. Even though the queen didn't quite get along with Margaret, she was now married to her son. She had her place into the family. "Mommy! mommy!" "Yes, Frida" You hold a hand to your daughter as she sneaks her way under the table to you, her little face appears on your knees, her plump cheek lean into your palm. "There are boats...I saw them with Floki and Helga from the cliff" Frida lets out her little finger embracing your hand on her cheek. You directly look up to Hvitserk that frowned and glanced at Ragnar. "Are we waiting for anyone?" Queen Aslaugh asked, looking at her husband, but nobody responded to her. Ragnar motioned to his son, and you understood you needed to get safe. We didn't know if they were allies or enemies, and you couldn't risk the life of your daughter. Hvitserk cast a glance at you, and you nodded, "I'll come to you soon enough, don't worry" He added, and you smiled at him. You grab Frida and hold her in your arms, making your way to your chamber. Once you were in, you told her to hide in the wooden floor while you take your knives: one in each hand and stand by the door, ready to fight whoever may enter. 

After a brief moment, the door opens and you jump on the back of the figure without knowing who that was, the cutting edge of your knives on both sides of its neck "Y/N, it's me" Hvitserk breathe his hands up to ease your sudden bloodlust. You chuckled and kissed his lob before biting it "Oh yeah, nice to see your husband" You speak, he shifts you to his chest and kneads your legs with his fingers before pressing his lips to yours. "Stop being so eager, our daughter is here" You murmur inches away from his face and you motioned to the wooden floor. "Frida, my little warrior, you can get out. You have Nothing to worry about" He slowly says with a high pitched voice. He drops you on the ground, and you smile while you see your little one get out of the hole you made in the parquet. "Daddy!" She ran in his arms that he immediately closed around her body as if it was an eternity since they last saw each other. "Who are they?" You managed to ask, and he got up with your daughter still in his arms.

"Vikings, it seems it is our boats" "You're sure we can go safely Hvitty?" "I am" He nodded, and you got to the docks. You left your daughter with Aslaugh as she would always love to spend time with her grand-child and joined the crowd. "Y/N" You heard a familiar voice. You weren't sure who that was yet but when you turned around, your eyes opened wide, "Ivar!" You shouted before scrambling into his arms. He embraced you with one arm as the other was holding his crutch "It's been so long, we all thought you were lost with the ships!"

"There was a bad storm, indeed, but we made it, a little far from here, I must admit, but here we are now" "What took so long?" "We had to make new boats and prove we were not a menace to the king there. He didn't trust us and made us prisoner for quite long" He shrugs, "Prove ?" "We have a reputation, you know. Pagans, Danes that do not negotiate nor that are friendly..." "Oh", "I never had the chance to raid, I'm not quite a warrior nor anything in that style, but I remember you would always tell me about your raids without missing one single details". "As details are important and are making the big picture," You both say together. Both of you chuckle, but in your case, it was more out of nervousness. Ivar cupped your cheek with his palm with a silly smile. He was more than happy to be with you again, to feel you back and just be able to hear your laugh in real life, and not in his mind. He strokes your jawline with his index finger, and you closed your eyes at his touch. He was never touchy with nobody but you, you remember as if it was yesterday... But it was years ago, two years ago now. "It is good to see you, yet it feels like you're a ghost" You manage to speak with a tiny smile. You looked downward, running low on words. "Things changed here, I see" Ivar continues seeing the conversation weren't going anywhere. "Yes... Yes!" You responded, "I'm still a bit upset about your presence, Ivar. I thought that you were lost, that you were dead. Two years its..." "Yeah, I know. For a moment I thought I was too" He sharply let out. You kneed your brows at him, but you were soon called by Aslaugh herself to head to the great hall.

***

"We shall feast for at least an entire week" Sigurd joyfully said, and all the head turned to him. "I didn't know you were so fond of Ivar" You snickered, and he winces at you "It's okay. We are a family after all" Aslaugh retorted, playing with Frida. "is that baby too?" Asked Ivar, and your smile dropped a little. Ragnar and Aslaugh looked at each other a brief instant, and she nodded. "Yes, it seems time didn't freeze" "You're still looking like trash" Sigurd curtly said, shrugging "You were the one that missed me the most, weren't you?" Ivar responded as he throws a dry fruit on his brother. Hvitserk was intently looking at you, you smiled at him in the way of making him know everything will be okay as you could decipher a bit of angst in his pout. You excused yourself and decide to go for a shower, you needed to do it earlier because you're daughter had to sleep early, it was not because you were a mother now that you had to neglect yourself, that will never happen! 

Once the thrall put the hot water in the bathtub you let your dress pull on the floor and sink beneath the water, you didn't really have any grime to take off, but the smell of what you cooked that seem to have stayed into your dress and stick on your skin. After rubbing your skin, you decided to stay a little bit longer as the water was still boiling. Your head falling back on the wooden edge and your eyes closed, hands started to rub your shoulders. As always, you assumed it was Hvitserk that sneak into your room, he was always so greedy when it comes to you, you ever wondered how on earth the gods only gave you one daughter... His huge callous palm went down your chest, meeting with your breasts that he took into his palms. He teased your two little buds that grew harder at each of his touches and pinched one of them, making you squeal, still, you didn't open your eyes, too impatient to feel him play with the body of yours. You breathe were sharp and heavy, your lips slightly open. His hands went down your belly, slowly and tenderly, it was as if he wanted to take his time with you, which started to make you go crazy. Seeing how patient you seemed despite your body screaming for more, he made his way down and pulled apart your folds with the tip of his fingers teasing your clit. Your moans started to fill the room, but his free hand came on your mouth to muffle them. You erotically suck on his middle finger as your back grew hollow, for he finally worked on your clit with his thumb. You let out a gasp when he abruptly inserts two of his fingers inside of you before standing still. He was letting you some time to breathe when your hips began to move on his fingers, he started to follow the move twirling inside of you and stroking your sweet spot again and again. You were about to release when he bites your neck and that was enough for you to clench around his fingers as your body was intensely shaking. "Fuck" You heard and your eyes snapped open. You leaped and you turned around and gasped at the sight of Ivar that look you within confusion. You were still a bit dizzy from the work he had done with your body but somehow succeed in getting out the bathtub and reach for a piece of fabric in which you wrapped your body. "What is it with you?" A frowning brows Ivar asked. "What are you doing here? Was that you the whole time?" He tilted his head closing his eyes for a second and exhaled loudly. "Have you expected someone else?" "My husband!" You shouted while throwing your hands in the air, you couldn't believe you didn't notice it wasn't Hvitserk. "You're... married?" "And I got a daughter. Yes." You say solemnly but without anger this time. "Who is the father?" He asked with disbelief, he wasn't looking at you at all; instead, he zoned out. "Hvitserk" You lift your eyes to where he was as he stood up. He looked at you with an eerie look, bringing shiver down your spine but not out of pleasure, it was more out of fear... "Hvitserk huh" Ivar repeated to himself as a smile appeared at the corner of his lips. You didn't want to arouse his anger, so you stayed silent, but then you thought what if my silent was the thing that will bring him to be snappy and you decided to open up to him "It wasn't an easy thing to swallow that you were lost in the sea. When your father came back without you, I felt abandoned, but I didn't show it, you know me!" You chuckled, and his eyes finally met yours. Your heart missed a beat and you harshly swallowed, "I am scared, right now. Because I don't see anything I used to see in your eyes before, and because I am mad at you for what just happened because I am married and I have a daughter, and I must tell Hvitserk about that but I should also tell him that I am again with a child" You began to swoon. "You're with a child?" "Yes" "I thought..." "I know Ivar, you don't need to say it. But as you mentioned, things have changed, and so I have" "Nothing changed for me, I hoped for that day for so long. It is the reason why I'm here, or else I would've let myself die on the ship during the storm" "Don't say that, I'm... glad to see you alive, you still have a place in here" You patted your chest where your heart was "It's just not as a lover" "Not as a lover" He repeated chuckling. "Do you love him?" "With all my heart" "What's the name of the girl?" "Ivar..." "Just answer me Y/N" "Frida" "This is what I wanted my girl to be named, rememb-" "Of course I remember, that's why Frida is called Frida" His lids fluttered. "I thought you reached Valhalla, I wanted to honor our bond" "By fucking my brother" "By calling my daughter with the name you wanted to call yours with" You gave him a smile as you get dressed. You were paying attention to where his eyes went, having to tell Hvitserk another man touched you was enough for tonight... 

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

I wanted to try something different, I'm sorry if it is crap... :/

Ivar TAGGED: @youbloodymadgenius​

[bubonickitten]

Summary: After leaving the Web's domain, Martin and Jon both get a little lost in their own heads. Or: Time to put the apocalypse on hold again for another Web-related navel-gazing session.

This is part of a series, but can be read as a standalone. (Part 1: tumblr // AO3)

Full text & content warnings under the cut.

     CW: canon-typical spiders & arachnophobia; substance abuse (cigarette smoking & nicotine dependence); self-loathing re: addiction and obsessive-compulsive behavior; rejection sensitive dysphoria rearing its ugly head; internalized ableism & victim blaming; brief instance of (very passive) suicidal ideation; Web-typical paranoia; spoilers up to and including MAG 172.

     “Yeah, screw this place,” Martin says. “Never liked the theatre anyway.”

  And with that, he turns and makes a beeline for the nearest exit. Jon stands there for a moment, outstretched hand still lingering where he had offered it to Martin. A familiar gloom settles over him, stealing the air from his lungs – a sharp twinge in his chest, a cold weight dropping into his gut, a hard lump in his throat – all because of the merest hint of rejection.   

  Don’t take it personally, he scolds himself. Martin probably just… didn’t notice his hand. He was distracted. He's unsettled, he’s frightened, he needs to be away from here. It’s fine. Jon is just being self-centered. Again. 

  But as he trails Martin, several steps behind, he gets lost in his own head.         

  It's concerning, this pattern of Jon getting so absorbed in statements that Martin cannot reach him - and it isn't fair to Martin, left adrift and alienated in a nightmare realm that Jon brought into existence, all so Jon can take a moment to bask in the terror. Yes, Jon hates it. He hates how the fear and agony are filtered through him, even though he's become so accustomed to it - so much so that he fears eventually growing numb to it all, losing that last human spark he still curls himself around with possessive, protective fervor. Even more, though, he hates that alien thing in his head that likes it, that forces him to like it, that insists all of this is right and good and natural.  

  It's destroying him, it's destroying everyone around him, and he wants all of it to just stop. Except, there's a loud part of him that doesn't. He wants nothing more than to choke the life out of it.  

  He wishes he could go back to a time when he didn't want or need this, when he wasn't comforted by this thing hollowing him out like a tunneling worm. When did things go so wrong? Did it start when he was a child, when he found the book? Was the point of no return much later, when he became the Archivist? Or was he always doomed to be this, born with self-destruction and impulsivity encoded into his DNA, impossible to separate from himself and still remain himself? 

  Precisely how much of the statement did Martin overhear? Was it enough to draw the parallels that Jon himself is outlining now?

  Jon never has time to process a statement while he’s in the midst of recording it. The human part of him is shelved so the Archive can go about its impartial curation without the interference of Jon's feverish running commentary. Once the trance wears off, though, Jon has time to think. To ruminate, as Martin says. To record his supplemental and dutifully file it away in the Archive, because the knowledge is not complete without Jon's lived experience to bring it to life. 

                   FRANCIS: Please. Let me go. Just let me go.

           THE SPIDER: Oh, Francis. It’s such a shame that I couldn’t do such a thing even if I wanted to. The man in the audience saw to that. I am no more free than you are, little puppet.

  Not for the first time, Jon wonders about the significance of the statements he’s been channeling since the end of the world. How does the subject – victim, the still-human part of him admonishes – get selected? Does the Eye direct his focus, like choosing from a menu? Is it the choice of the Entity whose domain they're passing through? Or is it just chance – whatever instance of terror gets Beheld in that fraction of a second before the tape recorder clicks on to demand its offering?

  He can’t shake the feeling that the Web did have a hand in selecting the particular show he was set to narrate just now, if only because it felt so perfectly tailored and pointed.

           FRANCIS: Please. Please god, not again. I don’t want it to happen again.

           THE SPIDER: Then walk away, Francis, just turn and leave. All that is required is a little bit of willpower. You have a little bit of willpower, don’t you?

  Free will again, of course. Choice versus control. That thorny, sticky weed of a question that took up residence in his mind and spread its roots through every part of him, feeding and growing and seeding more iterations of itself with every passing moment of doubt. He's been over this, he's been over this; why can't he just let it go? 

           “Jon, we’ve been over this," Basira told him. "The key is to not force people to feed you their trauma. You know – just don’t do it?”

           “It’s not that simple.”

           “No, it is. Or I put you down.” 

  Jon remembers how, the first time he tried to quit smoking, it was framed in exactly that way: Just stop. At the time, it had seemed so simple that when he found he couldn’t manage it, he felt like an abject failure. Beyond that, though, it was like having a sinkhole open beneath his feet. Long-suppressed doubts about his own will and self-control were dredged up to the surface, where they've stayed front-and-center ever since. 

  He’s always had an obsessive streak, always had trouble letting go, always had difficulties with impulse control. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when just one cigarette ultimately led to an on-again, off-again addiction that he struggled with right up until the end of the world. Whether it’s nicotine or insatiable curiosity, he’s always been predisposed to fixation, hasn't he? And Beholding, well - it easily overshadowed the rest. It evolved so smoothly from routine to habit to dependence to basic sustenance, and now it’s such an intrinsic part of who he is that he doesn’t know who he would be without it.

  Why didn't he see the warning signs? Or did he see them and opt to ignore them, to barrel on ahead through every red flag and concerned intervention attempt in his haste to do, to see, to know, to experience? 

           THE SPIDER: I want what you want, deep, deep down in the hidden bit of you you’ve tried so hard to kill. You can’t wait for the dance to conclude.

           FRANCIS: I don’t want that anymore. It’s different now. I’m different now. I’ve worked so hard.

           THE SPIDER: I don’t care.

  Jon doesn’t want this. He doesn’t. But he does. But he doesn’t.

  It’s complicated.

  Jonathan Sims, human, feels nothing but despair and shame. The entire world has become a looping nightmare with no end in sight, and it’s his fault – all because, like a moth to a flame, he’s never known when to just stop. In the back of his mind burns that incessant what-if: Would it have been better had he never woken up from the coma? With his death, the others would have been free to quit; he never would have fed on his victims; he never would have opened the door. How much better would the world have been without him in it? 

  The Archivist, on the other hand, feels every stab of fear and pain as any human would, but along with that torment comes a perverse satisfaction in it all. Can he legitimately call himself a victim if he himself is complicit in his trauma? A steady diet of terror is what sustains him now, even as it eats away at him from the inside out. He is dependent on that which destroys him, and he hates it, and he likes it, and he needs it, and he dreads it, and he’s tired.  

  Meanwhile, the Archive feels only detached fascination and a deep conviction that everything is exactly as it should be. This is the role it was born to serve. This is the world in which it was so carefully engineered to thrive. This is the whole of its definition and the whole of its being and the whole of its nature, and it will record and catalog and curate and preserve every single moment for as long as it survives. Nothing lasts forever, but the Archive spares no thought for the inevitable end of its existence. There’s so much to See here, now.

  The fear consumes him. The fear feeds him. The fear just is, and the Archive is here to witness and preserve every motion and every perspective and every detail.

           “When has your guilt, or your sadness, or your hand-wringing ever actually stopped you from doing what it wants?” Helen said with a wicked grin.

           “ I have not been taking statements.”  

           "You’ve sworn off other people’s trauma for now, because you’re caught. Because continuing would endanger you. But other than that, when has your discomfort ever actually stopped you walking the path of the Beholding?”

           "I… I don’t know.”  

  Jonathan Sims can kick and scream all he wants, thrashing impotently in the corners of this shared mind. His cries will be drowned out by a cacophonous litany of horror and dread, and the Archive will pay him no mind. It has more interesting things to concern itself with than the useless self-loathing of the original owner of this vessel, still so stubbornly refusing to embrace the role for which he was so carefully groomed. 

  Jon has always made everything so difficult, hasn't he? Incapable of sitting still, of shutting up, of listening, of just slowing down and stopping for once. Always pushing, pushing, pushing, even when he knew the outcome would only hurt. Anything to keep moving, to secure that heady little rush that rewarded him whenever he happened upon something new and untapped. Voracious for anything to stave off the boredom and channel his restless energy. 

  He wants to stop. He can't stop. He did stop. He tried. He put so much distance between himself and that toxic thing to which he was beholden, and it found him again anyway. Jonah Magnus - 

  It does not matter. Jon's consent was never necessary. He will submit regardless. He always has. 

           FRANCIS only has a desire, an itch in their bones that flows into them, drip by oily drip, down the glistening strands that suspend them, guide them, hold them…. They don’t want to want it, but…

           Pause for laughter.

  He doesn’t want it. Except that he does.

  He doesn’t want to want it. But he does anyway.

  It’s horrible, but it feels right.

           “Can the Web control another avatar, one that serves another power?” Jon asked, desperate and ashamed.

           Pause for Helen’s laughter.

           “Make them do things they don’t want to, make them – feed –”

           Pause for Helen’s laughter.

           “Oh, perhaps,” Helen said, delighted to watch him squirm. “Perhaps not. Would that make life easier for you? Are you so sure you didn’t want to?”

           Pause for Helen’s laughter.

  He did want to. Jonathan Sims may not have wanted to, but the Archivist? The Archivist would have continued hunting and preying, and he would have cycled through as many rationalizations as needed to continue the routine. But the Archivist is Jon is the Archivist; there's no use in distancing himself from accountability. 

  How had Jon lost himself so quickly, so easily?

  When he woke up after the Unknowing, he was terrified. He didn’t know what he was becoming versus what he had already become, or the extent to which he was beyond the point of no return. Georgie had been right, when she told him that he needed people in his life to remind him of his humanity – and now he needed that more than ever.

  But none of them had wasted any time in labeling him a monster.

  Jon doesn’t blame them, of course. Tim was dead, Daisy was gone, Martin was Lonely, Melanie was being consumed by the Slaughter, and Basira had been left to pick up the pieces by herself. Everyone had changed; everyone had been through trauma; everyone was coping alone; everyone was afraid and angry in the face of being trapped and manipulated and exploited.

  And so, so much of it was Jon’s fault, all because he couldn't just stop. 

           “Jon, focus,” Basira said. “Are you getting any sense of anything? Can you See anything?”

           “No, I’m just seeing what you’re seeing. Still a bit weak from my trip up north, to be honest.”

           “Sorry we couldn’t stop for a snack,” Melanie snapped.

  Basira had laughed, then, and Jon had wanted to be angry, but all he felt was icy guilt wrapped in a layer of dull hunger.

  Basira valued practicality. She simply didn't have the luxury for anything else. Jon was dangerous, and maybe a day would come when he could no longer be suffered to live, but until then, he could also be an asset. Basira asked him to Know and See when it would help their goals; she prompted him to Ask questions when they needed to interrogate someone; she wanted him at full power whenever they were heading into danger. She, like Tim, thought they would all be better off if Jon acted more like Gertrude – until he did, and they both saw the all-too-human monstrosity inherent in Gertrude’s flavor of utilitarianism.

           “She got the job done,” Jon said, “and she didn’t care about the cost.”

           “But I thought you did.”

           He did, didn't he? When had that changed? 

           “I had to know, Basira.”

           It's a poor excuse.

           “It wasn’t right.”

           No, it wasn't. 

           “You could have stopped me. But you wanted to know as well, didn’t you?”

  She did want to know. Most people did. And that was what he was for, now, wasn’t it? The others could reap whatever benefits Jon could manage to wrest from his new inhuman existence, and all the while they could remain insulated, assured of their own moral high ground and their own humanity when compared to him.

  Except that's a cop-out, isn't it? He would have hunted for statements regardless of whether it had any strategic benefit, taken over by instinct and hunger and need. No one is responsible for his actions except for himself.  

  Jon couldn't blame the others for how they treated him back then. But sometimes, a distant part of his mind would rail against the unfairness of it all, the double standards, the unclear and inconsistent demands. He was expected to be the Archivist - to sacrifice his humanity - whenever it was convenient, and then shamed back into submission the moment that power was no longer of immediate use. Too human and he wasn’t useful enough; too monstrous and he was an unacceptable risk. He was carving off pieces of himself to fit a mold that changed by the hour, until eventually he couldn’t recognize himself anymore.

  And always there was that wrenching pang somewhere deep inside him whenever he failed to meet those expectations. It had been there since he was a child, and it had only gotten worse in recent years. He couldn’t justify his continued existence if he couldn’t prove himself useful, and now, being useful meant... well, drowning. 

  Excuses, excuses. He could have just stopped. He had choices, and at every watershed moment he chose to continue digging. If he had hit rock bottom, would he have stopped? Would he have even noticed?  

           “You knew, didn’t you? You knew the sorts of things she did, and you let her.”

           “No,” Basira said. “Not exactly. I thought… it’s not that simple.”

           "It never is. But that doesn’t make it okay.”       

           “None of us are who we were, Jon.”

  It was cruel of him to put her on the spot like that, he knows. Basira had a much deeper bond with Daisy; of course she would be more willing to see and acknowledge the complexities of Daisy’s struggle. It’s… normal, to see the people you love in a rosier light than the people you distrust. Likewise, Martin still holds a grudge against Daisy for how she treated him in her interrogation, for what she did to Jon. Sometimes Martin's fingers will brush against the scar on Jon's throat and just for a moment, Jon will see a quiet, protective fury in Martin's eyes. He cannot understand how almost overnight, Jon came to see Daisy as a friend. Martin wonders sometimes whether it was just another clever way Jon had found to hurt himself, to punish himself, to put himself in danger.

  But Martin didn’t get to spend much time with Daisy after the Buried. He didn’t get to see how hard she was trying to get better. Just like Basira didn't get to witness Jon’s efforts.

  In fact, come to think of it… back then, Jon and Daisy both hid their weakest moments from everyone except each other, didn’t they? God, he misses her. No one else really understood what it was like to spend every waking moment resisting the call of a thing that could never be vanquished, which is exactly why sometimes Jon felt his hackles raise when they were held to different standards – especially when Daisy herself hated it just as much as he did. 

  None of that mattered, though. Everyone already thought him a monster, and he agreed with them. What was the point in pretending otherwise? He may as well be the monster, so no one else had to do it. (Excuses, excuses, excuses.) And besides, he liked it, didn’t he? He hated that about himself, but that didn’t make it any less true. So, he would make himself useful. If he got too dangerous, he doubted any of the others would have any qualms about putting him down. It shouldn't have been a comforting thought, but it was. Somewhere along the line, wanting to live had started to feel selfish. When had that happened?  

  But then… Martin.

  Talk to him, said the note. An outstretched hand in the form of three simple words. A belief that he wasn’t too far gone. No, not just a belief. An expectation. He was more than what he was becoming. Or, he could be. 

  Martin always saw him, didn’t he? Even when Jon didn’t deserve it –

  He doesn’t notice Martin’s abrupt stop until he crashes headlong into him, bouncing off his sturdy frame and onto the dusty ground with a quiet oof.

  “Martin?” Jon scrambles upright.

  “Yeah, I’m – I’m okay, I’m –”

  Martin is standing rigidly, staring off to the side, but Jon can still see the wild, frantic look in his eyes, the slightest sheen of tears there, the way he’s gnawing on his bottom lip.

  “Martin?” Jon asks again, more intent this time. Pushing himself to his feet, he reaches out a hand – and then falters halfway, leaves it trembling in the air between them. Martin sways somewhat on his feet. “Martin.”

  “I – what?” Martin turns unfocused eyes on him. "Jon?"

  “Martin, what’s wrong?”  

  “Nothing, it’s – I’m just – it’s –”

  “You’re bleeding,” Jon murmurs, closing the gap between them and reaching up to brush his thumb over Martin’s lip. He half-expects Martin to pull away. When the rejection doesn’t come, Jon is nearly swept away by relief. 

  “Oh.” Martin looks down and his eyes widen, as though he’s just now seeing Jon.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind,” Jon says evenly, careful to keep the compulsion out of his voice. He moves his hand to cradle Martin’s face, and Martin leans into his touch on reflex.

  “It’s… I keep thinking.”

  “Yes?”

  “I… it felt so much like curiosity, Jon.”

  “Ah.” Jon thinks he senses where this is going.

  “I – I didn’t realize until just now how it – I’m – I’m so sorry.” Martin chokes on the last word and a tear slides down his cheek.

  “Come here,” Jon says, lowering himself to the ground again and pulling Martin down after him. Martin sags against him, his breath coming in quiet hiccups, and Jon curls an arm around his shoulders. “Breathe. What are you sorry for?”

  “I thought I understood. About the Web.” Martin’s breath hitches. “I used to think it was – maybe exaggerated, how you felt? Or, no, that’s not the right word – I mean –”

  “More like a phobia than a rational fear.”

  “It’s – not that it isn’t rational, it’s just –”

  “Martin, it’s fine,” Jon says, running his fingers through Martin’s hair. “I have a history of paranoia and phobias, and – and I know I obsess, I overthink things. If I was looking at me from the outside, I’d think I was overreacting, too. I probably am sometimes. Which is what the Web wants.”

  “I didn’t say you were overreacting, I just thought – I thought maybe the actual threat was…” Martin bites his lip again. “That maybe it wasn’t as imminent as you were afraid it was. Or not as – as pervasive? I figured, if at least some of it was in your own head, I could actually…”

  “Actually what?”

  “That I could make it better,” Martin says meekly, a fresh wave of tears rolling down his cheeks. “I thought I could do something to protect you for once.”

  “You already do that."

  "How do you mean?" Martin laughs bitterly. "The only reason I'm still alive is because of you."

  "I think I could say the same," Jon says quietly.

  "You'd survive just fine on your own."

  "I don't want to just survive." It comes out harsher than he intended, and Jon forces gentleness back into his tone. "You are my reason, remember? And... and besides. You do protect me." Martin rolls his eyes, and Jon rallies again. "Yes, fine, there isn't much that could physically harm me here."

  Martin nods sullenly, an unspoken I told you so. 

  "But, I - I'm prone to self-sabotage, if you haven't noticed." 

  "Yeah." Martin sniffles, averting his eyes. 

  "You make me want to be better. You... you believe that's possible for me, even when no one else does, even when I don't believe it myself. Even when I don't deserve it." Jon shakes his head, his quiet laugh full of wonder and disbelief. "You see me in a way that I quite honestly don't understand, but it... it makes me want to be that person for you."

  "You don't really need me, though." 

  "I do need you," Jon says fiercely. Then, softer: "And - and even if I didn't, I want you with me." Jon coaxes Martin's chin up to look him in the eye. "I'm quite fond of you, you know." 

  Martin chuckles half-heartedly and rubs at his eyes. 

  "There's something else bothering you, I think," Jon says hesitantly. "I - I didn't Know anything, I promise, I just... it seems like there's more?" 

  "It's fine." Martin clears his throat, and when he continues, it's with a tone that could almost be considered composed if it wasn't for the way he steadfastly avoids eye contact. "Just, you know. The Web."

  "I'd like to listen, if you're willing to talk."

  "You don't have to -"

  "Let me take care of you?" 

  They've talked about this before. Martin's always been a caretaker. He's compassionate, and Jon will always be in awe of how adept he is at showing he cares with the simplest of gestures. Martin finds it fulfilling, prides himself on putting comfort into the world when it seems like none can exist. But he habitually prioritizes others at the cost of his own well-being, routinely blurs the line between compassion and destructive self-sacrifice. He never learned that cliché tenet of putting on his own oxygen mask before helping others with theirs. He doesn't know how to let himself be cared for, rarely even takes the time for self-care, and usually doesn't believe he deserves it in the first place. He feels an acute need to justify his existence by being useful, and for most of his life, it was the only way he knew to measure his own worth. The same could be said for Jon, really; it just manifested somewhat differently in his case. 

  But they've discussed it. They've been working on it.   

  Martin opens his mouth, starts to mouth the reflexive phrase - I'm fine - but capitulates when Jon says again, resolute: "I'd like to take care of you. Please let me."

  "Um. I... okay. Okay. I just - give me a minute."

  "Take all the time you need," Jon says, and returns to playing with Martin's hair. They're exposed here, but Jon would have ample foreknowledge of any approaching danger. Besides, this is an in-between space between domains, and Jon Knows that few things will go out of their way to seek out a confrontation with the Archive, especially outside of their own turf. 

  A few minutes pass before Martin begins to speak, starting slow before unraveling into a frantic confession. 

  “I’ve – I’ve never felt in control of my life, not really, but I’ve also never felt like I was being puppeted. It was just – circumstances outside of my control, or my own shortcomings, not – not some literal other mind pulling the strings.” One of Martin’s hands comes to rest on Jon’s knee, and he grips tightly, as if to remind himself of Jon's physical presence. “And – and if that’s a thing that actually happens, if it might be happening to me, how am I supposed to trust anything I do or think or feel? How do I – how do I know I won’t lose you, or – or betray you, or –”

  “You don’t.” Jon gives him a very small smile, a cross between wry and rueful. He shifts his position until he can touch their foreheads together, moving one hand to cup the back of Martin's neck. “We can never know for sure whether we’re being controlled. We could sit here, I suppose – take no action at all, wrap ourselves in doubt and fear.” Jon nudges Martin's nose with his own, urging Martin to meet his eyes. “But then we’ll also have to wonder if that was the Web’s plan all along.”

  “Oh, god, I’m dragging you back down the rabbit hole –”

  “No, listen. It’s…” Jon gives a considering hum and leans away slightly. “Actually, there’s one part of Annabelle’s statement that sits with me in a good way.”

  “What?” Martin says incredulously.

  “Just listen. ‘We all have forces that drive us, circumstances that direct us,’” Jon recites from memory, “‘and even if we choose to ignore these and act against all logic, just to prove that we can – is that not simply allowing the existential terror of our own powerlessness to control us instead?’”

  “And – and what about that do you find comforting?”

  “It’s… hmm." Jon takes a beat as he hunts for a way to best convey his meaning. "Do you remember the story I told you, about Mr. Spider?”

  “Of course,” Martin says softly, rubbing his thumb back and forth on Jon’s knee in a soothing, repetitive motion. Jon grounds himself in the touch and takes a deep breath before he continues. 

  “So - to this day, I still have the sense memory of being a passenger in my body. Like my veins were puppet strings, filled with - with hundreds of thousands of tiny scuttling legs. Like being pulled forward by a thousand minds and none of them my own.” Jon closes his eyes and swallows hard. This next part, he's never spoken aloud. “Worse, though, was the aftermath. I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility that maybe they had never left. That maybe they had just let the strings go slack for the time being. I was always waiting for a moment when the threads would be pulled taut, and I would realize that the Spider never actually let go. Sometimes I - I still feel the crawling, the tugging. It's my imagination, I know - just a tactile hallucination - but still, it can be... rather convincing at times.” 

  “That’s… horrible," Martin says, and he means it, but there's a note of confusion there: he's not entirely sure where Jon is going with this. 

  “The Web managed to cover a lot of bases when it marked me. Fear of spiders and cobwebs, yes, but deeper than that. That split second before opening a door where my heart stops because I can never really be certain that I know what’s behind it.” Jon realizes suddenly that this is the first time he’s ever put words to that fear, let alone admitted it to another person. He shakes his head and forces himself to continue. “Being watched, being manipulated. Being controlled, or being unable to control myself, and being unable to tell the difference between the two. Infectious self-doubt, and the fear that I’ll never be free of it.”

  “What does that have to do with –”

  “‘Is that not simply allowing the existential terror of our own powerlessness to control us instead?’” Jon repeats, staring ahead into the barren wasteland. “It makes me think… maybe there’s some freedom to be found in giving up the illusion of control.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll always be afraid of the loss of control, whether it comes from the Web or from my own mind. And if I let that fear immobilize me, well… that’s also a loss of control. Same outcome.” He combs his fingers through the soft, curly hair at the base of Martin's skull. “What the Web feeds on is that fear of being manipulated. It doesn’t matter what you think is controlling you or how you react to it. It doesn’t matter whether you’re frozen in place like a fly caught in a web, or if you're unable to stop at all, stuck in a loop of - of obsession or addiction or panic. The Web can feast on all of it equally.”

  “You do realize that none of this is especially comforting, right?” Martin says with a nervous, breathless laugh. 

  “I’m getting there,” Jon promises. “The Web is an unknown variable. That's what makes it so terrifying. The only way I can think to fight back against that sort of power is to just… accept the idea that you’re not always in control, and that you’ll never know for sure the moments when you aren’t. To tolerate the ambiguity, and try to keep moving anyway. It dilutes the fear, somewhat. You aren’t as tasty a meal if you put a name to what scares you and shine a light on it.” Jon smirks. “If nothing else, it’s a ‘screw you’ to the Spider.”

  Martin closes his eyes for a long few minutes, and Jon sits with the silence. Finally, Martin looks up and meets Jon's eyes again and gives him a weak smile. 

  "I know it doesn't solve everything," Jon says. "I still have my regular Web-related, uh... thought spirals, for lack of a better term. But I think it helps, to talk about it. The Web thrives best when its victims isolate themselves, lose themselves in hypotheticals and paranoia until they're paralyzed with doubt. It's harder to manipulate someone when they have someone to untangle them when they get stuck." 

  "It did help," Martin says after a moment, and Jon is relieved to hear the sincerity underlying the words. "Thank you."

  “Well, the only reason I managed to come to any of this in the first place is because you gave me a stick and a dirt canvas and let me rant myself hoarse about it.”

  Martin laughs, still sounding just a little raw and tearful. “I guess the conspiracy corkboard idea worked?”

  “Yes, Martin.” Jon rolls his eyes, but his demeanor is thoroughly fond. “Though I think blindsiding me with the concept of 'love as a choice we make' is what got me over the line in the end. Very poetic.”

  “And here I thought you didn’t like poetry.”

  “Speaking of that…" Jon fixes Martin with a look of faux reproach. "Did you really imply that you hate the theatre back there? After giving me so much grief about disliking poetry?”  

  “I think I did more than imply it,” Martin says, and there’s a goading edge to his tone now.  

  “That’s…” Jon shakes his head. “Okay. Explain, please.”

  “I’ve just never been a fan.” Martin shrugs, but the nonchalance falls apart as Martin tries and fails not to grin at Jon's dismay. 

  “Theatre is - it's such a broad umbrella, there’s no way you don’t care for all of it –”

  “Poetry is a broad umbrella, too.”

  “Yes, fine,” Jon says grudgingly. “Shakespeare was a poet, surely you can appreciate some of his contributions to theatre.”

  “You’ve spent your whole life hating poetry, Jon. You don’t get to imply that I'm uncultured.”

  “I don’t hate all poetry. Just most of it.”

  “You still haven’t told me what changed your mind,” Martin says with a teasing smirk. “I wonder. Could it have been –”

  “Yes, Martin.” Jon heaves an exaggerated sigh, but doesn’t bother to hide the fondness in his tone. “It was you. Obviously.”  

  “Just wanted to hear you say it,” Martin replies, absolutely preening at the admission. “I –”

  Jon leans in and covers Martin’s lopsided smile with a kiss before he can get another blasphemous word in. The apocalypse can spare them a few more minutes. 

     End Notes:

Title is from Mitski's "Francis Forever".

Any of the indented bits involving Francis or the Spider are from MAG 172.

The others are from, in order: MAG 148; MAG 152; MAG 146; MAG 147; MAG 141; MAG 155.

And of course the quote from Annabelle's statement is from MAG 147 as well.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Idle Hands Are an Angel’s Plaything by mattzerella_sticks

Three cases - man kills wife. woman steals from where she works. employee kills their boss. They shouldn't have anything in common. Except all three suspects claim they have no memory of committing the crimes they're charged with. Sounds exactly like a case for the Winchesters.

Three days investigating, however, and they're drawing blanks. Nothing adds up in any way that makes these crimes align into a neat box. Dean's ready to call it quits, but humors Sam and Cas by agreeing to interview a few more people. However he soon starts to believe this town has something pertaining to their expertise when he suddenly finds himself its next victim.

Will they manage to defeat the monster without Dean doing something he'll regret? Or will the only way to free himself is to let go of the chains he forced himself into long ago?

For the @supernaturaltropecelebration and their amazing Halloween Challenge!

Kevin grunts in his sleep, trying to wake up from the strangest nightmare. Blinking into consciousness he finds himself in a different position than when he fell asleep. Instead of his eyes adjusting to see his beige ceiling, he stares into the bloodshot stare of his wife Darla. His hands at her throat, grip slack.

“Darla?” he whispers, hands moving to her shoulders. Shaking, he asks again, “Darla?” More panicked, twitching fingers returned to check for his wife’s pulse. A sob crawls from his chest as he realizes nothing beats against his touch.

“No, Darla,” he whispers, rolling off her and collapsing back onto his side of the bed. “How did this happen…”

His hands stay frozen at his sides until he works through his shock and calls the police.

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

The Impala pulls into the diner parking lot, fitting in between a rusted truck and a Prius. Dean sneers at the latter car as he gets out, “Fuckin’ douche mobiles…”

“Dean,” Sam sighs from the other side, “focus.”

“Why? We have jack shit anyway.”

“There’s got to be something tying these crimes together!”

“Yeah, humanity ,” he scoffs, leaning against his Baby’s hood, “Listen, I’m not sure if there's anything happening here that falls under ourjurisdiction, okay?”

Sam rolls his eyes, dialing up the softness in his features. Resembling more labradoodle than man, he asks, “Can we go over it all one last time?”

Dean tries to resist, but he succumbs to his brother’s masterful manipulation. “Fine. But let’s at least grab a booth before it gets too crowded, okay?”

Nodding, Sam moves away from the car and over to the diner. Dean turns to Castiel, the angel perched on the hood as well. A silent observer to their bickering. “You think there’s any foundation under the house Sam’s building?”

Head skewed to the side, Castiel squints at him. “While these events are muddled and pedestrian… you two have had less to go off of.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, tapping Baby’s roof twice, “we have.” He pushes himself off, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. “Come on, otherwise Sam’ll order us all salads.”

“I’d like some fries.”

“Well you can order your damned fries when we get inside.”

They walk together, barely an inch of space between them. Castiel’s arm brushes against his with each step, each time making the blush burning his neck to grow hotter. He could move away, but Dean chooses to stay on his path. Reasoning that Castiel should be the one to do so, finally learn about the personal space bubble he frequently bursts. Eleven years, countless battles, and all of pop culture downloaded into his mind in the span of a second and Dean still has to tell him how if he can feel his breath when he talks Castiel isn’t far enough away.

Sam arches an unimpressed brow when they enter, handing them their menus. “Took you long enough?”

“Bite me, Sammy.”

“I’d rather the food. Less calories.”

Dean exaggerates a frown, Sam copying him. Castiel elbows him in the side, glancing between the two. With a sigh he drops the argument, burying his head into the menu. Keeping silent when his brother and angel carry on the conversation. Only surfacing when the waitress swings by asking for their order.

As expected Sam orders a salad, while Dean opts for a BLT and Castiel asks for his fries. Once the waitress is out of earshot, Sam looks to him. “So,” he starts, “can we go over the case now ?”

Tamping down his comments, Dean nods wordlessly. He fiddles with one of the napkins, bending and crumpling the edges before smoothing them. The urge to tear them up spikes, but Dean ignores it. Not in the mood for one of Sam’s lectures about wasting napkins.

“Now the reason we came here over going home was because of the first incident, where a woman was arrested for murdering her co-worker. Although from how she told it to the press, it wasn’t her.”

“Except,” Dean cuts in, “while Cas and I interviewed her, you checked the footage and didn’t see her eyes flash.” What Sam saw, and related to them, was how Kristie twisted the oxygen valve in the storage shed enough that its contents would hiss open. So when her boss, Mark, went for a quick smoke break, the tossed match would ignite the canister and obliterate the shed, everything and every one in it.

“And from our conversation,” Castiel adds, “she didn’t seem too regretful of her co-worker’s death.”

Kristie confided that bad blood existed between her and Mark. That he offered to help her with her diving suit near constantly, made suggestive comments and harassed her often for a date. “I mean why should I be blamed?” Kristie asked, “He was the idiot who kept smoking near oxygen tanks even when Larry told him again and again to find somewhere else to take his breaks! All I was doing was counting our inventory… sometimes I’m just on autopilot, y’know, it’s so boring… anyone could have made that mistake!”

“But then there were the others,” Sam continues, swiping around on his tablet. He shows the articles he pulled. “Banker who transferred over a hundred thousand into her own account and the man who strangled his wife in their bed.”

“Doesn’t mean there’s a shifter though.”

“Three instances where people claim they have no memory of committing a crime?” Sam scoffs, “Might not be a shifter but it’s something .”

“What else could it be, Sam?” Dean rolls his eyes, “Cursed object? All three of the perps didn’t mention buying or finding anything strange, and I doubt one of those could travel so far in a few days. Especially since none of them travelled in the same circles. Witches? There’s no pattern - usually it’s either murder or theft, they don’t do both!”

“So maybe we need to work harder,” Sam growls, slapping Dean’s hands, “and quit it! I thought I told you how much I hate when you do that.”

Dean frowns, following Sam’s gaze to see the sprinkling of napkin shreds all around him. He drops the rest of it, whipping wide eyes up at his brother. “Sorry,” he says, “must have lost focus or something…”

Sam sucks in a sharp breath, judging him silently through his pointed expression. Feeling guilty, Dean ducks his hands under the table.

“As I was saying,” Sam says, “There’s probably something we’re missing… or we’re not considering. Usually we’ve at least spoken to a witness or a family friend at this point, but with how every day there seems to be a new crime we hadn’t had the chance to.”

Dean snorts, “They should really change their town motto. Most exciting hamlet on the bay…”

“I agree with Sam,” Castiel says, “we’ve learned nothing from simply combing through crime scenes or questioning the suspects.”

“At least we’re all on the same page about that,” Dean hums, eyeing the waitress as she sways closer with their food. “Case talk over with, now’s time to eat!”

The waitress arrives as Sam readies an objection. Unable to raise a protest, Sam swallows back his words to make room for his salad. She hands each boy their order, taking extra care when giving Castiel his. “Now would you like anything else?” she asks them, eyes trained on his angel.

Castiel smiles at her. “No thank you, we’re good.”

“Are you sure?”

A tornado whips up in his stomach, upending the trailers of his emotions settled there. His jaw tenses, fingers flexing as he watches her flick her ponytail to the side. A voice whispers for him to trail fingers through Castiel’s hair and repeat what his angel said, to glare at her until she walks away.

He doesn’t do any of that; instead hissing a breath out his nose and digging into his sandwich.

She leaves soon enough, with a promise to return at a moment’s notice. Dean sulks into his burger, cheeks puffed up as he eats.

The others at the table discuss their plan while they eat, every few beats looking to Dean for his input. With his mouth almost always stuffed Dean didn’t talk. Each time Sam found him with gnashing teeth and crumbled foodstuff his lips curled ever downwards. Castiel seemed confused at Dean’s sudden mood shift, unknowing to what caused him to withdraw.

Unfortunately the sandwich, as large as it was, couldn’t last forever. And his voracious appetite meant he finishes far faster than everyone else. Sam still has half his leaves on his plate, speaking more than he ate, while Castiel picked at his fries.

Now without any sort of shield, his brother expects him to participate. Dean nods and answers when needed, but completely checks out of the conversation.

It’s not like him to do so on a hunt. However it’s their third straight one after a salt n’ burn and a harrowing ghoul hunt. Where Dean was almost intimately familiar with what a spike tasted like, if Castiel hadn’t burst in at the eleventh hour. White shirt sticky with sweat and stained with dirt, hair damp against his forehead. Apparently the ghoul tricked his angel, smothering him under six feet of dirt at a play to take him off the field.

“I dug myself free and came straight here,” Castiel explained as he untied Dean, “I couldn’t waste a second, especially on something as mundane as appearances.”

At least, that’s what Dean thought he said. His mind was too focused on the image of Castiel kneeling in front of him, chest heaving and glistening, fingers dancing around the rope. He only started paying attention when Sam rushed in, gun aimed at thin air.

“Nice of you to show up,” Dean barked, shoving the rope off of him and stepping away from Castiel with a blush, “What were you doing? Thinking about what you could turn my room into when you became an only child?”

Neither Sam nor Castiel laughed. Which made for a very awkward ride back to the motel. The atmosphere so stifling between them Dean escaped to the bathroom. Washing away the ghoul stink and rubbing one to the earlier scene. Imagining if Sam hadn’t burst in.

As good as it felt he regrets it only because it gave the others space to find another hunt and overrule his whining.

“Dean?”

He surfaces from his memories and into the present, blinking at Castiel. “Yeah?”

“Is everything okay?”

Dean studies the furrowed brow on his angel’s face. Mirroring the expression, he asks, “Why shouldn’t it be?”

Castiel’s frown deepens, and his head skews to the side again. “Because your hand has been on my knee for quite some time.”

Blanching, Dean whips his gaze to where Castiel claimed his hand rested. Like he said, it lays on Castiel’s knee in a picture of innocent affection. He flicks his eyes up to Castiel, and then to Sam. His brother watches with amused interest.

“Of course my hand’s there,” Dean says, thinking quick, “I - uh… I’ve been trying to get you to scoot over so I can go to the bathroom.”

Face smoothing immediately, Castiel sighs. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“Because,” he jerks a thumb at Sam, “didn’t want to interrupt this one while he was on a roll.” With Sam’s bitchface in the background Castiel moves so Dean can stand. He winks with fake mirth, “Won’t be long.” Then Dean speeds away to the bathroom, hands buried in his pockets and face stoic.

The diner’s bathrooms are single occupants, and Dean finds both the men’s and gender neutral bathroom locked. Sighing, he sags against a nearby wall and plays with his phone. Trying not to focus on the feel of Castiel’s knee in his hand.

Why it was there Dean couldn’t answer, nor did he need an answer. Otherwise Dean will have to confront a host of problems he isn’t in the mood to face. Not wanting to think about it any longer, he chalks it up to exhaustion. Dean then distracts himself by pulling up a game, hoping with each row of Tetris he clears he can believe his excuse.

While deciding where to shove a T-piece, Dean overhears a nearby conversation.

“Can you believe how sad Tony sounds in this caption?”

“I know, but can you blame him? Broken up like that…”

Dean pauses his game, interest piqued. Shuffling to the side, he spies their waitress conversing with another girl at the last booth. Taking a break from working, she chats with her friend with no fear of being found by her boss.

“Who would’ve guessed Felicia was faking it all this time…” her friend says, taking her phone back. “Like did you hear from Jessica?”

“No, why? What does she know?”

“From what she told me - and this is from what Bea told her - that they were having this sleepover. Bea woke up to Felicia spooning her, and her hands were… y’know .”

“ No! ”

“Which, you’d think Bea would’ve woken up screaming!”

“I know I would’ve,” their waitress says, “y’know Creepy Josh tried something like that with me during a party the other night? Lucky I wasn’t too wasted to stab my key into his hand.”

“So that’s why he wore that bandage throughout the show,” her friend says, “I thought it was a character choice.”

“No, that dildo has no character.”

“Anyway, Bea was super into Felicia’s touch. Has had the hots for her for awhile, apparently. Her own best friend .”

“And Felicia felt the same?”

“Apparently…” her friend glances behind, Dean watching as she extends her neck as far as it can go. Whipping around, she smirks, “Speaking of hands and feeling up … who are those two snacks in your section.”

Dean tracks where she looks, shuddering as logic points to only one table - his . “I know,” their waitress gushes, “you don’t see faces like those in this crummy town.”

Her friend nods. “When I walked in I nearly dropped to the floor at the sight of the guy with the long hair.”

“Sure he’s nice,” their waitress says, “but did you not see the daddy in the trench coat?”

“Really? A trench coat?”

“What! He makes it work,” she defends Castiel’s fashion, “Besides, he has this air about him like… he could take real good care of me…”

Rolling her eyes, her friend grabs for her soda. “I doubt he’s gonna be the sugar daddy of your dreams, Monica.”

Monica sighs. “A girl can dream can’t she…”

Dean glares at her from his hiding spot. A girl cannot dream, he thinks, especially if that’s what her dreams are about. His grip tightens on his phone, the plastic digging into his skin. The bathroom door opens and startles him from his spiraling.

Faced with an empty bathroom, Dean remembers what he came to do. He shakes off the annoyance and hurries into it, going through the motions as he calms his racing heart. Stands in front of the mirror as he repeats to himself, “It’s stupid… don’t let it bother you.”

The voice from earlier returns, whispering again. “It’s not stupid… allow yourself to feel…”

His hands squeeze the porcelain sink as Dean wonders why his inner voice decided to take on a grating southern twang.

“Dean?” Castiel knocks on the door, “Dean? Are you in here?”

Broken from the spell, he turns to the door. He opens it, his angel on the other side. “Yeah?”

“You were gone for a long time,” Castiel says, “Sam’s paying… we’re heading out.” Castiel’s hand twitches at his side, reaching out to him. “Are you okay -?”

“Peachy, Cas,” he says, stepping around the concerned touch, “Police station coffee just hitting s’all… let’s hurry and clear this mess up so we’re not stuck here another night.”

Castiel nods, guiding Dean from the bathrooms and towards the exit where Sam waits. On their way there they pass Monica, cleaning their table. She leers at Castiel, obviously raking her gaze over him.

Impulsively Dean presses his hand against Castiel’s lower back and pushes him forward. “Pick up the pace,” he says loudly, “can’t keep Sam waiting, angel.” Ignoring Castiel’s look of confusion, Dean focuses instead on the bewildered expression Monica creates. Holds his head up a little higher.

“Isn’t that… better…”

“Isn’t what better, Cas?”

“I… I didn’t say anything, Dean,” his mouth thins worryingly, “are you sure you’re okay?”

Unconvincingly Dean mutters, “Like I said, Cas… damned peachy .”

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

Dean loses his footing almost immediately after climbing onto the fishing boat. He stumbles forward, nearly falling on his face. If it weren’t for Castiel’s firm hold on his arm he would have known what poopdeck tastes like.

“Rough waters today,” Jim, the captain, tells them, “if you ain’t got your sea legs than you won’t stand much of a chance, son…”

“I’ll manage…” Dean huffs, flattening his suit jacket with nervous hands. He glances at Castiel, pouting at how unruffled he seems by the waves. “How are you not affected?”

Castiel smirks, “Angel grace is a good substitute for ‘ sea legs ’.”

“Whatever,” he says, “you can let go now.”

The fingers around his bicep tighten, a rush of pleasure shooting up his spine. “I think it would be best if I help steady you.”

Blushing, Dean snaps his mouth shut with a click. He looks to the waiting captain, pinched dimples on full display. “So, about your crew member, Kevin Johannsen?”

“Johannsen was a real good fisherman,” Jim starts, leading them towards a pile of nets. Jim picks one up and begins folding as he talks. “Had this uncanny ability to guess wherever the most fish were in an open sea. One day he pointed to a patch and said ‘cast there’ and we nearly capsized from the amount of fish we hauled in! It’s a real shame to hear what happened…”

“Yes, well, that’s why we’re here,” Dean says, “We just wanted to see if Kevin had been acting strange in the last couple of days.”

“Strange?” Jim asks, “What do you mean strange?”

“Exhibiting unusual behavior,” Castiel clarifies, stepping closer. “Doing or saying anything that might have seemed out of the ordinary… maybe he found something while fishing that he kept for himself?”

“No,” Jim answers, “no, can’t say that he has. Any garbage we dredge up gets tossed back into the sea where we found it… and as for Kevin himself he was as normal as he always was. Cursing out the Patriots, drinking the same amount of beers he always did, telling the same jokes …”

Dean arches a brow, the word like a dangling string he felt drawn to pull. “Jokes? Kevin was a regular comedian?”

“Well, he weren’t a Jerry Seinfeld or a Sam Kinison, but he knew how to make us all chuckle every now and then,” Jim says, turning to his crew, “isn’t that right boys?”

There’s muddled agreement. One man, made burlier by his fleece-lined denim jacket, gives them more information. “Kevin liked repeating what he saw on TV, stole a joke or two from Family Guy. Liked doing that Borat thing…”

“Borat thing?” Castiel asks.

Dean rolls his eyes, “It’s this actor… ‘My wife’?”

“Yeah,” the man says, “he liked that one a lot.”

“Although,” another crewman speaks up, “he sounded more and more like the Honeymooners in the past few months.”

Dean latches onto that, hackles raised. He explores it further, hoping the dark rock sinking in his gut was right. “Kevin having problems at home?”

“Not anymore than the average guy,” Jim shrugs, “Complained about Darla more than ever, though…”

“How so?”

The burly man explains how Kevin found his marriage growing stale, and had taken to flirting with one of the girls who sold their fish. “Kept saying how he wished he didn’t marry Darla right out of high school, had more time to sow his seeds,” he tells them, “That if he could he would get rid of Darla and immediately go after Michelle. Pretended to call up hitmen or asked questions about how fast a person could sink to the bottom of the ocean…”

“And,” Dean rubs at his forehead, pressing against the growing headache, “you were all surprised to hear that this guy murdered his wife?”

Jim scowls. “He wasn’t like any of those disturbed people you see on the news. Kevin was normal, like one of us. It was just jokes between boys.”

“Jokes that led to a woman’s death,” Castiel growls, barely containing the venomous glow dripping from his glare.

“Hey!” Jim objects, “We didn’t tell Kevin to do what he did -”

“No, but you allowed him an open forum to discuss it,” Castiel says, “treated his very obvious threats as silly make believe. In what way could joking about murder be acceptable in any work space? You should have fired him and, at the very least, alerted Darla to what her husband was saying.”

“Why would we have done that?” Jim asks, “We all thought it would blow over. He wasn’t the first man to wish he wasn’t married, we’ve all been in that position once or twice.”

“Yet Kevin was the only one who took extreme measures,” he challenges, “If I were you I would think long and hard about the learned behaviors of how women are treated, especially how easily violence towards them is overlooked.”

Each member of the crew wore a mixture of shame and anger, all directed at Castiel.

Sensing the turn of the interview, Dean lays a hand against Castiel’s chest and pushes him backwards. “I think this is where we’ll take our leave,” he chuckles, “thanks for your time.”

Ignoring his angel’s protests Dean hurries them off the boat, waiting until they’re far enough away on the docks to talk.

“I can’t believe those men,” Castiel huffs, “treating those threats as something harmless like a joke -”

“Hate to break it to you Cas,” Dean says, “but that’s all men.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to accept it. Why did you make us run away like that?”

“Because as much as I hate what they said,” he sighs, “I know when to pick my battles.”

“No you don’t.”

“Fine, I know how to pick your battles.”

“They wouldn’t have been able to hurt me,” Castiel tells him, “But I could have taught them a lesson or two…”

The hand still glued to his arm clenches tighter, Dean wincing in pain. Underneath that, though, a current of heat stings his lower body. His dick stiffens and rises somewhat in his pants, adding to the already intense blush coloring his cheeks.

Noticing Dean’s pained expression Castiel cools his anger and releases him. “Sorry,” he says, “I… I forgot my hand was there.”

“S’okay, Cas,” Dean chuckles, “Next time take your frustrations out by writing your local representative…”

“Do we have one? I thought since we don’t vote…”

“...Never mind, Cas. Let’s just go call Sammy and tell him it was a bust.”

They shuffle over to the Impala, at a distance uncommon to their friendship. Dean wants to reach over and calm his angel, express further how unsettled he was by the others’ callous remarks. Remind Castiel that even in all the whirling madness there are a few voices of sanity trying to help others listen to reason. Only some people prefer having their ears stuffed up, comfortable with the silence. And most don’t want to rock the boat and mess up what already works.

Like Dean. Because as much as he wants to hold his angel all he uses his hand for is to open Baby’s door, start the engine, and call his brother.

He picks up on the third ring. “I was just about to call you.”

“You find anything?”

“No,” Sam sighs, “I think you might be right about this one…”

Dean tempers his grin, only allowing a tiny fraction of it show. “What makes you think that?” he asks.

Sam explains what he managed to uncover while snooping around the bank. How Linda was on the fast track to unemployment, her boss showing him the letter of termination they planned. Her co-worker Sandy told Sam how Linda complained about having issues with money. “Apparently she was buried deep in debt after some serious online gambling,” he says, “So we have a motive.”

He reigns in the ‘I told you so’, instead saying, “Same here. Ol’ Kev talked pretty heavily about not wanting his wife around anymore…”

A surge of warmth rocks over him from the thought of wrapping up the case quickly. While it’s an odd feeling to have when discussing murder, making him sound so flippant, he doesn’t care. Picturing his bed in the Bunker gives him tingles, especially when his imagination adds the perfect cherry by placing Castiel atop of his covers.

In the fantasy Dean drops his bags and glides in, kneeling at his bedside. Gently caresses Castiel’s face, the feel of his stubbles so real under his fingertips. As if the welcome relief of a case closed hit him now, while they tie up their loose ends. His angel would then flutter his lashes and whisper.

“...Dean?”

He bites his lip, “In a second, Cas - I’m on the phone.” Adjusting himself in his seat, Dean focuses on the conversation with his brother. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“That I’ll meet you at the motel and we can hit the road as soon as you want -”

“ Dean !”

“ What ?”

He whips around to face Castiel, a hush heavying his tongue. Instead of firing the command Dean chokes on it while taking in the scene.

Castiel stares with wide eyes, Dean’s hand softly cupping his chin. Thumb brushing the cleft, visible beneath the stubble, and his fingers press against his firm jaw. His angel’s plush lips part slightly, as if too stunned to attempt another sound. Dean mimics him, as he cannot understand how his hand got there nor why he hasn’t pulled away.

Sam’s on the other end, asking for Dean again. Wondering what’s happening. A yell, louder than all the rest, cuts through the static playing in Dean’s mind. He jumps, hand flying from Castiel’s face like it burned.

“Seriously, Dean,” Sam huffs, “what the hell is going on over there?”

He wonders the same thing. Suddenly Dean remembers how his hand found itself onto Castiel’s knee in the diner, and the way he pressed it possessively against Castiel’s back. Then the suspects’ testimonies filter their way in as well, all boiling to the same point.

Dean rubs his hand across his forehead, dimples flashing at him from the rearview mirror. “Looks like the road’s gonna have to wait another day, Sam.”

“Dean? What do you mean?”

“Turns out this case is exactly in our wheelhouse.” He ends the call, promising to explain more when they meet at the motel. Signing off, Dean drops his phone onto his lap and tightens his grip on the wheel. Dean speaks to the windshield, not trusting himself to look at his angel. “You good?”

“I am fine,” Castiel starts, concern bleeding through his gruff voice, “But are you…?”

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Dean rushes out, neck hot.

“Funny. You sound exactly like everyone else we’ve come across.” He doesn’t need to see to know Castiel arches his brow while he talks, the sass translating perfectly.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m not lying. I… it was like my hand had a mind of its own.”

“I believe you.”

“Because I wouldn’t do that,” his mouth won’t shut up, “unless you wanted me to, it’s kinda creepy and -”

“Dean,” Castiel cuts him off, hand laid across his thigh, “it’s okay.”

Throat dry, he roughly swallows against the heart that jumped up there. Faced with either addressing the problem or ignoring it, Dean relies on where he has the most experience. He shifts into drive and speeds away from the docks. Silent the entire ride to the motel.

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

Sam shifts his gaze between the two, expression wrinkled with suspicion. He glowers at them, hunched over on the chair. “Explain to me again why you changed your mind on this?”

Dean glances at Castiel briefly, his angel sitting next to him on the bed. “I just,” he starts, wringing his hands, “I think that we might have missed something important.”

“Which is…?”

He huffs, physically withdrawing from the conversation so he can think.

Even with how fast Dean drove, Sam beat them to the motel. Waiting for them with twisted brows. Hoping they could shed some light on the stilted and urgent ending to the earlier conversation. Unfortunately Dean could only give half-formed answers, bathed in vagueness. He relied on trust to get Sam to accept the bull he force-fed him.

Sam knocked away every spoon.

“Dean?”

“Dean seems to be suffering under the effects of possession.”

He glares at his angel, lips trembling. Castiel returns a softer gaze, smiling with his eyes. “All of those arrested admitted to not remembering what they did, yet each had motives for doing what was done,” Castiel says, “Either they were filmed committing these actions or had their fingerprints found at the scene of the crime… we believe it must be a ghost forcing people to act on impulses or desires they usually ignore. And Dean is the ghost’s next victim.”

“Really?” Sam says, turning to Dean, “Is that true?”

Dean’s head bobs side to side before sighing. “Yeah, discussed it in the car,” he lies.

“So you’re possessed?”

“Looks like it.”

“What’d the ghost make you do?”

“What?”

Sam crosses his arms, straightening to a more imposing level. “You’d have to have done something you wouldn’t have done. Acted on an impulse… what was it?”

Once more he skirts the truth with his brother. Grinning wide enough his teeth nearly jump out of his mouth, Dean says, “Saw something really sexy down by the docks and started rubbing my junk like no tomorrow… almost got caught for public indecency.”

It’s a gamble that works in his favor. Sam’s nose scrunches in disgust and he cries, “Gross, Dean. God!”

“Hey you wanted to know!”

“Ugh,” Sam stands, spinning on his heel, “Whatever. Go wash your hands, pervert. Then you’re gonna help me and Cas with research.”

Dean nods, pushing off the bed. He looks to Castiel and mouths a quick thanks. His angel winks in return, sending Dean off to the bathroom to wash his hands and will away the blush staining his cheeks.

When he comes back Sam won’t look him in the eye and Castiel moved further up the bed, scrolling through his phone. Dean digs around for his laptop and sits by his angel’s feet. Close enough to not raise Sam’s suspicions but far from any temptation his hands might succumb to.

A healthy dose of fear bubbles inside at the image of his hand creeping, without his knowledge, over to Castiel to play with his feet. He shudders and shifts so his legs dangle off the side, face turned even further away. It doesn’t stop him from being very aware of his hands. Jumping with each twitch and worrying whether it was him or the ghost that wanted him to click a link or scratch an itch.

He wasn’t much help in terms of research.

In the third hour of Dean staring more at his hands than his laptop, Sam cries from nearby, “I think I got something!”

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. “What is it?”

Sam beckons them closer, “So get this…” He waits until Dean and Castiel are hovering behind before continuing. “Apparently the town was the home base for this motivational speaker in the 80’s. Really weird guy by the name of Benjamin Moreley.”

“A motivational speaker?” Castiel asks, “What’s that?”

“They get paid through the nose to shout a few words and come up with catchphrases,” Dean tells him, “All in an effort to get people to ‘ change ’. It’s a real racket, especially these days.”

“And back then, too,” Sam says, “over the years Moreley’s messages became some kind of movement, real cult-like. Anyway… listen to this clip from one of his speeches and see if it strikes a nerve.”

Sam unmutes the video, starting it from a minute in. He hits play, allowing Moreley to live again. Benjamin walks across a makeshift stage, soaking up the applause. Dean uses those few seconds to scan and judge the conman. Takes in the ruddy face, sweating profusely under the heavy lights. A hankey with a rich, purple color held tight in his fist, matching his shirt. His suit was white and stained in certain areas. The crowd watching him didn’t find Moreley as pathetic as Dean does, fawning over him loudly.

“Because it is when we take hold of what we want,” Moreley says, southern twang grating but unfortunately familiar, “fight against all the brainwashing society has forced upon us, to fit into their perfect little boxes, that we can truly be happy. The Id is our most basic part of ourselves - fundamental to our needs and desires. Why should we ignore it when doing so makes us miserable. We should be waking up every day with a goal of making each day better for yourself than the last. Looking at every opportunity, asking ourselves ‘does this make me happy’? And if it does, great… go for it. If the answer’s ‘no’... then don’t do it! Somebody else will!”

“Wow,” Dean snorts, “guy sounds like a grade-A douche…”

The laptop snaps shut without warning, Dean’s hand flat against it.

“Dean, what the -?” “I didn’t do that,” Dean says, “I didn’t mean to…”

Castiel huffs, “I guess this answers our question.”

Dean draws his hand to his chest, rubbing it. He frowns, “How’d the bastard die?”

“In all his speeches about giving into your impulses,” Sam says, “he forgot to mention the consequences. He was sued by a few followers for the expected - lost jobs and spouses leaving. Moreley’s defense was that they were happy in the moment, and that’s all that mattered. Halfway through the trial, though, his wife burst in with a gun and shot him while he was testifying.”

He whistles, “Damn…”

“Apparently Moreley was giving into his own temptations,” Sam shrugs, “sleeping with a few of his followers. When his wife found out she decided to lean into his teachings. Took her revenge then swiftly shot herself, too. It was all detailed in this comprehensive article they wrote following the case, even had copies of the wife’s suicide note.”

“If Benjamin Moreley’s ghost is haunting people,” Castiel asks, “where is his body buried?”

“Close by.” Sam re-opens his laptop, scrolling towards the end of the article. “In this huge mausoleum at the center of the Joseph M. Whorly Cemetery. It’s an hour outside of town.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Dean asks, “Let’s get a move on!”

“Dean…”

He bites his lip at his brother’s tone, not caring for it one bit. “Sam,” Dean sighs, “come on -”

“You shouldn’t be going,” Sam rushes, “if you’re possessed then you’re a liability.”

“I’m not gonna let a damned ghost stop me from doing my job!”

“We all saw what happened, Dean!” Sam drags a hand across his face, wiping away the aggravation. “Listen, what if it were me who was possessed? Would you want me coming along on this hunt, doing whatever the ghost is doing to you?”

His mind runs away with the prompt, painting a scene that makes Dean’s blood boil. Sam’s hands on Castiel’s knee, caressing Castiel’s face. Fingers that weren’t his carding through his angel’s hair or tiptoeing down his chest. Finally catching up to his thoughts Dean sneaks a peek at his hand to find it drifting towards Castiel.

Dean shoves it into his pocket, face hot with embarrassment. “I’d want you far away,” he mutters, “so, so far away.”

Sam arches a brow, worried by this display. Dean prepares for his brother to ask another question, saved only by Castiel clearing his throat.

“As much as I agree not having Dean on this hunt,” he starts, “what if the ghost hurts Dean in our absence. Who knows how much his power has grown since the first attack, he could seriously hurt himself.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, “what do we do about that?” Dean isn’t worried the ghost will hurt him, confident in his own control against the wannabe Manson. But he doesn’t want to sit on the bench for the rest of the case.

Sam thinks for a moment, grin unfurling when he finds an idea. Dean’s skin crawls at the gleam lighting up his brother’s eyes.

“I think I have the perfect solution…”

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

“Stupid motivational speaker ghost,” Dean mumbles, knocking his head against the motel divider for the umpteenth time, “why’d you have to latch onto me? Wasn’t there some other unlucky sucker you could’ve found?” His arms sag overhead, wrists pulling against the silver cuffs as far as they can give.

Sam’s solution was simple and made the most sense. Dean still complained the entire time.

“Listen if this all works as planned, we'll be freeing you in no time,” Sam said. After testing the cuffs above Dean’s head, making sure they wouldn’t break the divider, he hid the key. Ignorant to Dean’s protests all the while.

“You better hope so,” Dean huffed, “If this isn’t the right ghost then I think the next impulse I’ll have is shaving your head while you sleep!”

Sam hitched the bag over his shoulder, looking to Castiel. “Ready to go?”

Castiel, who stood at the wayside watching Dean’s imprisonment, finally tore his gaze away from Dean. “Yes.” They left without glancing behind, especially when Dean whined about how his nose itched.

A quarter of an hour later, Dean only had himself for company and his nose continued to irritate him. He shifts, ass numb from the awkward angle he was stuck in. “Couldn’t they have left me with a pillow to sit on or something…?”

Suddenly the sound of the doorknob turning cuts across the room. Dean whirls around to face it, confused as to who it could be. Sam and Castiel should still be driving to the cemetery. If it was housekeeping, which Dean hoped weren’t the case, then Dean better have a good excuse to use.

Luckily Castiel is on the other side of it.

Dean relaxes slightly. “Cas,” he says, “What’re you doing here?”

“Well, Sam and I were a couple of blocks away from the motel when I realized this wouldn’t be the most preventative measure,” Castiel explains, shutting the door behind him, “The ghost could use its strength to break the chain, or worse, your bones in such a way to slip your hands free and hurt you. So I suggested one of us staying here, with you, while the other goes to the cemetery. Since it’s a mausoleum we won’t need to dig… Sam agreed.”

“And he let you take babysitting point?”

Castiel shrugged, smiling. “If the ghost does have abnormal strength, then at least I will be able to match it.” He carries a nearby chair over to face Dean, sitting on it. “As we all know, I’m very powerful in my own right.”

The wink sets off a chain reaction. Reminds Dean of the earlier display on the docks, and the effect it caused within him. His dick stiffens again as he pictures Castiel pinning his wrists in one hand and using the other to squeeze his crotch. Dean’s hands spasm against their chain, twitching for freedom and Castiel.

Things became much more complicated than they were when Dean was alone.

Dean lapses into silence, trying to regain control over his hands. The longer Castiel stares at him, unblinking, the less his hands listen to him. Castiel’s presence produces a hypnotic orbit, where every time Dean thinks he’s free his eyes get sucked in again.

Suddenly Castiel leans forward, elbows perched on his knees. “Y’know, I rather prefer you like this.”

He wets his lips, voice raspy. “Like what?” Dean asks.

“Cuffed,” he says, foot tapping rhythmically, “can’t run away… can’t distract… cannot hide, like you usually do whenever a situation becomes too… intimate .” His hands slowly slide down his thighs and rest on his knees, Dean tracking the movement. “If I wanted to I could ask you a question - any question - and you’d have to answer it, wouldn’t you?”

Dean neither confirms nor denies.

“You are patient, though. Could probably wait out the awkwardness until Sam returns…” Castiel chuckles, “Funny, how of the three of us only youwere possessed. Like the ghost knew you had these... hidden desires. Do you have them, Dean? Would you like to touch me?”

He spasms, weak enough that a groan eaks past his lips.

Castiel grins, gaze darkening. “Your hand on my knee… on my back… my chest… as brief as they were, they all felt rather… nice .”

Startled, Dean’s jaw drops at the admission.

His angel carries on, straightening against the chair. “I could’ve asked you to keep them there, told you it was okay. Except you wouldn’t have responded well at all. You’d panic and then make a joke, act as if your affectionate gestures were anything but - especially in front of Sam. Keep up appearances… you can’t do that now, can you? The ghost has removed all pretense - for your hands at least. Your mouth, however, can still deny. But do you want to? Is it worth denying any longer?”

Dean struggles to laugh away Castiel’s suggestion. Except with the intensity of his angel’s stare and the heavy words he spoke, Dean finds little will to carry on the charade. Unburdening himself from his doubts and fears, he shrugs, “I guess it isn’t. It’s… tiring.”

“Would you like to touch me?”

“... Absolutely .”

He attempts to reach for him, only can’t get far with the cuffs still on. Castiel sighs, clucking his tongue at Dean.

“You can’t do that right now, unfortunately,” he says, stretching his leg until his foot is pressed against Dean’s crotch, “But there are other… pointsof contact .” Castiel steps down on Dean’s crotch, lightning flashing behind his eyes as Dean’s legs spasm. The rattling of the chains against the divider gets drowned out by heavy breathing.

Dean bucks against Castiel’s foot. “More!”

“In due time,” Castiel tells him, dragging his foot away, “We’ve been through so much, though… so many years of pining behind closed doors… why should we blow it all in fifteen minutes?” He drops to the floor on his knees, kicking the chair away. Crawling until barely an inch of space exists between their faces.

Castiel’s breath ghosts against his lips. Dean tips his head to capture them, only for Castiel’s thumb to dig into his chin. “No,” he whispers, “not yet. Only when I say so, understand?” When Dean doesn’t respond Castiel pinches a nipple. “Understand?”

“Yes!” he yelps, blood rushing to his dick.

“Good.”

Pulling away from his face and chest, Castiel rests on his haunches as his hands trace the seams of his jeans. “This must not be comfortable for you, can it?” he asks, smirking, “I can take it off if you desire?”

Dean nods, not trusting his voice. Except Castiel pinches him again, on his thigh. “Please,” he pants, “Please, Cas.”

“It is no problem…” He unties his boots, pulling them off to spend more time removing his socks. Peeling each one off slowly, scraping his blunt nail up the soles of his feet as the black fabric comes off. Once more his legs jump and dance uncontrollably. “Ticklish,” Castiel notes, “I’ll remember that…” Moving on Castiel drifts up to the belt, playing with the buckle. He unbuckles and re-buckles the accessory so many times Dean feels lightheaded from the bloodloss. Satisfied, finally, Castiel whips the belt off and snaps it. “Later,” he promises, setting it off to the side.

His fingers deftly unbutton his jeans, tugging them and his boxers away until Castiel exposes his ass and legs to the motel carpeting. Folding his jeans allows Dean the chance to gasp in as much air as he can before Castiel shoves him under again. He glances at his bare legs and exposed crotch, notices how his heavy dick rests in the middle of his bramble-like pubes. With only his shirt on Dean resembles Winnie the Pooh, and his knees scoot closer as if to shield himself.

Castiel guides them to where they were, frowning. “Why are you trying to hide again, Dean?”

He bites his lip, blushing. “Cause I look -”

“Amazing.”

“What?”

Castiel places his hands on Dean’s thighs and splays his bowlegs while dipping close to Dean’s face again. “You look amazing,” he places a kiss to Dean’s chin, “gorgeous,” another to his cheek, “awe-inspiring, lovely,” two to his eyelids, “miraculous,” pecks his nose, “and sexy .” Finally Castiel embraces Dean’s lips, tongue immediately poking past them for a taste.

Dean’s wrists burn from how the cuffs cut into them, keeping him from tugging Castiel’s hair or squeezing his biceps. His angel enjoys Dean’s struggle, though, breaking the kiss to laugh.

“This isn’t your time to touch,” Castiel says, “When it is, I will let you know. Until then… allow me to explore .”

They must have different understandings of what the word ‘explore’ means. Because to Dean it feels like torture . Unable to participate, passively watch Castiel comb over every piece of his body. Moan while Castiel nibbles his ear and tugs at his hair. Vision dizzying while Castiel twists his nipples and laves at his navel. His cock, stiff like a frozen popsicle, leaks precum without being touched at all. Castiel circles it: scratching his thighs, squeezing his balls, and breathing on its tip. All Dean can do is jerk forward, except he never makes contact. His angel tips backwards every time.

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head, “good little hunters are patient .”

“Patient?”

“You can wait a little longer, can’t you?” Castiel asks, brow arched devilishly, “Especially since I’m making this so good for you.”

“Too good,” Dean whines, “Let me… please, let me…”

“Let you what, Dean?” he asks, “Like I said, you cannot touch -”

“N-no,” Dean interrupts, “Let me… let me…”

“I’m waiting.”

“ Come .”

Castiel considers the request, thumbs kneading the skin under his thighs. Hums a maddening melody that sends shivers racing up and down Dean’s spine. “You have had a rough day, haven’t you,” he says, “It's not easy giving up control… I guess you may come. But -” his left hand slips into Dean’s asscrack and presses against his hole, “Allow me to help you along.”

“Of course, Cas,” Dean sighs, fluttering around Castiel’s thumb, “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Please…”

“I didn’t think Dean Winchester would be the one to beg…”

“Only for you, angel,” Dean babbles, “I want to be the only one for you… so bad.”

“How bad?” Castiel asks, right hand squeezing his dick, “How long ?”

“Don’t know,” he answers, “One day I blinked and-and all I wanted to do was have you near me. Have you on me. You told me once that you built me from the ground up? Well I want you to tear me the fuck down - up - whatever . Crash through my walls like a fucking wrecking ball until there’s nothing but debris. And then build me again.”

“Are you always this demanding with your partners?”

Dean chuckles, “Only the ones who’ve kept me dangling at the edge for far too long.”

“Then stop talking,” Castiel commands, “and let me push you over.”

He dies there, bare assed and on the cusp of an orgasm. At least, that’s what it felt like. Because one second he was staring at a glowing Castiel and in a blink Dean floated over his own body. Saw how glazed over his eyes became, barely a ring of green around the overly black pupils, and the specks of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

Compared the nakedness of his own body to how clothed Castiel still was. Lost in the immense pleasure, Dean barely noticed how Castiel hadn’t removed his layers. Yet with his entire being one delightful static he could take in the little details. Dean floats on a cloud of pure delight as Castiel pumps his dripping dick with abandon. Giggles while Castiel kisses against his chest, rucking up the sweaty shirt he wears.

Soon the static turns into a lightning storm, the cloud he rests on darkening. Dean is struck by a stray bolt, piercing his spirit and waking him from his spell. His body groans with the need for release. His wrists bleed from how they’ve rubbed the metal cuffs. Huffing, Dean begs his angel, “Can I… Oh please, please, please, Castiel, can I…?”

Castiel nods, “Of course.”

The divider snaps in two, Dean’s hands raking through Castiel’s hair. His fingertips twitch with newfound freedom. Overwhelmed by the different choices, Dean feels drunk. His nails scrape against Castiel’s scalp, down his neck and across his trench coat. He grips the jacket as the giddiness fades into his riptide-like orgasm.

Come shoots from his dick without warning, ripping a roar out from a primal part of Dean’s being.  His legs bounce and his vision dangerously fades for a moment. Dean shuts down, sagging onto Castiel’s shoulder. In the next beat his systems reboot, and he gasps for breath.

“Cas,” he breathes, “ Casssssss … CasCasCasCasCasCasCasCas-”

“I’m right here, Dean,” Castiel whispers, stroking his head, “You were so good… so good.”

Dean chuckles, chains rattling. “Don’t know ‘bout that,” he shrugs, “I touched you…”

“I said it was okay, didn’t I?”

He sighs. “This is all really okay with you?”

Castiel halts, the suddenness scaring Dean. Makes him fear he said something wrong, especially when his angel draws back and cups his hands in his face. “Dean,” Castiel says, “There are no words to describe how okay I am with all of this. I am post-verbal, completely. Nothing in English, Enochian, or any other language can come close to describing the fire that burns inside for you. I only…” He ducks his gaze, sheepish for the first time since he entered, “I only hope that whatever… this was… it wasn’t an ending, or a means to an end. It’s a beginning . Is that… what you want?”

Dean’s face hurts from how wide his grin stretches. “You kidding?” he laughs, “I’m not going anywhere . Chuck himself couldn’t write me out of your life, or vice versa. What we did now, it ain’t no ‘Once Upon a Time’... but I’ll be damned if we don’t get the ‘Happily Ever After’ we deserve.”

Their foreheads knock into each other so Dean can only see Castiel’s face. Studies the gentle blue waves of his eyes, peaceful enough to lull him to sleep. His blinks slow and lengthen, lids heavier each time.

Castiel huffs. “You’re tired.”

“No I’m not,” Dean yawns, straightening against the divider. “I can still go. I have to…” he glances at Castiel’s crotch, “it’d be selfish if you did all that and I konk out like some pillow princess.”

“I won’t mind, Dean,” he tells him, “Don’t feel obligated. Besides… we have the time.”

Dean startles, lips parting. “Yeah… yeah, I guess we do.”

“Lay down, Dean. Relax…” Castiel guides Dean’s head to the side, laying it on the jeans he folded earlier. Then his angel follows, wrapping his arm around Dean. Castiel’s chest blanketed his back, easing Dean into unconsciousness.

Before his eyes closed, Dean wrapped both his hands around Castiel’s, squeezing it. “I’m so happy…”

“As am I. Now rest… I’ll be here when you wake up…”

Dean sleeps the easiest he has in years.

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

He wakes with the slam of the front door, a frightful breath rushing into his body. Dean jumps to a sitting position, staring wildly at his brother.

Sam gapes down at him, bag plopping beside him as his grip slackened considerably. Skin pale, his brother’s hazel eyes fade to grey as he processes the sight in front of him. Dean uses the time to take his still shackled hands and pulled his shirt over his junk. “Cas,” he hisses, “Cas, wake up!”

Castiel growls from behind him. “I’m not asleep, Dean.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Angels don’t sleep.”

“Oh, then you chose to let Sam walk in without warning me?”

His angel perks up, squinting an eye open to see the younger Winchester standing in front of the still open door like a zombie. Flying to his feet, Castiel stumbles over to the bed. “Sam?” he gasps, “What are - what are you doing back so soon?”

Watching Castiel panic sets Sam off. Realizing what he walked in on, he claps a hand over his eyes and spins on his heel. “This isn’t what I had in mind when I left you two alone!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Sorry, Sam, but how else were we supposed to pass the time?”

Sam splutters, shoulders tensing. “I can’t believe you two were here… while I had to salt ‘n’ burn all by myself!”

“I apologize for the deception, Sam,” Castiel blushes, “if you had known exactly what impulses Moreley made Dean act on, then you would have seen how prudent it was that I stayed here.”

Curiosity piqued, Sam cranes his neck to the side and peeks in. He won’t look at Dean, still pantless. Instead he focuses on Castiel. “His impulses?”

Dean sighs. “Cas here was more magnetic than usual… my hands couldn’t stay away?”

Sam’s eyes rolled heavenward, the hand hovering nearby steeples at his temple. “Could you please put on pants if you’re going to be an idiot?”

“It’s kinda hard when you’re handcuffed…” Dean bites his lip, faltering somewhat. “This… you’re not upset, are you?”

“Kinda,” Sam admits, terrifying Dean, “I mean I was worrying the ghost was gonna make you hurt yourself when all it wanted was for you to fool around with your best friend? I could’ve left you two in the car if that were the case… at least I wouldn’t have been alone.”

Dean’s heart calms at the confession. Glancing over at Castiel, however, he sees his angel’s expression dim. Sensing what needs to be done, Dean clears his throat. “Actually,” he says, “we weren’t… fooling around.”

Sam turns to him, shocked. “What?”

“Me and Cas,” Dean continues, smiling, “it was more than that, Sam. Deeper and… shit. Like, you might see me holding his hand without needing some wackadoo ghost prompting me. So I’m asking again… you’re not upset, right?”

“Dean, I…” Sam offers him a smile, “no, I could never… I’m happy for you two.” He looks between them. “Happy, but also traumatized… I didn’t need to see your dick.”

Dean pulls his shirt further over his junk. “There were more important things than getting dressed… at the time.”

“If you give us a few minutes,” Castiel says, “we can have this place as clean as you left it -”

“Nope,” Sam cuts him off, groping around for his duffle, “you could bathe this entire place in a blacklight and there wouldn’t be a bright spot, I still won’t be able to sleep. I’m gonna see if there’s another room or… sleep in the Impala. You two can have this room.”

He almost leaves until Dean calls for him. “Where’d you put the handcuff key?”

“Bedside drawer!” Sam shuts the door behind him, Dean and Castiel alone again.

Dean stands, moving towards the drawer. Finding the key, he makes quick work of unlocking them. He chucks them to the wayside and rubs his ruined wrists.

Castiel glides over, gently bringing Dean’s wrists close. He lightly brushes his lips against the skin there, a rush of electricity crackling against it. The tiny wounds and cuts heal themselves, the red skin fading into its usual color.

“Nice.”

“So?” Castiel says, “How are you feeling? Are your hands your own again?”

Dean shrugs, laying his hands against Castiel’s shoulders. “Kinda hard to tell… I don’t have any other impulses I’m ignoring at the moment?”

Castiel raises a brow. “Really? None?”

“Okay… maybe one.”

“What is it?”

He shoves Castiel against the bed, scrambling on top of him. Legs spread wide to straddle his angel. “Yeah,” he whispers, “I chose to do that.”

Castiel chuckles, “Was that it?”

Dean kisses him, rolling his crotch so it rubbed against his angel’s tenting slacks. “Not even close… I’ve got a lot of pent-up frustration I need to work through.”

“Well we have the time, Dean.”

“We do, don’t we?” Dean sighs, “We finally do.” They kiss again, Dean’s hands sliding away from Castiel’s wrists to cup his jaw. The stubble scrapes delightfully against his palms, reminding Dean that as fantastical the chain of events were, it’s all real. He and Castiel actually came together and the world didn’t end.

Rather, it felt like his world was only beginning.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Simplify

Part Two: First Week 

A/N: This one is a doozy. Fluff. Smut. Angst. Oh my. A few days in to your new reality, and you hit another first...first major hurdle to clear. 

Warnings: language, some zesty times, mentions of physical abuse 

Word Count: 4,786

“These are fading… they’ll be gone soon.” Logan’s head was resting against your abdomen, fingers gingerly tracing one of the remaining yellowish green bruises on your inner thigh. You’d been splayed out on the bed, lying in silence as your brain came back from outer space and your heart resumed a more human rate. It was the end of your first week in the cabin, and he’d just sent you spinning. You had one hand in his hair, longer now than you’d ever seen it, curling out from under his ears, the other flopped to your side against the sheets. His arm was around and underneath you, and he tightened his grip on your body as he broke the silence.

Your fingers froze in his long chocolate locks, eyes widening and breath sticking in your throat. We just… and he’s talking about… that’s what started all of this… Those goddamn bruises, your last remaining visible connection to Erik. You knew Logan hated them, ached when he saw them. They were a reminder that he’d been unable to protect you from the unspeakable things that that man had done to you, a reminder that you’d been abused… that you’d been hurt, violated. But you also knew, thanks to the events of your third day in your new home, that they were also a painful reminder of something else. His lips near your navel, thick beard brushing against your smooth skin pulled you back to your body. His fingers continued to slide over your slowly healing marks, yours resuming their motion in his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, placing another kiss to your stomach, an involuntary  ripple of residual pleasure accompanying it. He looked up at you, resting his chin on your hip bone. Sorry for what, Logan? You have nothing to apologi- he must have noticed the confusion on your face, because he silenced your thoughts as he went on. “I’m sorry about the other day and… and the way I…” He sighed. Panicked? Freaked out? Broke down? Oh, Logan it’s okay, it’s me, I love you.  “The way I reacted...when I saw these. When I…” He dipped his face, burying it against your side and swore under his breath. “When I doubted you…” the last four words vibrated against your skin.

“It’s alright, Logan,” your voice was strained and low, still not fully recovered from what he’d just done to you and for you and with you. “It’s…” your free hand moved to your side, lacing with his and squeezing. “The things we’ve… everything we’ve been through, it… Logan, it was never going to just be easy.” He kissed the point of your hip before rolling to his cheek, resuming his original position against your stomach, his gentle touch swirling along your thigh. “But I meant it when I said I’ll always fight for you… I’m always on your team, Logan. And whatever you need… if I can give it to you, I will. Without question. You just needed more time, and that’s okay.”

“It’ll never happen again,” he told you as your fingers moved soothingly against his scalp.

You swallowed and closed your eyes. “But it’s okay if it does-“

“No, it won’t.” He unwound his arm from your lower back, and shifted, balancing himself on his elbows on either side of your body. His thumbs grazed your ribs and sent a shiver through you that opened your eyes. They were met with his; dark, but full of fire and disarmingly deep. You inhaled sharply, lips parting, mesmerized by what you saw: determination, dedication, devotion. Those things were impossible to imitate. Those things were there or they weren’t, and right now, in Logan’s eyes, they were there. You felt them in your heart, knew them to be fact. You brought your hands to his arms, fingernails gently raking his biceps.

“It won’t happen again,” he continued. “I know it won’t, because I feel the same way now as I did the morning after we met.” He gripped your waist and leaned down to kiss your chest. “I could never doubt you again, and I’m sorry that I ever did… and thank you…” He got quiet, leveling back out to look into your eyes. “For fighting for me. No one’s ever been in my corner before.”

You stared back at him, unblinking as you raised one hand to his face. Your thumb traced along the top of his cheekbone as he melted into your palm. “Love isn’t easy, Logan, but it’s worth it. You’re worth it. Worth any fight.”

.  . .  . . .  . . .

The second day had been just as blissful as the first. Waking with you in his arms, huddled beneath a blanket on the soft cushion of the patio lounge, the lake lapping gently at the stony shore and sunlight dancing on its surface had felt at once surreal and completely normal. He wasn’t sure which was more unsettling. How can this feel normal? This is all brand new… Logan didn’t know, couldn’t say how, but he knew that that exact spot, your leg sandwiched between his, your face tucked under his chin and his palms under your shirt, was the exact spot in the universe that he was supposed to be in.

He cherished the few times he’d been the first to wake up. The moment that the sunlight hit your closed eyes, they’d squeeze more tightly shut, your lips turning down in a frustrated, yet dreamy frown. He’d seen it once or twice in the park, and he got to see it once on the drive, but seeing you like that here, in this place, was different somehow. You looked so sweet, so innocent, wrestling the sun for a few more seconds of slumber, and he loved knowing that only he got to see that from now on. There it is, he felt his smile grow as you wriggled closer, scrunching your face against the light, tucking it into his side. His fingers found their way into your hair, his lips marked a trail from the corner of your eye to the corner of your mouth as you gave in and opened your eyes, turning to face him. There she is.  “Good morning, gorgeous.”

The two of you got a slow start, relishing the warmth of the early sunbeams and each other’s bodies, and the magic of waking up together without having to run off to catch a train- without having to leave one another. It was nearing noon when you finally insisted that you start the day. Logan kissed your forehead and reluctantly agreed as his stomach growled, causing you to laugh. “Come on,” you said, rising and reaching for his hand. “I’ll make us breakfast.” He gave it over immediately, following close enough behind you that he could still smell your hair.

You’d made eggs- poached for Logan and sunny side up for yourself, and a few pieces of thick pumpernickel toast. “How do you like your eggs, Logan?” You asked as you pulled the handle on the refrigerator, leaning around to face him. “Scrambled? Over-easy?” Your hair fell over your eyes and you shook it back over your shoulder, eyes on him, eyes only for him.

Eggs. We’re talking about eggs and I’m losing my mind over her… He smirked. “I’ll scramble you, easy.”

He watched as you brought your bottom lip between your teeth and your eyes flashed, clearly turned on by his seemingly unquenchable need for your body. “Sounds delicious,” you responded, desire clear in your voice. “But if we don’t eat some real food soon, I’ll pass out while you’re doing the scrambling.”

“You might pass out anyway,” he winked and you laughed, sticking your tongue out at him. That little gesture filled his heart to the brim. So simple, so innocuous, but so new and refreshing that he could hardly believe he wasn’t dreaming. “But poached, if you insist on eating first.”     

Logan sat at the table waiting for the coffee to brew, watching you move in the kitchen. “I’m glad you know what you’re doing over there,” he mused as you cracked two eggs into a bowl. “If the cooking were up to me, we’d starve to death in a week.” He rose as the coffee pot steamed and hissed, signaling that it was finished, stopping to drop a kiss to your cheek as he passed behind you. You smiled at him and sent a kiss through the air as you poured the cracked eggs into a hot pan, the sizzling replacing the hiss of the coffee pot.

“Well, good thing I’m here with my award winning cooking abilities then,” you joked with a roll of your eyes. “And by ‘award winning’, I mean ‘extraordinarily basic’, so try not to get your hopes up too much.” You carefully scooped two eggs out of a pot of hot water with a pasta spoon, taking care not to puncture the yolks.

Logan smiled to himself as he poured coffee into two striped ceramic mugs. She might think it’s nothing, but it’s everything. He’d never had anyone who cared enough to know how he liked his eggs if they hadn’t been on Delos’ payroll.  “Or basically extraordinary...that’s more what I was thinking.” He kept his coffee black, enjoying the rich, nutty flavor and the bitter aftertaste, but added a splash of milk and a nearly negligible amount of sugar into yours after asking how you liked it. We get to learn all these things… Eggs and coffee and talents and shortcomings, favorites and pet peeves and fears and dreams. You hadn’t had the chance to learn these things about each other in the few months that you’d known one another. There was never any time for anything but the present, for anything but proving how perfectly you filled that void in his chest and how final your feelings for one another were. There was no time for the future when you weren’t sure that you be given one. But now, with the future spread wide before you, you had all the time in the world and he couldn’t wait to start learning you. He’d always studied voraciously when the topic was something he found interesting, and to Logan, you were the most interesting thing in existence.  

Despite the flirty banter that you tossed back and forth across the cozy kitchen space, Logan hadn’t done any scrambling that day. Instead, you washed the dishes while he leaned against the counter waiting to dry them, passing the time trading information that no one else in the world was privy to. He’d learned that you fell out out of a tree when you were seven, resulting in a broken shoulder that you weren’t too miffed over as it had gotten you out of attending whatever boring banquet you were up in the tree protesting your attendance for. You found out that he had been a swimmer in high school, and that he’d been highly competitive before anxiety and addiction stole his athleticism from him... that he missed that part of himself and that he’d only now just realized it. You’d kissed him, stealing the dish towel from his hands to dry yours off. “Whole big lake out there just waiting for you to jump in. And I wouldn’t mind watching your stroke,” you added, mischief in your eyes. He laughed, deep and loud as he pinned you between his body and the sink and kissed you back. You couldn’t erase the things that he’d been through, but you accepted them and that was better, harder, more important, and he hoped he’d find a way to show you how much that meant to him someday.

The remainder of that second day was spent outside. You’d explored the cabin the previous day, and the warm breeze and lilting birdsong that filled the fresh air were too tempting to ignore. Hand in hand, you’d traversed the property, stepping carefully over slippery stones and knotty roots. You’d tripped once, and Logan’s arms flew of their own accord to wrap around your waist and hold you steady, loving the feeling of keeping you safe even from the smallest of injuries, loving being needed and not just needing. You’d thanked him, turning in his arms to kiss him. I’ll never let you fall, he thought in response to your kiss, I’ll always catch you, always be there. It made his heart soar.

By the time you’d made it back to the cabin, cleaned up and made and eaten dinner, you were both yawning, heads heavy and eyes aching to stay open. You’d collapsed onto the bed, still clothed, but entwined in one another. “Sleep well,” Logan whispered into your ear with his last ounce of energy, “I’m making good on that scrambling tomorrow.”

.  . .  . . .  . .

You sat against the headboard, knees pulled up to your chest as though barring the door so your pounding heart couldn’t escape. What do I do? What do I say? I don’t...how do I help him? Your thoughts swirled and rattled around your head until your breathing started coming in dizzying gulps. You blinked, trying to force your eyes to focus, trying to slow your breathing and think. This is different from the last bad dream he had… that was… but this …  Your eyes flicked to the door that he’d just disappeared through, unsure if you should follow, and unwilling to be wrong if you did. You’d seen Logan cry before- in the park- seen him become upset to the point that he shook and that lost look filled his bottomless brown eyes. But you’d been able to soothe him then, talk him down, convince him to stay present with you. This time he hadn’t given you the chance. Go to him. I have to go to him… he needs me… I don’t know what he needs, but I know he needs me. You thought about Juliet’s last words to you. “Take care of him,” she’d said. You couldn’t do that if you were paralyzed by uncertainty. Peeling yourself from the bed, you redressed in Logan’s shirt; long enough to cover what needed to be covered, and smelling enough like him that it gave you the courage to leave the bedroom. It was never going to be easy, you told yourself again, but he’s worth it, always. You shakily put one bare foot in front of the other and wandered slowly out into the short hallway. “Logan?” you called softly, hoping you’d waited enough time to let him calm down a bit on his own.

It had been about twenty minutes since he’d backed out of the room, eyes wide and crazed, gripping his hair with white knuckled intensity, words falling from his lips in repetitious, nonsensical mumbles. “No. No, no, it’s not you, you’re not her...no you’re not...YOU’RE NOT...real this isn’t…”

The panic in his voice and in his eyes was completely foreign to you. You knew something was making him question reality, but you couldn’t understand what, and it was terrifying to watch him unravel like that. You’d tried to reach out to him, tried to take his hand, touch his face, but he’d swatted your hands away.

“Don’t, no...don’t touch me, you’re not her.” He spat angrily, like an injured animal on high alert. Initially you’d been hurt, and tears sprang to your eyes, hot and stinging. You never imagined that Logan would look at you or speak to you with such utter disgust, such hatred, but here he was, and it made your chest go hollow. Something’s wrong. He loves me, I know he does...he can’t tell...he doesn’t mean this...something isn’t right.

You attempted to even out your shuddering breathing, but as you turned the corner into the living room, your fear only increased. It was empty. “L-Logan?” you called out again, voice cracking as your feet carried you hurriedly toward the kitchen. “Logan?” You gripped the door frame and swung yourself through it, but he wasn’t leaning against the counter, or sitting at the table. No… he wouldn’t have left...he knows not to do that… Barely able to see, vision blurred with anxiety, you checked the side window that overlooked the driveway. Please… You were granted a small dose of comfort in the shape of the green sedan, still parked where he’d left it two days ago. Okay, okay...he’s here, he’s here with me, he’s safe. Crossing back through the kitchen, you inhaled deeply through your nose, letting it slowly back out through your lips. Reaching for the door handle, your hand shook with nerves, but you opened it quickly and stepped outside.

A rush of relief nearly knocked you down as you took in his hunched over form, elbows on his knees, head hanging between his shoulders, hands clutching the back of his head, wearing nothing but the boxer briefs he’d fled the room in. Logan... You took a step towards him, but froze when you saw his shoulders shake. The realization tore you apart. He was sobbing, mumbling, shaking his head. Your heart clenched to see him struggling like this. You pushed out the breath you’d been holding, and made yourself move forward.

He was sitting on the same lounge chair that you’d slept on your first night here, feet planted on the lakeside, back to the cabin. You made sure to clear your throat loudly as you approached, giving him time to notice your arrival. He picked his head up but didn’t turn around. “Logan…” you said his name in an even tone, despite how desperate you were to run to him and wrap him in your arms. You need to make him trust you. Go slow. You took a few steps until you were next to the lounge. He still hadn’t turned his head, unseeing stare glued to the lake, so you addressed him from where you stood. “Logan… can…” you sucked in a breath as he tilted his head up and to the side. You’d never seen such confusion or terror in his eyes as you saw now, his bottom lip quivering, breaths coming just as unevenly as yours were. It was a dagger to the chest, but you continued to speak calmly to him. “Logan... is it alright if I sit with you?” You motioned down to the beige cushion. He nodded, one hand running through his hair as he scooted further away from you. “Thank you,” you said softly, sitting on the edge of the cushion. Your heart was pounding in your ears, but at least he was here, and he was letting you be near him. You opened your mouth to speak, then closed it, started again, stopped. No, I should let him start…

As if he read your mind, he turned a fraction in your direction. “I...I don’t know if this is real…” his voice was so coarse it startled you, and you felt your facade falter. “...dream I had, I...had a dream and now I don’t know...are you real?” His head shook from side to side, hair falling across his forehead. “How do I know?” He was begging you for answers, while admitting that he didn’t know if he could trust you, and you had no clue which angle to tackle this from. “How do I know?”

“This is real, Logan. You’re here, you’re here with me, and this is real.” You turned to face him, pulling your leg up onto the chair, careful not to touch him as you did. “What was your dream? What happened in it? I’ll tell you if it’s real or not, okay?” You felt a tear roll down your cheek, and you saw him notice.

He was silent for a few moments, watching another tear trickle down your face. As it fell onto your lip, your tongue slipped out and something changed in his eyes. He nodded. “I...we were in the tunnel…” you closed your eyes, squeezing them shut only for a second before they opened again. You knew that memory was a particularly painful one for him, and even before he went any further you had a suspicion that you knew where this was headed. “And the...the other...the copy, you...she...noticed that the copy didn’t have the…” bruises, “and I...I couldn’t watch so I...I closed my eyes and now… now I don’t know. How do I know?” He moved slightly closer to you, and it gave you hope.

“Know what, Logan?”

“I wasn’t looking, so how do I know...that it’s really you...that I really left with you? This…” he looked up and around. “This all...is it real?” He hung his head again.

Oh, Logan...of course it’s real, we made it, can’t you believe that? “Because,” you started in a soft voice, “because you were holding onto me that whole time, remember? You held my hand the whole time, Logan, and in the tunnel, when...when you weren’t looking, I was holding onto you, do you remember that? I held you, and I told you that it wasn’t real, that you were safe with me.”   

“I remember…” he croaked, nodding his head, eyes widening but clearing. “I remember that...but then…” he looked down, eyes falling on one of the bruises on the leg you’d drawn up onto the cushion between you. “Yours...they were older, but...but they’re still here, they should be healed by now...should be gone...so these are newer...these happened...just…” his eyes flew back up to yours, questioning again, but it all made sense to you now. “You can’t be...are you?”

He’d been in the process of waking up, hands wandering over your body and under your clothes, lips blazing a trail from your ear to your mouth. You weren’t completely awake either, kissing him back with your eyes closed and your fingers slipping beneath the collar of his shirt. You moaned his name as he removed your top and tugged on your shorts, all still half asleep. You gasped as he broke the kiss and brushed the backs of his fingers over the thin layer of fabric that still remained on your body, feeling him grin against your throat. “Good...good morning, Logan,” you panted, as he slipped a finger inside your underwear, tracing it slowly along your slick folds.

“It will be,” he growled back, eyes still closed, face buried in your hair, lips stuck to your skin. “Remember when you said you were gonna fuck me senseless?” He shifted closer to you, and you felt his hard length pressed firmly and intentionally against your thigh.

Oh fuck. He slipped his finger inside you before slowly curling it and pulling it back out. “Yes…” you answered breathlessly, “I remember…” His touch traced up and down against your wet heat. Yes, Logan…

“You’re so fuckin wet for me…” He plunged two fingers into you, and you rolled your hips into his hand. Your eyes hadn’t opened yet, but you were fully awake. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t see straight,” he whispered, kissing the spot on your neck where your pulse was beating out of control, and you whined as he slowly curled and removed his fingers from you again.

He opened his eyes then, to take you in, writhing nearly naked on the sheets as he shed his shirt, ready to dive back into you. But as he kissed his way up your thigh to resume what he’d started, he paused, thumb pressing a little too hard on one of the still pinkish purple bruises that Erik had given you as an unknowing parting gift. “What the fuck…” you heard him mutter, and now you realized he was being thrown back into the dream he’d had in the night. That’s when he’d completely changed, leaping from the bed and away from you.

Sitting on the lounge chair, just inches and air separating you, you cautiously reached out to close your hand around his. He didn’t jump or pull away, so you gave a light squeeze. “Logan, it’s me, I’m not...I’m not a copy, not a Host...these,” You gestured to the markings on your legs and arms. “They’re healing, Logan, they’ll be gone soon… but it’s me…” Tell him something the copy wouldn’t know. “Logan?” He looked at you, and you could see how much he wanted to believe you. “Do you remember the night of the gala? Remember how you held me on the balcony and you told me we’d get off the island together?” You saw him nod, heard the breath slip from his lips. “I knew I loved you then, Logan,” your voice was strained as you tried not to let your tears prohibit you from speaking.

“You took my breath away that night…” He whispered, covering your joined hands with his other one.

“And the night of… of the wedding” you knew it wasn’t a pleasant memory, but it was a powerful one. “Remember when I told you it was you that I wanted?”

Recognition finally flickered, igniting his dark eyes. “Yes…” he moved closer to you, reaching for you, your name falling softly from his lips. “Oh, god I… “ you saw those dark pools fill, and you closed the distance, letting him pull you against his bare chest and slipping your arms beneath his. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...I… I was…” he broke down, and you did, too.

“It’s okay Logan, it’s okay. It’s me, I’m here, I love you, you’re okay.” You smoothed his hair back and kissed his cheek and held him while the sun finished rising. It’s me, and I’ll always fight for you.

.  . .  . . .  . .

You’d spent the next few days taking things slowly, learning more about each other, building more memories that only the two of you would share. More things that he could call on if he ever felt his grip on reality start to slip again. But as the days went on, and you continued to help him adjust and move past this setback, the more he realized that all the proof he needed was in you. When you looked at him, he saw love, passion, and patience in your eyes, and he knew that you’d always be there for him. I’ll always be there for you, too. Always. I love you.

.  . .  . . .  . .

You were finishing up the dishes after you’d had lunch, and you were about to suggest that the two of you take a hike out to the stream you’d found the day before, when suddenly you felt Logan pressed up behind you. “Hi,” you said through a smile, turning off the faucet.

“I love you,” He said, catching you off guard. You usually greeted each other with a simple hi. It’s what you were expecting. “And I wanna show you.”

Your breath caught and your heart thundered against your ribs. You wanted him, so badly, but you wanted it to be right, you didn’t want him to rush and be set back again if something set him off. “Logan, are… are you sure?”

He didn’t answer with words. His lips were on your ear, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other winding around your chest until his hand conformed to the hollow of your throat. You dropped the dish towel you were drying your hands on as he gripped your hip and tugged you against his body. “Logan,” you gasped, one hand reaching up behind you to comb through his hair, the other sliding against the arm he had wrapped around your abdomen. He nudged your head to the side with his nose before ghosting his lips behind your ear and biting down on the lobe. You felt him smile around your flesh as you whimpered and leaned into him. “Logan, I-”

“Shh,” he released your ear and started trailing his tongue along the rim. “Here’s what’s gonna happen.” Oh, fuck. You felt heat rip through your chest, your stomach, your core, felt your fingertips go numb and your mouth fall open. The dominance drizzled with need in his husky voice made your breaths come in shallow bursts. “I’m takin’ you into that bedroom,” he dragged his teeth along your neck and your eyes rolled back and fluttered shut. “And I’m not letting you out until you taste colors and see sounds.” You felt your knees buckle slightly, but his tight hold on you kept you upright. “I love you, more than you know, and I need to change that.” Before you could utter a word, he spun you and scooped you up, one arm under your thighs to sling you over his shoulder.

He was sure. 

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @obscurilicious @lexxierave @ymariejp @belladonnarey @ms-delos

[sweetcatmintea]

Pedigree part 2

Here’s the second part to Pedigree! I hope you enjoy this little story ^u^ Feedback appreciated!

Part One: Here

Words: 1850

          Romeow learned quickly. Still clumsy on his paws, he took to launching face first at prey. He missed more times than succeeded, but the ones he caught were so sweet. He learned to trot blindside to Rosa. Of all the animals in these woods, she was the only who wouldn’t take the opportunity. His curiosity was voracious, her mothering was not soft. Too many times he ran headfirst into danger, saved only by a furious caterwaul and a blur of claws slamming into would be predators. There was no time to be grateful before she turned around, cuffing him about the ear for his foolishness. Somehow, he preferred that to what fallowed. Without fail, he would end up pinned down while she fretfully groomed his face until she could convince herself he was okay. She was a fearsome mother.

          There was no denying that Rosa had become, comfortable – for lack of a better word, with the solitude of her wild life. Equally, she’d be lying if she said everything wasn’t a little more with her son. The breeze was a little more pleasant. The water a little more refreshing. The scents a little more vibrant. He made her happy in a totally new way. The trance like happiness of her past was nothing like this new vitality. It was a buzzing feeling that swelled in her chest in a way she never imagined possible. She loved each and every one of her kittens but there was something different about this one. Perhaps she was covering her constant dread of the very real dangers of the wilderness with joy. Perhaps she was starved for someone to look after. She couldn’t tell. But when he would tear out of the long grass, rat clamped in his jaws and tail high with delight, she couldn’t hide her happiness. She was so very proud of him.

          He would speak of his old life every now and then. Musing about what his siblings were up to – had they gotten ribbons yet or was he still the only one? He would boast that, had that dog met him now, it’d be the one limping away. Though Rosa didn’t believe that for one second, she humoured him, purring at the thought. Sometimes he’d wonder about when his people would return for him. She really wished he wouldn’t. She had tried to be gentle about it, in her own coarse way. It wasn’t that she was worried they weren’t coming back, but that they would. And he would go with them. The thought that they’re hurt him again terrified her.

          The shivering winters gave way to spring, filling the woods with new life. Birds became reckless, dive bombing anything to step foot neat their nests. Rats and mice scurried about, collecting food to support their massive families. Though the cats did not have to worry about going hungry, the spring brought a different threat with it. Humans ventured into Rosa’s territory, attracted by the blooming flowers and the chance to see a baby animal. Although not exactly teeming with people, there were still more than she’d have liked. Given the option, she’d take none. As though she didn’t have enough to worry about without kids stomping through the bushes, climbing trees, and scaring all of the prey away. She thought she’d have a heart attack when Romeow was grabbed when he approached one. She’d torn out from the leaves, hissing and thrashing until they dropped him and fled. She marched him straight home, asking over and over if he was hurt anywhere. At this rate, she was going to go bald with worry.

          Despite that mishap, things were going well again. Romeow had been scared straight and they’d managed to avoid all human contact thus far. A particularly nice day, Rosa lay sunning herself on a forgotten slab of granite. She lazed, listening to the rustle of life around her. An especially daring skink copied her idea on a smaller rock. Luckily for him, she was full. She licked her chops at the memory. Rabbit was such a special treat. She wasn’t sure when, exactly, but at some point, she realised that she hadn’t heard her trouble making son for a while. She wasn’t too worried. He wasn’t entirely useless on his own. Still, she sat up, chirping to him. No reply. He mustn’t have heard her. Gliding off the stone, she wandered towards their home, calling as she went. When she arrived alone, worry began to twist her stomach. When there was no response to her calls, it took root, vines of anxiety tied her guts in knots. Her easy lope turned into a trot, then a sprint. He was nowhere.

          Catching a scent trail, she raced along it. Paws barely touched the ground as she slowed just enough not to lose it. Her heartbeat slammed her ears, but she heard it anyway. The frightened cries of her child. She’d never moved so fast in her life. Claws ripped open the earth and were frayed in revenge. White nothing filled her head. Romeow was struggling. Immobilised by human’s arms and wrapped in a towel. He saw her and shrieked. The person hurried to their car, another was halfway in with a box open, and a third behind the steering wheel. She hadn’t even processed what was happening as she ran to him. She wouldn’t let them take him. They couldn’t have her son! Whether because of the screaming mother or the renewed struggles of the son, they sped up. They all but threw themselves into the car. Gone before she could reach them. The roaring motor couldn’t drown out Romeow’s cries. She gave chase. Of course she did. It didn’t matter that it was useless, she couldn’t just let them go. Exhaust fumes teamed up with her biology to suffocate her, stinging her too small nose and making her eyes burn. Legs giving out, she collapsed, numb. Everything was too loud and silent at the same time. There was nothing left. The world had ended and everything was exactly the same. Eventually, she hauled herself to her paws and staggered back to her empty nest.

          Her husk fell into routine. Wake, hunt, eat, sleep. Wake, hunt, eat, sleep. She didn’t care when she’d caught a hawk. It was just a matter of survival. She didn’t bother grooming sticky barbs out of her matting fur. It left too much freedom for her mind to wander. Wake, hunt, eat, sleep. The rapid weight loss didn’t bother her. She hardly felt her bones creaking together. The instant her mind escaped her claws, it returned to Romeow. Where was he? Was he okay? Were they hurting him? What if they dumped him someplace else and he was cold and alone? It was too painful. She dragged her unkempt claws over stone to shut herself up. She knew that one day, she’d likely have to farewell her son. It was a part of motherhood after all. But not like this. This was too cruel.

          When her nest became too big and too cold, she left it. Preferring to curl in a hollowed log near where Romeow was taken. There was always the dull hope he’d find his way back. So, she waited.

          And waited.

And waited.

          And waited.

          When a car pulled up, she considered moving. Slinking back into the brush, returning only once they’d left. Lingering resentment whispered to stay. Chase them away. This was her territory. The decision was made when she heard an unexpected noise. Over the human chatter, Romeow called to her. She was going to vomit. There was no way. Peering out from her hiding place, a little cat with a squirrel-stolen tail stood amongst the people.  The world snapped into hyper focus. A harness wrapped his torso, a long lead in one of their hands. Blue met yellow and both cats became rigid. The humans seemed to notice, shushing one another. Romeow let out a delighted meow, running to his mum. Rosa met him halfway. All but barrelling him over to lick his face and inspect for damage. It wasn’t until one human tried to approach that she stopped. Arching her spine and teeth bared, she stood between them and Romeow. Whispers passed between them. Seemingly in agreement, they nodded to one another, then slowly lowered themselves to the ground. Rosa didn’t know what to make of their behaviour but growled for good measure. She almost choked on it when Romeow trotted back to the people, purring as they scratched his back. The human cooed softly to her, trying to coax her with chicken strips. She couldn’t move. They couldn’t be trusted. Humans let their dogs run free. They abandon their kittens to die in the cold. They steal your children. They leave you alone to wait and wait and wait. But there was her son. Returned to her and trying to convince her that these ones were different. These ones were good. Yeah right. They would get bored soon, probably try to take Romeow with them, and leave her alone again.

          But they didn’t. The moments stretched out and they stayed put. Night birds chittered and they continued to coo sweetly at her. Cold wind cut them until they shivered and they still didn’t leave. Rosa’s defences stood no chance against their gentle patience. One timid step at a time, she managed to approach. They fed her the chicken, or what was left thanks to Romeow, without a fuss. When Romeow led her into a carrier that shut behind her, she panicked, but he soothed her, gently grooming her like she’d done for him so many times.

          It took a long time to adjust to her new life. These new people were different to the ones she’d once known. They enclosed an entire section of their yard for her to go into whenever she wanted. The birds couldn’t get int, which was a shame, but neither could any of the other creatures that had stalked her just as often and she’d hunted them. She and Romeow were allowed anywhere they wanted to go in the house. No-one seemed to mind the fur that stuck to every surface. Romeow was spoiled with toys, scratch towers, and walks whenever he made a fuss. She was too old for that nonsense. She definitely didn’t race around batting the feather orb when no-one was looking. She wasn’t lonely anymore either. Each person greeted her every morning. Whenever they left, they petted her as soon as they returned. They didn’t mind when she didn’t want to cuddle, simply stating that her highness required space. Her fur had been shorn, too matted to brush. As it regrew, they took it upon themselves to ensure she remained knot free, not because she was beautiful but so she would be comfortable.

          Life was different here. She wasn’t Rosa Once anymore. Now she was Daisy. Romeow had many titles but was best known as Spunky. It’s been said that cats go by many names, but if she was honest, she liked being Daisy best.

Tag list

@inkovert and @snobbysnekboi

[ofonyxshade]

unforeseen - drabble, bc i love when you write about frays past

one word writing prompts | accepting

“You’re doing it all wrong.” Fray tried not to sound irate as they corrected her for what could have easily been the hundredth time that day. They leaned over from where they stood before Rielle and gently pressed down on her shoulders - they were too taut, the aether wouldn’t flow that way. The stance still didn’t look right with the wand in her hand. “Try again. And you don’t have to look so scared - you won’t hurt me.”

It was healing magic, for Twelve’s sake. The most it could do was make them feel a bit off-kilter from the excess aether. But Rielle still looked anxious in the wooded clearing they had to themselves. Her eyes nervously scanned the spaces between the trees, her small frame startling at each creature that stirred in the underbrush. The chances of her learning conjury in her current state were slim.

The sighed and, again, tried not to look too frustrated. They were baffled, mostly. They brought her to the North Shroud because she had to learn how to defend herself in somecapacity if she wanted to stay with their mismatched duo. (She pleaded not to be dropped off at the Brume’s makeshift orphanage the night she fled her cage, grasping at the hem of their coat until her knuckles turned white. They must’ve been getting soft because they folded the leather around her and shepherded her towards the warmth of the Forgotten Knight.)

Conjury seemed a good a trade as any. It’s not like they could drop a greatsword into her grasp on such short notice, and children were supposed to be better at this kind of thing, anyways.

In theory. Fray watched Rielle nervously shift her weight on each foot as the aether was once again dammed by her fear. They had only stayed in Gridania for a few moons, but E-Sumi-Yan’s ageless voice echoed in their head from the lessons at Stillglade Fane. “Look to the myriad of life around you, and let its energies flow through you.” The girl was practically terrified of everything around her - there went that plan.

They, for one, were at ease. No armor, no Temple Knights, and no bleeding snow. They brought one hand to their chin in thought. What did children like? When they were a child, they liked pickpocketing unsuspecting nobles and hot bowls of soup the sisters made for all the orphans crawling about. (And when they were a child, they weren’t locked in a prison with ice-cold bars where you couldn’t tell night from day.)

“Let’s take a break.” Fray plucked the wand from her grasp and sheathed it on their own belt. Rielle’s shoulders slumped at that, her expression unreadable. Maybe they were being a bit unreasonable; it took them several moons to learn the art, where they had been with Rielle for a fortnight at best. But something told them she had a talent for it - they were positive they weren’t hallucinating the way she mended a gash in their side when they first outran the Temple Knights on their heels.

“Are you hungry? Stay here, I’ll get us something to eat.” The girl didn’t say anything at that and settled into the lush grass. Rielle the Voiceless, indeed. That was fine with them, too.

They looked about the sun-specked clearing before their gaze landed on just what they were looking for - a tree sporting ripe apples from its branches. While mirror apples were native to Coerthas, a few patches could be found in the Shroud where the forest met the plains. They learned this during their time in Gridania, as well as how to harvest them. It had been a while since then, but it was the sort of thing your body didn’t forget.

Or so they thought. Partway climbing up the tree, they found they weren’t as dexterous as they were as a youth. No matter. An apple was already within their grasp and if they reachedjust a bit further-

Their boot slipped from the branch they were using to steady themselves, and suddenly they had an impromptu view of the canopy as they fell backwards onto the grass with an undignified squawk. The tree wasn’t as tall as some of the more aged specimens in the vicinity, but the landing was enough to leave their head spinning. And their arse bruised. After taking a moment to process the shock, they sat up, shaking their head free of leaves.

“Bugger me with a bloody-” They stopped in the midst of cursing the Twelve because they heard something foreign bubbling from Rielle’s throat. Was that…? She was giggling - stifling it with her sleeve, but laughing all the same. Fray realized they hadn’t seen a hint of mirth from the girl since they met, and all they could do was stare until she met their gaze, blushing and wide-eyed.

They blinked once. Twice. Then let a lopsided grin grace the curve of their lips. “Was it really that spectacular of a fall?”

The question only made Rielle fidget. “I… um…”

Fray picked themselves off the ground and knelt to retrieve the fruit that had taken the fall with them. A bit bruised, but still edible. (It better have been, for all the trouble they went through to get it.) They let their previous grin slip into a fonder smile as they proffered the apple to her. “Here. Once you’re done we can try meditating or something.”

Apparently their attempt had the intended effect, because they caught the minuscule one she offered in return. “Thank you.” It was progress. That was enough for them.

(They would later learn she also had a voracious appetite for the fruit, but that is a dilemma for another time.)

[rockrevoltmagazine]

Interview: Dead Animal Assembly Plant

The Sweet Meats Slaughterhouse was founded in 1895 by Wilhelm Schröder. Internationally known for his advances in industrialized butchery…he produced 30% of the meats consumed in the United States. In 1915 tragedy struck the small town he called home when all the livestock took some unexplained fatal disease. The ever resourceful Schröder turned to the only available meat. The townsfolk. When they discovered the terrible truth – they enacted their own form of justice. Feeding the once prolific Schröder to his own machines. The Sweet Meats Slaughterhouse remained eerily quiet and vacant..until one night…horrible noises resembling music emanated from the dank hallways.

    Why did you pick your band name?

Z.Wager: That is definitely the 10,000 dollar question. Having a name like Dead Animal Assembly Plant – I’ve found people either love it or hate it. It does feel like a disjointed jumble of nonsense. Yet the origin story is actually pretty mundane. A number of years ago I was casually looking at a website relating to business licenses and I came across one that I found extremely bizarre. In the state of Oregon in order to transport or store animal carcasses you have to get what’s called a “Dead Animal Assembly Plant” license. The absurdity of it was too much. At that moment I thought it would make a great band name.

Once I started putting together the pieces of the theme. Backstory. Etc. Having such a name made it easier to come up with the mythology and just kind of build on it from there.

Anything you would like to share, from new merch to upcoming shows/tours or songs/albums?

Z.Wager: So March is a big month for us in terms of releasing new material. March 26th our new album “Bring Out The Dead” will be released via Armalyte Industries. It will be available via Bandcamp (www.deadanimalassemblyplant.bandcamp.com) in both physical and digital form. We are very excited to finally have the album it out. The initial release date was pushed due to COVID. We had finished the album just prior to our tour in 2019, but the world turned inside out as we all know, so the decision was made to delay the release. Which was completely understandable. There was just too much going on and people were far too distracted by way more important things. We can’t wait to finally be able to hit the road to play new music and promote the album.

We also recently did a collaboration with the Belgian surrealist artists – Mothmeister. They just released their 2nd art book and over the past few months have been working with them to create unique “sonic landscapes.” Each track represents a different chapter in their book. So we would get a collection of photos and from that compose a soundscape that would convey the overall emotion. Try to tell the story their vivid imagery conveys. It was an honor to work with them on that. The 9 tracks are included for free when you buy their latest book which is available on their etsy page (mothmeister.etsy.com.)

As far as shows we are currently gearing up to perform a live set in late May. It will be professionally recorded/edited then released on YouTube. Still working out the details on that but we cannot wait to play together again even though it will be in a closed studio.

How do you describe your music to people?

Z.Wager: It can be challenging describing your music to people because of preconceived ideas about what defines a genre. Plus you don’t really want to pigeon-hole yourself into a music corner. We basically say it’s a cauldron of rock, metal, industrial, electronica, but also a bit of rockabilly or dissonant noise. That even sounded silly listing out haha. I think one of the funnest things is to hear how people describe your music to you. It’s really insightful and rewarding.

Do you get nervous before a performance or a competition? What advice would you give to beginners who are nervous?

Z.WageR: Oh we all still get nervous before shows. Doesn’t matter how big or small the venue/crowd. There’s always this nervous halo kinda dangling over your head. It really doesn’t start sinking until after we get ready and there’s that calm before the storm as it were. When you’re loading in, getting ready, doing your make up, sound checking etc etc…there’s almost no time to really be nervous. After all that is done and you have time to process your emotions…yeah the nerves set in.

I’ve never seen nerves as a bad thing though. It’s exhilarating and it really keeps your head focused. Maybe it’s the adrenaline junky in me haha. But it makes you feel alive and present. If there gets a point when you’re so jaded that you don’t feel that then maybe you need to rethink where you’re at. Approach the show with confidence – of course – but let those waves of anxiety wash over you.

Let it drive your performance or keep you on your toes. Then when you hit the stage let it drop and roll away. Cuz now it’s show time and people deserve to see a great show. So my advice is not to try and avoid your nervousness but embrace it as part of the experience.

Do you have a band website? Do you have a Facebook or Twitter? Do you use Bandcamp, Spotify, or SoundCloud to share your music?

Z.Wager: Yes we are all over the place on the internet. Bandcamp is by far our preferred place for selling music online. Sure, it’s a business but they don’t rake artists across the coals unlike all the streaming services. It is hilariously sad when you register your music and get the occasional “check” for the stream payouts. It would be easy to get angry if it wasn’t so funny how ridiculous the thing is. At that point you really do have to think of it in terms of getting it out to more ears than expecting a payout. All of our links can be found below. 

How Does music affect you and the world around you?

Z.Wager: At one point in our lives – up to today – we can all say that music saved us in some way. I know it’s a cliche’ we say or hear a million times, but we know it to be true. Music is visceral. It vibrates us down to our core. It gives a voice to the voiceless. Understanding to the hopeless. This is something we all feel and for us – if we’re able to put something back into the ether and help one person get through a tough time – then it’s all worth it. Because it’s something that no matter who we are…our backgrounds…beliefs…we can find something in common.

One of the best things anyone has ever said to me at a show that really stuck with me was,” You know there’s a lot going wrong in my life right now, but I know when I come to one of your shows…I can forget all that and just have fun.” That really meant the world to me because that is a huge part of why we do what we do.

How would you define the word “success?”

Z.Wager: That’s such a loaded subjective word. To me it really comes down to …fun. Are you having fun? If so – then you are successful. It isn’t always a happy positive situation…like any other facet of life it is wrought with negativity, dangerous thoughts, and dramatic complications but I can say..still…I’m having fun. So no matter how big or small your band is…your following is..how big your shows are…if you are having fun then you are successful. People can tell and respond to that energy when a band is in a positive state of mind. But it’s that realization that can get you through the darkest times.

How did you form?

Z.Wager: So back in 2007 I was in a friend’s band called Bound in Oblivion. He was taught me a lot about various DAWs and gear to the point where I started tinkering around more with my own songs. I had ideas for songs that didn’t really jive with what he wanted so I initially formed DAAP as a solo side project. A place where I could experiment with themes and compositions. After a few years and a few small – VERY – rough releases I wanted to do a live show, but I didn’t want it to be only me. I didn’t want Industrial karaoke. So through my friend Case (whose band I was in prior) I met Eric “aka Zero” and my friend Vex (of Particle Son) joined. Viola the 4 of us clunked our way through a show that was supposed to be a one off. Here we are 10 yrs later (almost to the day) still trudging through. Granted, we have changed members up quite a bit but that comes with the territory. Why have kids when you can have a band? Haha

Who writes the songs, what are they about?

Z.wager: We all , in some respect, work on the songs. I generally will write the lyrics, but the compositions/instrumentation is a collective effort. There are stronger personality imprints on certain songs which i love because it makes it dynamic yet cohesive. The themes of our songs are generally all over the place. There’s no one thing we tend to focus on other then we follow the basic idea that real life is far more horrorific than make believe. So whilst we call ourselves a horror band – the horror we generally write about is every day life. The depths in which humans stoop. We’re also not very religious and tend to view religion through the lens of critical skepticism. So, that definitely makes easy fodder for lyrics. Predictable? Absolutely. But they make it so very easy.

What’s your outlook on the record industry today?

Z.Wager: In one word: shambles. The pandemic has really shown how shark infested those waters are. It’s a vicious voracious hungry monster that is solely designed to eat away every bit of creativity. It very much is an industry and a business. It’s always been cruel but it the cruelty has gotten more calculated over the years. Yet there is the other side to it. It’s the golden age of the independent artist. All those outlets and resources that were afforded only to major labels are now available to everyone. That’s a wonderful thing. i know people can feel pretty divisive about it but that’s a load of gate keeping nonsense.

Sure, it’s still a business so everything takes money but now you can have your own studio, pay for your own production, hire a PR person, have your music online, and stay connected to your fan base. People can be their own bosses. Own managers. Keep control of their art. That strips a lot of power away from the big business side of it. Sure, it’s still a rat race…people claw at each other for a piece..that’s in our nature. But now you have far more control over what you do with your art. Empowering the creator which is paramount.

There will always be that power struggle between both sides of it and you just have to figure out what’s best for you. Full steam ahead. Damn the torpedoes!

  DAAP combine elements of rock, metal, industrial, and bring a strong post-apocalyptic / horror influence to our characters and stage show. Shows include: Knotfest 2015, Wasteland Weekend 2018/2019, multiple successful independent tours including a national tour in 2019, Twitch.tv appearances, collaborations with international artists Mothmeister, and direct local support for numerous national touring acts from metal, to horror punk, to industrial.

The fanatical cannibals of Dead Animal Assembly Plant have whipped up their own recipe for the horrors of the modern age: with a touch of rock, dash of metal, pinch of industrial, sprinkle in some electronics and heaping helping of madness. Welcome to the slaughterhouse.”

    DEAD ANIMAL ASSEMBLY PLANT: Z.WAGER REBECCA ‘BUZZ’ WAGER ERIC ‘ZERO’ BERGEN JASON ‘SKORN’ MOORE NICK ‘NIX’ SNYDER

Connect with DEAD ANIMAL ASSEMBLY PLANT (click icons):

Interview: Dead Animal Assembly Plant was originally published on RockRevolt Mag

[your-kris-is-in-another-castle]

Live Until Love Chapter 1

The Peeking Dawn

Victor walked out the front door without further incident and set off for school, a piece of toast smeared with strawberry jam in his mouth while another was in his hand. The morning sky was clear, allowing the sunshine to wash over him, and despite having the scarf snuggly wrapped around his neck it felt pleasant to Victor.

Munching voraciously on the toast, Victor pulled out his cassette player and slipped on his headphones, the eccentric sounds of Yes greeting his ears. Both were in rough shape, and he knew he was going to have to find some way to patch them up again soon. As Victor made his way through the neighborhood others began exiting their homes and heading off for work, but there was no one his age to be seen. They were most likely still asleep, or now just rising from their beds. Most likely they had the luxury of a bus or car to get them to school, but Victor wasn’t so lucky; his foster parents were already spending money to send their son, Jonas, to a school downtown, and refused to spend any more on another bus pass when Victor’s school was so close, so he had to be awake earlier than most and make the four mile walk every weekday.

But it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. In fact Victor enjoyed his morning walk very much. It was one of the few times in the week he could reliably get a bit of peace, listening to his music as he made his way. Being the only young person awake and on the move gave him a sense of wonderful solitude, and it helped keep him sane, especially after the nightmare he had the other night. He kept eating the toast, finishing the first slice as he walked.

As he made his way out of the suburbs and into the metropolitan area Sacramento was quickly coming to life. Before long cars, trucks, and buses filled the streets, and people milled about the sidewalk, some in a hurry while others leisurely moved about. But to Victor, off in his own little world of music, they all seemed so far away as he walked down the street, surrounded by others and alone all the same. Before long Victor could see his school, Evergreen High, in the distance. As he approached the vicinity of the school he tucked his cassette player and headphones away in his backpack, knowing better than to approach the school grounds while he was distracted.

“Hey, kid.” Victor turned to see a scraggly looking middle-aged man dressed in a tattered coat and torn jeans slouching against a brick wall. Victor guessed that he was homeless “Y-yes?”, Victor mumbled in response, taken aback by the man’s skeletal appearance. “You gonna finish that?” The man cocked his head lazilly towards the remaining piece of toast in Victor’s hand. “I’m real hungry, and could use a bite.”

Immediately Victor felt his stomach rumble; he’d only eaten the other piece for breakfast, and he was still very hungry. But then he thought about lunch in a few hours, and realized that the homeless man might not have anything to eat for the rest of the day. Victor held the piece of toast out to him.

“Here, y-you can have it. I-I’m not that hu-hungry anyway.”

The man stared at the toast then back to Victor, a look of surprise on his face before snatching the toast out of Victor’s hand and biting half the slice. “Hey, thanks buddy, thanks a lot.” He said between mouthfuls. “You’re the first person to give me anything. You’re a real nice guy.”

“Th-thanks.” Victor felt his stomach rumble again, but he tried not to pay it any attention. “A-anyway, h-have a nice d-day.” The homeless man waved but said nothing in response, continuing to gobble down the rest of the toast.

Victor approached Evergreen, which by now was teeming with activity as students and teachers arrived at the school. Cliques of students filled the hallways, cramping up the narrow alleyways as friends met up with each other and chatted, some for the first time since summer break had started. The ambient chattering all felt so overwhelming to Victor as he made his way past the bodies of his classmates, keeping his head down and making his way to the front office. Once there Victor was given his lock for the year, his homeroom number, and the location of his locker, which he immediately set off to find. He couldn’t help bumping into some of the other students along the way, the hallways only becoming more packed as the morning dragged on, but they paid Victor no attention, even when he muttered an anxious apology. He just had to get to his locker and homeroom by first bell, and he would be in the clear.

Victor turned a corner, nearly at his locker, but he came to an abrupt stop and stumbled back around the corner, pressing himself against the wall in a panic. There on the other side was a group of boys talking amongst themselves. They hadn’t any notable look about them, in fact most were dressed in a fairly generic Californian fashion, save for the one leaning cross armed against what Victor knew to be his locker. His shirt was a crisp white button-up while his jeans were black, and a gold chain dangled around his neck. He sported a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache, while in contrast his head was entirely shaved, the scalp not unlike porcelain with how the light bounced off of it. And his eyes, a muddy brown, periodically swept across the room in search of something, or maybe someone, while his friends conversed amongst themselves. The thought of his gaze falling on him made Victor feel small.

“Hey Kyle, when do you wanna head for class? Day’s gonna be starting soon.”

Kyle sighed. “Guess we can split. Thought for sure he’d show up before first bell.” He sounded disappointed as he stood up. “Ah well. Cmon, guys, let’s get outta here.” Kyle stretched, rightening himself out as he and his posse made their way down the hallway.

Victor sighed in relief, whipping away the beads of sweat on his forehead. He hurried over  to his locker and opened it up, dropping off his backpack and gathering the necessary supplies for his first class of the day. He locked the door back up with a small smile, grateful he’d managed to get through the rest of the morning without incident.

“You.”

Victor’s breath caught in his throat as he whipped around in fight. Behind him, with a fiery head of hair and thick rounded glasses, stood Kat. She glared piercingly at Victor, immobilizing him completely under her gaze. She took a step towards him, and he took a step back in response, back pressing against the cold locker door. Kat pressed a hand beside Victor’s head as she leaned in, keeping her eyes locked on him all the while.

“I’ll make this simple; don’t be a creep this year, and we won’t have any problems, you got that?”

Victor said nothing, nodding his head slowly when words failed him. Kat’s eyes narrowed and she leaned in closer, making Victor feel a touch claustrophobic, “And don’t think I won’t know if you try anything. Kyle tells me everything. Don’t you forget that.”

And with that Kat walked away, leaving Victor to collect himself. All in all, the whole interaction could have gone much worse; so far he’d managed to avoid a black eye. But before he had a chance to calm down and collect himself the bell started to ring, so Victor ran down the hallway for his homeroom, barging into the classroom as the door was being closed, running head first into the teacher, knocking her onto the ground. Victor’s heart sank as she stood back up, eyeing him with disapproval before picking up the clipboard she’d been holding. “Late on the first day, are we?” She huffed. “I’ve half a mind to mark you as late.”

“I-I’m sorry, m-ma’am, I was-”

She cut him off, “Don’t give me excuses. It’s your job to get up on time and make it to school early. Now find a seat.” Victor nodded his head at the order, eyes shifting to the floor in embarrassment at the scolding. “Now, where are you…” The teacher’s eyes scanned down a clipboard a moment. “Ah, here we are; Flanagan.” She clicked her pen to mark Victor present, and he couldn’t help frown as he sat down; Flanagan was the name of his foster parents. He couldn’t remember what his parents’ name was, but Flanagan would never be his name, no matter what some piece of paper said.

“Now if Mr. Flanagan’s finished with the theatrics, we can get started with today’s lesson. Everyone, turn to page 1.” The class collectively groaned at the prospect of jumping right into work on the first day of school. “That’s enough of that! You’re seniors, so start acting like it. Now everyone open your books.”

Victor noticed that everyone had a worn textbook on their desk save for him. He looked across the shelves for a free one, but found there were none left. Nervously he raised his hand.

“E-excuse me, ma’am? Th-there aren’t anymore textbooks, a-and I-I don’t have one.”

The teacher sighed irritably. “Of course you don’t. That’s what happens when you’re late, Mr. Flanagan.” She pinched her nose with another sigh. “You there.” She pointed at a girl sitting beside Victor with brown hair tied back into a short ponytail.

“Yes, ma’am?”

”Move over and share the textbook with him so we can get started.” The teacher didn’t wait for any kind of response, turning around and picking up a piece of chalk to scribble something half legible on the blackboard. The girl wordlessly scooted her chair over to Victor’s desk and opened the book up so they could both look it over as the teacher launched into her lesson.

“Sorry you’re st-stuck with m-me...”, Victor mumbled bashfully, feeling his cheeks flush. The girl looked up from the page, and to Victor’s surprise she smiled. “Oh, no problem! I don’t mind, really.” That was strange, usually people were annoyed when they had to deal with him. “I’m Ashley, by the way.” Victor said nothing, keeping his attention on the lesson as it began. “I really like your scarf! The red is so vibrant.” Victor muttered a small thanks while trying to keep his focus on what the teacher was saying. “I don’t think I caught your name?” Victor felt his cheeks get a bit warmer at the question, “I-it’s nothing special...” Ashley frowned, refusing to give up. “Aw, please?” Victor tried to avoid her hazel eyes, but the pleading look she was giving him was too much for him to bear, “I-it’s V-Victor-”

“Mr. Flanagan, it’s bad enough you were late on the first day of class, but now you’re interrupting my lesson.” The teacher had turned to glare at Victor, and he felt like he was shrinking down smaller and smaller with each passing second, “Since you clearly can’t comprehend basic respect, why don’t you join me for detention after school?”

“B-b-but-!”

“You could visit the principal's office if you’d prefer.”

“N-no, ma’am…”, Victor slumped down into his chair, trying his best to hide from the looks everyone else in class was giving him. “I’m...s-s-sorry.”

The teacher turned around, continuing where she left off. Ashley frowned. “Sorry...I didn’t mean to get you in trouble, Victor.” She whispered hastily. Victor didn’t look like he was in the mood to talk anymore, so Ashley turned her attention back to the lesson, feeling terribly guilty. Victor tried to keep his attention fixed on the lesson, but from the corner of his eye he noticed someone looking at him, and with an icy sensation running down his back he realized who it was.

It was one of Kyle’s friends from earlier, and he was sitting on the other side of the room. He looked back at his book when he realized Victor had seen him, and Victor felt his heart pound in his chest.

One of Kyle’s friends had seen him talking with a girl.

The rest of class progressed without incident, and when the lunch bell rang Victor practically launched himself out of the room and down the hallway, leaving Ashley behind. She felt terrible about getting him in even more trouble during class, and had planned on apologizing again once class was over, but he was gone in the blink of an eye. Once everyone else had left for the cafeteria Ashley placed the textbook back on the shelf with the others, stopped at the teacher’s desk as the teacher pulled some tupperware from her bag. She swallowed down a lump in her throat. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

The teacher looked up from her bag, looking a bit annoyed at being kept from her meal, “Yes, Miss Moore, what is it?”  Ashley felt herself stiffening, her breath catching in her throat. All she had to do was explain the situation from earlier, simple. So why was she having so much trouble finding the words? “Miss Moore?”, The teacher tapped her fingers, snapping Ashley out of her trance, “Was there something you needed?”

“Oh, um...no, ma’am. I...just wanted to thank you for the lesson this morning.”, Ashley smiled, though it felt only half genuine. Meanwhile the teacher’s face brightened, and she smiled for the first time in the day. “Well, that’s awfully kind of you to say. Enjoy the rest of your day, Miss Moore.”

Ashley couldn’t help the off-feeling smile from stretching further, hesitantly saying “You too, ma’am.”, before nodding her head in a kind of awkward bow and walking out. She sighed, feeling disappointed with herself as she made her way down the halls towards the cafeteria, a cacophonous buzz filling the air as she pushed open the doors and walked in. Students of all ages filled the room, most sat at a table talking with their friends while others were standing in line with a tray in hand, waiting to be served. Ashley scanned her eyes over the heads of her fellow teens, trying to spot one of her friends, hoping dearly it wasn’t falling to her to find them a table.

“Yo, Ash!”

Ashley turned in the direction her name had been called, seeing a dark haired boy with lush green eyes and a choppy haircut waving at her from a table, which to her relief she noticed he was its sole occupant. Waving back, she made her way through the crowded cafeteria, being careful not to bump into anyone. “Hey, Shawn!” Ashley happily greeted her friend as she arrived at the table. Shawn beamed at her tiredly as she approached. “So, good news.” He spread his muscular arms wide, gesturing around him. “I found us a table. Benefit of the bagged lunch.” Ashley rolled her eyes playfully, wrapping Shawn in a hug from behind, and enjoying the firmness of his chest to herself. “I noticed.” He reached back to return the hug with a chuckle, albeit in a bit of an awkward way. She took a seat across from Shawn as he tried to hide a yawn.

“Tired?” She asked. “A little, yeah.” Shawn responded, rubbing his eye. “Didn’t get much sleep last night. Must’ve been too excited about a whole ‘nother year.” Ashley giggled. She looked around the cafeteria, trying to pick out the missing member of their table. “Oh, Ronny’s not here yet.” Shawn yawned again, having noticed Ashley’s anxiousness. “How much you want to bet he’s getting a talking to for mouthing off to someone?” Ashley clicked her tongue and gave Shawn a disapproving look. “Come on, Shawn, give him some credit. He’s not that bad.” Shawn raised an eyebrow, suspicious of Ashley’s claim. “Well not on the first day, at least!” Shawn leaned forward on his arms, utterly unconvinced. Ashley stuck her tongue out in response. “You’re mean!”

Shawn simply shrugged, chuckling to himself. “Well, I guess you’d know. So, you planning on getting in line? It’s looking pretty loaded.” Ashley looked over her shoulder, and frowned when she saw how long the line was now, and only getting longer. “Oh, and I didn’t bring anything from home.” Ashley bemoaned. “I should’ve listened to Daddy after all…”

“Scuse me.” Both Shawn and Ashley turned to find a boy they guessed was in their year standing at the end of the table. “Mind if I pull up a seat? I was supposed to find a table for me and my friends, but, well, I guess you can tell how well that went.”

“Oh! Sorry, but we’re actually waiting for a friend too.”

“Sooo is that a no oooor...?”

“Well, um...it’s just that he likes it when it’s just us, and it being the first day…”

“Aw c’mon, it’s just one dude. There’ll be plenty of room.” Ashley squirmed, unsure of what to say. She turned to Shawn, silently asking for his help. “Sorry man, but it’d be a good idea to listen to what the lady’s saying. Our buddy can be a bit of a handful.”

The boy at the end of the table scoffed. “So who’s your ‘buddy’ then?”

“A bigger deal than you.”

The boy at the end of the table turned around to find a boy a half-foot taller than him with golden blonde hair that went past his shoulders and azure blue eyes standing directly behind him with a tray in each of his hands. Ashley facepalmed in embarrassment while Shawn leaned back casually to greet the new arrival. “Yo, Ronny.”

“Yo.” Ronny replied, keeping his eyes on the boy in front of him. Without thinking the boy at the end of the table took a step back, feeling unnerved by the intensity of Ronny’s blue eyes staring unwaveringly at him.

“Something up, guy?” Ronny smirked, taking a step forward and keeping his eyes trained on the one in front of him. The boy at the end of the table cleared his throat, chuckling uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “Nah, nothing’s up, my man. Was just looking for a place to sit.” Ronny took another step forward. “Oh, I gotcha. How’s that going?” The boy at the end of the table tugged at his collar, feeling the chill of Ronny’s icy gaze run up his spine. “Ah...was hoping I could grab this table, actually. W-with you and your friends, I mean.” The boy chuckled again.

Ronny hummed, shaking his head. “Mmm. Well, sorry, but I don’t think there’s enough space for us all, and, y’know, we were here first.”

“Well...yeah, you were, but-”

“We also like our space, know what I mean?”

“Ronny, stop it.” Ashley looked disapprovingly at Ronny.

“What?” Ronny tilt his head “I’m just letting the guy know what I think. You don’t mind, right man?”

The boy at the end of the table held his hands up, surrendering. “You know what? I’m just gonna find another table. You guys, uh...you take it easy. And with that he left, chancing a look back as he went. Once the boy was gone Ronny took a seat beside Ashley, setting the two trays down. Ashley shook her head in bewildered disappointment. “Did that really need to happen?” Ronny waved a dismissive hand at Ashley, unbothered by that which was bothering her. “Well you clearly weren’t getting rid of him. What were you planning on doing, getting skater boy there to give him the old heave ho?” Ronny chuckled as Ashley threw her hands up, exasperated. “Oh yeah, this is for you.” He slid one of his trays in front of Ashley. “Aren’t I nice?”

Ashley sighed, but eventually did crack a grateful smile. “Thank you, Ronny.”

The three friends started eating; while Shawn and Ashley were munching away pleasantly,  Ronny was shoveling food into his mouth so fast you’d think he was starving. It made Shawn’s face scrunch up to see such uncivilized behaviour, especially from one of his friends. “So, where’ve they got you guys locked up this semester anyway?” Ronny asked through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, making Shawn sigh audibly. Ashley either didn’t notice her blonde friend’s lack of manners or was simply used to such things. “Room 512 for me.”

“Yech!” Ronny made a grossed-out face. “You’re stuck with that crotchety old bag?” Shawn smirked. “Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.” Ashley clicked her tongue again, looking between the two boys disapprovingly. “You guys are the worst! She’s not that bad, you know. Although…” Ashley trailed off. “There was this boy that showed up late to class, and she just wouldn’t let him live it down-oh!” Ashley stood up suddenly, startling her friends. From across the cafeteria she could see Victor sitting against a wall, eating what she guessed was an apple. It was thanks to the redness of his scarf that he stood out.

“That’s him over there, actually! Hey, Victor! Victor!” Ashley strained to make herself heard over the ambiance of the cafeteria, and waved her hands overheard as she called out to Victor in the hopes that it would catch his attention. She seemed to be in luck; he looked up from his lunch in Ashley’s direction, but to her confusion he became quite alarmed, scrambling to his feet and hurrying out the cafeteria doors. She was about to go after him when she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, was that guy over there bothering you?”

Ashley turned to find another boy her age, but sharply dressed, with a smooth head and dirty brown eyes. He smirked when Ashley said nothing and pulled his hand back, shrugging apologetically. “Sorry, I startled you, didn’t I? Why don’t we do this over; I’m Kyle. And you are?”

Standing in front of Kyle, Ashley felt the floor rush up to her, and for a moment she struggled to find her voice as he kept his eyes on her. “Ashley. Um, not to be rude, but did you want something from me, Kyle?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t happen to be Ashley Moore, would you?” Kyle’s face seemed to brighten when Ashley nod her head. “Y’know, I’m pretty sure we have a class or two together later in the week! How’s about that, huh?” Ronny swallowed audibly, dropping his spoon back onto the tray which clattered loudly. He twist around, gazing sideways at Kyle. “My friend here wants to know why you’re bothering her.”

“Bothering her?” Kyle parroted. “I just wanted to ask her about her morning. Do you mind, Ashley?” Ashley opened her mouth to say something, but Kyle wasted no time letting her answer. “The reason I’m curious is because a friend of mine’s in your homeroom class, and he saw that you had to share a book with Victor Flanagan. You know, the guy that walks around all year with a red scarf on?” Ashley slowly nod her head. "Well, I came to tell you that he’s bad news.", Kyle said, his look shifting to that of concern, “Has been for as long as I’ve known him."

"Trouble?" Ashley tilted her head. “Mmhmm.” Kyle hummed. “First time I saw him, he was throwing rocks at a dog tied to a pole. I wanted to go over and make him stop, but, well, I didn’t want him to start throwing them at me. Always felt kinda guilty about that. And don’t even get me started on the stuff he’s done since then.” Kyle shook his head with a sigh. “Anyway, when I heard about this morning, I just wanted to come over and make sure he hadn’t done anything like that to you.”

“Oh… Well, thank you, Kyle. That’s very thoughtful of you.” Kyle smiled at Ashley’s thanks. “Hey, just doing what I can to look out for my classmates.” He said with a wink. “I’ll let you guys get back to your lunch. Catch you later in the week, Ash.” With that Kyle walked away with a wave which Ashley returned before sitting down. As Kyle walked down the cafeteria aisles Ronny kept his eyes locked on him, a strange feeling in his gut.

“So did that Victor guy say or do anything weird this morning, Ash?” Shawn leaned in on his elbows. Ashley frowned, shaking her head. “No, nothing like that at all. He was so quiet and stuttering. Actually I...wound up landing him in detention with the teacher during class. When I saw him I was going to apologize.”

“Huh.” Shawn leaned back, rubbing his cheek in thought. “Weird that he just bolted. Wonder what made him do that... What do you think, Ron?” Ronny said nothing, still staring after Kyle, though by that point he had long since disappeared into the crowd of students. “Ron?” He was pulled out of his stare by Shawn’s words and leaned in towards his two friends.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that he mentioned feeling guilty about not helping the dog?” Ronny’s brow furrowed in thought. Shawn rubbed his cheek again. “Now that you mention it, it was kinda outta nowhere.”

“Maybe he was just trying to clear his conscience?” Ashley offered. “With a bunch of randos though?” Ronny countered, turning back around. “It was like...like he wanted to make sure we thought he felt guilty. Like…” Ronny trailed off, trying to connect the dots in his head but coming up short. He sighed. “I dunno.” Ronny grabbed his tray and stood up. “I think I’m gonna head to class now. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“Oh, okay. We're still gonna meet after school to work out?” Shawn asked. Ronny smirked and nod his head. “For sure, man.” Shawn smiled, and the two bumped fists before Ronny walked away to drop off his tray, Ashley calling good-bye after him.

Outside the cafeteria doors, Victor was propping himself against the wall, panting, and loosened his scarf a bit to help him cool down. When he’d seen Kyle walking up to Ashley, he knew that one or two of his friends were probably sneaking up behind him to catch him off-guard. He knew what would happen if they got a hold of him, and he wanted to avoid any unpleasantness for his first day of senior year. Victor decided he could eat some other time, after all it wasn't like he’d gone without before. But as Victor made his exit, he felt a burst of pain explode in his abdomen, and he doubled over with a choked gasp.

“What’d I tell you?” Victor strained to look up, and to his dread above him stood Kat with a look of loathsome fire in her eyes. “I told you ‘don’t be a creep, and we won’t have problems’. It’s so simple, but you just don’t get it, do you?” She grabbed Victor by the collar and forced him to stand up straight, and his eyes closed involuntarily from the pain in his side. “Did you think Kyle wouldn’t tell me you were trying to get that girl in trouble this morning? Huh?!” Kat shook Victor as she spoke. “B-but…” Victor tried to open his eyes, fighting back the tears that wanted to fall from them. “S-she was t-talking-”

“Shut up!” Kat pushed Victor against the wall, and he felt like she was starting to lift him up off his feet. “Don’t try and pin the blame on her!” Kat let go of Victor’s collar, and with a surprised cry he fell down hard on his bottom. Kat loomed above, crushing Victor under her glare. “I tried being fair with you, but you just couldn’t help yourself.” Kat knelt down to look at Victor eye level. “I’m warning you, Flanagan. The next time you decide to act all gross, I won’t be so easy on you.”

And with that, Kat stood up and walked off, leaving Victor crumpled on the floor. Of course Kat had found out, how could he have been so stupid to not realize that? The bell rang and soon the student in the cafeteria emptied out into the hallways, each failing to take notice of Victor on the ground. Eventually he picked himself up, wincing as the spot Kat had punched him started to bruise, and was able to drift into the current of bodies flowing through the hallways. After stopping at his locker to get whatever supplies he’d need, Victor made a beeline for his next class. The rest of the afternoon progressed without incident; Victor was relieved to find that neither Kyle, his friends, nor Kat shared his next class with him, which allowed him to nurse his lunchtime injury while only half paying attention to what was being taught.

When the bell rang Victor dutifully made his way to his homeroom. When he arrived the teacher stood and walked over to Victor, and before he could say anything she thrust a piece of chalk into his hands. “You’re punishment is very simple, Mr. Flanagan; you’re going to write some lines for me.” She turned and gestured to the blackboard behind her. “One hundred to be exact. ‘I will not be disruptive during class.’ Do you have any questions?” Victor felt his side ache looking up at the board but shook his head obediently. Satisfied, the teacher turned to return to her desk, and Victor got to work, silently wincing from the pain of stretching his bruised muscles.

Not long after Victor got started on his lines, a boy with a mess of dirty blonde hair and sky blue eyes, dressed in simple enough clothes sauntered into the classroom. “Yo, teach.” He smirked, casually holding up two fingers in greeting. “Soaked up some of that summer sun, I see.” The teacher rubbed her head with a sigh. “Mr. Sparx, why am I not surprised. Well, what was it this time?” She held a hand out expectedly and the boy reached into his pocket, pulling out a slip of paper and placing it in her hands. “Fighting on the first day, are we?”

The boy shrugged. “I tried to warn the guy, but he just wouldn’t leave Tommy alone. Y’know how it is.” The teacher shook her head. “Have a seat at the front, Mr. Sparx. You’ll be here for the next hour.”

“Sounds good to me, Teach.” The boy plopped down in the nearest chair, leaning back with his arms behind his head and feet atop the desk, looking completely relaxed. Meanwhile, Victor continued writing the prescribed lines, but realized that he was going to run out of room short of the one hundred. As if reading his thoughts the teacher walked over and erased the board completely. “Start over, Mr. Flanagan, and be more aware of the space you have to work with this time.” She returned to her desk without another word, and after a moment Victor resumed writing out the lines, while behind him the boy lounging at the desk silently spied on him.

The phone rang, and the teacher answered. After a few short words she hung up and stood. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Mr. Flanagan, you’re not to leave until there’s one hundred lines on that board, understand?” Victor nod his head morosely. With that the teacher walked out of the room, and no sooner had she left did Victor feel a hand on his shoulder. It was the boy that had been relaxing. “Hey, want a hand with that, man?”

“I-I don’t th-think you’re allowed to h-help…” Victor looked down. The other boy blew a raspberry. “So what? Here, gimme that.” Before he could object the other boy grabbed the chalk out of Victor’s hand and snapped it in half. “There. Plausible deniability.” He said with a wink. “Now scoot over. I’ll work ahead of you.” He started writing under Victor’s own work, carefully matching his letter sizing and spacing. Figuring it was pointless to argue, Victor continued on.

“So you got a name, ‘Mr. Flanagan’?” The boy asked with a slight chuckle.

“V-V-Victor.” Everyone seemed to want to know his name today.

“Wicked name!” The boy said with a smile. “Well, I’m Levi. Happy to meet’cha, Vic.” Levi held a fist out to Victor, which he stared at momentarily. “You’re supposed to tap it with yours now, man.” Victor blushed, and timidly tapped Levi’s fist with his own. It made Levi chuckle, and his eyes remained on Victor a moment before he got back to work. Between the two of them writing the lines were nearly finished. Hearing footsteps approaching the classroom, Levi hurried back to his seat, throwing the chalk away and resuming his earlier position. The teacher walked in as Victor finished the hundredth line, and after a quick count gave him permission to go. As he went Victor noticed Levi looking at him with a small smile, making him smile awkwardly in turn.

The hallways had long since emptied of the other students. In place of the omnipresent chatter was an eerie silence that Victor felt reverberate in his chest, and it made him scurry along the school corridors. Approaching his locker, Victor noticed a shadow darting away from the corner of his eye, sending a chill down his back. Something was telling him it was time to head home, with or without his backpack, and Victor knew better than to ignore his instincts by this point. Spinning on his heels, Victor quickly spotted the nearest exit and urgently made his way towards it when all of a sudden he was roughly shoved to the side, nearly falling over as he felt two pairs of arms hook under his shoulders and haul him off his feet. It didn’t take long for Victor to realize who had him; it was two of Kyle’s friends from that morning. They dragged him towards a door as Victor tried to regain his footing, but that just earned him a jab in his bruise, making his eyes squeeze shut in pain.

Victor felt himself being brought through a door as the pain subsided, and not a moment later he was shoved to the ground. After collecting himself he realized he was in one of the school locker rooms, surrounded on all sides by a party of boys that looked down on him with sneering expressions, with none other than Kyle sitting right in front of him.

“Look who it is, guys. Our buddy, Victor!” Kyle sneered, his posse laughing alongside him. “You’ve been one busy bee today, haven’t you, Vic? Trying to get poor little Ashley into trouble.” The bald boy shook his head. “Naughty naughty. I know Kat wasn’t happy to hear about that. She told me all about how she ‘taught you a lesson’, but I think that you could use a bit of a refresher.”

Victor took a deep breath. Really, he should’ve expected as much out of all this. There was no way in hell that Kyle wasn’t just going to attempt and make his day worse. “Well, since we’re all here, no point beating around the bush.”, Kyle said, standing up and walking around Victor, eyeing him like meat on a rack.

“J-Just get it over with, I-I need to g-go home…”, Victor stuttered out, shifting his eyes to the floor. “Tch, got a mouth on you today, huh?”, Kyle asked, stopping in front of him. “Look at you. It’s sad, you know that? Sad you can’t even bother looking me in the eyes when you try talking back.” Victor kept his eyes lowered. The last thing he wanted to see was Kyle’s face. “You wanna know what it is about you that always gets my goat, Victor?”, Kyle asked, his face mere inches from Victor’s. His eyes drifted downwards to rest on Victor’s neck. “You’re always wearing that stupid scarf. I mean it’s the middle of August for christ’s sake.”

“Maybe we oughta do something about it.” One of the guys holding onto Victor suggested. “Y’know, help our buddy out!” Victor felt his blood run cold. “N-No, please!”

“Eh?”, Kyle said, a little surprised by Victor’s sudden outburst. “I-I-I-I-”, Victor tried to speak, but his mouth simply couldn’t form the words. He stifled a cry as he was smacked from the side. “Heh, was that any help?” Asked one of Victor’s captors. “Works on my CD player when it starts to skip.” Victor couldn’t quite respond, still dazzled by the blow to his head. Before he could say anything else, Kyle grabbed hold of one end of his scarf and yanked it off of Victor’s neck, choking him a little as his tormentor continued to pull.

Outside in the school gymnasium, Ronny and Shawn were making their way to the locker room. Shawn was panting, his arms bulging and slightly red while Ronny clapped him on the back. “You did good today, man! Ten extra pounds on the first day back is crazy!”

“Thanks, Ron.” Shawn chuckled, still a bit winded from the workout. “I was squeezing some in during summer vay cay, to tell you the truth.” Shawn rubbed his shoulder. “Guess that’s kinda cheating, huh?”

“Yeah, it is, and you oughta be ashamed of yourself. Pretty soon me and these pipe cleaners are gonna be one lousy spotter.”

“What do you mean ‘pretty soon’, goldie locks?” The two boys shared a laugh as they opened the door to the locker room. As they walked in, a pained cry echoed from somewhere in the room, catching Ronny’s attention. “The hell was that?” Ronny asked rhetorically. “Sounded like someone having a bad time to me.” Shawn responded. “Yeah...a real bad time.” Ronny’s face became hard, focused. “C’mon, let’s check it out.”

“Wait, what? Ron, where’re you going?” Ronny had taken off, seemingly deaf to what Shawn was saying. The dark haired boy hurried to catch up with his friend. “Ron, it could’ve just been a guy slipping in the shower.”

“Then why don’t we hear a shower running?” Ronny kept his eyes forward as he walked. Shawn sighed. “Okay, but can we at least get changed outta these rank clothes before we go Nancy Drewing?” Suddenly Ronny shushed Shawn. The dull roar of laughter could be heard, followed by another pained cry. Both sounded close. Ronny’s brow furrowed, and before Shawn could say anything his friend took off faster than he had been a moment ago. He came to a stop at a corner, looking behind him for Shawn. Sure enough the dark haired boy was there. “Got my back?”

Shawn nod his head. “Yeah, I do.”

The two round a corner to find a group of boys in a circle, one which they both recognized as Kyle, tossing a scarf back and forth between themselves overhead, while in the centre was Victor, trying desperately to catch it. Ronny grit his teeth, feeling his face beginning to heat up. “Hey!” He shouted out at the boys. They hadn’t noticed the two arrive, so the sudden outburst along with the sight of a tall blonde boy and his muscular friend made them freeze in surprise. Ronny took a step forward, glaring at the whole of the group contemptuously. “What do you think you’re doing to that kid?”

Kyle was the first to recover from the shock of Ronny and Shawn’s arrival. “Oh, it’s you guys again. Fancy that.” He grinned. “We were just having a bit of fun with our pal here. Monkey in the middle, you know, it’s our favourite.” Neither of the boys said anything. Shawn’s eyes were on Victor, while Ronny glared at Kyle, his blue eyes becoming wild and primal. He noticed the scarf in the hand of one of the other boys.

“Give him his scarf back.” The boy was a bit unnerved by the look Ronny was giving him, but he maintained his cool. “Get lost, asshole. We’re just having a bit of fun.”

Ronny sucked a breath in, letting it out slowly. His face softened, and he let out a hearty laugh. “My mistake.” He took a few steps towards the boy, a smile plastered on his face. “What I meant to say was-” And then in the blink of an eye Ronny took hold of the boy holding the scarf, and the smile contorted into a vicious snarl. “Give him the fucking scarf back NOW!”

“You really should.” Shawn stepped out from behind Ronny, his face stonelike while the boy holding the scarf remained paralyzed in Ronny’s grasp. Nobody seemed sure what to do, but recognizing his chance Victor scrambled to his feet, grabbed his scarf from the boy’s hand, and bolted out of the locker room like a bat out of hell, bursting through the first door he saw and taking off from the school grounds, not stopping for man, myth, or legend.

But in peeling out as fast as he did, Victor unknowingly knocked over a stout girl with emerald eyes and rich auburn hair. With a cry she fell on her bottom and her books scattered. “Ow ow owww…” She groaned, rubbing her behind. “What was that?”

“Hey, jerk!” A voice belonging to a raven haired girl dressed entirely in black called after Victor. “Watch where you’re going!” She held out a hand to her friend on the floor. “You okay, Shannon?”

Shannon took her friend’s hand, and she was hauled up off the ground. “Yeah, I’m fine, Claire.” Shannon collected her books and readjusted her glasses. “He was sure in a hurry.”

Claire scoffed. “He bowled you right over.” The corner of her mouth pulled back, unimpressed as she looked towards the door Victor had rushed out of. “Tell me about it. I wonder what he was running away from...” Shannon felt her curiosity itch. Claire simply shrugged. “Dunno, but I’m heading home. You coming?” Claire didn’t seem to be waiting for a reply, because she was already on her way out when Shannon realized she was being left behind. “Yes, I’m coming! Bitch, will you wait up? My legs are shorter than yours!” Claire couldn’t help laughing a bit to herself as her friend hurried to catch up with her.

As the two girls walked they passed Kat, walking home alone. Her house was a ways away, but she liked making the trip every day; it helped her get in some regular exercise. After arriving at home she fixed herself some dinner her mom had put in the fridge, took a nice hot shower, and by the time she dried herself off she had crawled into bed and before drifting off to sleep, she took one last glance at the golden chain hanging on her bedpost. She smiled at the memory of her father gifting it to her so many years ago, and dreamt pleasant dreams that night.

[myeclecticallybeautifulsoul]

Hell Holds No Surprises For Me Anymore...

Jeffrey Lambert

May 2, 2016

Flavor: Gold Bears

This is a cautionary tale and - unlike most of the other reviews on this product - this is a true story and its authenticity can be qualified by a small news item that appeared in the Toronto Star's local news section during the month of April in 2013, much to my chagrin.

I would consider myself a prudent man. Not given to bouts of outspokenness or craving attention, and certainly not one to rock the boat. On any given day I can be found reading a crime novel on a park bench in the middle of the city, soaking in the opulence of nature while nibbling on my tuna fish sandwiches and fending off the voracious gulls and squirrels that threaten to spoil my repose. This is me. Law-abiding and introspective. Which is why it came as a shock to me to find myself incarcerated because of the Devil's Confectionery, Satan's Sweetmeat, Lucifer's Lozenges - the horror that is known as 'Haribo Sugar Free Gummy Bears".

I'll set the scene: It was late winter / early spring in Toronto and the city had just been digging itself out from a late season snow-storm. I was heading to Pearson International Airport for a redeye flight to Amsterdam in order to give the Dutch arm of our company some training on the new software that had been installed (I'm deliberately being vague to prevent my place of work from being linked in any way to the incident that occurred). I had just finished packing, checked the time and found I was running late, my flight was at 7:10 PM and it was now almost 5:00 PM. Cursing softly, I ran out to the car and threw my bags in the trunk, hitting the gas a little harder than usual in my haste to make it to the Long Term Parking Lot as soon as possible. Luckily traffic was light on the 401 and I made it to the airport in record time, but knew that my chances of making the flight were still at risk if I didn't use my time wisely.

I hadn't eaten since lunch, and I was feeling a bit hungry, my stomach rumbling loudly in protestation, which caused me to look around at the other travellers rushing past me in the busy terminal, mortified that my bodily noises might be heard by others. I briskly checked my watch and decided that I had enough time to grab a quick snack before going through the baggage check and security, and would get something more substantial once I was checked through security. I spotted a vending machine nestled in a relatively low-traffic corner of the terminal and rushed over, already pulling out my credit-card and mentally assessing what I had a craving for so as to save time interacting with the machine. My eyes scanned the colourful array of confection quickly, coming to rest on a tantalizing, rainbow-coloured bag of gummy bears with the simple white and red logo "Haribo" emblazoned across the bag in what appeared to be a slightly tweaked Helvetica Rounded font.

Now I'd to pause here in the story for a moment to underscore the importance of making proper choices. I was hungry. When you're hungry, you should eat FOOD. FOOD is defined as "a nutritious substance that people consume to maintain life", this is what food is. These days, the definition of the word 'food' has been bastardized and the meaning has been broadened to include veritably any material that can be digested, or rather, chewed and swallowed without causing death or severe illness. "Haribo Sugar Free Gummy Bears" are NOT food. They aren't even from this planet. I imagine their origins being conceived in a boardroom in hell by a top team of Creative Pain Administers, with senior level Demons rubbing their hands together in ghoulish delight as Hell's Chief Chemist slowly lifts the veil on their new creation.

The point here being, I made a very, very, very poor choice. I pushed the button and the vending machine ejected the brightly coloured bag into my awaiting hands. I had always liked gummy bears - they were bright but rather innocuous, they weren't overly sweet so as to become cloying and - of course - each candy came in the visage of a rather happy, docile bear reminiscent of the picture one's mind's eye holds of all anthropomorphic bears from Yogi to Winnie.

The way I figured it, I was taking a bit of a holiday from life, so I could relax my fastidiously regimented daily schedule a little to allow for some frivolity. After all, I was going to be in Amsterdam come morning with 16 hours to kill before I had to be training the Dutch employees, maybe I would take a trip down to one of the Coffee Shops in the Red-Light District and really let my hair down! No, I wouldn't do that. I would see that area of the city from the bus as I went to the hotel where I would eat at the hotel restaurant and drink sparkling water. So I'd better enjoy the gummy bears, my one extravagance to commemorate my break from routine.

I joined the queue in the KLM line, which was mercifully short, most likely because all of the passengers for my flight had already been checked through as the flight was scheduled to depart in an hour. I checked my watch again, frowned, and absent-mindedly opened the bag of "Haribo Sugar Free Gummy Bears" and began to munch on them as the line slowly advanced. To be fair, they tasted fine - just like every other manufacturer's brand of the colourful candy, and they were sugar-free to boot. This is what made the whole incident that followed so baffling - if they had tasted 'off' or 'different' I most likely wouldn't have continued to shovel them into my mouth absent-mindedly while daydreaming about what I would order to eat from room-service in my hotel in Amsterdam.

As I gave the attendant my e-ticket and she weighed my bags, the first of the pains began in my stomach. I thought nothing of it at first, chalking it up to the fact that I needed something more substantial than gummy worms to tackle my hunger, but over the course of the next five-minutes the shooting pain began to come in more rapid succession. At this point, I had my boarding pass printed and rubbing my stomach a little, I proceeded to security. I briefly entertained the thought of trying to find a restroom before going through security, but at that point my discomfort was manageable and I didn't think it was get any worse, certainly not within the amount of time it would take to clear security.

I joined the line and started fishing for my passport to present to the agent checking tickets, I felt a thin sheen of sweat break out on my forehead and underarms, and my features flushed for a moment as a wave of heat washed over me. I didn't pay it much heed as going through security always caused me great anxiety and I chalked it up to pre-flight jitters. It was only as I stood face to face with the agent and handed her my passport and ticket that I had a glimpse of the agony that was about to begin. It felt like time rippled for a moment, as if my consciousness buckled so intense was the pain that fired through my bowels. I grimaced spastically and emitted a low moan, and felt myself take an involuntary step sideways. Stars shot though my head briefly and my vision blurred and then snapped back into focus. The agent was staring at me with slight consternation and asked me if I was alright. I pulled myself together, stood up straight and declared that I was fine, mortified that I had had a lapse of decorum not only in public but at the security clearance in an airport!

As I fumbled off my belt to go through the metal detector, the pain in my stomach increased and I practically had to sit on the floor to take my shoes off, terrified of what would happen if I bent at the middle to do it. It was becoming increasingly more evident to me that this wasn't just a stomach ache. No, this was something much worse. As a child I had had a bout of diarrhea after a trip to Mexico with my family, I remember the feeling of nausea that swept through me before my child self had surrendered to the gas pains and parked myself on the toilet for an hour, s***ting until I felt like I didn't have any bones left. And that was how I was feeling now, with several key differences - the pain was worse, the sense of an impending bowel movement was so formidable it gave me temporary amnesia, and it took all of my will-power, all of it, to clench my butt cheeks together to prevent my sphincter from exploding.

A sudden shock of pain racked my body, and I half wondered if I was going to give birth to a Tasmanian Devil. The crazy, fever-induced image of said cartoon animal chasing Bugs Bunny through the splashy, volcanic s***-kettle that was my stomach, caused me to illicit a short, maniacal bark of laughter as I approached the Metal detector, a wild, distant look in my eyes, sweat now beginning to poor off of my like a long-distance runner in Kenya. The security agent on the other side of the detector shot a quick glance over to her co-worker who narrowed his eyes and made a subtle movement towards his holster. My breathing became uneven as I entered the metal detector and I realized with alarm that I had taken off my socks without even registering it, and one of my shirt tails was untucked at the front. I held my breath, my eyes bulging dangerously from my head as the machine scanned me. As I shakily moved forward towards the agent for a pat down, my stomach began to illicit sounds that can only be described as otherworldly. It started off a sort-off bubbling sound heard from afar and grew in pitch and intensity at an alarming rate. My jaw dropped in shock as what I can only describe as the sound of an agonized wailing alley-cat in heat with a persistent Doppler effect added to it's voice emitted from some nether-region of my intestines. The officer's eyes widened in alarm, and she kept her eyes glued to my stomach as she thoroughly patted me down. As she reached my shins, I felt my innards suddenly expand, and plummet towards my rectum. With cat-like reflexes I squeezed my sphincter shut with what seemed like nano-seconds to spare, and I knew, I KNEW that if I didn't get the bathroom immediately I would s*** myself.

With a Herculean effort and all of the strength that I could muster, I forced my buttcheeks together knowing that one false move would open the floodgates. I began to walk like a duck, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, not even caring now what other people were seeing in front of them - a disheveled, barefoot 40-year-old business man, red-faced and bulgy-eyed, sweating profusely, shaking slightly and walking without bending his knees. With single-minded intensity I grabbed my carry-on, shoes and socks from out of the plastic tub that had passed the x-ray inspection, and without putting anything back on, I turned on my heels with the intention of finding the nearest restroom and slowly dying there one squirt at a time.

But that's not what happened.

I turned to go and found myself staring at three armed agents who stopped me and asked if I would follow them. "Why, what's the matter?" I stammered, wincing slightly as the act of speech seemed to strain the tenuous and extremely fragile truce I had negotiated between my bowels and the tempest that raged within. "I have to go the bathroom, RIGHT NOW" I pleaded. "Just follow us please", they said, leaving no room for argument. The other travellers clearing the security check stared with curiosity and revulsion at the spectacle unfolding before them, whispering amongst themselves and hurrying to pack up their belongings and get as far away from me as possible, no doubt assuming that the airport had nabbed some sort of domestic terrorist. If I hadn't been feverishly trying to hold back the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, I likely would have died of shame.

With each step I took towards the room that they ushered me into, I felt that my legs would give way. I marvelled at how strong the human will could be. Marvelled at what was essentially patching a hole in the Hoover Dam with bubblegum could actually be sustained indefinitely. Maybe I would make it through this ordeal after all. The room they brought me into was an examination room. I had pretty much stopped registering details of my environment as my consciousness closed off all but the absolutely necessary functions - breathing, ability to walk - but I snapped back to reality when I heard the snap of rubber. The slow dawning of realization poked through my agony and stoic resolve as I turned to face an agent dawning rubber gloves.

"Sir, we are going to perform a cavity search on you", a young fresh-faced agent stated in a firm but emotionless voice. His short-cropped, blond hair was immaculate and for a crazy moment I wondered if he was an actor and this was all some sort of elaborate practical joke done to amuse bored kids watching Youtube. He must have taken my tortured silence for resistance because he looked at me sharply and said "Lower your pants and underwear please, and face the desk". Panic started to grip me in it's icy grasp and the sudden adrenaline threatened to destroy my sphincters bulwarks and rend my anus in two. I inhaled sharply and with a pained gasp I doubled up my efforts to clench my cheeks together. "Sir, please", I begged deferring to this kid in an act of desperation, "I have to go to the bathroom. You can follow me into the stall if you need to but I had some bad "Haribo Sugar Free Gummy Bears" and now I feel like'", but they had stopped listening and smirked at each other, two of the other agents - a tall, dark-haired female and a shorter, balding fat man - looked away from me and I could see them shaking a little as they stifled their laughs. "Sir, face the wall, put your hands on the desk and spread your cheeks" the young agent stated, a lop-sided grin on his face. "But'", I began to protest, and then a fresh shock of pain forced me to stop and lean on the table for support as an ungodly howling rose from my stomach, something between the dying moans of a Wholly Mammoth, and the sound of bubble-wrap popping underwater. I exhaled shakily and my focus began to narrow, as I rallied for the final battle. Shaking uncontrollably and sweat literally raining down onto the tabletop in from of me, I turned to face the wall and heard a meek childlike voice, pleading from somewhere in the room. "Please", it said, and then again, "Please". From somewhere within me my mind recognized that this sound had issued from me, although my consciousness had now begun to separate from my body and I held my breath and prayed to God for strength.

"He probably has some heroin or something up there that opened up", the female guard said as a part of me that hadn't escaped into the ether yet acknowledged that she was behind me to my left, "probably high as a kite, LOOK at him", she said. The shorter guard agreed with a snort, off to my right.

"Spread your cheeks" the young agent said, his voice directly behind me and lower than the other two, "and bend over".

"Pleasegodpleasegodpleasegodpleasegod", I whispered in a desperate, maniacal mantra, not even aware of my surroundings anymore. I felt like I was lost in an opium fog with half-snatched images and sounds filtering through to create a nonsensical version of reality. Another volley of pain tore through me and I involuntarily leaned forward over the desk, my focus completely narrowed now to a spot on the wall two feet in front of me, a curious imperfection in the what seemed to be white-washed stone wall. It was a dark blotch about five millimetres long and shaped like a smiling bear, a yellow dancing bear. No, a green bear. No, red. It was all the colours of the rainbow. My god, it was beautiful.

It just took something as simple as a slight breeze to trigger Armegeddon. That's all. No trumpets, no fanfare, no fire raining from the heavens, no dogs and cats living together in harmony, no finger on the button, no prophet to predict it, no nothing. As I stared at the rainbow bear smiling and dancing in front of me, my mouth agape, drooling, eyes glazed and blood-shot, face coated with a sheen of sweat, I heard the softest sound, an exhalation from the young agent behind me, and then at the same instant the warm air of his breath feather across my butt cheeks. For just a moment, maybe less, maybe a split second, even a nanosecond, I felt the presence of God there with me in that room as neurons began to misfire at a blinding rate, nerve ending bristled and muscles twitched reflexively. I stood on the brink with one foot hovering over the edge, and then without taking a step, I found myself plummeting.

With a sound like an extra large plastic ketchup bottle being run over by a Mac truck, my sphincter released. The pressure of the blast pushed me hard into the desk and the legs of the desk screeched as they scraped across the floor. My body remained rigid for a moment and I experienced a relief that can only be described as orgasmic in it's purity. My eyes rolled back in my head and my tongue lolled out of my head like a half-retarded dog and I emitted a low, sustained groan that grew in pitch as the filthy torrent pushed its way out of my body. Tremors wracked my body and I must have looked like a fish out of water with an endless stream of s*** firing out of its ass. Other sounds and sensations started to filter in now as my consciousness began to materialize once more. The muffled scream of a dungeon filled with prisoners near death radiated from my stomach, the rushing sound of litres of liquid trying to escape through an aperture too small to accommodate it all at the same time, the omnipresent sound of chunky liquid spattering against a hard surface with great force, the high-pitched screaming of a woman's voice calling out to God, another voice sobbing uncontrollably imploring to "make it stop!!!" and my own ecstatic, monotone wail.

When my ordeal had eventually run its course, I was left panting for breath and wobbly legged, half-crying, half-laughing with relief, barely lucid and feeling as if I had birthed an elephant. My colon felt like someone had poured chile sauce all over it and then sent in a colony of fire ants to eat it. Through my sobs I heard the sound of dripping, like when the sprinklers are eventually turned off after an office fire, or after a thunderstorm when the willow that overhangs a pond continues to rain down long after the sky has stopped. From behind me, the sobbing continued and I heard someone trying to speak into a walkie-talkie but nonsensical words were all that the man could speak, which sounded like the ravings of a lunatic.

With great relief, I slowly pulled myself off the table, legs trembling, my stomach eliciting one last sound, a loud prolonged gas bubbling that eerily resembled a pig orgasm. I slowly turned my head to survey the devastation and in that instant, if I had had a pencil or some other sharp object, I probably would have gouged my eyes out in revulsion. And the smell. The smell was enough to drive a man insane. It was the stench of rotting potatoes mixed with sulphur and ammonia, cooked in a broth of chicken feces and left to age for two weeks in a yeasty stew at the bottom of a French outhouse. After half a whiff of this ghoulish brine, I immediately stopped breathing through my nose but the taste was to remain in the back of my throat for months to come.

The young agent had taken the brunt of the foul witch's brew, and at first I couldn't process what I was seeing. I thought somehow the young blond kid had been spirited away and replaced by a brown Golem, or a ATV rider that had spent the better part of a day driving through every mud puddle he could find after a torrential downpour. With some degree of compartmentalization I came to understand that for some unfathomable reason this kid hadn't moved - or hadn't been able to move - through the entire fecal deluge. He had weathered the entire assault head-on like some sort of hero from Greek Mythology. I had given this poor schmuck a one-man s*** bukkake that would make a Brazillian pornographer retch with disgust, and he was still in the same position he must have been from the moment of first impact. I tried to comprehend how he must be feeling, what he must be going through psychologically, but it became evident very quickly that he had become very broken. No doubt forced so deeply within himself once the firehose has been turned on that there was little to no hope of him ever coming back from it, certainly not without extensive psychotherapy or a lobotomy. I looked beyond his quivering, catatonic crouched form to see a perfect outline of him cutout on the white wall behind him, either side filled in with a dripping, opaque layer of alternately pulpy and runny fecal stew. I noticed two quivering masses at either extremes of the room and realized they were humanoid in form, although the caterwauling that was coming from these broken creatures was just blubbering gibberish. And this was the tableau that was burnt into my mind's eye for eternity.

Needless to say, I missed my flight.

In fact the next week is a blur. I have vague recollections of an army of Hazmat clad figures looming through the brown landscape of the soiled room, the slopping sounds of rubber boats squelching in puddles of fetid detritus, uncontrollable wailing and animal-like sounds issuing from the mouths of creatures that had been traumatized beyond their capacity for being put back together, the complete loss of sensation from my waist down as I was rolled through the room on a waterproof gurney, it's wheels struggling to surf on top of the s***-soaked floor. I spent a week or so in the hospital enclosed in a well ventilated, sealed room, with suited doctor coming in on the hour to monitor my vital signs as they tried to rehydrate my body. I had apparently expelled every available drop of water from my body that was possible to sustain life without for a short period of time. All of my clothes were incinerated in the hospital's crematorium, and the soiled bag of "Haribo Sugar Free Gummy Bears" was never recovered.

This is my story. It is inconceivable to think that this kind of product can be sold legally and be misrepresented as 'food'. I was lucky, I survived. But as for the families of the survivors, and the survivors themselves, they will forever live with the trauma of the events that took place at Pearson International Airport on that snowy day in April 2013.

[floraexplorer]

Hay On Wye Book Festival: A Haven for Literature Lovers

For most of the year, Hay-on-Wye is just a quiet Welsh village.

But for ten days each spring, over 250,000 people descend on Hay-on-Wye. They fill the narrow streets, they book every available bed for miles around, and they spend a great deal of time wandering around a field on the hunt for intellectual stimulation.

Why? Because they’re all obsessed with books – and Hay-on-Wye village is essentially the world’s biggest bookshop.

For those who don’t know, the Hay Literary Festival is a ten day event held each May in the tiny Welsh village of Hay-on-Wye, in the Brecon Beacons. Usually this village has a population of around 1,500 – but that number swells considerably when the bibliophiles arrive.

Avid readers and literary fans come to hear readings, panel discussions, podcast recordings, presentations and conversations from over six hundred different novelists, historians, children’s authors, comedians, academics and prominent thinkers. It’s a literature-loving group which I’d love to know the collective noun for! 

In May 2019 I was one of these Hay festival attendees, catching a train up from London to the Welsh border and daydreaming about the festival which awaited me in just three hours time.

This is pretty much my dream set up: cold coffee, new book and a three hour train journey ahead of me AND I’m off to spend the day at #HayFestival2019! I’m going to wander around a FIELD OF BOOKS!! Does it get any better?! #HayFestival pic.twitter.com/1cYfVH9OlF

— Flora Baker (@FloraBaker) May 24, 2019

I’ve been to many festivals over the years, some better than others – but I’ve recently come to the realisation that I actually have a fair amount of festival anxiety. The crowds, the chaotic atmosphere, the general pressure to have a Very Good Time: it all combines to make me feel pretty uncomfortable.

But thankfully, the Hay Festival was the complete opposite of a triggering festival situation. And I shall tell you why.

Pin me for later!

Why a literary festival is my dream antidote right now

The first months of 2019 have been very enlightening for me. After finally emerging from a surreal and nightmarish 2018 (where I did little more but sob in my bed, eat copious amounts of takeaway food and grieve the death of my dad) I started the new year with a new lease of life.

But that’s not to say I’ve thrown myself back into tons of activities or embarked on months of non-stop travelling. Quite the opposite, in fact.

2019 has seen me slow right down as I happily settle into a routine in London: one which involves catching up on all the blog articles I’ve never ‘had time’ to write (hello, huge guide-style posts about South America!), delving back into working on the third draft of my book manuscript, spending time with friends, and most crucially, ensuring that each day has a focus on self-care.

My therapist recently told me that I’ve got Generalised Anxiety Disorder. This was music to my ears, as I’ve long-thought that my anxious thoughts were serious enough to warrant an official name. With the help of my therapist, I’m now able to work on methods to keep my anxiety in check, and having a routine is a huge part of that.

For now, my self-care routine includes weekly CBT therapy sessions, meditation, going running every other day – and reading as many books as I can get my hands on. 

Rediscovering a love of reading books

Ahh, BOOKS! Aren’t they the best?! Once upon a time I basically lived in my local library – but then I grew up, and went travelling, and the concept of a library membership was all but forgotten.

Until recently, when I walked past my local library and suddenly remembered there were FREE BOOKS in there – and now I can’t stop loudly proclaiming my utter joy to people.

“Look at this huge stack of books! I borrowed all of these for free!!”

There’s nothing like getting lost in a good book, and it’s making me truly happy to be voraciously reading once again (although I know it’s not a competition, I’m still loving the fact that I’ve already read nineteen books this year!). It’s opened up my imagination to all these stunning worlds that so many authors have conceived of, and reminded me just how magical it is to be taken on a journey with them.

So when my friend Jas said she was going to Hay on Wye Book Festival for a talk in late May, I absolutely jumped at the chance. What better activity for a Bank Holiday weekend than celebrating my newly-invigorated bookworm status?

How to spend the day at Hay Literary Festival

If you catch a train from London like I did, you’ll go to Hereford station (the closest city to Hay on Wye). The festival organises bus transfers to and from Hereford – but be forewarned, buses only depart every 1.5 hours so time your train arrival accordingly (or catch a more expensive taxi with other festival attendees).

Hereford is 21 miles away from Hay-on-Wye, so the bus takes about an hour and costs £7.50 for a one-way ticket. When the bus leaves the rolling countryside and starts pottering through quintessential-British-village-style lanes with brightly coloured bunting fluttering in the breeze, you’ll know you’ve arrived.

The transfer bus dropped me on the outskirts of Hay-on-Wye village – a place which already looked so picturesque that I decided to have a little wander before heading to the festival itself.

I highly suggest you do the same. Because it’s ADORABLE.

Have a little look around Hay-on-Wye village

If you want some backstory to the festival, it’s worth knowing that Hay-on-Wye’s unofficial status as ‘the world’s first book town’ is precisely why the festival began in the first place.

In 1961, an Englishman named Richard Booth opened a second-hand bookshop in Hay’s old fire station, capitalising on the closure of lots of libraries in the US to ship books back in huge containers and fill his new shelves. The idea spread, and gradually more people began to open more bookshops, some choosing to specialise in antiquarian books or children’s books or history books.

As the village’s reputation for books grew, Richard Booth promptly moved into Hay Castle (also proclaiming himself the ‘King of Hay’) and partially opened that medieval building up as a bookshop, too.

Nowadays, Hay-on-Wye has over twenty bookshops scattered amongst the streets, and it’s globally known as a Book Town. Which is why it makes total sense that in 1987 a man named Peter Florence sat at a kitchen table with his parents and friends and conceived of a literary festival to further solidify the village’s book-obsessed reputation.

Florence funded the first Hay Festival with winnings from a poker game – although it’s rumoured that his mum also had to bail him out the first year. Luckily, the festival went from strength to strength, and now there are dozens of sister festivals all around the world in places like Colombia, Kenya, Denmark and Lebanon.

Apart from the plethora of Hay bookshops, the literary influence has burrowed its way into every nook and cranny of Hay-on-Wye: parking notices are book-themed, the hanging signs above shop doorways are shaped like books, and even the decorations in the local pharmacy are made with carefully folded pages.

Whether they work with literature or not, it feels like everyone living in this village is keen to jump on the book bandwagon.

Head to the fields of the Hay on Wye Book Festival

My curiosity about the village adequately sated, I followed the street signs to walk five minutes out of the village along the narrow Brecon Road, with fields on my left and houses on my right.

There were stewards in reflective vests politely directing cars into the fields set up for parking, and the row of houses opposite were embracing the entrepreneurial spirit: a family were selling ‘drive thru Welsh cakes’, someone’s front garden had been transformed into a high tea area serving scones and jam, and there was even a cider wagon parked in a driveway pouring freshly drawn pints for thirsty festival-goers!

The festival itself is held in a field just outside Hay on Wye village, where a network of covered green walkways connects fourteen different venues. I hadn’t planned an event schedule once I arrived, choosing instead to simply wander and see what the Hay festival is like from a newbie’s perspective.

In hindsight, this was probably a bit of a waste – especially as in a single day’s schedule I counted at least seventy eight events! On the other hand, my carefree exploring allowed me to get a general sense of what the Hay Festival has to offer. 

Browse the second-hand bookshops

First up, I had an industrious browse in the Oxfam bookshop, the shelves and tables positively groaning with second-hand books.

“Let’s look for Daddy’s books – history books, about things which used to go on!” I listened as the man opposite me read a passage out loud from a heavy-looking book entitled ‘World History’, which made the small boy in his arms wriggle and say “Put me down now!”

Buy some books written by the authors speaking at Hay

Next, I headed to the revered ‘Hay Festival Bookshop’, a huge tented space where virtually every book on the shelves belonged to an author speaking at Hay. Which was a pretty surreal realisation when I thought too much about it.

The bookshop is also where many of the book signings take place, and when I came in I immediately spotted Michael Rosen signing books for a gaggle of schoolchildren who kept asking him for selfies.

Rosen is a childhood hero of mine who wrote literal tons of poetry which I can still remember – which meant I unexpectedly turned into a bit of a gibbering idiot for a while, umming and ahhing about whether to wander nonchalantly over to his signing table and tell him he’s probably responsible for fostering my lifelong love of poetry… but at the last minute I wimped out. Ridiculous.

Read a book in one of the deckchairs on the grass…

One of my favourite elements of the Hay on Wye Book Festival is seeing the deckchairs dotted everywhere, waiting expectantly for book-loving bums to take a seat in.

I wandered the walkways until I spotted an empty chair and made a beeline, settling in and taking my book from my bag with a flourish so I could read for a bit.

…Or get serious in the official Reading Room

Unfortunately English springtime is not the warmest: it got a bit chilly outside so I headed to ‘The Serious Reading Room’, which took my breath away.

This little tented space was filled with comfy chairs and reading lamps, and every single person had their nose buried in a book. It was wonderfully, joyously surreal.

Attend an event at one of the venues

I didn’t manage to see what the other venues were like, but the talk we’d bought tickets for was held in the Oxfam Moot – a sizeable tent with ramped seating, a big stage and three large screens to better see the speakers.

At 5pm I queued outside the venue and took my seat (with my friend still racing to park her car and make it to the venue on time!). Just as the lights went down in the auditorium I spotted her running in from the other side of the tent, so we waited until after the talk to reunite.

For the next hour, I listened to Joan Smith and Nazir Afzal discuss the timely and somewhat terrifying topic of how domestic violence can turn men into terrorists. I’d been a little nervous about hearing this in-depth discussion (terrorism is an anxiety trigger I have to deal with quite often) but it was actually fascinating to hear a human rights activist (Smith) and a British solicitor (Afzal) speak on a subject I knew little about, and I left feeling inspired and educated.

Soak in the joyous sight of people READING! Everywhere you look!

Finally reunited with my darling friend Jas, we headed for the bookshop so I could buy the book I’d spied earlier (a stunning collection of essays by Sinead Gleeson). This was the first time Jas had been to Hay Festival too, and it was lovely to see her initial reactions to the place.

‘It’s very civilised, isn’t it! Very…quiet?!”

The sun was out again, and we flopped down in some deckchairs to catch up. All around us, people were reading books. They sat in deckchairs, on benches, at picnic tables, cross-legged on the floor, leaning against any surface – some held pages open while eating ice cream or munching a mouthful of paella.

It was a gorgeous sight.

The Hay Festival is unlike any festival I’ve been to: it’s calm, serene, fascinating and thought-provoking, with none of the stressful situations of a typical music festival that I’ve come to dislike.

In fact, the idea of a festival focused around books is still so amazing to me. How many large-scale events champion the concept of reading – not to mention providing a space to share what words have taught us, and how much we appreciate the value of a good book?! (And just in case any festival organisers are reading this, I think more festivals should take a leaf out of the Hay Festival’s book. Have an on-site bookshop! And please, PLEASE set up a dedicated reading room!)

I think this short clip from the fabulous Michael Rosen sums up what reading is all about for me. Give it a watch – and then maybe go and pick up a book.

“The great thing about reading is that it turns human experience into a kind of object that you can look at and turn over,” says @MichaelRosenYes @hayfestival #TextualHealing pic.twitter.com/hBLJO4JKRa

— BBC Culture (@BBC_Culture) May 30, 2019

Have you ever been to Hay on Wye Book Festival? And more crucially, are you a fan of book puns?! You might have noticed I couldn’t help but add a few in here – let me know how many you spotted in the comments below!

Helpful tips for Hay Literary Festival:

How to get to Hay-on-Wye by train/bus: From Hereford train and bus stations, there’s a transfer bus every 1.5 hours which takes 50 minutes and costs £7.50 one way, £10 return. There are also transfer buses from Worcester Crowngate bus station. Contactless payment is available on board.

How to get to Hay-on-Wye by car: The festival is just off the A438 between Brecon and Hereford. The official Hay Festival address is Dairy Meadows, Brecon Road, Hay on Wye, HR3 5PJ.

Do I have to pay for entry to Hay Book Festival? No, it’s free to enter the festival site – but each event is individually ticketed. Prices range from £5 to £40 and all tickets are available either from the festival’s website or the box office on-site.

What accommodation can I stay in during Hay Book Festival? There is camping on-site (Tangerine Fields are 2 minutes from the festival) and plenty of hotels, bed & breakfasts and Airbnbs in the surrounding area. Make sure to book early as they fill up fast!

Did you enjoy reading about my experiences at the Hay Book Festival? Pin it for later!

The post Hay On Wye Book Festival: A Haven for Literature Lovers appeared first on Flora The Explorer.

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7 Dangers that Could Derail Your Retirement (and What to Do About Them)

For every beautiful retirement dream, there can often be an ugly worry.

SEE ALSO: 5 RMD Strategies to Safeguard Your Retirement, Maximize Your Legacy

I’d love to travel. (But how will I pay for it?)

I want to move someplace warm. (But how will I pay for it?)

I hope to golf and see my grandkids more often. (But how will I pay for it?)

Are you sensing a theme?

The No. 1 fear of people who are close to or already in retirement is that their money won’t last as long as they do.

And who can blame them? There are many factors that can derail your future if you don’t address them in advance, including:

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1. Taxes.

There is much talk about reducing tax rates and simplifying the nation’s tax code. That may or may not happen in the near future, but think about it: Are lower taxes a realistic long-term expectation? Now, I’m not making a political statement. It’s just simple math. The national debt is nearly $20 trillion; someday, more than likely, we’ll have to do something about it.

And yet, many savers don’t consider taxes when building a retirement plan. This is especially worrisome when you consider all the tax-deferred accounts you’ve accumulated during your working years, like IRAs, 401(k)s, TSPs and others. You know, the money you’re planning to live on.

The government allowed you to take income tax deductions on the money you put into those accounts over the years, and it let the accounts grow tax-deferred. When you retire, you’ll begin taking money out of those accounts to live on, and every dollar you withdraw from any of those accounts during your retirement will potentially be subject to income tax. Consider this hypothetical example: Assume you need $50,000 to live on and that the money you withdraw from your IRA is all in the 25% tax bracket. If you withdraw $50,000, you’d owe $12,500 in federal income tax — leaving you with just $37,500 to live on. See the problem?

2. Inflation.

This is a hidden predator many people overlook in their planning. If you use the long-term U.S. inflation rate of about 3.3%, in just a little over 21 years, the dollars you spend today to support your lifestyle will double! That’s without changing your lifestyle in any way. So, you can’t just add up all your living expenses today and divide that number into your total retirement savings to find out how long your money will last! Instead, you need to add compound inflation to your living expenses over the years. That could significantly reduce how long your money may last.

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3. Health care.

Prescription and over-the-counter drug prices can take a toll on your nest egg. Long-term care costs can crush it — and leave a surviving spouse with a greatly diminished lifestyle. And there are expenses you might not even be thinking about, such as Medicare supplement premiums, medical co-pays and, one that I hear about a lot from our retirees, dental care, which can become increasingly expensive as you age.

4. Longevity.

Even if you don’t live to be a centenarian, chances are good you’ll make it into your 80s or even 90s. According to the Social Security Administration, a married couple age 65 today can expect one spouse to live to be 85. And, from a recent study by the Society of Actuaries, there’s a 45% chance one spouse will live to be 90 and an 18% chance one may live to 95. For many, that’s more time spent in retirement than in the workforce. That’s a very long time for your money to have to last.

5. Market volatility.

Brace yourself: Bull markets don’t last forever. Our grandparents had pensions and still lived frugally, saved voraciously and invested conservatively. Today, most retirees don’t have pensions and, with today’s interest rates having been so low for so long, many investors feel compelled to leave safer strategies and invest more heavily in the stock market. But, when the market corrects or if it drops precipitously (remember that 57% drop from the fall of 2007 to the spring of 2009?), your retirement funds could be greatly diminished and your future lifestyle in question.

6. Savings shortfall.

The 401(k) plans we’re so familiar with today started in 1978, and the pensions our parents and grandparents relied on began disappearing at about the same time. When those changes occurred, people didn’t really understand just how much they’d need to put away. The 2016 PwC Employee Financial Wellness Survey found that roughly half of Baby Boomers have set aside $100,000 or less for a retirement that could last 20, 30 or more years. Only 15% of those surveyed had more than $500,000 saved.

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7. Too much debt.

Debt can be disastrous in retirement, yet many people in their 60s and 70s still carry high balances on credit cards; have mortgages, auto loans and/or student loans; and/or co-sign on loans for family or friends who may possibly default. If you’re making minimum payments on credit cards while you’re working, it’s going to be even more difficult to pay down those bills when your paychecks stop in retirement.

So, what can you do? While some of these problems, like taking on too much debt, may be self-inflicted, others, like poor health, job loss or market volatility, may be beyond your control. Nevertheless, take action and focus on the things you can do to help yourself today.

Pay off your debts, and don’t take on anyone else’s. Try to go into retirement debt-free. Paying off your mortgage may be the possible exception; talk to your financial professional about whether this is a good idea for you.

Boost savings in your retirement accounts. If you aren’t contributing up to your employer match on your 401(k), start there. If you can save more, you should. Take advantage of contributing to any other retirement accounts you may be eligible for such as TSPs, IRAs, Roth IRAs or Roth 401(k) accounts. Remember, the money you save today is the money you’ll live on in the future.

Stash cash in your savings account. A 2015 Bankrate survey found that just 37% percent of Americans had enough in savings to pay for a $1,000 emergency. Most financial professionals suggest having enough cash to cover three to six months of living expenses. If you can save enough to cover 12 months of living expenses, even better!

Evaluate ways to create lifetime income. Talk to your adviser about Social Security withdrawal strategies and investment vehicles, such as annuities, that could provide reliable income.

Explore ways to minimize taxes in retirement. One option is a Roth IRA; you’ll pay the taxes now when rates are potentially lower, not later when taxes might be higher. Talk with your financial professional about this and other strategies to create tax-advantaged retirement income.

Create a reasonable budget and stick to it. Be tough but realistic. It’s like going on a diet: If your plan is too austere, you won’t stay with it. Take a “timeout” and think before spending. Often just thinking about it for a few days will save you from spending in ways that could undermine your future.

Take care of your health. Exercise more. Eat better foods. And take care of your teeth!

Shop around for insurance that fits your needs. The insurance industry offers a wide array of choices for various health, long-term care and death benefits. Since most of these policies require some level of good health to apply, look into them while you’re healthy enough to qualify.

Work with an experienced, comprehensive financial professional who is focused on retirement income planning, not just asset accumulation, and who puts your best interests first. Remember, those are fair questions to ask when you’re interviewing a financial professional. People think that’s what all financial professionals do, but you need to know for certain how someone works and if he or she is a fiduciary putting your best interests first.

See Also: Get A Portfolio That Pays You During Retirement With Dividend Investing

Now’s the time for you to take charge of your future! Knowledge is power: Once you address these issues — and get the right financial professional and retirement plan in place — you can get back to dreaming about your retirement without fear of what the future might bring.

Kim Franke-Folstad contributed to this article.

Linda L. Gardner is the co-founder of Blue Heron Capital LLC and an Independent Investment Adviser Representative. She hosts a weekly radio show: Your Money Your Retirement. Her focus is on comprehensive retirement planning.

Comments are suppressed in compliance with industry guidelines. Our authors value your feedback. To share your thoughts on this column directly with the author, click here.

This article was written by and presents the views of our contributing adviser, not the Kiplinger editorial staff. You can check adviser records with the SEC or with FINRA.

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[whatsanapocalae]

Chapter 8

@hurrypollo

Chindaria shook her head as if shaking away some dream before pawing at her eyes, a feeble attempt to keep the bright sunlight out of them. Giving up on returning to sleep she yawned and stretched, arms coming out of the bedroll.

“Good morning.” Rule smiled up at her.

She did not return the expression. Instead she rubbed at her temples and frowned. “My head hurts.”

“Well, you did slumber after a very long and intense session of crying so it is to be expected. You are dehydrated, that’s all.”

Chindaria repeated the word slowly and silently, mouthing it. “What does that mean?”

“What, dehydrated?” Rule was surprised. It wasn’t a difficult word. Perhaps the human language had evolved or education wasn’t as high a priority. It could have just been Chindaria though. Rule didn’t know he well, but she did not seem to be highly intelligent. “It’s means to be thirsty.”

“Why didn’t you just say thirsty then?” she pouted, crossing her arms over the bedroll. “I’m hungry too. You got a big fancy word for that too?”

“Well, there’s famished, and ravenous, and voracious.” Rule considered, “Hilgarin, can I have the bag?”

Hilgarin handed it over without any need for hesitation. It was far lighter without the tent and bedroll in it. It was also much easier to dig through and Rule was able to find both the apple and the river stone easily.

“You’re rude.” Chindaria remarked, as if the revelation was about as interesting as the weather.

“Excuse me?” Rule looked to her, surprised. No one had ever said as much to zim before. Zi’d never thought zimself not to be polite.

“You’re supposed to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.”

“Oh, thank you, Hilgarin.”

Hilgarin nodded, seemingly pleased with her objection. Rule had never considered showing gratitude to Hilgarin, seeing as how it wasn’t properly alive. It did act like it appreciated the gesture though.

Rule took a bite of the apple, both to show Chindaria it was safe and to fill zir belly for the day. It was crisp and cool like an apple, but the taste was too deep and musky for it to taste like an apple. The bite had been small but still it filled Rule’s mouth and made it difficult to chew. Zi made sure to choke it all down before tossing the apple up to Chindaria.

“Take a small bite from that, it should be more than enough to satisfy you.”

“Thank you.” she pointedly retorted, even though she’d already made her point. The bite that she took was hardly more than a nibble. Even then she made a face and twisted in Hilgarin’s hold, the taste not what she’d expected from an apple.

Once she’d swallowed it and stuck her tongue out in disgust she looked at the apple, then turned to look at Hilgarin. She put the apple up to its face, as if to feed Hilgarin and, when it didn’t take a bite from the apple, she pushed it against its face.

“What do you think you’re going to accomplish?” Rule asked, one eyebrow quirked.

“Hilgarin’s hungry too.” Chindaria explained, as if it were obvious.

“I truly doubt that. It can’t eat.” Zi were staring at her, zi knew that and it was more rude than not saying thank you, but she was so very strange that zi couldn’t help it. Zi’d never met someone who acted so much like a child.

“Hilgarin’s a boy, not an it.” she pouted and pushed the apple against its face once more. “And how come he can’t eat?”

“Well,” zi paused, not knowing why zi even had to say it, “he doesn’t have a mouth, for instance. Let’s just return the apple to its rightful place in the bag for the moment, alright?”

She shrugged and tossed the apple back down to Rule, who caught it without having to do more than throw out one arm. It didn’t look like it had suffered any from being shoved against Hilgarin’s face and the places where it had been bitten into were already oxidized and turning to a dried papery texture, keeping it from going bad over time. Zi returned it to the bag and started to look around on the forest floor.

Zi needed something small, something that the forest wouldn’t miss or hate them for taking. Nothing alive would work. Zi did find a small rock though and took it, feeling it’s rough texture.

“Would you please cup your hands for me, Chindaria?” zi asked.

She didn’t even question it, just did as she was told and held her hands out where Rule could reach them. Zi placed the rock in her hands and, before the confusion could settle over her features, zi skipped the smooth river stone across it, catching it in zir other hand.

The rock shuddered before melting, the minerals sloughing off of it as the remainder turned to clear water pooled in her palms.

“Woah!” she stared at the water in her palms and then up to Rule, “You did magic!”

“Yes,” Rule agreed casually, “Now drink up before it all runs through those fingers of yours.”

She brought her hands up to her mouth and drank as much of it as she could. With just her hands it was hard to direct all of the water and much of it landed around her mouth instead.

They kept moving, Hilgarin taking the bag up once more. Rule wasn’t truly paying attention to where they were going, attention spent on the distance, looking for any movement that was too large for a prey animal. Chindaria had the best view though, on top of Hilgarin’s arm and knowing what it was that they were looking for.

“There!” she called out eventually, squirming out of the bag and standing, looking ready to jump out of Hilgarin’s hold. She was pointing at something though, at the same time that Hilgarin was frantically moving his other arm, dropping the bag and his sword in order to keep her from leaping.

He got down to his knees and then she was running in the direction that she had pointed, Rule and Hilgarin standing to watch her. She wasn’t running very far, only to a small bit of white fluff that was stuck to a thorned bush.

“She’s hurt!” she exclaimed, plucking the fluff free and waving it over her head.

“Who, exactly, is hurt?” Rule asked, eyebrows knitting painfully tight. Everything that Chindaria said was a mystery and it was starting to cause a headache with how lost in the conversation Rule always felt.

Chindaria rolled her eyes, as if everyone should know who she was talking about. “Ms Lavender! Eugh! Look!” she displayed the fluff some more.

Rule went to her and took the fluff from her, examining it. It was cotton, simple and plain, bleached and having some dried lavender flowers mixed into it. It was nothing, really, nothing that could come from a human and it gave Rule no reason to be concerned for Ms Lavender’s health. Chindaria was obviously very stricken by the finding though.

She tossed her arms to sides, leaned forward and started screaming, making the birds join her in the cacophony before flying off. “Ms Lavender! Ms Lavender! Where are you?”

There was no answer. That wasn’t much of a surprise. Wherever Ms Lavender was, she wasn’t where they were, and if she really was hurt, she wouldn’t want to stay in the same place where the damage had incurred, for fear that more danger was coming. Still Chindaria looked around expectantly, like Ms Lavender was merely hiding from them. She spun around, looking through the trees before stopping and looking to Rule, who she must have believed, had all of the answers.

“Where is she?”

Rule wasn’t looking for Ms Lavender. Zi was looking at Chindaria, a look of utter shock on zir face. “She most likely cannot hear you.”

“She can hear me.” Chindaria corrected, perfectly certain, “She can always hear me. She’s got real big ears.”

They stood there, waiting, for what Rule felt was far too long. Hilgarin wasn’t budging though and Chindaria wouldn’t, so they were stuck unless Rule could convince them to look elsewhere.

Rule was about the leave them, continue on the path, when Chindaria perked up. There was a noise deeper into The Forest, south of them. It sounded like a woman, calling out to them, to Chindaria at least. She sounded far older than Chindaria though.

Chindaria squeaked, clapping her hands and hopping in excitement, before running off in the direction of the sound. Rule cursed and ran after her but she was fast, far faster than Rule was, and she was wearing shoes and didn’t care about the branches that clawed at her arms and face. Rule had to be careful, to not step on anything that would hurt zir feet and to move the cloak so that it wouldn’t get caught in any of the branches.

Hilgarin grabbed zim under one arm, holding his sword and bag once more in the other. Hilgarin was usually slow and cumbersome, but could be fast when needed and now it was needed. He didn’t care about things like thorns or rocks, either.

Ms Lavender was shambling towards them, slower than they were making their way towards her. From a distance she looked odd, pale, wearing brightly colored clothing, and was either hairless or had long hair that was the same color as her skin, but these extremes were hard to tell through the leaves of trees. She was propping herself on a crutch, possibly made from a fallen branch, and was having great difficulty in walking.

Then Hilgarin stopped so suddenly that the change in momentum made Rule feel like zi was going to be honestly sick.

Ms Lavender was not a normal person. She wasn’t even a person. She was, in fact, a four foot tall stuffed rabbit, with patches and the inside of her ears being a satiny lavender material. She had the proportions for a person, but no proper joints, and her limbs were more thick tubes than actual limbs and there were no hands or feet. One of her legs had been torn off at some point, right at the seam and it was tucked under her opposite arm, the thread in it pulled tight to keep the rest of her stuffing from falling out. One of her black bead eyes were loose and the ear on that side was torn. She did not appear to be in good health, even if she was a talking and, attempting to be, walking stuffed animal.

Chindaria didn’t seem to notice the damage that she had been so concerned about before, grabbing Ms Lavender in a tight embrace that almost knocked her over completely.

“I was so scared!” Chindaria proclaimed, words coming out too fast, all jumbled together without space for breath. “I let go of your hand and you were gone and I kept running and that guy was so scary and I got lost and there was a lot of rain and then Rule and Hilgarin founded me and they’re gonna take me home and I didn’t know where you were and I thought you were dead and gone forever!”

Ms Lavender placed her hand on Chindaria’s back, pinning her crutch in her armpit. “And hello to you too, little one. Not so little now though, are we?”

Chindaria blinked, confused. She didn’t say anything, just thought on it, as Ms Lavender turned from her to the other two, head a bit lopsided and heavy. “And you two must be the heroes of the day. Lovely to you meet you both. I am Ms Lavender.”

“Rule can do magic!” Chindaria beamed, as if she were the one who had found out for zim, that this was the case.

“Well, that must make you a witch.” Ms Lavender realized, pulling out of Chindaria’s hold politely to get her bearing once more.

“Yes, that it does.” Rule smiled, “Not that that makes me a danger. I assure you I have no ill will towards Chindaria or yourself. Although I must admit I have never seen something quite like you of human make, nor heard of it as a possibility.”

“Can you fix her?” Chindaria asked, interrupting the conversation.”

Hilgarin set Rule down and zi were free to circle Ms Lavender, taking in the damage. “Yes, I believe I can.”

Chindaria started jumping again, this time in excitement, “Are you going to do magic?”

Rule chuckled, “No, no, I’ll be using thread, unfortunately, it will all be quite boring.”

A branch swayed nearby as a white raven landed heavily upon it. It cocked its head, looking them over, before its plumage ruffled, puffing it up to make it look even larger than it was. It cawed at them, angrily, whole body rocking as it did so.

Ms Lavender started to shake, over exaggerated in her falseness, and she started to move towards Hilgarin uncertainly, fear creeping through her easily. “Whatever you intend to do, can we do it on the road? I would rather not remain here.”

Hilgarin walked towards the raven, just about on eye level with its branch. It hopped from side to side on the limb, still cawing, and as he drew closer it started flapping at him, trying to get him away. He wasn’t bothered by it though, it was only about the size of his hand. He grabbed the branch and pulled, not breaking the branch but bending it, ready to launch the raven off of it.

The raven cawed once more before flying off of the branch and alighting onto one far above Hilgarin’s head. It resumed cawing at them without any fear of Hilgarin.

“Please, can we just go?” Ms Lavender begged. She sounded terrified. It wasn’t a fear that the raven was going to attack them, it didn’t seem interested in doing so. Instead it seemed contend to watch them and call out to the other ravens in The Forest. She was being hunted.

“Yes, that seems an excellent idea. Hilgarin, if you would, please?”

Hilgarin turned back to the party and folded down. Rule climbed into his crooked arm and patted the space beside zim, inviting Ms Lavender to join zim. There wasn’t enough space for Chindaria and she pouted and kicked the dirt a little at having to stay on the ground.

They returned to their walking, heading the way that they had come. Hilgarin passed the bag over to Rule and zi sifted through the contents for one of the smaller objects within. The spool was down towards the bottom, kept from being stuck in the corner by a small acorn, and Rule pulled it out.

The thread on it shined, looking to be spun silver, but it felt like silk to the touch. Pierced into the top of the spool was a needle and there was a small gap on one side that contained a small razor. No blade, not even Hilgarin’s, could cut through the thread. Only that small razor could do the job.

Rule took Ms Lavender’s free leg and pulled the old thread out of it, checking where the holes were in her hip from the old stitches. They were easy to find and Rule was able to get to work quickly. She did not appear to feel any pain from zir stitching.

“What’s hunting you?” Rule asked, doing zir best to keep zir voice down. Zi didn’t want to frighten Chindaria. She wasn’t paying much attention regardless, telling Hilgarin some story or other in which he seemed very interested. She was even holding his hand, even though she could only fit hers around two of his fingers.

“There’s a man, The White Man, at the border. He didn’t want us to come in. He’s been following me ever since, sending his birds.” She shivered. “ There are stories in the town, about the White Man. They say he protects magic from spilling out into the world and that he will kill anyone who tries to enter or leave Sendorin.”

“Sendorin?” zi asked, catching zimself just before poking zir finger with the needle.

“That’s where we are, surely you know that.”

“On this side of the barrier we call it The Forest of Containment. We are not as fond of these strange titles that the humans give things, including themselves. It is far easier to be prepared for something when its name tells you what it is.”

“And you are called Rule. What does that say about you?” she sounded sarcastic, but she was expressionless as Hilgarin, so it was hard for Rule to be certain.

Rule sighed, “I am the princet of the Witch Kingdom. I am to rule there one day.”

“You do not sound very happy about that.”

Rule pulled the thread taught and the leg went back into place. A few more stitches and the tie off and Rule pulled the remaining thread through the gap in the spool, cutting it.

Zi shrugged. Zi didn’t want to talk about it but it was easier with strangers. “I do not feel that I am the best person for the job. Now, to change the subject whole heartedly, were you always like this?”

She looked over her leg. “A stuffed rabbit? Well, yes, that is how I was made. Alive? Now that is a far more difficult question. I remember everything since I was made but I didn’t have any mobility or voice. So I feel it is more dependent on what you would consider alive. Chindaria also saw me as alive and that was always good enough for me.”

“How does your leg feel?” Rule asked.

She kicked the limb out. It appeared to work as well as the other had; even though it was a bit less full. “I don’t know. I don’t feel much of anything, really. It works fine enough, and that’s what matters.”

Rule motioned her forward and she came, letting zim take her ear in hand. The rip was a simple fix, hadn’t even gone all the way through the fabric.

“And what of Chindaria? Has she always been as she is now?”

Ms Lavender turned as best she could without pulling out of Rule’s hold, looking down at her charge. Chindaria was apparently done with her story, but now she was pointing out different things in The Forest and telling Hilgarin everything about them with a great deal of excitement, as if he didn’t know what a butterfly was when he saw one.

“No. Chindaria is not as she should be. I don’t know why this place decided to make her an adult, but she is just a child, really.”

That explained the way that she spoke, how acted, and everything. She probably didn’t even realize that she’d been aged, but she looked to be around twenty years old. Rule didn’t know how, or even if zi wanted, to tell her.