#he got help written on his forehead in red sharpie

[fruitjam]

  * 𓈒࣪  ୨୧ ˖           tongue   clicks   against   roof   of   mouth   ,   clear   distaste   written   across   features   at   the   mention   of   his   parents   .   perhaps   time   should   have   been   exhausted   to   remove   other's   number   from   contact   list   if   it   meant   entire   ordeal   could   have   been   avoided   .   contrast   between   life   desired   and   life   he   was   expected   to   have   was   clearer   than   night   and   day   ,   but   he   possessed   little   to   no   options   to   change   this   .   abiding   by   parent's   regulations   meant   they'd   provide   leeway   which   he   enjoyed   far   more   than   the   metaphorical   leash   typically   fastened   around   neck   .      “   and   what   exactly   do   you   expect   me   to   do   ?      ”      dearest   held   enough   intelligence   in   cranium   for   the   both   of   them   so   answer   to   such   an   inquiry   should   be   easy   enough   for   her   .   however   ,   words   do   hold   some   truth   to   them   ,   he'd   never   hear   the   end   of   the   lecture   awaiting   him   at   residence   but   there   would   be   no   way   he   could   avoid   them   until   he   healed   .   he   was   expected   to   practice   for   upcoming   competition   daily   yet   here   he   lay   in   infirmary   cot   unable   to   even   get   himself   up   without   a   bit   of   assistance   .   “   if   you   were   gonna   try   to   offer   me   a   little   doggy   bed   you   placed   right   by   your   own   ,   i'll   pass   .   ”

𓄹  ㅤ ࣪˖  ㅤ⌢  ㅤ‎‎✶    incapable   of   biting   back   when   words   were   only   full   of   veracity.   pearly   whites   only   chewing   on   lesser   brim   debating   choice   of   words   for   him   —   one   too   many   curses   the   first   that   bloom   in   cerebrum.   loathed   how   well   he   knew   her   only   to   be   someone   of   her   past   ...   such   familiarity   darling   believed   should   typically   be   preserved   and   cherished   only   for   their   love   to   die   like   a   candle   burnt   out.   ❛   you're   gonna   go   to   your   parents   like   that   ?   ❜   tone   is   borderline   overcritical,   irises   flickering   from   now   casted   limb   to   dark   orbs   with   judgment   written   all   over   pretty   countenance.   knew   well   just   how   demanding   elders   were,   presenting   a   cast   to   them   would   only   subject   him   to   being   casted   to   hell   itself.   ❛   they'll   chew   you   up   and   spit   you   out   if   you   go   home   with   that   ...   ❜   uncertain   where   line   of   inquiry   stems   from,   why   she   even   cared   enough   to   remind   him   of   such   concepts   .   soles   remaining   in   fixed   position   until   such   resolve   is   met.   

[ghostly-penumbra]

Ectober Week 2022. Day Twenty-nine

Lobotomy

Ao3 FFN

Summary: Sometimes, Danny helps his parents with their work.

Warning: Gore, unrealistic medical practices, medical malpractice, etc. Proceed at your own discretion.

Part 2

- - -

Danny took the icepick in one hand and the hammer in the other and as his dad held the Subject’s head firmly in both hands, he started hammering the pike in through its temple feeling it pierce through the skin, the flesh, drawing ectoplasm and finally reaching the bone.

“Oh! I think I hurt the brain.” He looked up at his mom next to him, worried to disappoint, but she reassured him kindly.

“Don’t worry, baby, it doesn’t feel pain it just thinks it does.”

“And besides, you probably hit what we’re taking out anyway!” His dad said as well. “Now, come over here. We’re just getting started!”

Danny sighed in relief and carried on, piercing the other temple with the icepick and then watched as his dad used a saw to crack open the skull, putting the top part aside for later. Why was the saw rusted green?

“Ugh, look at that.” His mom instructed him with a disgusted frown on her mouth. “There’s so much to do.”

Danny looked at the Subject’s exposed brain, pink except for the whitened green sheen of mucus that covered it with a pale glow. Written over it with sharpie were lines separating the different zones, and these read things like ‘memory’, ‘language’, ‘pain’ –which was the part Danny had hit earlier), and some others said ‘evil’, ‘destruction’, ‘murder’, ‘Obsession’.

“Okay, sweetie, first we get rid of all of this.” His mom said, pinching the green mucus with three of her gloved fingers. She reached for the butcher knife with her other hand and offered it to him. “Do you want to do the honors?” She asked with a smile, which Danny returned in kind, and set to work. He chipped the mucus off from the brain, careful not to cut his mom’s gloves or worse, her hands, as she pulled from it to help him along, accidentally nicking here and there on the Subject’s brain.

“Look at that! Great job, sweetheart!”

Danny absorbed the praise and looked down at the raw mess in the Subject’s open cranium, the placed he had nipped were now bleeding red. That was a big step forward!

“And now the fun part!” His dad bellowed, wielding an ice-cream scooper in hand. “Time to get rid of all these annoying bits.” He got a scoop from where it read ‘evil’ and then let it fall on the waste bin with all of what they had chopped earlier.

They got rid of ‘evil’, ‘destruction’, ‘murder’, ‘Obsession’, and while they were at it, took out ‘rebellion’, ‘power’, ‘opinion’ and ‘free will’. It was all replaced with ‘obedience’, ‘good’ and ‘self-destruct’, in case it was wanted.

Finally, they put back the top part of the skull, and screwed it back shut as you would with a bottle’s cap, with the mop of white hair swaying as they did so.

“Now, isn’t that much better?” His dad asked, and Danny couldn’t help but agree.

Phantom stared back at them in horror, having been conscious through the whole procedure. His face was covered in the ectoplasm that had flowed through him; along his forehead ran crude stitches following where he had been cut open; his eyes were dead, and his face wore pure horror. He looked at Danny, and Danny smiled at him.

[all-hail-the-witcher]

5 times geralt wrote jaskiers name wrong on his coffee cup plus 1 time he didnt need to: part 1

its @natskier‘s birthday and hhh nat fucking slaps and her birthday fic accidentally became a 5+1 and yeah. here's part 1. 

___

ship: geraskier, modern

warnings: lamberts a bitch, geralt has feelings, jaskiers a little shit

editing: yes

words: 1.1k

genre: slow burn adjacent cause the boys are hella fucking impatient oops

___

“Geralt! Get your bitch ass up here and work the register!”

Geralt didn't even bother opening the door of the breakroom. “Fuck your boyfriend when you’re not on the clock!”

The door to the breakroom swung open and a very disgruntled Lambert glared down at him, arms crossed over his chest. One of his bright red curls fell out of his bun and hit him in the eye. Geralt had to hold his hand in front of his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

“If you paid attention, you’d know that Aiden is out of town. I’m going to the bank to get change you fucking piss biscuit.” Lambert pointed at him angrily. “If you burn the place down it’s coming out of your damn paycheck.”

Geralt groaned as the door slammed shut behind Lambert, but he still got up and walked begrudgingly to the front. Getting fired by his father would have been nothing short of embarrassing.

He made sure that his apron was tied correctly as he walked up to the register. Eskel was making the drinks, which was the job that Geralt usually preferred because it involved less interaction with the customers. But Lambert really hadn’t given him much of an option.

The bell above the door chimed and Geralt put on his best customer service smile.

“Hi, welcome to Kaer for More Coffee, what can I get for you?”

“Just a black coffee. Large. Dark roast”

Geralt punched the order into the register without looking up. Then he grabbed a cup off of the stack, pulled the sharpie from behind his ear and scribbled the order on the side. The routine was so familiar he could probably do it in his sleep. Not that he would ever admit that though because then Lambert would definitely try to get him to do it.

“Name?” he asked, still not looking up.

Whatever the customer said got lost in the noise of the shop.

“Could you repeat that?” Geralt asked, looking up for the first time and holy fuck.

The man standing at his register was abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous. He had dark brown hair that was falling in his bright blue eyes and the little smile on his face that showed off his dimples made Geralt nearly melt. It took all of his willpower to not drop the cup in his hand and keep his eyes on the man’s face instead of the bit of chest hair peeking out from his scandalously unbuttoned, peach colored shirt. It was almost like he was tryingto make him swoon.

“Jasper.”

Or at least that was what Geralt thought that he said. Eskel chose that exact moment to knock over a sack of espresso beans.

Geralt clumsily scrawled his name on the cup. Seeing that Eskel was otherwise occupied and he didn't want to keep the attractive man waiting, Geralt went to grab him his coffee. It wasn't like there were any other customers waiting.

Geralt filled the cup, double and triple checking that he had the right roast before sliding the order across the counter.

“Jasper!” he called out.

The attractive man was standing on his phone, not making any move to come and get his coffee.

“Jasper!” Geralt called out again, hoping to get his attention.

Still nothing. The man was scrolling like his life depended on it and it honestly didn't help that he had the cutest look of concentration on his face: slightly furrowed brows and an adorable frown line creasing his forehead.

“Hey,” Geralt said. “Your coffee’s ready.”

This time the man looked up, slightly surprised to see Geralt holding out the cup.

“Is that mine?” He asked, gesturing to the cup.

Geralt nodded. “Large black dark roast.”

“But you didn't call out my name,” the man said, crossing his arms.

“Yes I did.” Geralt cocked his head in confusion. “Twice.”

The man took the cup from him skeptically, spun it until he could see the name that Geralt had written on it and laughed.

“Well darling,” he said. “I didn't respond because my name isn't Jasper.”

Geralt spluttered, momentarily distracted by the fact that such an attractive person had just called him darling. He tried desperately to ignore the swell of heat in his stomach. “But you said-”

“I didn't say Jasper.” The man took a sip of his coffee and tried and failed not to wince. Geralt didn't blame him. Black coffee was terrible. “I guess I’ll just have to come back tomorrow and remedy this issue, won’t I, uh,” the man squinted at his name tag, “Gerald.”

“That’s not-”

“Oh I know,” the man smiled, taking another large gulp of his disgusting coffee. This time he couldn't hide the wince at all. “I’ll get your name right when you get mine right.”

And then he had the audacity to turn and walk out of the shop. Without putting any milk or sugar in his coffee, Geralt couldn't help but note.

Geralt stared transfixed at the door that the man had just walked out of. What the hell had just happened?

Unluckily for him, he didn't have much time to ponder that because Lambert walked through the very same door not two seconds later.

“What happened, pretty boy?” Lambert asked, opening the drawer of the cash register and putting in the change that he had gotten. “Did that door tell you that your hair looks terrible straightened? Cause I’ve been telling you that for at least the last three years.”

Geralt opened his mouth to respond but Eskel beat him to it.

“A hot guy came in and ordered and Geralt wrote his name wrong on the cup.”

Geralt turned away from the door to hide his blush. The way that Eskel said it made it sound so much worse than it was. It had been an honest mistake! It wasn't his fault that Eskel had dropped the damn espresso beans right when he had said his name!

Lambert tisked disapprovingly. “Of course the one time you manage to find someone who actually likes that mop on your head, you don't even manage to learn his name. Now I can’t stalk him on Instagram! Geralt, you really need to be more considerate of these things.”

Geralt threw an empty cup at him.

“Fuck off, you know I’m right!” Lambert groaned. “And I could get you written up for harassment in the workplace! What if you injured me and I couldn't work anymore, huh?”

“Lamb, it was a paper cup,” Geralt sighed. “And considering our dad is our boss, he would have seen straight through your dramatics.”

Thankfully, any further retorts from Lambert were cut off by the bell above the door ringing.

“Hi, welcome to Kaer for More Coffee what can….”

Geralt used the distraction to slip back into the break room. He still had another 10 minutes left on his break and he fully intended to use them to mope over the fact that an attractive man had shown actual interest in him and he’d somehow managed to not get his name.

Lambert would never let him live this down.

___

hehehehe :)) dumbasses

tag list: (inbox me to be added)

@percy-jackson-is-sexy-

@barlowpng

@eminasan

@llamasdumpsterfire

@nonegenderleftpain

@geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde

@geekymagicalpotato

@jaskierswolf

@toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account

@toss-a-coin-to-your-lesbian

@littleredhotridinghood

@fontegagrilledcheese

@acemoppet

@lookatgeraltmyboi​

@gods-oopsie-woopsie​

@julek

@funkylittlebard

@dani-dandelino

@officerjennie

@kuripon

@alllthequeenshorses

@mothmanismyuncle

@dapandapod

[mouthfulloftoothpasterry]

Meet cute

summary: going through harry and Loralie's normal day... until Harry meets someone. 

warnings/ disclaimers: none :) 

“Daddy!” Harry hears, tearing his head up from his big metal desk where he was looking over his students' art work. He teaches art at a primary school and is lucky enough to work in a school that has care for younger kids, so his daughter Loralie attends the preschool there. “Darling, why are you out of class already? The first bell hasn't rung yet.” At this school they have a three bell system. The first is for kids who ride the bus home, then the ones who get picked up by a parent or walk home, and the third bell is for kids who live further out and take the bus- the buses come back from their first trip and come around for them to take them to their long trip back home. The teacher's assistant always escorts Loralie to Harry's classroom after the first bell. 

“I'm done!” she says, waving a bye to the teachers assistant whale Harry thanks her. He pulls her up on a chair next to the wooden stool he was sitting in, pulling her paisley printed backpack off of her and unzipping it to look through her folder. He looks over his class (full of seven and eight year olds) making sure they are all doing what they should be- reading a library book while they wait for their number bell to ring. He looks through some of the work she had done, the two pockets sorted into one that had her work of colorings, trying to write her name, and crafts. The other pocket filled with papers her and Harry needed to study together, her ABC’s, her numbers up to ten, colors, and notes to parents. 

Harry gasps dramatically, pulling his classes' attention away from their books. “You got two golden stars today?!” he asks Loralie, making her nod, giggling. In her class they have a reward system, if the teacher or teachers assistant catches them doing a good deed they will reward them with a golden star sticker to encourage them to keep doing it, all the teachers here do it with the younger kids. Today Loralie was caught helping a kid pick up his crayons and then sat with a lonely kid while they were on the story time rug- now Harry is having a total proud dad moment reading the note her teacher had written him. 

Just then the bell rings, “have a good night everyone!” Harry calls out to the first-bellers. He turns back to his daughter seeing her cover her ears from the loud ring of the school bell. Harry laughs, pulling Loralie to sit on his lap, ignoring the art he was working on. “So, tell me all about your day, baby.” Harry says, one arm wrapped her back and the other pulled her backpack down and shoving her folder and lunchbox into it. Loralie babbles on about her day for a while, ignoring the other listening ears and telling her daddy everything that had happened. She goes on about story time and how they had read one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish by dr.seuss, how they sang some songs, and how they colored until the third bell rings leaving Harry and Loralie all alone. 

“We can't go home just get, baby. I've got a few things to do before we can leave.” Harry informs his daughter, pulling his earlier classes paintings off of the drying rack and stacking them so he could hand them out easier tomorrow. Loralie has no response, instead getting in Harry's big metal desk drawers and pulling out the couple of toys she kept here for times like this when Harry kept them after school a bit longer than she wanted. Harry lets Loralie help him when he puts the watercolor paints in the back storage room. 

He hears  feet on the steps leading to the art room making him peek his head out, reaching out for Loralie so she would grab his hand. He hears a bit of whispering, declaring it safe while he clasps his hand with Loralie and walks out. “Hi, could I help you?” Harry asks, looking at the mother and son. The woman politely smiles, her hand resting on her toddlers back- Harry knows him, he teaches the preschoolers art every Wednesday and he just had this little boy in his class today so he must be in Loralies class. 

“Um, he left his folder down here today. It's got the baby shark stuff on it and it says Milo on it in gold sharpie. Mrs. Hannah had told me that it would probably be down here.” the woman says, their children apparently knowing each other because they are already talking. Harry was right, he is in Loralies class. Harry turns back to his desk with a smile on his face, “here.” he says, walking back. “I was gonna give it to Mrs. Hannah so he could get it back first thing in the morning.” 

She smiles, taking it from his hands. She notes how his hands are rather large and stained in different colors of paint, even a couple of his rings have splatters of paint over them- but they all seem to be to be only for fashion not a wedding ring. “Thank you. And Mrs. Hannah told me what Loralie did today, she's such a sweetheart.” Harry furrows his eyebrows a bit, confused, “oh! Sorry, she sat with him during story time. He's kinda shy so it was really nice of her, she seems to really get him to branch out.” she looks down at her son and smiles seeing him talk to the girl. 

“Oh, yeah. Thank you.” Harry smiles, finally letting go of the folder. She smiles, turning away and pulling Milo up on her hip, bidding the both of them a good bye. “Oh, I never caught your name.” Harry says, turning his chin up. She turned her head back smiling, “Y/n.” Harry smiles at her teasing tone, his cheeks turning the lightest shade of pink. “I'm Harry.” 

Eventually Harry takes Loralie home, bringing them back to their small home. Harry knows its small, it got two bedrooms- one that isn't even used because Loralie sleeps in his bed with him every night (he's a single parents and he's not taking anyone home- it's just what happens), a small cramped kitchen, only one full bathroom then just a half one in the master bedroom, a normal sized living room, then a small dining room. It's not perfect but it's perfect for them, there are only two people, one man and a mini monster running around. 

“Dinner then a bath, my love. You know the drill.” Harry hollers over to Loralie who is laying in the living room and playing with her stuffed animals while paw patrol plays in the background. He pushes over the markers on the table, setting down her plate waiting for her to crawl up and eat what he had prepared for her. She joins him soon, digging into the pesto pasta and fruit he prepared. “So, what was the best part of your day, baby?” Harry asks, smiling at his daughter and setting down his own plate while she sips at her sippy cup. 

“Seeing daddy!” she yells, making Harry laugh. He smiles kissing her nose, “My favorite part was seeing you*, munchkin.” He smiles, making her squeal, shoving fruit in her mouth. Harry kisses her hand looking at her in adoration, he's so happy he has his little girl. 

**

“Bubbles, daddy.” Loralie says, collecting the bubbles from her bath into her hand and blowing them. Harry nods, smiling, continuing to lather her hair. “What do you think about Milo, baby?” He asks, not being able to get his mind off of what had happened just before him and Loralie left.

Loralie looks up at him, “Milo?” She asks, her cheeks turning blush from the bath. Harry nods, giving her a warm smile while he cups his hand in front of her forehead to prevent any shampoo getting in her eyes before he starts to wash it out. “Nice.” She says, Harry nodding his head along with her. 

Harry wishes he got to know Milo's mother a bit more. She seemed like someone that he would like. She was so sweet and her teasing tone made him even more attracted to her, she was gorgeous, and not to mention he didn't see a ring on her finger. Harry continues her bath, pulling her out and changing her into her pajamas. His mind wanders off a bit, thinking about the pretty woman he met today. He hopes he will see her again and little does he know she hopes she will see him again. 

“Let's go to bed, baby.”

tag list: @romionefp @iaalien @hopeyoustaythenight @evanjh if you dont want to be on the tag list for this series please let me know but if you want to be on it please let me know as well !!!

[svnaslove]

post-it notes ♡

characters: sugawara, bokuto

summary: it’s basically just them flirting with their s/o using post-it notes 

(i thought it was cute okay)

genre: fLUFF

warnings: be prepared for just how fluffy this is because it’s so cute omg

You two honestly don’t even know when or how this started, it just,, started?

During classes, in the halls, face to face, it was just you guys’s thing

It didn’t take long for people to notice the cute little thing you guys had going on of passing post-it notes to each other all of the time

EVERYONE thought you were dating, truth is, you both liked each other but were both too scared to confess to the other.

One day you decided to confess but you were really nervous, you didn’t know how you would do this and you didn’t want to ruin your friendship.

But then you decided it was better to confess then to be like this any longer

Suga made you happy and he was your best friend, what could go wrong?

So here you are, holding little heart-shaped post-it notes in your hands that you had just gotten at the convenience store and your cheeks flushed because you had ran all the way there and back to try to make it back in time.

“meet me behind the gym before the game - bug”

Oh yeah, did I mention? You have post-it note codenames for each other

You were bug and he was kit-kat

this is so cute im screaming

the nicknames had come from just random moments

You were bug because your were freaking SHORT and he was kit-kat because one day you brought him one and he got so excited and he had accidently left a little bit of chocolate in the corner of his lips and you didn’t bother to mention it to him until after he had come to sit down from his presentation in front of the whole class KDJFLSDK

“i loved that presentation kit-kat” you smiled slyly at his confused face. “Kit-Kat?” Suga asked a little confused. You reached to the chocolate at the corner of his lips and wiped it off of his lips with your thumb and then licked the chocolate off of your thumb. 

Suga baby was a MESS

Baby was blushing so hard he couldn’t function for the rest of the day

Error 404 suga.exe has stopped functioning

He couldn’t look at you without blushing for a whole week

So here you were, sticking this post-it note to his locker (which you knew he would go to to get his volleyball bag), telling him to meet you behind the gym before his practice game vs. nekoma so you could confess to him how you literally fell head over heels for him

You were twiddling with the bottom of your skirt as you saw Sugawara approach you from a little distance. Maybe telling him to meet you here was mistake? Maybe you should just say that you wanted to wish him good luck on the game? no, you had to tell him, it was to late to back out now and you it was getting harder and harder to hold back your feelings. mama ain’t raise a lil bitch.

Suga held your little heart shaped post-it note with your careful handwriting up and waved it. “I got your note.” he smiled, completely oblivious to what was about to happen. How were you supposed to confess to him when he was being so cute. UGH. 

“i uhm, needed to talk to you suga-kun.” you said twiddling with your fingers now. Sugawara noticed how tense you were and decided to stay quiet and pay attention to what you had to say, he didn’t want to ruin it since it seemed important. 

“you can tell me y/n” a little smile on his face.

“uhm, okay, well, i-, i like you suga, and not just you know, friendship like you, like, like LIKE you.” you stuttered out, feeling your cheeks heat up so much it would be noticeable even if it were dark out. 

Suga walked up to you with a little smirk (he was trying to keep it down i swear he didn’t want to make you freak out more but he couldn’t help it) 

“do you have any more of these post-it notes?” he asked simply. 

“I- what? Uhm yea, i think so.” confused, you took out the pack of heart-shaped stick notes and handed it to him. 

Suga took out a sharpie from his pocket and started writing on it, when he was done he just sticked it to your forehead and walked away. (YOUR FOREHEAD, I KNOW)

You were so confused you thought this wasn’t actually happening. You took the sticky note and read it.

“i like you too dummy - kit-kat”

Your heart JUMPED out of your chest. You blushed again you noticed something was written behind it too.

“wait for me at the entrance to the gym after the game”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Karasuno had won the practice match against Nekoma which had only motivated Nekoma more to practice for a real dumpster match. You laughed at the sight of the captains of both teams trying to be as sportsman like as possible to each other failing miserably because Daichi seemed like he wanted to break out into a dance and Kuroo looked like he was about to cry.

You waited at the entrance, spacing out and looking up at the stars in the sky. Only to be brought back by the familiar voice calling your name. 

“y/nn !” Suga called.

“Hi Suga!” you called back.

He stopped in front of you and blushed.

“Let me walk you home” 

“Okay” you smiled.

The two of you walked together holding pinkies under the starry sky that night and when you two had stopped in front of your house he had given you a kiss in the cheek, making you both blush.

“Good night, y/n”

“Good night, Suga”

lmao it started in the middle of volleyball practice

being one of the managers you had to take notes for the team for their plays etc.. so you had plenty of post-it notes

bokuto was being loud again, like always

“AKAASHI DID YOU SEE THAT, DID YOU SEE THAT AKAASHI”

you just walked up to him and stuck the sticky note right on his forehead

he turned it around and it said

“ssshhh, we saw it bokuto, good job”

bokuto literally stopped functioning because it was so out of nowhere and he wasn’t expecting that

he just stood there for a solid 20 seconds watching you walk away with the sticky note in his hand

akaashi was literally shook “y/n please do that more often just to shut him up”

i don’t know know what it was not even bokuto knows himself but after that he got such a big crush on you

maybe it was the way you got his attention with something so small?

so after that he got his own pair of sticky notes just to mess with you

he would write little notes to make you blush to try to get your attention like you got his, and he would be really sweet in the notes

“you look really pretty today :D “

“thank you for always helping our team :)”

yes, he drew the smiley faces too

and each and everyone of those post-it notes brought a little blush to your cheeks

not short after you ended up getting a crush on bokuto too and you would try to get him flustered with them too

“you’re doing really good today bokuto :)”

“are you a volleyball because i’d hit that ;)”

it’s safe to say that he short-circuited when you gave him that second one and just walked away and in that day, he had never played a practice match like how he did that day because he really wanted to impress you

the team had noticed you guys’s little post-it note thing and thought it was so cute

konoha and sarukui and yukie all had a game where they would watch to see the exchange of the sticky notes and laughed at how your faces would get so red after reading each others sticky notes

bokuto would try his hardest to make sure the post-it note was perfect

he would spend time on every little detail, he wanted his handwriting to be nice and the doodles around it to be perfect so he would be extra attentive to make sure it went the way he wanted and it freaked akaashi out because he had never seen bokuto pay so much attention to anything other than volleyball

no seriously, akaashi was literally freaked (in a good way) because bokuto would be silent for like 5 minutes focusing on his post-it of the day

not long after, you guys started dating and sometimes bokuto would have his arm around you and his hand would slip into the back pocket of your jeans to leave his post-it note there and he liked to watch how your cheeks would get so red, he thought it was so cute

for some reason you guys just forgot to tell the team you two were dating, you guys just thought that they thought you already were?

so uhm, this is how they found out

you were writing on your clipboard, taking notes for the practice getting the next volleyball camp set up for the boys. the team was setting everything up for practice to start and Akaashi was walking up to you to ask a question about the next training camp when OUT OF NOWHERE FREAKING BOKUTO SHOWS UP RUNNING TOWARDS YOU WITH A STICKY NOTE IN HIS HAND HE JUST SLAPS YOUR ASS WITH THE HAND THAT HAS THE STICKY NOTE AND KISSES YOUR CHEEK AND RUNS PAST YOU LIKE IT’S NOTHING. 

Mind you the whole team just saw everything and Akaashi was right there so he not only got a front row seat to the sound you made when Bokuto slapped your ass but he also could read what Bokuto wrote on the post-it note.

Your face was SO red and you reached for the sticky note stuck on your ass.

“your ass looks really good in those pants baby :)”

again with the smiley faces, i know

Akaashi knew that he liked you but he had no idea that you guys were dating so he literally yelled “what the FUCK BOKUTO” and Konoha was about to spike a volleyball at him and Yukie was about to call the police before you could stop them and Bokuto and you had to tell them that you guys were dating😭😭

“ohhh but still, whAT THE FUCK I WAS RIGHT THERE” Akaashi spluttered.

“sorry akaashiiii” bokuto said, his hair going down about to go into emo mode. you kissed him in the cheek and he sprung up with the new found energy and gave you a big hug and you giggled.

“okay! let’s get this practice started!” bokuto yelled and started jogging over to the volleyballs after giving you a little kiss at the top of your head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s note: hey i hope you guys enjoyed it, this is was my first time doing this style of writing with the bullet points and the multiple characters in one post so i hope it was cute ^^

also im doing requests now so if you guys have any requests for me to write you can ask here :)

[noctualilith]

Our Past Got Us Here

We all love the Harvard FinnLo pining, but after the amazing and painful art Haz posted today we needed an extra dose of fluff to balance the feels. Co-written with the amazing and eloquent @ais-for-alex , the characters and universe by queen of the hazelhoots @lumosinlove 

The box with the ominous title Harvard in blood red sharpie should have been heavier for all the memories it carried, Logan thought as he hefted it on his desk in his new room. He was all moved in with Finn and Leo, unpacked and fitting seamlessly in their space just as he did in their lives… but for this one last box.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he reminded himself that whatever he unearthed was firmly in the past now, and his present was so much lighter and happier than anything he would find in there. 

He heard Finn and Leo moving around in the apartment and he knew they were there for him if he needed them. He knew Finn saw the box and suspected what was inside, if the way he was lurking close to his door was any indication. He also knew that this was his task first and foremost - to unpack the past and claim it fully as his own, with all the good and the bad it brought. This was where he met Finn. This was where he fell for Finn. This was where he carried the burning flame of all he felt for him, held it close and hid it away from everyone including himself, until it burned him from the inside. He could still feel the hot rush of shame and hurt he was so well used to pushing back under and avoiding at all costs. 

Opening the box would mean coming face to face with it for the first time after years, no more deflecting. 

He was ready. He was home, their home, the three of them together and he was ready. 

He pulled the lid off the box and was met with Finn’s warm gaze staring at him from a treasured photograph lying on top, the two of them only a few weeks after Logan got to Harvard, throwing him back into a memory that cut with precision right into those places that hurt the most. Years ago, he had packed that box in a state of numb resignation, putting away his heart piece by piece, alone in his room back at Harvard because Finn had left him for a dream and it hurt too much to see the reminders all around him. He had been crying too hard by the time he placed that last photo in the box, Finn’s smiling face blurred by the tears and hidden away when he closed the box and tucked it away. Now the feeling roared to life in his chest, loud and hungry for a resolution. 

He wasn’t ready.

He must have made a noise, or maybe Finn had a sixth sense for when Logan needed him because the next thing he knew were his arms wrapping him in a hug, the safest place on Earth as far as Logan was concerned. 

“Lo, baby, we’re okay.” Finn murmured into his hair as Logan hid his face in his neck, breathing him in. They were okay, they were great, but there were still some things unsaid between them, an unspoken agreement to leave that box unopened for another day. 

Well, it was open now and waiting for them on the desk innocently.

Logan took a breath and lifted his head, searching for a kiss and the reassurance that came with it. He wasn’t alone, with Finn thousands of miles away, both of them silent and hurting. He was here, with his boys, allowed to touch whenever he wanted. They were good at reminding him of that, too. He needed that reminder now. 

“Tell me.” He knew Finn would understand what he was asking for. Logan wasn’t good at talking, but Finn could read him like an open book after all those years. Logan only realized how much after he stopped pushing him away and allowed himself to love and be loved exactly how he’d yearned for. 

“We’re okay. I love you. I’m never leaving you. Leo is never leaving us. You moved in with us and everything is finally as it should be, because being away from you feels like I’m missing a part of myself and fuck, I’m done with that. Do you know how important you’re to me? I’ll spend the rest of our lives telling you, Lo.” Finn was cradling his face in his hands and pressing a kiss to his lips after every declaration.

Logan’s hands were grasping at the fabric of Finn’s hoodie - Leo’s hoodie, actually - and that brought an unbidden smile to his face, helping the words hit home. Finn, in Leo’s hoodie, in his room. He didn’t have to do this alone, do anything alone, ever again. 

“I know, mon amour. It’s just-- we haven’t really talked about-- I know I wasn’t in a hurry to unpack all that and you probably weren’t either but I want to, now. I think I need to.” He gestured to the innocent-looking box, watching Finn step closer to it and look inside, emotions playing across his face. He knew what it represented, of course he did. He probably had one just like that at some point, or maybe his was still unpacked too.

Finn reached into the box and picked up the photo from the top, the same one that Logan could barely look at just moments ago. He held it out to Logan with a wistful smile. “Let’s unpack this one together, what do you say?”

“Yeah, I’d really like to do that.” Logan’s voice was shaky, but he was determined. They’d probably end up crying, he could already feel the hot press of tears behind his eyes just thinking about all the memories that they were going to bring to light, but he wanted them all. He wanted to touch them, to put them up on his walls and see them every day without hurting for their past selves. A story of how they got to here and now, of how they lost each other and then found each other again. How they found their missing piece and built a home together. 

He took the photo from Finn, their fingers brushing and unfailingly sending sparks across Logan’s skin. It’s been like that since he could remember, Finn’s touch like a brand, whether accidental and forcedly platonic for the longest time, or purposeful now but no less exciting with the promise of forever. It made him feel brave, so he cast around for the tape and tore a piece to stick it to the back of the photo. First one for the wall. First memory to unpack. 

“You remember this one?” he asked Finn while he picked a place for it, pressing it to the wall and making sure it held. “I loved you already, when we took this photo. I was trying to convince myself that I couldn’t, but I did.” He heard Finn behind him suck in a breath, but he stayed quiet, letting him speak. Logan turned a bit, just enough to reach his hand back, wordlessly asking for the next photo, sticking it to the wall without looking at it first. 

It was a photo of the two of them at a party. At the party. 

“Lo--” Finn started behind him, already gearing up to tell him they could do this another day, Logan could hear it in his voice. It’s happened often enough. Logan was sick of it, of swallowing the pain and the tears and hiding in the safe topics of their everyday life, like what to get for dinner and who should drive. 

“I’m sorry.” He interrupted Finn, softly but with determination, still looking at the photo. He felt Finn pressing himself along his back, one arm coming up to drape over his shoulder, his hand pressing over his heart. There was another photo of them, just like this, a favourite of Logan’s and currently in Finn’s room, another piece of his heart captured forever. He leaned back into the embrace, drawing strength from the unwavering support. Now, then, always, Finn was by his side no matter how often Logan pushed him away. He was done pushing him away.

“I shouldn’t have done that, at the party. It was a shitty thing to do. I’m sorry. You deserved so much better.” Logan felt the first tear roll down his face, felt Finn’s breath stutter in his chest. 

“I’m sorry too. You weren’t the only one not talking about it, you know? It’s on me, too. And we’re better now, aren’t we?” 

Logan nodded wordlessly, breathing through the swell of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him when he thought about that night. A miracle turned into a secret and sitting heavy and unaddressed instead of being treasured as it should have been. 

Finn spoke for the both of them, needing to acknowledge in words what happened. “That was our first kiss, Lo. I still remember it, like it happened just yesterday. I loved you already, when we took this photo. I couldn’t believe what happened after. I’m glad it did.”

Logan turned to him at that, surprised. “You’re glad? I blamed it on being drunk and then never talked about it. It might as well not have happened at all! Our first kiss was a lie and I can never change it. How--” Finn pressed a kiss to his lips and stayed there, interrupting his rant and waiting for him to kiss back before pulling away again, keeping their foreheads together. 

“I’m glad because we’re here now. We’re talking about it now. It was real to me, Lo. I was afraid then, too. I’m not anymore, you’re not anymore. We found each other. We found Leo. That’s what matters.” Finn’s eyes were swimming in tears but he was smiling, and Logan couldn’t help but kiss that smile right off his lips. “You’re right. That’s what matters. Gimme the next one. Let’s talk about all of them.”

The wall was slowly filled with memories and their weight was lifted from their unspoken past word for word as they remembered each moment for the good and the bad. So often Logan had felt close to crumbling under the guilt, but Finn was right there holding him close and offering him absolution with each new piece out of the box, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Beside photos, there were other things too. Movie tickets, four of them from the same movie they kept going back for. A receipt from a dinner at a roadie, just the two of them, where Finn doodled stick figures playing hockey while they waited for dessert. Crumpled notes that Finn would sometimes leave stuck to Logan’s door, sometimes a shopping list, sometimes an inside joke. Logan kept them all. 

FInally, the box was empty and the wall was full. Logan felt exhausted but his heart was lighter than it had been in years, brimming with love for his boys and gratitude for the road that brought him here. He and Finn stood shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the room, looking at the wall, tears drying on both their faces. 

“I want Leo” Logan spoke into the comfortable silence, pulling on Finn’s arm, suddenly eager to have them both close, to bask in the reality of having them, of being loved by them. “Come on Harz, let’s find him.” 

Finn reeled him back in for one more kiss. “Love you, Lo.” 

“Love you, too. Love Leo. Want Leo now.” 

“Yeah, me too. Come on, he’s in the kitchen.” Logan was already squirming away and Finn let him pull them from the room and towards the kitchen where they could hear the clatter of utensils. He did the hard work and now he wanted his rewards. He wanted his boys close. 

Hand in hand, they padded down the hall towards the kitchen, towards their missing piece, towards their future, leaving all the guilt and the hurt finally where it belonged; in their past. 

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

Leo brushed a bit of flour from his hands. He suppressed the urge to wander into Logan’s room where he knew his partners were unpacking more than just the old boxes beaten by years of hiding in the closet. Those old boxes that carried memories of Finn and Logan’s days spent so close to each other but separated by an ocean of feelings that fit between their dorm beds. 

No, Leo had to let them unpack together. Finn and Logan needed to be the ones to pull each memory from the moth eaten cardboard. They needed to be the ones to hold them close to their hearts and feel, and once the hurt of all those years  past had been aired away they could finally hang those memories on the walls to look at without that bitter hurt anymore.

Leo would wait though, he would wait for them to emerge from the solemn confessional of Logan’s room, he would wait for them to be ready, he would wait until they wanted him there to pull them back together. He would wait for them forever. Luckily though he didn’t have to wait forever. Leo turned as he heard their footsteps padding closer to the kitchen. 

“Hello, my loves,” he said as Finn and Logan peeked their heads in to see what he was doing.

“Mmm,” Finn hummed in greeting and came up to press a soft sweet kiss to Leo’s lips. Out of the corner of his eye Leo saw Logan hop up to sit on the counter. When Finn finally pulled away his lips were pulled into a gentle smile and his eyes as warm and sweet as melted chocolate. Leo sighed at the sight, but turned to Logan who was softly kicking the cabinet doors where his feet dangled from the counter. 

“Hi baby,” he whispered, slotting himself between Logan’s knees and running his hands soft against his thighs. Logan sighed and wrapped his legs around Leo’s waist pulling him in closer. 

“You all unpacked?” Leo asked so softly for a moment he wasn’t sure Logan had actually heard him. But he saw that look in Logan’s bright green eyes that meant he was thinking, choosing his words carefully before he tried to speak. So Leo waited, he reached up to lightly trace his fingers against the scratchy stubble on Logan’s jaw as his partner gathered his thoughts. Leo felt Finn settle in behind him, pressing his chest flush to his back and rest his chin on his shoulder. He turned his face inwards pressing closer just to place a kiss to the soft skin on Leo’s neck.

“Yeah,” Logan finally answered with a sigh, he turned his face to nuzzle into Leo’s palm. “It was- it was hard,” he whispered, then looked over at Finn still resting his head on Leo’s shoulder and smiled softly. “But as hard as it was to live through, and remember, I don’t think I would change even a minute of it.” 

Leo gave him a bit of a puzzled look at that, why on earth wouldn’t he change it if he could? Why would he be willing to live through that pain? Logan chuckled lightly at his confusion and leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Leo’s mouth.

“Mon amour, I would live every minute of it again and not change a thing, because mine and Finn's past is what led us to you. And you know what? Thinking of it like that, it doesn’t hurt at all.” 

Leo couldn’t help the sheen of tears that glazed his eyes, or the sniffles as he reached forward to pull Logan fully into his arms, holding him tight like he couldn’t bear to leave even an inch of space between them. 

“We love you so much Nutty,” Finn whispered, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, “you make it easier. God, you make everything better.” 

“Guys,” Leo sighed at the feel of them pressed so close against him, “this wasn't supposed to be about me.” 

Logan reached out to cup his face, his eyes bright and sure as they gazed into Leo’s own, “sweetheart, it’s about us, all three of us, together. Our past, and yours, they were stepping stone to get to this exact moment.” 

“Leo,” Finn said softly, he pulled away slightly and turned Leo to look at him so his back was now pressed against Logan's chest where he was still sitting on the counter. Logan twined his arms around Leo’s torso as Finn tilted his chin just so until he couldn't look anywhere but those chocolate eyes. “It’s time we all moved on from the past, ok? Instead, lets focus on building a future, one for all of us, that we’ll get to spend the rest of our lives cultivating.” 

Leo swallowed hard, Finn's words seemed to crawl into his heart mending cracks and fissures he hadn’t realized were there. His words put to rest that horrible feeling that crept into Leo’s mind in the dead of night, in those moments he was all alone with no one to soothe away the fear, that he was the odd man out. That one day Finn and Logan would realize that they didn't need him, because they already had a foundation to build on. 

“I love you guys so fucking much,” he breathed, and felt Logans arms tighten around him. Finn smiled and leaned in, pressing closer gently until they were so close they were breathing the same air. 

“D’accord, d’accord,” Logan mumbled into his shoulder, he breathed in deeply then continued, “no more sad for tonight.” 

“I think I can get on board with that,” Leo said with a chuckle.

“Same,” Finn agreed before finally pulling away. 

Leo grinned and padded back to the other side of the kitchen where he had left ingredients for dinner strewn across the counter, “Well, do you guys want to help me make dinner then?” 

“Le, my precious Peanut Butter, I need you to understand this;” Finn said seriously, “just because we have grown emotionally does not mean our skills in the kitchen have improved in the slightest.”

“Well yeah, and they never will if you don’t let me teach you,” Leo teased, snagging a dish towel and snapping Finn in the thigh. 

Logan laughed at Finn's pout as he rubbed the welt now forming and jumped down from the counter, “Alright Nutty, teach us your ways, impart your vast cooking wisdom upon us.” 

Leo rolled his eyes at their dramatics but set them to work nonetheless. Finn was tasked with peeling potatoes, with a stern warning from Leo about slicing off his finger. As he was prepping the meat, Leo glanced over at Logan who seemed to be having far too much fun smashing the crackers to make a breading. He couldn't help but grin as he felt warm affection rush through his veins, like he had injected pure love directly into his bloodstream. Leo couldn't wait to feel this for the rest of his life, to build and grow with them, and love them for as long as humanly possible. 

It wasn't long before their kitchen was filled with laughter, and banter, and music played over the bluetooth speakers. The three of them worked in tandem, until the delicious aroma of home cooked food was wafting through their apartment. And so what if Finns mashed potatoes were a bit soupy, and what if the veggies Logan chopped were a bit uneven, it was something that they created together, Leo wanted to savor every bite. 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Christmas Specials: Angel

CW: Implied past parental death, referenced past torture/noncon, memory loss and grief

"It, it should be an, um, a, a-a an angel," Chris says, gazing up at the star on top of the tree. It gleams a warm yellow to match the special lights that wind through the branches, the soft smell of pine and wood. The ornaments weigh it down, a multitude of old childhood things Nat brought with her twenty years ago, plus new ornaments added over time by every rescue who has lived here through Christmas and even a few who didn’t. 

Chris picked his out at Hallmark with Nat last week. He chose a little cardinal on a snowy tree branch with a scarf and earmuffs on. He doesn’t know why. But he runs one finger over the top of its little head in thought. 

Nat, crouching down by the bright red, gigantic rubbermaid with Christmas Ornaments + whatever else written on the lid in big black sharpie letters, looks up. “What?”

Chris keeps petting the little porcelain cardinal with one finger, staring up at the star. “Why isn't it, um, an, an angel, Nat?”

"Not sure exactly. I've always done a star," Nat replies, carefully choosing a small ornament shaped like a horse in mid-gallop, covered in elaborately carved and painted Western tack. She slips the little hook into the small metal ring on the horse’s back and hangs it in an empty spot on the tree, smiling.

She looks over to see an expression of something like upset on Chris's face, his eyebrows furrowed, bouncing uncertainly on his toes. "It, it should be an angel," He repeats, insistent. “It, it should be. Um, an… an angel. A star isn’t-... isn’t, isn’t right. It should be, be, be-be-be… should be-, an, an angel.”

His voice drops a little, and he picks at the hem of his oversized t-shirt with one hand, rocking a little until Nat puts a hand to his shoulder and he stops. 

"Chris, is this bothering you? That it’s a star?” Nat and Jake meet eyes where he's hanging garland along the mantle, knowing later Nat will go all-in on her Midwestern roots and pull out the Christmas-themed baskets to decorate it.

“It’s not right,” Chris says, even more firmly this time. He shakes his head, rocking again, forward and back. “It’s, it’s always supposed to be, to be angels.” He makes a soft sound of frustration, hands moving up to his hair, twisting into the copper, yanking hard. “Supposed, supposed to be-”

Nat takes his hands in hers and gently lowers them again, pressing his palms into his stomach. “Tap, Chris. Don’t pull your hair out, please. Let’s do the ones that don’t hurt, okay?”

He doesn’t answer her, but he starts up the familiar movements of his fingers, finger-twist-tap-tap-tap, and he doesn’t go for his hair again. “Angels,” He mumbles. “Should be a, um, angel on the, the, the tree. Didn’t have a tree the, the last time, we were-... gonna go, go get the tree after Thanksgiving, it, um, it was-...” 

The room is perfectly still as he falls silent, rocking harder. 

 "Did you-...” Nat is quiet for a moment, deciding where to take this line of questioning, what is the safest way to ask. “Are you… used to angels, Chris? Did you have an angel tree-topper as a kid?”

He’s still a kid.

He’s still so young. 

Chris isn’t looking at her, still rocking a little, looking up at the star, gnawing on a chapped spot of skin on his lower lip that he’s already managed to make bleed this week. He pinches his finger and thumb around a few pine needles, releasing their scent even more strongly into the air. "She, she always did angels,” He whispers.

Then he winces, cries out in pain, and the moment's gone, along with the memory. They hold him through the headache until it passes, through his tears, but he’s never able to explain.

Within a half an hour he’s forgotten he ever mentioned angels at all, forgotten anything but the awful spike of pain the headache brings on the heels of any thought or memory they aren’t allowed to have.

She refuses to be frustrated - this is a common part of memory recovery in rescues, how things seem to come and go, slipslide through their minds. It’ll come back, sooner or later. She has to believe that - and that even if it doesn’t, it doesn’t matter, they still deserve the new memories to be their own.

Every time he walks past the tree, though - as Nat’s presents for her rescues start to build up, and she takes each of them out to find gifts to give Jake and their fellow rescues, too - his eyes don’t linger on the somewhat haphazardly wrapped boxes. 

They go to the star.

She gives Jake a few twenties from her wallet and tells him to go shopping. He sheepishly pulls out the small red box he’d already bought, five steps ahead of her when it comes to Chris as usual.

They wrap the box together. 

On Christmas Eve, Nat insists on cooking, while Antoni hovers nervously around her and offers, time and time again, to do whatever he can to help. She refuses, but lets him set the table before having Jake take him outside to sit down with a drink and watch the Christmas lights. It seems to calm the part of Antoni that needs always to be serving, the part they are trying so hard to get him to drop. 

Chris wanders through the dining room on his way, getting himself some lemonade in the kitchen and giving her a hug. Krista is moving into her own place in the next month or so and she heads out onto the porch, too, making the most of her last few days in the house. Even Leila, quiet watchful thoughtful Leila, finds her way out there, too.

Which leaves Nat in the kitchen putting together everything she remembers from her own childhood. 

It’s a feast.

Beef tips out of the oven with gravy and thick, chewy noodles, little sausages in a crockpot with grape jelly and barbecue sauce, corn casserole more like savory pudding than anything else, scalloped potatoes that have as much cheese as they do actual potatoes, a salad to pretend anyone’s getting nutritional value out of this, queso dip that comes cheap out of a glass jar with tortilla chips, chopped fruit tossed with sugar… this one day each year, Nat lets herself indulge in what she grew up with, what she misses about home. 

Once it’s all ready, she calls them back in. She watches Chris’s eyes widen as he enters first, seeing how she’s pulled out the extra eaves to extend the table, the sheer weight of the food that has taken her three full days of work to put together, the seasonal plastic tablecloth and placemats under every single plate. 

“Chris, you’ll sit right here,” She says warmly, putting her hand against the back of one of the chairs. 

He moves immediately - then hesitates, going still, glancing over his shoulder back at Jake, who smiles back, reassuring. When his eyes go back to his seat, Nat watches him tapping on himself, soothing his sudden jangling nerves. Not grabbing at his hair or scratching himself. Good sign. “Nat, what’s-... what’s, what’s that?”

She moves away to give him space. “What’s what, honey?”

“The, um, the… the the, the box. On my plate. What, what is it for?” He’s trusting, her youngest rescue, like all of them and yet even more than most. He wasn’t meant to have thoughts or skills outside the horrors that he was held for, didn’t develop himself enough to run, he hadn’t gotten a sense that his world wasn’t right enough to develop his own sense of self. That started here, in this house, under Nat’s protection. 

She doesn’t take this responsibility, to help him mold himself into someone he will want to be, lightly. 

He’s trusting, but in this moment, he’s unsure. She wonders how many times he has been given gifts that hurt, that were designed to hurt.

“One last thing for the tree. Open up and find out.”

“But, but Christmas is, is um, is, is tomorrow.”

“Oh, honey.” He loves when she calls him that, every endearment - except sweetheart and darling, and those she has gathered were weapons, once, used against him - and he flushes, looking down and smiling a little, red hair drifting over his eyes. “I never take my tree down before New Year’s. One year I got it late and we kept that sucker up until Valentine’s Day. Go ahead and open the box.”

His fingers are so long and delicate, as he carefully works up the tape that keeps one end of the box closed. Slipping it open comes easily enough, working the styrofoam packing on the inside out is a little more difficult. The squeak of styrofoam against cardboard makes him grit his teeth and Nat herself winces.

But then it’s out, and he lays the square of crumbling white styrofoam down on the paper, carefully lifting the top half away to reveal what it was protecting inside. 

His eyes widen, and he reaches out, touching a rough-edged tinsel halo wrapped around a wire, running one finger down from the top of a porcelain forehead to the tip of a gently wrought nose, the cupid’s-bow lips, rounded hair. He looks up at Nat as his fingers find the stiff, scratchy fabric of the figurine’s cream-and-gold robes. “An, angel? Nat?”

“For the tree, Chris. You said you wanted an angel.” Nat moves back to lay a hand in the center of his back, and he leans to the side, his head tucking into the crook of her neck like always. “Jake and I figured opening one present on Christmas Eve wouldn’t be so bad. D’you want to put it up?”

“Yes,” He says, in a low soft voice. “She, um, she, she… she she… she always had angels, on the, um, the tree.”

“Chris, can I ask?” She rests her chin atop his head, his fine soft hair tickling her skin. “Who is she? Who are you talking about?”

He shakes his head a little, like shaking water out of his ears. “I, I don’t know.” It’s a confession, admission of guilt, more than an answer. “I don’t, don’t, don’t know who. But… but I know she had, had an angel, she said she bought it when, um, when when I was a, a, a a a a baby…”

Mother, then, most likely. She and Jake make eye contact, and he nods, stepping out of the room to go write it down. Every single memory, no matter how slight, could help them put enough together to find whoever might be looking for him out there. And it gives Dr. Berger a place to start delicately working out what is hidden under all the scar tissue in their minds. 

“She threw it, it, it away,” Chris mutters, eyes closed. “With, with everything else.”

“Your mom did?”

“No. Some... someone else.”

“Well, let’s get the angel up there, then,” Nat says gently, as Chris slides his arms around her waist. His voice is going ragged, and she needs to pull him back from the edge before he tips over into the light. “Then all you hungry people can eat.”

“Aren’t you, you hungry? You’ve been cooking all, all, all, all all day.”

“All days. But no, I’ve tasted a little of everything already. Come on, then-”

The door blows open in a bluster of wind and Kauri steps in, cheeks red from the hint of chill in the air, blue eyes warm and sparkling. He looks better today than he did last week - Nat wonders, briefly, if he’s been staying with someone, instead of trying to sleep in park bathrooms or the cold. “Am I late for dinner?”

“Not at all, Kauri. Will Keira be joining us?”

Keira does not consume, comes a muffled voice from inside Kauri’s backpack. He grins and drops it in the entryway, unzipping to take the Roomba out and set it on the coffee table where visual sensors can take in the tree. 

He glances back at the rest of them, and asks brightly, “What’s for dinner? Smells… huh.” He pauses, looks at the table. A strange look passes over his face, like a man seeing someone he knows but can’t quite place. “It smells really good in here.”

“I should hope so. Can you help Chris switch the star on the tree out for this? It’s brand new.” She picks the angel up out of the styrofoam and Chris grabs it from her, moving into the living room with it held in his hands like something infinitely precious and breakable.

Something so easily lost.

“Cool, an angel.” Kauri cocks his head to the side. “Why’d you get that?”

“Because,” Chris says, with earnest sincerity, and a little sadness. “It’s always, um, supposed to, to, to be an angel. It was always a, an angel before.”

Kauri - and Jake, who reappears shortly after to give his many inches of height to assist them - helps Chris get the angel light up on the tree, warm glow emanating from its robes, and Chris declares it better, now. 

He murmurs to himself, “She’d, she’d like it better with an angel.”

No one asks him what he said, or to elaborate.

By the time he’s on his second helping of dinner, he’s forgotten that the thought ever passed his mind.

But Nat hasn’t.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly  @newandfiguringitout  , @doveotions  , @pretty-face-breaker, @boxboysandotherwhump  , @oops-its-whump  @moose-teeth  , @cubeswhump  , @cupcakes-and-pain  @whump-tr0pes  @whumpiary  @orchidscript, @itallcomesdowntopain

[litwitlady]

with you i serve, with you i fall down

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Angst Prompt #3 - ‘Is that blood?’ (I PROMISE IT HAS A HAPPY ENDING)

Warnings: blood, minor physical violence, guns, gunshot wounds, mind games, mind control

‘We don’t have to do this today,’ Michael begs, eyes shifting back and forth between Isobel and Alex.

Isobel places her hand on his shoulder and tilts her head slightly, trying to make him understand. ‘There are innocent people inside, Michael. At last thirty heat signatures. We might be their only hope. We can’t wait for Max. He’s in California.’

‘We’ll be okay.’ Alex knows that’s not really enough, but it’s all he’s got at the moment.

Michael turns to him slowly. ‘You don’t know that. Me and Iz will go, Alex. Please stay here.’

‘You know that’s not the safest option. We’ve been over this already.’ Isobel tugs Michael’s eyes back to her. ‘There’s no cell reception in that building or even outside of that building. Leaving Alex here by himself cuts us off from communication. But having you out here means I’ll be able to reach you if something goes wrong.’

He makes a strangled noise and shakes his head. ‘Then you stay. Alex and I will go. You cannot ask me to watch the two people I love most on this planet - or any other fucking planet - walk into that building.’ He shrugs his shoulders and takes several steps away from them, needing the space to breathe. ‘I will not do that.’

Alex watches him walk away, kicking at the ground in frustration. Michael has never said the word ‘love’ to him. Not in the present tense, anyway. It makes him slightly dizzy. They’ve only just started finding their way back to each other. A friendship blooming gradually and finally able to talk to each like grown adults. Their future open and waiting for them.

Michael climbs into his truck and slams the door. But he doesn’t start the engine. Alex and Isobel watch him lean his head against the back glass and close his eyes. ‘He’s never going to agree to this.’ Isobel crosses her arms and stares at Alex. ‘It’s a terrible thing we’re asking him to do.’

‘None of us have a choice. I’m not willing to risk someone else’s life to keep my own safe. So, there’s no calling anyone else for help. And like you said, we can’t wait.’ Alex squares his shoulders, frowning. ‘I’ll go talk to him.’

‘No.’ She moves in front of Alex, blocking his way. ‘It needs to be me. Wait here.’

She slides into the truck next to Michael. He doesn’t acknowledge her presence. Just keeps his eyes shut and stays silent. ‘You know it has to be me and Alex, Michael.’ No reaction. ‘I’ve worked on my abilities more than you have. So, I’m better equipped, better armed. You know I’m right.’

Michael’s eyes open and he blinks several times at truck’s the rusting roof overhead. ‘I feel it deep in my gut, Isobel. Something bad’s going to happen if you leave me behind. We don’t have enough information.’ He turns his gaze out the window, focusing on Alex. ‘I love him too much, Iz. And you too.’ Angry tears burn down his cheeks.

‘You’re willing to risk all those lives - more than two dozen people - just because something might happen to me or Alex?’ She squeezes his knee. ‘I know you’re not. And we both know how this ends. So, if you want to sit and watch from the safety of your truck, that’s okay. But Alex and I are leaving.’

Isobel rejoins Alex by his Explorer, one last look over her shoulder at Michael. ‘We better get going. I don’t want to be inside that place after sundown.’

Alex checks that his gun is fully loaded. ‘What did you say to convince him?’

‘Honestly? Not a whole lot and I’m pretty sure he’s not convinced.’ She stuffs several bottles of acetone in Alex’s backpack next to his extra bullets. ‘He loves you, you know. I’m never sure how clear that is between you two.’ They hear a door slam shut and turn at the sound. Michael is on his way to them, sadness etched deep in the lines of his forehead. Alex sighs. ‘It’s much clearer these days.’

He’s left his hat behind and his curls swirl in the wind. ‘I don’t want you to go, but I won’t stop you either. But Isobel? At the first sign of trouble you scream for me. Do you understand?’

‘I promise. The first sign of trouble - even the inkling of trouble - and we’re out.’ She pulls him into a tight hug and whispers in his ear. ‘I’ll keep him safe. As best I can.’

Michael nods into her neck and watches Alex slip the backpack onto his shoulders. Isobel unfolds herself from him and Alex gives a little wave as he turns towards the concrete warehouse. But Michael reaches out and grabs his elbow, spinning him back around. ‘No, you don’t get to just walk away like that. Not anymore.’

He pushes the backpack off Alex’s shoulders and onto the ground. And then they fall into each other’s arms - Alex’s wrapped around Michael’s neck and Michael squeezing at Alex’s waist. Noses buried in hair and fingernails clawing at naked skin. So many words left unspoken but not a single one left unheard.

‘Don’t go playing hero, Alex. Sometimes running away is the right choice.’ Michael holds on tighter and glances towards Isobel who’s already at the electric fence, giving them their space. He pleads with his eyes and she mouths I promise one last time.

They pull apart. Hands lingering at collars and hemlines. Eyes blurry and hearts worried. Alex takes a couple of backwards steps, grabbing his backpack and then turns away. Joining Isobel at the fence and setting off together to whatever fate awaits them. Michael looks on completely and utterly helpless. He knows they are competent and well-armed. Smart and desperate to return to him. But that knowledge does absolutely nothing to ease the ache in his chest.

Once they disappear from sight, Michael heads back to his truck. He stands with his hand on the door handle for a long time, trying to convince himself to open the door and not do the thing his heart wants him to do. But his heart wins. Unlocking Alex’s Explorer with his telekinesis, he slides into the driver’s side seat and shuts the door behind him. It’s the most pathetic thing he’s ever done in his life, but he doesn’t care. That nagging feeling is still punching at his stomach and the smell of Alex surrounding him helps to calm his nerves.

The interior is immaculate. So clean it makes Michael roll his eyes. There’s nothing in the center console but two pens and a roll of quarters. The glove compartment offers only the owner’s manual and a flashlight. But when he reaches around into the seat pocket, he strikes gold. Michael smiles down at the cd case he pulls free. The title is written in Alex’s too-perfect script and black-inked sharpie - Desert Mix.

Starting the engine, Michael slides the cd into the disc player and waits. Static crackles through the speakers and then the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar, followed shortly by Alex’s own voice. And Michael knows these songs - remembers the lyrics scratched across the various notebooks tucked under the futon in the toolshed. He’s listened to Alex sing these songs over and over again in the bed of his truck underneath the starry sky more times than he can count. When they were still teenagers with all their dreams still alive and close enough to touch.

Thirty minutes pass and Alex’s songs have nearly lulled him to sleep when he feels the first twinge of fear. It’s faint and distant enough to not immediately alarm him. He just shifts into a more comfortable position and recloses his eyes. The second wash of fear is much stronger and arrives accompanied by Isobel’s screams echoing in his head. Within seconds he’s running harder than he ever has in his life, straight into his worst nightmare.

No doors exist in the building’s central door frame. Just a gaping hole daring him to enter. Which he doesn’t hesitate to do, especially once Isobel begins to chant help us help us help us through his thoughts. He checks behind every door he passes, but finds nothing until he arrives at a large open space. Bleak and gray, the roof leaking water onto the concrete. Isobel on her knees and Alex sitting flat in the center of the room. Farmer Jones behind them, deviant grin spread wide across his face. ‘Welcome, Michael. So glad you could join us.’

Michael’s heart sinks to the floor. He tries using his telekinesis but knows if Isobel has been rendered powerless, so has he. And with that reality before him, whatever hope he’d been trying to hang onto flees. ‘There were never any hostages, were there?’

Alex and Isobel shake their heads.

‘Front and center, Mikey! We’re going to play a little game.’ It points to a spot between Alex and Isobel. Michael has no choice so he steps forward. Stopping when he’s commanded to. ‘Well done. Now, take a good, long look at Isobel and Alex. Spend some time thinking about how much you love them. Let me know when you’re finished.’ He steps back, arms crossed over his chest and still grinning like a madman.

That’s when Michael sees the gun.

It’s Alex’s personal weapon. The one he keeps for protection. Protection he’s needed more than once in his life from those supposed to love him most.

Dragging his eyes down to Isobel, he can tell how broken she is despite the way she holds her shoulders back, strong and proud even in her despair. Her eyes are wet with tears, her chin lifted in rebellion. But he can no longer find her in his head, so Jones must have cut their communication.

Beside her is Alex. A dark red stain soaking the shoulder of his t-shirt. ‘Is that blood?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Just a little scratch. Alex didn’t like my methods at first. But he’s since come around to see things my way.’ Alex’s jaw flexes and Michael watches him try to speak. But no sound leaves his mouth in spite of how hard he’s straining, veins in his neck throbbing with the effort.

‘Let them go and I’ll do whatever it is you want.’ Isobel and Alex both violently shake their heads. Michael ignores them. ‘Please.’

‘Can’t play the game with only one other person. Sorry.’ Jones rocks back on his heels, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shrugging.

‘Then let Alex go. He’s not one of us. Just a human who doesn’t belong here.’ Emotion chokes Michael’s voice which makes Jones’s eyes light up. Alex continues to shake his head, tears now trailing down his cheeks.

‘Everybody stays, Michael. Are you ready? You’re going to need this.’ He yanks the gun from the waistline of his pants and holds it out to Michael. ‘Go on, take it.’

Dread seeps deep into Michael’s bones, making him dizzy. He keeps his hands at his side and gulps loudly. Brain frantically searching for some way out of this horrific situation.

‘Now, Michael. Before you make me angry.’ Jones steps between Isobel and Alex, shoving the gun into his chest.

Michael takes the gun, hands beginning to shake. Eyes pleading with the monster in front of him, eyes avoiding the two people he can’t afford to lose at his feet.

Jones begins to walk in circles around the three of them. Slow and menacing. Taking his time and enjoying every sick second. ‘The game is simple. The rules easy to follow.’ He stops and puts one hand on Isobel’s shoulder, the other on Alex’s. ‘Your mind is a fascinating place, Michael. An electric minefield of love and suffering. Never a dull moment.’

He pauses for effect. Basking in his control and breathing in their terror. ‘This backwater planet has made you so soft and pliable. Imagine what you could have been had you grown up on our marvelous star.’ He feigns pity and then laughs. ‘But instead, you are this. Pathetic. Now you will pay the price for your mother’s wicked hubris. And the choices she made.’

Jones uses his power to raise Michael’s arm. The one whose hand is holding the gun. Michael fights like hell but it’s no use. The gun wobbles as Jones swings his arm back and forth. Pointing the gun first at Isobel and then at Alex. ‘So that’s the game! Your mother once had to make a decision and now her son will do the same. Isobel or Alex, Michael. You have five minutes or I shoot them both.’

Michael knows the moment his voice returns to him - his arm under his own control again as well. Jones smiles at him and Michael shakes his head. ‘I won’t do this.’ He tries to turn the gun on himself, but Jones just takes control again and laughs.

‘You will do this, Michael. Losing one is better than losing them both. And you’ll make it quick. I’ll make it sweet and so very slow.’ Jones tenderly cups Isobel’s cheek and runs his other hand through Alex’s hair. Michael watches as they both wince and shiver under his touch. ‘It’s not like we don’t know who you love the most. I mean, it’s no contest really.’ With a strike quicker than a snake, Jones backhands Alex square in his jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Michael shouts and tries to go to him, but Jones holds him in place.

‘The lover. Well...the ex-lover, anyway. And the purest love you’ve ever felt.’ Jones wraps his fingers in Alex’s hair and yanks him back into a sitting position. His lip is split, blood flowing freely down his chin and dripping onto his t-shirt. All three of them are panting and openly weeping. Michael’s entire body covered in a cold sweat. None of the thoughts in his head coherent with no last minute save-the-day solutions presenting themselves. Wordlessly, he begins to pray.

Jones goes back to lapping the three of them. ‘In case you were wondering, they both desperately want you to choose themselves. Alex is begging you to pick him. Isobel is maybe less enthusiastic about offering herself, but that’s still what’s inside her head. Noble, really. And Max, well - he’s enjoying the show all the way from sunny California.’

He sits between Isobel and Alex like he’s preparing for some grotesque kindergarten story time. ‘It disgusts me how weak the three of you are. Born to wield such power and instead you’re this - something lesser than even toddlers back home. I blink and you can’t move. I blink again and your minds are easy to crawl inside. Another blink and you’ll do whatever I say.’ He tsks with his tongue and shakes his head. ‘And to think you were meant to save us all, Michael.’

He releases Michael again. ‘Choose. Your five minutes start now.’

Faced with an impossible choice, the decision is easy to make in the end. He’s able to talk but decides not to. Not with words anyway. Michael raises his eyes to Alex and then the gun. And Alex smiles. Because he knows it was always meant to end this way.

Michael thinks back to the first time he’d seen Alex in the hallways of their middle school. An unremarkable moment. Alex and Valenti laughing in a classroom doorway. Valenti grabbing his arm, ‘Who are you?’ And Alex smiling, waiting for his answer.

But the next barrage of memories collapses his lungs. The first time Alex had come to school with his ear pierced, the septum ring hanging from his nose. Always with Maria and Liz, right in the middle. The occasional what’s up, Guerin. Valenti slamming him into a row of lockers after the first rumors started to spread. And eventually, a stolen guitar.

His hand shakes violently. But Alex softly and nods his head. Resigned and ready for what comes next.

Michael takes a moment to step back inside the UFO Emporium. Bright Eyes playing through the speakers overhead. Not a soul in sight. Other than the prettiest boy he’s ever seen with a bigger heart that he could have ever dreamed. A flood of quick flashes - Alex naked beneath him, making out at the movie theater, the desert sky as Alex strums his guitar, Alex’s hair shorn to regulation, letters written and never sent, first glances after long absences, hands on hips and lips on necks, harsh words and bitter tears, i loved you and i think that you loved me, the toolshed destroyed, another soft smile and would you come home.

Michael pulls the trigger.

The gunshot ricochets around the cavernous warehouse, reverberating off the back of Michael’s molars. And then everything falls silent and time stops. Alex crumples to the floor, blood leaking from the hole in his forehead. Eyes dead and lifeless. Michael’s heart claws its way out of his chest and throws itself on Alex. Alongside a screaming Isobel who can move again, hand covering Alex’s wound trying to staunch the bleeding.

But it doesn’t matter because Alex Manes is dead.

Jones tugs the gun from Michael’s hand and pistol whips Isobel on the temple. She collapses across Alex’s unmoving chest. Then Michael is thrown through the air, landing with a thud against the cylinder block wall. He hears the crunch of his skull and then mercifully blacks out. The gunshot playing one last time through his mind before the world disappears.

Time inevitably continues to pass. Alex growing colder and colder as the seconds tick by.

Michael reawakens to Isobel’s gargled cries. Shouting his name over and over again, hoarse from the effort. Michael has no idea how long he’s been out. Looking around, Jones has vanished. A ghost in the night. He squints into the darkness, Isobel slumped over Alex still trying to save him. Beating at his chest and pressing her hand over his wound.

Alex remains dead.

And to think you were meant to save us all, Michael. That line replays in Michael’s head as he sits watching Isobel’s struggle. It’s those words that convinced him to choose Alex. He closes his eyes and goes to the place deep in his gut where his power lives. An electric minefield of love and suffering. He rests his mind, truly hushing it quiet for the first time in his life. Laying the love and suffering aside long enough to connect his brain with his power. Completing a circuit that his trauma had never allowed before.

Energy flares in his nerve endings, clearing all the muck and grime. He thinks of Isobel and easily slides into her mind. There’s chaos and panic and an overwhelming gut-wrenching fear. Bile rises in her throat. She’s convinced that both of them are dead and that she’s all alone in this hell house. Michael reaches out for her and settles her nerves. Sends his own energy through her arm and down into the palm of her hand. The one pushed tight to Alex’s forehead.

Michael concentrates on picturing Alex’s face, whole and happy. Warmth from his belly travels through his connection with Isobel and begins to weave Alex’s brain back together, one fiber at a time. He can feel Isobel gasp when the wound under her palm slowly smoothes away. Her fear subsides and big, choking gasps tear from her lungs the minute Alex’s eyes reopen and his chest rises. She starts to scream Michael’s name again, but this time for a very different reason.

He climbs to his feet and is amazed at how good he feels. Not drained at all - slightly light headed in a pleasant way. Alex sits up and Isobel pulls him into a tight hug, waving at Michael wildly with her free hand.

It takes Michael a moment to take that first step forward. Questions twist in his mind and he knows in his gut that his relationship with Alex will never be the same again. And while he’s excited for what comes next, he’s also terrified of what it might all mean. The overwhelming desire to feel Alex’s heartbeat eventually tugs him forward, though, and before long he’s dropping to his knees beside them.

Alex paws at him, crawling into his lap with Isobel not far behind - clinging to the both of them like she never intends to let go ever again. ‘I felt you, Michael. You did this. How?’

Michael feels Alex bury his nose in the crook of his neck and reaches out to pull Isobel closer. ‘What he said about me being meant to save everyone. It just clicked in my brain and I knew I could save us.’ He presses his lips into Alex’s temple. ‘But I had to choose Alex in case I was wrong and needed help.’ His voice cracks and falters, a sob catches his breath and Michael collapses into them. They hold him close while he cries. The crash of adrenaline and the weight of his choice catching up to him.

They sit tucked tight together for a long time while the sun sets outside.

‘Is he going to have a handprint on his forehead?’ Isobel asks, pushing Alex’s hair aside to see if his skin has started to glow.

‘I don’t know - I don’t think so.’ He cups Alex’s cheeks and inspects his face, finding nothing. ‘Do you feel any different?’

‘Yes. I feel you everywhere. All over me. Inside of me.’ He wraps his fingers around Michael’s wrists, gently knocking their foreheads together. ‘It’s hard to breathe around, actually.’

Michael laughs. ‘Well, I’m having a lot of feelings right now.’

‘About me.’ Alex smiles.

‘Yeah, baby. About you.’ Michael hovers his lips over Alex’s, waiting. Alex doesn’t hesitate to answer, instantly closing the gap between them. And when their mouths finally lock together, both whimper at the touch, kissing each other like it’s the first time all over again. Eager, a little shy, and once again filled with so much hope for their future.

Isobel stumbles to her feet to give them space. She’s still covered in Alex’s blood, needing fresh air. And desperately wants to call Max to explain everything. Reaching out with her mind, she searches for signs of Jones somewhere nearby but finds nothing. Glancing back at Michael, she supposes Jones must know what he’s awakened inside her brother. Michael - the savior. Honestly, she’s not really all that surprised.

Michael hugs Alex flush against him. ‘I’m going to do something, Alex. And you’re going to feel it.’

But Alex shushes him. ‘I already know. Are you sure?’

He nods and shuts his eyes as Alex pushes them as close together as they can get. Offering Michael everything he has to give. Michael smiles and whispers. ‘I love you.’

And Alex responds, ‘I know.’

Michael searches across the desert, not knowing exactly what he’s doing. But before long, he spots what he’s looking for - a mind signature frantically fleeing from his wrath. Alex puts on a hand over Michael’s heart and Michael snaps Jones’ neck, his mind signature blinking out as he crumples to the dirt. He reopens his eyes and looks down at Alex. ‘Let’s go home.’

They rejoin Isobel and Michael informs her that Jones is dead. She nods her head. ‘It was the right decision, Michael. I guess I just wish we’d been able to find out more about where we come from.’

‘We don’t need him for that. I took his mind from him, Iz, before I killed him. I know everything he knows. And we have a lot to talk about. But first, I’m taking Alex home and crawling into his bed for at least a week.’ He hugs Isobel and she looks at him like the marvel he truly is and always has been before climbing into her SUV and leaving them alone.

‘I haven’t said I’m sorry yet.’ Michael turns to Alex. ‘And before you say I don’t have to,’ he holds his hand up to Alex who is already trying to stop him, ‘let me finish.’ Alex reluctantly nods. ‘I know I made the right decision. But I’m so sorry that means you can close your eyes and picture what it looks like to watch me hold me a gun to your head and pull the trigger. Because I can’t fix that part.’

Saying it out loud breaks something inside of him. Something he’s not sure will ever heal. So, he doesn’t bother trying to stop the tears that burn down his cheeks.

Alex grabs his hands. ‘Look at me.’ He waits for Michael to meet his eye. It takes a while but eventually he gets there. ‘I have seen a lot of horrible things in my life. My father’s fists aimed at my face, his hammer breaking your hand. Friends - brothers - riddled with bullets and bleeding out in my arms. Innocent people dying at my hand, riddled with my bullets. My leg shredded to pieces on the side of a dirt road in Iraq.’

He pauses to take a breath. Michael threads their fingers together to give him comfort. ‘You pointing that gun at my head? It is an image that will stay with me. Forever. But not for the reasons you fear. Because you didn’t get to see your face in that moment. The steel and certainty in your eyes. The courage and the love. And the defiance, Michael. I knew I could trust you. I knew I’d open my eyes again and get the chance to tell you how much I love you.’

‘But it’s even better than that. Because now it’s like you’re tattooed underneath every inch of my skin. You’re the oxygen expanding my lungs and the blood pumping through my veins. Yes, you shot me, Michael. But when I opened my eyes, I was so much more than I was before. You gave me that and only you could have given me that.’

They push against each other, chest to chest. Fingers clawing at whatever purchase they can find. Nose in necks and the first flares of arousal spreading through their hips. The scent of rain and Alex’s shampoo mingling together for the first time in over a year.

Michael feels something insistent pressing between his shoulder blades. Reluctantly, he pulls away from Alex and turns to find his cell phone floating freely. He concentrates on his power and realizes it’s not coming from his mind. Alex laughs behind him as Michael yanks his phone out of the air, stunned into silence.

A death. A homecoming. Something bright and new.

[myheartrevealedocs]

Untouchable Ch 6- The Fisher King: Part 1 (S1E22)

Summary:  A Spencer Reid x OC fanfic that retells select episodes, starting in season 1, from the point of view of Lydia Ambers, a forensic scientist.

Warnings: swearing, murder, threats

Ch 5 | Ch 7

~ ~ ~

“Have you read any of the Sherlock Holmes stories?” Reid inquired, as he walked past Lydia’s temporary desk.

They’d just gotten back from a case and Lydia was hard at work to finish up any reports she had to give that night. She had recently set herself to a standard that she wouldn’t bring any work things to her apartment so that she could focus on her studies there.

“When I was in middle school,” she answered, not looking up from her file. “Why do you ask?”

“Your job on our team is very Sherlock Holmes-esque.” He continued standing to the side of her desk, patiently hoping she’d engage more with him.

And she did after he said that. “Out of the two of us, you think I’m Sherlock Holmes?” she laughed.

“Well, I’m not exactly comparing us to Holmes and Watson, I just…” He paused as he reached into his book bag and Lydia swiveled her chair to face him directly. “I found this collection of some of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories in my apartment and I thought you might like them, if you hadn’t read them before.” He waved the brick-sized book up for her to see. “Do you want them?”

Lydia was surprised, to say the least. She stared at him for a moment, with widened eyes. “You saw a Sherlock Holmes collection and… you thought of- thought of me?” It felt so stupid, but she wasn’t sure what else there was to say. It felt like a joke, but Lydia could see no reason for Reid to be playing her.

“Of course,” he chuckled. “You’re brilliant. You’re younger than me and we’re on the same team. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

She shook her head wildly, the ends of her hair smacking her across the face. “I’m some lowly intern, Spencer. You were a supervisory special agent at the age of 23.”

“You could be, too,” he suggested. “You’ve got two more years to accomplish that.”

She stopped herself from shaking her head again and smiled down at her lap. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be an agent. I’ll stick to blood splatters and fingerprints.”

When she looked back up at him, she realized that he was still holding the book.

“Oh! I’d love to read some stories though,” she informed him. “If you’re sure you want to part with the book for a few weeks.”

“It’s not a problem,” he responded cheekily, setting it down on her desk. “You’ll have to call me and tell me what you think of the ones you read.”

She agreed and was watching him wander away when something struck her. “Oh, Spencer!”

He flipped on his heel, looking at her curiously. “Yeah?”

“You’re headed back to Vegas over your break, yeah? So I won’t be able to meet up with you at the cafe that week?”

He nodded.

She couldn’t help but glance at the gift he’d just given her. To borrow, of course, but it made her heart swell. “I’ll miss you.”

“You’ll be fine. You barely ask me for help on your courses anymore anyway. I think you’ve got it all figured out.”

A panic hit her as he left. Did he think she didn’t need him anymore? Was he going to leave her to get her PhD by herself now?

It wasn’t his job, but she’d figured he would be there to help her for every step of the way, as he had the past six months. But he was a genius, so if he said she could do it, shouldn’t she trust him? 

Ehh… he was intellectual, but college relied on emotional and mental factors, too. If something unexpected happened, she might need him again. Why did it feel relieving to know that something might cause her to be incapable of doing this alone??

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

It wasn’t about the PhD at all.

No, no, no.

She had feelings for Spencer Reid.

~ ~ ~

“I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life.”

Lydia allowed herself a few extra minutes to scan the pages of “The Red-Headed League” that evening after dinner. In the past few days, she’d read a few of the shorter of Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories, but had yet to talk to Spencer about them. He’d left for Las Vegas the previous day and she’d gotten the feeling that going home to his family was stressful for him, so she decided to give him some time to settle before speaking with him again.

Or at least, she thought she would.

Before she could truly invest herself in the book’s pages, she heard a brief knock at her door.

This job had really made her paranoid. She went totally silent, listening closely, but didn’t hear any voices or shuffling outside. Which was better than someone screaming at her to open the door or else they’ll kill her, but didn’t assuage her fears. No one she knew was in town. They’d all gone elsewhere for their vacation time with the exception of Hotch. Nor did they know where she lived to her knowledge. And if someone had accidently tapped against her door on their way down the hall, she would have heard them walking away… right?

She creeped towards the door, trying not to make any noise. If there was someone creepy out there, hopefully she could convince them no one was home and they’d leave. But there was no one outside that she could see from the peephole.

She was still afraid that someone might be hiding outside of the door’s line of sight, so she waited for a minute longer, looking out occasionally for any movement and listening closely. It wasn’t until she heard one of her neighbors leaving, a girl around her age who lived with her boyfriend down the hall, that she thought it was safe to open her door. If there was someone creepy waiting outside her door, her neighbor wouldn’t have acted so normal on her way past.

So, Lydia cracked the door open and looked down the hallway for anything out of place and found a small square package on the floor. There was no return address on it. On the top, written in Sharpie, was her name, apartment building, and room number.

That didn’t look good. But at that point, her fear of getting murdered was overtaken by immense curiosity. This had to have been hand delivered, but by who? The only people who would consider sending her a package were all in California.

She grabbed a nearby pair of scissors and slit the tape on the box to open it. And the inside was far stranger than the outside.

Inside was a singular orange prescription bottle. The label was made out to a Lady Blanchefleur for bupropion. She had no clue what the name meant, but the drug? That was targeted.

She was infuriated just by the sight of it and was ready to throw it out, but she saw a small slip of paper inside. She flipped the cap off and unrolled the small sheet.

SAVE HER.

What the hell was going on? Was someone trying to torment her about her past?

But who knew?

As much as she wanted to forget about the whole thing, Lydia knew something was messed up about this whole picture. Clearly whoever had sent this knew a lot about her history. More than she thought a single person did know about her life.  It was terrifying and sickening to think about.

Gideon told her not to call while he was on his vacation time. He needed the time away from anything work related and she could understand that. And she didn’t want to bother Hotch when he finally had family time. The only other person on the team who she trusted with this information was…

Spencer.

It was still mid-afternoon where he was, so she figured a call at this time would be reasonable. And even if he told her it was nothing, she could really use a voice she could trust right now.

It took him a few rings to pick up. “Hey, sorry. What’s up?”

“Hey, Spencer? I just got a really weird package delivered to my door. It doesn’t have a return address, just my name and apartment room. And inside-”

“Lydia, don’t open that,” he said, quickly, but she huffed.

“I already opened it. It’s just an orange pill bottle. But inside, there’s a note that says ‘save her’. And I have no clue why someone would send me something like this.”

She could feel his exasperation across the country. “Next time, don’t open weird packages, yeah? But I’m not sure why you’d get something like that. Garcia and JJ are at the office right now. You should call one of them and have the package processed. Let me know what you find, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll text you. Sorry for bothering you.”

“You aren’t bothering me at all. I’m glad you called…” He cleared his throat, awkwardly. “Talk to you later, okay?”

“Talk to you later.”

~ ~ ~

“Lydia!” JJ cried upon seeing her enter the BAU the next day. “Thank god. Something really weird is going on.”

“Did they find anything on the package I got?” Lydia inquired and she was quick to shake her head.

“No. But Hotch had to go to Jamaica, because Elle was arrested for murder and Gideon got a package with a head inside it.”

“A head?!?” Oh god, she was lucky. “A human head?”

JJ nodded. “Hotch is clearing Elle’s name and then he’ll be back with her and Morgan. Oh, and don’t bug Garcia,” she warned. “Her computer system’s down. She thinks she got hacked. When I went in there she was freaking out.” Lydia opened her mouth to say more, but JJ was off again. “Gideon! I’ve been trying to call you.”

Lydia flipped around to see Gideon marching towards the two of them. “Why?”

“Someone sent you a head?” JJ demanded.

“From Jamaica.”

“Morgan and Elle are in Jamaica right now,” she explained. “There was a murder. The body was headless. Elle’s been arrested for it.”

“What?”

“Hotch headed down there last night with some bureau lawyers and a crime scene unit. He should be there by now.”

Gideon rubbed his forehead, looking beyond exhausted. Lydia wondered what he’d been doing when that head arrived at his cabin. He’d made it very clear to them his cabin was where he had time to himself and she felt so bad he’d been so grossly interrupted. “If you talk to him, have him call me right away.”

“Yes, sir,” JJ replied, and they both took off in different directions. Lydia considered sitting at her desk and finding a way to pass the time while this mess was figured out, but an agent stopped her and Gideon on their way into the bullpen.

“The baseball card, medication bottle, and notes from your packages,” the man said, handing her the evidence bags. “We processed them. There’s nothing. And we’re still working on identifying the head.”

“Try contacting the Montego Bay Police. Apparently they have a headless homicide victim.”

“Got it.” He took off and Gideon waved Lydia towards the round table room.

“Lydia, start setting up an evidence board. Whatever you’ve got.”

“Sure.”

She dashed away and began pinning the small items onto a corkboard. Gideon had received an envelope with the exact same ‘SAVE HER’ message on the outside and inside was a Nellie Fox baseball card. And her evidence bags included a small slip of paper and a medication bottle.

She hesitated putting the last item up. This bottle… it was personal to her. And as soon as it became evidence in a case, she’d have to come clean about its significance.

She huffed and stuck the pin in more forcefully than she meant to. It didn’t matter. She didn’t have any secrets. Whatever, right?

They didn’t have to know everything, did they? And maybe, this unsub just picked random information to put on the bottle. Completely coincidental.

Except JJ had said Garcia’s computer might have gotten hacked. Shit. The FBI’s databases probably had that information on file. As well as where she was currently living. So then, maybe the coincidence was actually the bottle? This person had no clue how she felt about those stupid, plastic cylinders. That made more sense logically.

In fact, the only thing that didn’t make any sense was the name. Lady Blanchefleur. White flower.

Lydia jumped out of the room and towards her desk, typing the name into a search engine.

Blanchefleur was a common French name in the Middle Ages. She was the heroine in a famous story titled “Floris and Blancheflour” although the spelling of the name and details of the story changed depending on when and where it was transcribed. The name was also given to two separate characters in tales of the Knights of the Round Table: the first being the mother of Sir Tristan and the second, the love of Sir Percival.

She scanned page after page for anything that might indicate why the unsub had chosen that name, but there was very little on the name in fiction or history. The tale of Floris and Blancheflour was a short and sweet romance, but she could find no connections to herself or the case in it. And in the case of the round table knights, the name had been mentioned, but the characters never appeared in the stories, so she didn’t have any leads on that detail.

She glanced up just in time to watch JJ rush from her office to Gideon’s, a wooden picture frame in her hand.

She growled and shut down her computer, knowing full well that she was about to get more evidence for the board. But so far, other than a body in Jamaica and a head in a box, none of these pieces fit together.

~ ~ ~

“Come on,” JJ told Lydia, making her way out of the round table room. “Hotch, Elle, and Morgan should be coming up now.”

Now, to add to their collection, they had a butterfly in a frame with the message ‘SHE HAS BEEN SEARCHED FOR BUT NEVER FOUND’ and the name of a man who’d disappeared from Jamaica following the mysterious murder, Frank Giles. Lydia had been staring at the board for an hour at least, completely zoned out, but she listened to JJ and followed her through the bullpen.

Their timing was perfect, finding the three colleagues in a circle just outside the BAU office.

“Hotch, I spent half the night in an interrogation room,” Elle was berating him. “I am not sleeping until I find this Frank Giles.”

“Frank Giles left Jamaica last night on the Red Eye,” JJ informed the group as she and Lydia joined the circle. “He flew to Florida and then got onto another flight to Virginia.”

“Virginia?” Elle snarled. “You mean that son of a bitch is from here?”

“I don’t know if he’s from here, but this is where he flew to. Arlington.” She looked over the page a different tech analyst had given her. “He’s got a long criminal record. Manslaughter, robbery, rape.”

“What about the victim?” Morgan asked. “Marty Harris.”

“Uh, he’s a two-time convicted fetish burglar, registered child sex offender-”

“And we have his head,” Gideon interrupted, joining them. “CSU just positively identified the one delivered to my cabin.”

“‘Don’t waste time on the first victims. They were unrepentant bad men. They only got what they deserved,’” Hotch recited from a notepad in his hand.

“What is that?” Morgan asked.

“I got a phone call last night before you called from Jamaica,” he informed the group, waving the notepad with the conversation he’d written on it.

“Any mention of a ‘her’?” Elle questioned.

“‘You must help him save her,’” he responded.

“Now there’s a ‘him’, too?” Lydia rubbed her forehead as if it would clear her mind from this nauseating puzzle in front of her.

“I think he means Reid,” Gideon explained.

“Reid?” JJ asked.

“We need to regroup,” Hotch determined and the entire group turned and entered the bullpen.

~ ~ ~

Lydia lay dramatically with her head over the back of the chair she was seated in. They’d all migrated back to the conference room and she hated the idea of going back to staring blankly at the evidence boards. So her eyes traced the tiles of the ceiling as she listened to the rest of the group speak.

“So, clearly we have a psychopath who’s intent on drawing us into his game,” Hotch was saying.

“Playing with us,” Gideon added.

“Then let's return the favor,” Elle fired.

“He kept telling us repeatedly to save ‘her’. What ‘her’?” Morgan asked.

“The items he sent must be some kind of clues.”

Hotch agreed with Gideon and told JJ to start listing them off on the whiteboard.

“I got a Nellie Fox baseball card from 1963,” Gideon began, “and I got a head in a box.”

“I got a rare butterfly in a shadow box,” JJ added, before beginning the list.

“And repeated messages to save ‘her’,” Hotch offered.

Elle was pacing, obviously furious. “I got the decapitated body and a nice visit to the Jamaican police headquarters.”

“Reid called from Nevada,” Gideon explained for him. “He’s on his way back here with a skeleton key and a note he got, too… Lydia?”

She jumped up in her seat suddenly. “Sorry. I got a medication bottle with the name Lady Blanchefleur on it.”

“Lady Blanchefleur?” Elle asked.

She shrugged. “It’s French. It means ‘white flower’. I looked it up and there are a few notable uses of it throughout history, but nothing stood out to me.”

“Wait,” Hotch mumbled. He began flipping rapidly through his notepad again to find his scribbles. “You said Reid got a key?”

Gideon nodded.

“The guy who called me said something along the lines of…” he scanned the page he was on. “‘Sir Percival holds the key’.”

“Percival!” Lydia cried. “Yes! That was one of the… the Knights! At the Round Table!”

She grabbed Hotch’s notes before he could protest and looked over the line again.

“Sir Percival was known as Arthur’s most innocent and loyal knights. He went on the quest for the Grail and he was in love with… Lady Blanchefleur.”

She froze up at the implications of that. Did the unsub know that she was crushing on the doctor? But how? That was on no file and she definitely hadn’t told anyone.

“Ok, but wait a minute,” Morgan continued, no one seeming to notice her embarrassment. “They don’t contact us this way. I mean, they might taunt us, dare us to catch ‘em. But they don’t drag us into their fantasies.”

“Why not?” JJ asked, turning away from the board she was writing on.

“Because they’re sexual fantasies,” he argued. “I mean, taunting us is a show of power, but making us the object is… I don’t know what the hell that is.”

“Something else about the baseball card,” Gideon murmured. “Nellie Fox was one of the stars of the 1959 White Sox. I went to almost every game with my father that year. Fox was my hero. So, is it a coincidence that he sends this to me? Or does he know how I feel about him?”

JJ’s eyes went wide. “I collected butterflies when I was a little girl. That’s how I knew what butterfly was in the box.”

“So then he knows us,” Morgan determined.

“I got an anonymous message,” Hotch argued.

“I got a police raid,” Elle continued.

“But he knew exactly where we were,” Morgan shot back. “Hotel in Jamaica. Gideon at the cabin. Reid in Vegas. You and Lydia at your homes.”

“He got that from the Bureau computers.” Garcia appeared in the doorway, a manilla folder in hand. “Your locations are always in there so they can find you if they need you. I checked the log. The hacker was definitely in the personal folders. There were room numbers to the hotels in Jamaica, the address of Gideon’s cabin… There’s a lot of information in those databases,” she admitted.

“Have you figured out how he was able to get into the Bureau’s computers?” Hotch asked and she swallowed, harshly.

“I’m- I’m still working on that,” she said, but she looked like she was nodding.

“Garcia, if you know something-”

“No, it- um…” Lydia felt so bad for her. She looked terrified. “It’s just- I… I was playing a game yesterday. An online game.”

Gideon blinked. “A game?”

“Not on the Bureau computer, sir,” she defended, quickly. “On my own personal laptop.”

“Garcia, no, no, no, no.” Morgan put his head into his hands and Garcia’s eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t understand,” Hotch said, softly, seeing how fragile the tech genius was.

“Wireless internet,” was all Morgan said.

“By wirelessly hooking into the net here to get online, the hacker could have gotten into my computer first, and I have far less protection on my own laptop.”

Hotch crossed his arms. “And he could have gotten into the entire Bureau computer system this way?”

She nodded, her voice barely a whisper at this point. “Yeah, it’s possible.”

Gideon got up slowly, turning away from the group. “Playing a game?” he asked. “How could you be that stupid?”

“Gideon!” Lydia shouted.

“Information, files,” he continued, ignoring her. “You have a responsibility.”

“I know, sir,” Garcia apologized, the tears streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry.”

Everyone stayed silent at the spectacle, wondering who would speak first. Lydia watched everyone’s eyes drop to the floor as Penelope looked for some support and it infuriated her. She threw down Hotch’s notepad and walked over to comfort the girl, but she pushed her away.

“But I found him,” she told them through her tears.

“You what?” Elle started to move towards her.

“I know who he is,” she said. “The hacker. His name is Giles. Frank Giles. He lives in Arlington, Virginia, four miles from here. I have his address.”

She handed the folder to Hotch before swiftly leaving the room.

“Did she say Giles?” Morgan repeated.

~ ~ ~

Hotch: Rm 1210. Now.

Lydia hadn’t even read the text before she was throwing on her vest and leaving the SUV. Hotch had required her to start wearing the bulletproof attire after the fiasco in McAllister when Cory Bridges had a gun on her. It didn’t exactly make her feel safer, knowing that the vest wouldn’t have stopped a bullet to the face, but getting shot on the job didn’t help him or Gideon prove she was an asset to Strauss, so she agreed to it.

She silently passed all the exiting SWAT guys as she made her way upstairs and to Frank Giles’s apartment. She thought for sure that she’d watch them walk him away in handcuffs, but by the time she got to the room, she hadn’t seen him. Maybe he wasn’t home?

Oh, how wrong she was. She stepped into the apartment building and found the team standing around his body. He lay on a bare bed, a long sword straight through his chest. And, of course, in blood behind him:

HERE THY QUEST DOTH TRULY BEGIN

“God damnit,” she grumbled, already pulling her gloves out of her pocket.

“He’s definitely playing with us,” Hotch said.

“His identification checks out,” Elle admitted, handing Hotch the ID she’d found by the body. “That’s Frank Giles.”

“There’s a big old bag of money sitting right here on the dresser,” Morgan continued.

“Oh boy,” Lydia joked. “Where to start?”

“So, Giles took Harris to Jamaica to kill him and the unsub killed Giles,” Hotch figured.

Morgan was already pulling stacks of cash out of the bag. “Yeah, but he paid him first.”

“Left the cash?” Elle inquired.

He shrugged. “He’s apparently well-funded.”

Lydia knelt down next to the body to look at the blade in his chest.

“He said these were ‘unrepentant bad men’,” Hotch reminded them. “Are we looking for some kind of vigilante?”

“No,” Gideon murmured. “The bodies are nothing but a way to get us interested. They’re game pieces. The killings are secondary.”

“Well, this guy likes to write things in blood on walls,” Elle stated and Morgan nodded.

“All kinds of cult and demonic significance to that.”

“Thy? Doth? Quest?” She threw the words around before reading it in its entirety. “‘Thy quest doth truly begin’ Why start phrasing things like this now?”

“All the other messages were in modern English,” Hotch agreed.

“Maybe this is the first one the unsub actually wrote,” Morgan suggested.

Elle scoffed. “So we’re looking for Shakespeare?”

“Hey, guys?” Lydia interrupted. “There’s something etched on the blade.” She leaned in close, trying to read the scratches over the already intricate designs on the sword. “‘To learn of what should next be done, leave the blade til the hour be none’.”

“Hour be none?” Morgan asked and Hotch leaned down to see for himself.

“Leave the blade,” he mumbled. “Elle, move for a second.” She stepped away from the group, backing up towards the bloody wall. “Move to your left… The bed’s in the middle of the room.”

“Which isn’t by chance,” Morgan agreed.

“And maybe the light from here-” He pointed to a window behind him, where Elle formerly was. “-casts a shadow and points to something.”

“Come on,” Elle protested. “Are we in the middle of an Indiana Jones movie?”

“The hour be none?” Hotch repeated, ignoring her comment.

“Midnight is 00:00 hours in 24-hour time. Would that be none?” Morgan asked.

“Midnight wouldn’t cast a shadow,” the older man argued.

“Hour be none…” Morgan sounded it out like it might suddenly come to him.

“3 PM.”

Spencer had slid into the room, his book bag still around his shoulder. He looked a little tired, but Lydia attributed it to jet lag and possible stress over the new case.

“Hey, guys. Garcia told me where to find you.”

“3 PM?” Gideon asked.

“It’s medieval,” Spencer explained. “The days used to be broken into hourly intervals. The canonical intervals of the breviary. Prime: 6 AM. Terce: 9 AM. Sext: 12 noon.  None: 3 PM. And vespers: 6 PM.”

“Reid, do not ever go away again,” Elle insisted.

He smiled, but Gideon refused to let them fall off track. “Medieval. That’s why the language changed.”

“Everything this guy does is a clue,” Hotch agreed.

“We can narrow it down some more,” Lydia offered. “He was talking about King Arthur’s Round Table earlier.”

“The Round Table?” Reid inquired.

“Okay, but guys, it’s 4:35,” Morgan interrupted. “What do we do? Leave the blade in until 3 PM tomorrow?”

It took Reid a minute to realize we’d switched topics. “Oh, not if we can block that window out.” He turned to one of the crime scene investigators in the seperate room. “Do you have any spotlights in your car?”

“Sure,” she replied and the team got to work on covering the window.

~ ~ ~

Lydia sat down in a corner of the room, watching as everyone set up for their experiment. Spencer knelt in front of the now dark window and rest stood off to the sides so they could see the uninterrupted shadow on the wall.

“So, the sun is right here at 5 PM,” he started, turning on the flashlight to face the sword. “Morgan, follow the shadow as I move the light higher.”

He was quick to oblige, moving a lamp and the table on which it sat out of the way as the shadow flattened out. “Okay. And do what?”

Hotch leaned forward. “Tap,” he instructed.

Morgan used the pads of his fingers to prod at the wall as the shadow moved under Spencer’s direction. After a moment, the hilt of the sword lined up with a hollow spot in the wall.

“Definitely an Indiana Jones movie,” Elle repeated her reference from earlier.

“Feels like the wallpaper’s been replaced.”

“Tear it open,” Hotch told him.

Morgan pulled out a pocket knife, which slid easily into the thin plaster and allowed him to pull a large section of the wall out.

“It’s a box.”

“Take it out.”

“Wait, are we sure it’s safe?” Reid interrupted.

“What, you think it’s a bomb?” Hotch fired back. “You think he’d be playing this game just to blow us up?”

“He’d have already done that as long as we’ve been standing here,” Morgan agreed and reached into the hole.

It was a strange, dark box, with a gold lock encrusting the front. Morgan tried for a second, but it wasn’t opening.

“It’s locked. You want me to break it?”

“No,” Hotch sighed. “We should process it first.”

Everyone was startled when Gideon finally spoke up. “‘Sir Percival holds the key’,” he muttered.

The entire group turned their heads to Reid. “Sir Percival?” he asked, bewildered.

“I’ll explain later,” Lydia told him and approached. “Do you have the key?”

He fumbled around his pants and shirt pocket until he found the skeleton key and handed it to her. Lydia joined the group around the box and opened it up carefully. The second the top cracked open, a slow, sweet tune filled the room.

Music box.

A thin lined piece of paper sat on the bottom of the box, which Reid took from her hand and read aloud. “‘Never would it be night, but always clear day to any man’s sight.’”

“Well, that was worth it,” Elle replied, sarcastically.

“The lid,” Gideon said from behind her. “Little tab right under the lock.”

Morgan saw what he was talking about and pulled the top down to reveal another compartment in the top of the box. And inside that was a lock of blonde hair, tied together with a pink ribbon, and a DVD that read: THY QUEST.

Elle took the hair to a crime scene investigator to put in an evidence bag and Morgan looked over the DVD.

Lydia stood up fully and started to leave, ripping her gloves off as she went. “Let’s go see what this stupid quest is about.”

~ ~ ~

“Sir Percival?” Spencer repeated as the two sat next to each other in the conference room.

“Right.” She rubbed her palm over her forehead. “Hotch got a call. The speaker said, ‘Sir Percival holds the key’. Then we found out you had received a skeleton key. And the medicine bottle I got? It’s prescribed to a ‘Lady Blanchefleur’. She’s the love of Sir Percival in some of the stories of the Round Table.”

His eyes widened. “So, we’re…”

“This unsub thinks we are,” Lydia replied quickly. She was too exhausted to have this awkward conversation right now. “He’s definitely got a medieval fantasy to play out.”

They put the DVD in and a video popped up. The setting was dark, with a large shadow cast over the top half of the room. There was a fireplace against the back wall, but no fire. The camera was set up on a desk, with many strange objects littered around, all gold in color. And finally, a grand leather chair faced the camera.

It took a moment for the man to walk in, most likely their unsub. He wore all black and hobbled onto screen slowly, taking a painful moment to sit in the chair. With the terrible lighting in the room, his face was obscured from their view.

“He moves funny,” Hotch noted.

“Looks like he’s injured or something,” Morgan agreed.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse and raspy. Lydia wondered if he was a smoker or had lost it somehow, but if the latter were the case, it would have been accompanied by coughs or moments where the sound disappeared completely. He didn’t have that, which would suggest he’d been living like that a long time.

“I assure you… you’ll all understand in the end why it must be this way. You might even thank me.”

“Don’t hold your breath, scumbag,” Elle snapped.

“You know now you’re on a quest. A young girl’s life depends on the successful completion of it.” The video cut to one of a blonde girl in all white, sitting on a bed. When she noticed the camera, she started throwing objects across the room at the person filming. “As you can see, she’s quite beautiful… and in distress.” There was another shot of her at the door of the room, There was a barred window in the door, which she pulled at and threw herself against.

Then, it cut back to their unsub. “Now, please listen closely for there is one rule. And this rule must be followed. The one rule is… only the members of your team may participate in the quest.” As he listed off each team member, pictures of them on the job appeared. “Jason Gideon, Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, Elle Greenaway, Spencer Reid, Jennifer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, and Lydia Ambers.” Lydia was terrified to see her face appear with the others. She could see someone easily getting these pictures from newspapers and press conferences. Some of them were perhaps more candid, but even so, the BAU was constantly working popular cases and people could easily join a crowd and catch pictures of them.

But Lydia? She recognized where she was standing. It was outside the hospital of the poisoning case she worked a few months back. No one was there. It was a hospital parking lot, the only way she could have missed someone taking photos of her was if they were sitting in their car waiting for her to come out.

God, that’s horrifying.

“A quest must be completed in the proper way or it isn’t a quest, is it? That’s it. One rule. Simple. Now, you will be receiving an item soon that will hold the final clue you’ll need to finish the quest. You will find you’ll also need a book which has inspired many an adventure like mine. Believe me when I tell you, I truly hope to see you all soon. It will mean a successful end to this adventure… for all of us.”

The screen went black.

“This guy’s got pictures of us?” Elle demanded, suddenly.

“What do we do now?” Spencer asked.

“Well, the lock of hair’s being analyzed for DNA. There might be something on file,” Hotch explained, avoiding the uncomfortable topic of the video they’d just watched.

“I’ll get the video team to enhance the shots of the girl,” JJ offered, grabbing the DVD from the player.

“Let’s get the clues up on the board,” Hotch ordered. “Maybe we can make some sense of something.”

“Wait. We’re going to play this guy's game?” Elle cried.

“Do we have a choice?” Spencer shot back.

The sound of the door opening caught everyone’s attention and Lydia turned around in time to watch Gideon storm out. She wasn’t sure what was up with him, but at the moment, she just couldn’t deal with it. Lucky for her, Hotch volunteered, standing up to leave.

“Be right back. You guys keep working.”

As soon as both her superiors were gone, Lydia lay her head down on the table and listened distantly to what the others had to say.

She really wasn’t in the mood for this puzzle solving today.

~ ~ ~

Not ten minutes later, Hotch was back… with his wife, son, and a piece of poster paper with a bunch of random numbers on it. Supposedly someone had appeared at their door and told Haley to give the paper to Hotch immediately.

“Dear lord, I’m going to throw myself out of a window,” Lydia grumbled, watching Spencer put the new delivery onto a corkboard.

“Ambers,” Hotch warned, before leaving with his wife.

“Sorry, I’m going to let someone push me out of a window,” she joked once they were out of earshot. “What are we looking at?”

“My eyes are so heavy I can barely see it,” Elle replied.

“I think it’s a coded message of some sort.” Reid rubbed his chin, contemplating.

“The unsub said we’d need a book, didn’t he?” Lydia asked. “It could be book code.”

He nodded excitedly. “Each one of these sets of numbers represents a particular word. For instance, page 118, line 30, word 3. We need to figure out what the words are and fill in the blanks.”

Morgan somehow looked even more fed up than Lydia felt. He ran his hands over his head and interlocked the fingers at the back of the neck, pulling on it like he planned to tear his own head off.

“Yeah, but from what book?” Elle asked Spencer and he shrugged.

“I don’t know. The trouble is it has to be the exact same edition of the exact same book that he used.”

JJ walked in, a folder in her hands. “Just got a DNA hit on the lock of hair. Rebecca Bryant. She’s been missing out of Boston for two years.” As she explained, they passed around the photo they had of her on file.

Lydia’s heart had skipped a beat when JJ said Rebecca, panicking for a moment about the safety of her own sister. Could the unsub possibly know where her sister and Sonia lived?

“Two years?” Elle was appalled.

“Guys, how are we supposed to figure out which book this code was copied out of?” Morgan demanded.

“I have no idea,” Reid admitted for the second time.

JJ took back the picture to stick to the whiteboard and started to write around it.

“He said we have everything needed to complete the quest,” Reid murmured and the whole team stared at the boards, looking for any clues, indications, hints… anything that stood out really.

“The answer’s gotta be up there somewhere,” Elle reasoned.

“JJ,” Gideon waltzed in out of nowhere, “get some reporters here as soon as possible.”

“For what?”

“Just say we need help on a new case.”

They all looked around blankly after he left.

“Press conference?” Morgan asked.

JJ shrugged before following suit and leaving them to stare at the boards for any bright ideas.

~ ~ ~

Over the next hour, they pulled down all of the evidence bags and Lydia began to do as much research on anything out of place that she could.

Elle had fallen asleep on one of the couches and they all opted to leave her there unless they came up with something.

Reid lifted up a nearby bag. “A pale clouded yellow butterfly indigenous to Great Britain?” he asked.

Lydia was already typing away at her laptop for any significance to that.

“How’s it going?” Hotch had finally returned from the press conference and Lydia felt bad for being so negative to him earlier. The obvious stress that came upon him when his wife and kid were involved was completely reasonable and she was glad he was able to get them into a hotel. She could only imagine the panic she’d be feeling if her sister lived with her. She wouldn’t let the girl leave her sight after getting that package.

“The answer to what book we need has to be in here,” Spencer pondered.

Morgan dropped whatever he’d been toying with at the time. “Yeah, but we sure as hell can’t see it.”

“Yet,” Spencer specified.

Hotch stepped away from them to shake Elle awake.

“I’m sending you home,” he insisted, denying her protests.

“Elle, seriously, we’re not any closer than we were,” Morgan told her. “Get out of here. Go home.”

“But-”

“That’s an order,” Hotch interrupted. “Let’s go.”

Lydia watched silently as Hotch escorted her out, then read off what she’d learned about the butterfly to the two guys left. “Its binomial name is the colias hyale. If I had to guess, this one is a female. It’s a large species of butterfly and lives in flowery places.”

“It’s a butterfly, Lydia,” Morgan said impatiently. “No shit.”

“Well, it’s not like there’s very much to learn about butterflies,” she shot back. “They’re pretty insects and that’s all. What do you want from me?” She huffed and scrolled some more. “Okay… this says that yellow butterflies represent new life and if you cross paths with one, it supposedly gives you happiness?” She searched some more, clicking on various links and scanning the pages. “Oh shit, nevermind. There’s a whole lot of symbolism of butterflies spiritually. They represent angels and rebirth and stuff. Hold on.”

She’d fallen into a rabbit hole of sorts. The religious relation to the butterfly was more popular than she thought, but there wasn’t much credibility to her sources. She tried to find references to this specific butterfly in books or other forms of media but came up empty.

“I can’t find any significance to it in a book. Should we try something else?”

“Ambers.” Hotch called her over from the door he’d just taken Elle out of. “I need a word.”

She set the computer back down and followed him out curiously. “What’s up, Hotch?”

“I want to respect your past and privacy, so I haven’t brought the pill bottle up yet, but if it has any significance to the case, I need you to tell me now.”

She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. The fact that it’s for bupropion is personal. I know that. But the rest seems like random information.”

“Nothing is random for this unsub,” he argued and walked into the conference room. “Reid, hand me the prescription bottle.”

The boy’s head shot up, but he wasn’t looking at his boss. His eyes were glued to Lydia. “Oh… um…” He dropped his gaze awkwardly and reached for the bag in front of him. “Here you are.”

“Okay. Lady Blanchefleur. Bupropion. RX: 315121253201518. Doctor Sir Kneighf,” he recited. “What does that mean?”

“Well, Lady Blanchefleur we’re assuming is in relation to the medieval character,” she reasoned. “Let’s see about Sir Kneighf.” She put it into a google search but came up empty. “Hm… no.”

“Bupropion is an antidepressant, isn’t it?” Spencer offered.

Hotch stepped in quickly. “We don’t believe that bit is relevant.”

“Why not?” Morgan asked.

Hotch gave her a look that said, this is on you now.

“Gideon gets a baseball card of his baseball hero,” Lydia began. “JJ gets a butterfly that she was interested in when she was younger. I get the antidepressant my mom was taking when I was a kid.”

She tried not to speak sharply, but there was still a clear edge in her voice. She was frustrated that Hotch had read the medication out loud after she’d just told him that was the only personal part. But, he had to cover all his bases. This was important, she reminded herself. A girl’s life was at stake.

“Maybe it does have significance to the case,” she defended. “But so far, Nellie Fox and the butterfly were just ways to get the recipient interested. And this guy must know me well, because bupropion? Let’s just say, it caught my eye.”

Reid’s eyes were trained on the desk. He didn’t want to look up at her. He was beginning to feel guilty about his desire to learn about her past, seeing how closed off she became when forced to talk about it. It was clearly not full of a lot of happy memories for her.

Morgan next to him was simply confused. He knew not to push her, but he couldn’t quite piece together why anyone would care about their mother’s old medicine.

And Hotch was still focused on the label in front of him.

“I can’t keep staring at these,” she stressed to the group. “I’m gonna go for a walk.”

“Lydia-” Hotch started as she stood up and grabbed her jacket.

“I’m fine, Hotch,” she insisted. “I just… my brain is fried. I’m gonna take a minute and be back with fresh eyes.”

The rest of the room settled in guilt, despite the fact that, in the end, they would’ve had to talk about the prescription bottle with her. They needed to know, even if she hated it. Morgan had no idea it was a sore subject, Spencer, only an inkling, and Hotch was fully aware of what it represented in her mind.

But not a one of them could protect her from her past. And once Lydia had released some of her anger, she’d come to realize that, too.

[sopeyb23-blog]

Coming Home

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

Summary: While Spencer recovers at OC’s old home, she is forced to tell what happened to her there.

Warnings: Anxiety, Trauma, Injury, hit and run, stalking, swearing, angst, panic, suicide (past)

pairing: Spencer Reid X OC

Words: 2K

A/N: this ones suuuuper dark people, i’m not gonna lie. Its longer than usual because I am hoping to finish this series with the next chapter! If criminal minds style plots trigger you I wouldn’t recommend this chapter is pretty dark.

*I do not own any CM characters 

~~~~~~~~

Part 9

Spencer~

For the days that we stayed in her house, I never once saw a sign in her parents, or even her sister for that matter, that would tell me about what happened to her here. Not that I was looking so hard. It’s difficult sometimes, to keep myself from looking at all the little moves people make. It's difficult to not immediately think the worst of everyone around me after all of the horrible parts of humanity that I’ve seen. I had been in situations similar to hers before. I knew the pain of thinking that your trauma is something for only you to handle. The terrifying feeling that maybe it won't go away, thinking constantly that I’m just a burden. I wouldn't wish that feeling on anyone, especially not anyone I love as much as her. 

I looked up from my seat at the counter to where Sophie and her sister were talking in hushed voices. Every once in a while I would see the both of them look at the pictures adorning the walls of the house. At some of them they would give a faint smile, while at others a small grimace. I heard little bits of their conversations sometimes, slowly putting together what I missed.

“We promised not to talk about-” 

“Well we also said we wouldn't-”

“Have you seen-”

“No, I assumed they were-”

It was that moment, that I'm sure of. The moment none of them would speak of. Something that not only made the three siblings closer than ever, but also more afraid of losing one another than they ever had been. Something big enough to scare two of three of them out of the state the same year, to never come back. Something so terrifying to all of them that they would never even talk about it.

Sophie~

Spencer sat at my kitchen counter slowly eating the soup I had made for him the previous night. Lu and I were in the doorway to the living room talking as quietly as we could.

“If you would just tell him we wouldn’t have to-” 

“No, not yet, I don’t want to have to bring him into this!”

We were talking about that night. The night that the three of us would keep guarded forever. Less than two months after that night I left for college and never came back. That is, until now. I knew I had to tell Spencer. I was waiting until we could go home. When I wasn't here anymore, then maybe, but it seemed that we wouldn't be leaving for at least another week. I didn't want to keep dodging his questions. But the fact of the matter is, not only does this change everything for him, but for me as well. And I am notoriously bad with change. After keeping this to myself for all these years, the prospect of telling someone else terrified me. Even if that person was Spencer.

“Sophie, I love you, you know that. We both know what happened wasn't our fault. But not telling him doesn't make it go away. You have to do it. Staying here without him knowing just puts him and you more at risk than ever.”

Spencer~

Now that, I heard. Loud and clear even though my brain was hazy from pain and sleep. What risk? If something happened to her I don’t know what I would do. Another loss in my life would be too much. I only had her left to lose. She's all I have left. 

“Sophie if you're in trouble you know I would help you, right?” I attempted to stay quiet but the thought of her trying to do this on her own was one step I wasn’t willing to take.

She quickly turned around after hearing my voice and rubbed a hand over her forehead.

“If somethings wrong you need to tell me. I can help.” she put her hand down and walked toward me. 

“I know, Spence, I know” she sat down on the stool next to me and took my hand.

“How about we take a walk?” Her eyes pleaded with me not to say anything more for the moment, and I complied. She helped me up from the seat and kept her hand on my back as she walked me out of the house.

“There's a place, out back, I used to go there when I was upset, it's quiet so we can talk”

Her voice rang with sadness and defeat but her eyes stayed looking toward the ground and she walked with me on a small gravel path leading behind the house.

Sophie~

This is not how it was supposed to happen. I was going to take him back home, I was going to put on the tea kettle and make us both peppermint tea. I was going to sit beside him on the couch in our living room and tell him about that night. But here I am, walking with him back to the place I used to come to cry when I was young. Preparing to tell him something that would change everything. 

“Right here, Spence. Sit.” I sat him on a log bench overlooking the ocean behind my house. I stood before him for a second, contemplating how to tell him before sitting beside him on the bench.

“It started when I was sixteen”

I laughed and opened up my car door, throwing my backpack in the backseat before moving to the front. On the front seat was a little envelope, presumably slipped through the little crack at the top of my window. It was addressed to me in dark bold lettering, but handwriting that I didn’t recognize. I sent a picture to my best friend at the time, Ben. He responded almost immediately:

B: wasn’t me, I promise! Where'd you find that?

S: my car, it was just sitting on the driver's seat, should I open it?

B: ummmm, Yeah!! But send me a picture of what it says!

I carefully opened the envelope, trying my best to not rip- 

“Wait, wait, wait.” Spencer stopped me in my tracks and put his hand out in front of him like he was stopping a car in the road.

“Ben? Isn't he-”

“The one that killed himself the first year we were dating” I stopped him in his tracks and gulped after I said it. It was never an easy thing to talk about, even so long after. But he comes in later, and I have too much of the story left to start crying now, so I continued.

I opened it to find a badly folded bit of construction paper with a note saying “I always love it when you wear braids” behind the paper was about six or seven pictures of me. All of them were in color and taken from afar, usually at my back, with the braids that I wore so often circled on each photo in red sharpie. I took a few photos to send to Ben but didn't wait for a response before securing the envelope in my glove compartment and locking my doors. I right away texted my sister the photos as well and drove off as fast as I could from the school parking lot.

“So you were being stalked?”

“In short, yes. It got worse and much more frequent. After that I stopped wearing my braids as often. I figured, if that's what he wants I'm sure as hell not giving it to him. But the pictures kept coming, until one day a few months after the first envelope my mom found one on my doorstep.”

“Oh, Sophie, I forgot to tell you, I put a letter for you on your desk, I found it on the porch.” my heart stopped when she told me. He had never left them at my home before. He had left them in my car, in my locker, in my school bag even, but never once at my home. I never told my mom, only my siblings and Ben. I faked a smile to her after I could calm my breathing enough to speak.

“Thanks, Mom, I'll look at it a bit. It's probably just an invitation or something” I couldn't bring her into this, especially not now that he knew where I lived. 

I took photos of the new envelope. The same handwriting adorned the note and my name written on the outside. Again the note was written with a red sharpie on badly folded construction paper. Again six or seven photos with markings all over the pictures in the same red sharpie as on the note. This time, the pictures were closer. Some still far away, but those taken from afar were through windows. Some even into my bedroom.

“And you didn't go to the police?” Spencer's voice yet again interrupted me from the memories that were so prevalent in my mind.

“No. The new note said I couldn't. I was a young woman, in Maine, Spence. No one would have taken me seriously even if I had. Besides, in that same note he wrote the address of all of my friends and family. He promised to kill them If I told anyone.” Spencer said nothing but his eyes and shoulders sank. He put a hand on my leg and rubbed as he saw me shake. Even all these years later the very thought of it scared me so bad that I could barely breathe.

It continued like that for two years. Once a month at least I would get an envelope. I never saw him. After I graduated there were a few months where I didn’t get a note. I thought it was over. My brother and my sister came back to Maine for the summer. I was accepted into an accelerated MD program at Tufts and was leaving in a few months. Then, three months before I was supposed to leave, the notes came back. 

“Lu, I don't know what to do!” I sat on the couch in our living room and cried to her while my brother stood by the wall reading the note. After he was done reading, he grabbed my hand and looked me dead in the eyes.

“We’re going to the school” He helped me and Lu up from the couch and we all got in his car.

“Dominic, we can’t! You saw the last one! He knows where we live!” 

“He said we couldn't go to the police, he never said anything about the school” 

And so, we went. He parked in the back and locked the car with the windows rolled up even with the summer heat. He walked in front of me and Lu behind me. And then we went in. 

“So you told the school?”

“We tried. It was already dark by the time we had gotten there. There was no one in the building, so we left.”

Defeated, Dominic promised me that we would go as soon as we could the next day and he and Lu walked out of the building towards the car. I swear before it happened I felt something was wrong. There was nothing that could have told me that, I know. But as I stepped off of that curb in front of the building, chills went up my spine. I looked up to see the face of a boy in my class. I didn't even know his name but I recognized him. He was driving a car. A red Ford truck. As I smiled up to him I didn't even notice his engine revving. He hit me full force and drove off without a second of hesitation. 

I was sobbing now, remembering the pain that I felt before I went unconscious. I was barely conscious for a minute before I passed out. But still that was the worst pain I had felt in my life. Spencer rubbed my back and coached me through breathing as best he could. His face was a mixture of panic and sadness but he said nothing as he helped me breathe.

“I should have died that night, maybe then he would have left us all alone”

[converse-luke]

Your Loving Is Bible Part 1 (Genesis)

A/N: Here’s the first part of the Sierra spin off to my A to Z series. I’m really excited to write more of this!!

Warnings: drinking, fighting references 

The sun has turned from a comforting source of warmth to scorching hot. Sierra stretches, arching her back before sitting up. She ties her white coverup around her waist and cleans up her mess. Sweat beads at her forehead and she quickly takes shelter in the lower level of the restaurant nearby. 

After setting her stuff by her feet Sierra settles in a tall barstool. She takes her sunglasses off and wipes at her forehead, her muscles twitching from the heat. The bartender has her back turned to Sierra, her raven hair just reaching the tips of her shoulders. When she turns around Sierra’s stunned. Her bronze skin is like the color of the seashells Sierra’s collected in her bag, warmly glowing from the Florida sun. With long strides she approaches Sierra, a glow in her melting amber eyes. “Hi, what can I get for you today?” 

For a moment Sierra forgets how to speak, blinking up at the woman in front of her. Freckles spread across her cheeks, making intricate constellations. “I uh,” Sierra shakes her head, “I’ve never actually been here before. What should I get?” The bartender smiles wider at her. 

“If I can see your I.D I can surprise you.” She quickly looks it over, when she hands it back Sierra notices red splotches across her knuckles. Before she can question it the bartender is whisking away. While she waits she drums her nails against the counter. “One blue Hawaiian for Miss Sierra.” 

“Oh, thank you. How much do I owe you?” The bartender laughs a little, the dulcet sound warming Sierra up inside. 

“You don’t owe anything. It’s a hot day and pretty women get free drinks on hot days.” Sierra’s cheeks get hotter and she looks down at her drink, a small smile starting to form. 

“I don’t think I can accept this without knowing your name.” She looks back up finally, starting to chew on her bottom lip. 

“Dottie,” she smiles, “my name’s Dottie. Enjoy your drink Sierra.” As Sierra takes a sip Dottie removes herself from the counter, walking to go help another customer. 

Sierra spends her time at the bar smiling into her drink and glancing over at Dottie every so often. When she finishes she munches on the pineapple garnish, a finger circling the rim. Dottie saunters back over, about to take the glass when Sierra places her hand over hers. “Hey, what happened to your hand?” Her features shift into a soft smile. 

“Boxing, it’s my actual job.” She giggles at the confused look on Sierra’s face. 

“Your actual job?” 

“Yeah, my family owns the place. I just help out between training and matches.” Sierra can’t help the way her heart warms at that. “Did you enjoy your drink?” 

The question momentarily catches her off guard. “Oh I uh, yes.” As Dottie smiles at Sierra someone calls her name 

“Sorry I gotta go,” she quickly collects Sierra’s glass, shooting her another smile, “I’ll see you around Sierra.” She’s in a daze while Dottie walks off, only coming out of it when she’s at the beach house with her face in the duvet and Sophie’s hand in her hair. 

A few days go by before the three of them make their way to the bar. Sierra sits right where she was a few days ago, watching Luke and Sophie sit out of the corner of her eye. She actually takes the time to peruse the menu while waiting for Dottie to show up. 

When she arrives their eyes lock, Dottie’s glowing brightly in the sunshine. Sierra’s gaze travels down to her lips, gasping at the torn flesh. She restrains herself from reaching for Dottie’s face as she walks up to her. “What happened?” She asks before Dottie can even speak. 

“Tough fight last night. I’m fine though,” she places her hands on the table, this time they’re wrapped. “So, decide what you want?” 

Sierra bites her lip, looking down at the menu before handing it to Dottie. “Surprise me?” It gets her a laugh, Sierra would kill to hear it forever. 

“One surprise coming right up.” She winks, travelling over to Luke and Sophie to get their order before heading to the back. When she looks across the bar Sophie gives her a thumbs up. It sends a blush across her cheeks and she looks at the counter. 

Unfortunately Dottie can’t linger by her after dropping her drink off. Happy hour is starting for drinks and oysters, tourists starting to flood the bar. Out of the corner of her eye Sierra watches Sophie order a dozen raw oysters. She’s perfectly content to just sit here with her drink for now, watching Dottie speed around. 

When she’s finished her finger circles the ring of her glass again while she tries to twist a cherry stem into a knot with her mouth. “Having trouble?” Dottie’s voice startles her and she smiles bashfully. 

“Do I owe you anything?” 

“No, never.” Dottie pulls the cocktail glass towards her. “Listen I think you’re really cute and I may be being really forward right now but I was wondering if I could give you my number and we could go on a date sometime?” Their eyes meet, Dottie breaking eye contact first to stare at her wrapped hands. 

“I’d love to go on a date sometime.” Dottie’s head snaps up, her mahogany eyes lighting with excitement. 

“I-that’s great, here let me give you my number.” She pulls out a sharpie and Sierra’s arm, neatly scrawling her number from the crook of Sierra’s elbow to her wrist. “I have to get back to work, text me okay?” 

Sierra can only repeat, “okay,” before Dottie is hurrying off again. Swinging around in the barstool she grins widely at Sophie, gathering her bag and striding over. “I don’t need your observation anymore.” Her confidence makes Sophie laugh, downing another oyster while Luke sips on a third piña colada. 

“And why don’t you need it anymore?” 

“Because I got her number and she asked me out!” Sierra squeals, shoving her arm at Sophie. 

“Wow, nice,” Sophie whistles, Luke looking over her shoulder. His cheeks have turned pink but not from the sun. “Lets head back to the house before Luke decides he wants shots too.” She quickly pays a different bartender and pulls Luke up. Sierra is fully expecting all six foot four of Luke to fall against her, bracing herself to catch his weight. It only took not catching him once to realize that Luke has no awareness of his size when drunk… and that he’s even clingier. 

Sierra is laying on her bed, staring at her phone like it’s a rubix cube. A half-written message stares back at her. Sophie lands on her bed seconds later, startling her out of her staring contest. “You still haven’t sent her a text? God she’s probably dying of the suspense.” 

“It hasn’t been that long.” 

“The sun is setting Sierra, it has been that long.” She sticks her tongue out at Sophie before handing her phone over. It only takes Sophie a few seconds to send off a message, showing Sierra the screen. 

“How are you better at being me than me?” Sierra attempts to smother herself in the duvet while Sophie laughs. 

“Because when you get a crush you turn into a flustered disaster.” She presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Also you’re my best friend, I know you from head to toe.” Sophie hugs her briefly and gets back up. “Don’t stay up too late,” with a fond smile she closes the door. Sierra can hear her feet trailing up the stairs, the door closing to her and Luke’s room. 

She waits five minutes, then ten, her heart racing waiting for a reply. The stress and excitement of it all gets too much so she closes the curtains and strips, heading towards her shower. Even with the hot water Sierra’s mind can’t help but trail to Dottie. Her blinding smile and freckled bronze skin. Sierra shakes her head, tilting her face up to the spray of water. She remains under the water until her head is clear and the stress in her shoulders has dropped. 

The bathroom is full of steam when she wraps herself in a robe. It floods out the door and into her bedroom. As Sierra roots through her closet for pajamas her phone buzzes. She pauses, turning to where her phone sits on the nightstand. It buzzes at her again. Sierra slowly picks it up, turning the screen on. 

Dottie: i could take you to my match in a few days and then we could go to the pier?? 

She can’t help the smile that breaks out across her face as her fingers fly across the keyboard. 

Sierra: i think that sounds wonderful 

She sits on the edge of her bed, smiling dopily down at her phone. With a happy sigh she lays back on the bed, holding her phone against her chest. She can’t wait to see her again.

Taglist (message me to be added or if you’re username has changed): @buggy-blogs @dukehoods @singt0mecalum @sleepwithdeath @calumsmermaid @babylon-corgis @turtoix @httpspook @madbomb @irwinkitten @5sos-microwave @findingliam-o @flannelpunkcalum @boyfriend-cal @sexgodashton @prettybabycal @redeserts​ @cassie-sos​

[hybristoo]

Vainglorious Vigilantes

Request: “ok ok… so I was sitting there hot sauce on my tiddies and I thought of a request. So I’ve never really seen this done before and hopefully I explain this in a way you can understand because I have dumb bitch syndrome. anyways, maybe the reader could mayhaps be batman and joker ( whichever of ur choosing ) could just subtly flirt with them. And reader is just done with his shit but also flirts back. This is a mess I’m sorry LMAO! ty tho!”

Synopsis: Reader is a vigilante, and tonight, they have to protect a criminal from the [Heath Ledger] Joker. 

Words: 1’849

Protecting-Gotham-and-its-people-it’s-STUPID WHORE

Such were the words plastered on the publicity poster. However, it being defaced, both your caricature (drawn brawnier and mightier than you actually were) and pseudonym (certainly not “Stupid Whore”) were scribbled over with red sharpie. Your eyes were crudely crossed out and there was a bullet wound etched on your forehead. The dysphemism for you was written in scraggly letters. 

Perhaps you would have found this vandalization disturbing if you’d had any hand in making this poster. However, as the logo in the bottom right suggested, it was commissioned and distributed by the RGC - the Royal Gotham Coalition, where Royal is written in obnoxious cursive. A group of rich Gothamites who liked to pat themselves on their back and would rather spend money on propaganda such as this than actual improvements. 

Disturbing or not, it did tell you something about the man you were begrudgingly protecting: he was not a big fan. 

“I see you’ve found my art. Do you like it? Should I start a gallery perhaps? I have one for all you types. I’ll call it The Vainglorious Vigilantes.” 

It must be common knowledge at this point that anybody working for the Boyles must be in some way vile. That they must have some deep-rooted moral sickness. However, to say that you didn’t have a particularly negative bias towards Elijah the Nose, consigliere of the Boyle family, would be a lie. Perhaps it was his high ranking position, his ability to escape justice, or that terribly grating voice of his. Regardless, it was an understatement to say it took every nerve in your body to resist punching him right then and there. 

You glared at him, lips pulling into a tight frown.“Have you no sense of self-preservation? Gratitude?” That you had decided to defend him was beyond your own comprehension; a disjoint decision made by the angel on your shoulder.

“I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need your help,” Elijah asserted, spitting on the ground and leaning further into the leather couch. It would have been convincing if not for his bouncing leg. 

“You did ask for trouble, though,” you walked over to him, hovering above him. “Crazy fucking clown? That’s really what you decided to call the Joker? For everyone to know?” You crossed your arms. Admittedly, hearing about it had been funny. But if the guy was going to die for insulting someone, make it creative. 

“You’d do the same in my position.” He furrowed his eyebrows, a flame igniting in his eyes. “He stole our fuckin’ plans. Executing them one night before us. He’s toyin’ with us. That money was ours.” 

“No, it was the property of Gotham Jewelers. You were going to steal it.” 

Elijah released a frustrated roar, pushing himself onto his feet. First, he paced towards you, making your hands twitch towards your weapon, then he paced to the other side of the room. He continuously peaked out of his curtains, biting his nails. It was plain to anyone watching he was more nervous than he would admit despite the dozens of soldati he had stationed below.

Considering the fact that he hadn’t even locked the windows when you snuck through them, you could understand why. Was he, in what could be his last moments, introspective enough to understand his own limited intelligence was not nearly enough to protect him? (You doubted it).

Not inclined to set him at ease, you plopped yourself into the couch, only subtly looking around. You’d already rigged the room and told Elijah to dismiss every soldati in the room. You knew Joker - or at least you liked to think you did. He wasn’t crazy, he was astute. To assume him a raving madman was a one-way ticket to a broken collarbone (you spoke from experience). Although you felt the room was quite Joker proof, relax was the last thing you’d do.

You wanted to catch him and lock him up for good. Gotham deserved that much. 

And maybe that was why you decided to protect Elijah. Not in a sudden action of complete martyrdom, but to use him as bait. Or maybe, somehow, you’d grown attached to him and his complete inability to commit crimes which made your self-imposed job easier. 

One thing that could be said about Elijah was that he liked to live lavishly. His bedroom, in which you now resided, was an eclectic mix of authentic victorian and contemporary styles. It was a constant reiteration of Is-That-A-Rembrandts and That’s-Worth-More-Than-Mes. It made you frown to think it was made off the backs of Gotham’s people. 

No, it definitely wasn’t attachment to Elijah which made you stick around.

You were staring at what had to be a recreation of Klimt’s The Kiss. You weren’t exactly an art appraiser but it struck you how authentic it looked, how authentic it smelled when you got too close. 

“Ohh, Klimt. Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.”

You whipped your head around, your weapon entering your grasp before you could truly process what was happening. It was disorienting, the way your courage dropped into your stomach when you saw Elijah in the Joker’s grasp. A stalemate was immediately introduced as a knife was pressed to Elijah’s jugular. He cried out, a serenade of hopelessness. 

You were less focused on Elijah’s safety and more focused on the Joker, however. But did the Joker know that? Or could you use that? Damn those indiscernible, dark eyes. 

“I didn’t know you were a man of the bible,” you hummed as you tried to glide closer, shuffling your feet. 

The Joker made a whistling sound. “I’m full of surprises, snookums.”

You resisted cringing, hiding it with a smirk. “Oh, I’m sure, snugglekins,” you breathed, your eyes flickering. Taking the chance, you kicked the coffee table separating the two of you into his shins. He was immediately thrown off balance, just enough for you to dive and grab Elijah, ragdolling him out of the Joker’s grasp. “But so am I.”

The Joker attempted to grab you, his hand leaping for your arm, but you narrowly took a step back last second, almost tripping on the couch. 

“Oh, honey-darling, you’re going to break my heart,” he cooed. 

You were both still for a moment, before he lunged at you, grabbing your shoulders and throwing you aside, attempting to break your balance. You knocked your head against his, hearing something crack - you weren’t sure if it was you or him. You were aptly disoriented when you slashed a dagger his way, only to realize he was out of reach. A punch found itself in your abdomen before you could register it was coming. 

You hunched over, gripping your stomach and letting out a hoarse cough. By the time you had oriented yourself onto your feet, the Joker had Elijah in his grasp again. 

“Is your ego so fragile you walk right into this set-up just to get this man?” You hissed. You slowly backed yourself towards the bookshelf parallel to the Joker, slipping your hand between the books. “You take me as a fool if you think I’m going to let you kill him and walk away.” You pressed the button, sending the entire house into a frenzy. The alarm set-up was hastily made, but it seemed it worked.

He made a whistling sound, his eyes glistening as he listened to the sounds of dozens of soldati moving around in the rooms surrounding them. You couldn’t hold back a smile, as if to say, your move.

“Who’s to say I’m here to kill him? Maybe I just wanted to see you,” he purred, the knife closing in on Elijah’s throat. You took a daring step forward, testing his limits. “A-ta-ta, one more step and the curtains won’t be the only red thing around here.” Did you even care? Maybe not, but if Elijah was alive what would stop him from attempting to leave? You needed to corner him and fast. 

“I, ah, yes, as I was saying,” he cleared his throat, using his free hand to comb his hair out of his face. “I wanted ta see you. Not that stupid mask of yours, hm? Let me see what’s behind all of,” he made a circular motion with his knife, pointing at your face, “that.”

“Oh yeah? Are you going to reveal what’s under all the paint, then?”

He chuckled “Unlikely.” 

You trudged towards him as he trudged backwards, despite his warnings. “Is that a no?” he hummed, watching you closely. You, on the other hand, were watching where he was going. You were hoping he was going to set off one of your traps. You didn’t say anything, trying to push him just a little further.

“That’s a shame.” You were pulled out of your focus as blood spurted onto the floor. Elijah’s blood. You were shocked - somehow you didn’t think he’d do it - not yet anyways, and there was esotericism to seeing Elijah’s limp body crumble onto the ground. He was dead. The Joker, on the other hand, was way less concerned with that. 

“Well, the party’s over,” he sighed, “You’re no fun at all, Kitten.” He continued backing away, now at a much quicker pace. He was heading for the windows. 

“You thought it would be that easy?”

“No.”

You growled, sprinting towards him. He tried to push the windows open, having opened the lock at the bottom. The brief look of confusion was too satisfying. You grabbed his collar and shoved him up against the wall. “Your reign over this city is over, Joker.” On cue, sirens appeared in the distance. “The soldati wasn’t the only thing alarmed.” 

The look on his face was indescribable. You were expecting disappointment, anger, fear even, but instead, he had this crazy look in his eyes and a grin only widened by his scars. A laugh bubbled from his throat.  “You ever played poker, Doll?” 

You furrowed your eyebrows. You had no idea how to answer. This was no doubt a part of his anticks but, you couldn’t help but listen.

“Well, in the business, we say: As long as you’ve got ‘a chip and a chair’, there’s still hope.” He let out another howling laugh. You shoved him onto the ground, moving to put him into binds when you felt a sharp pain at the back of your head. You toppled over, falling onto the ground with a thud. Your vision was a pool of colours and vague shapes. You felt how the Joker hovered over you, a blur of red, white and green filling your vision.

“You do well to remember that next time.” You tried to push yourself away, trying to orient yourself in the expanding room. The other person, Joker’s helper, who were they? Where were they? You looked around, the world remains a blur. 

The Joker grabbed your face, forcing you to turn his way, and as your vision sunk into darkness, you heard a collection of last words. “Let’s see who’s under the mask.” 

[superfem-imagines]

Morphine and Memories

Will there be a part two, or a follow up as to how B!D would recover and or other memories/flashbacks between the sisters?

A/N: I’m so glad you liked it enough for a part two. As soon as I read this I had some ideas running through my head. A few hours and 1,679 words later and we got a part two to Bluffing or Bullshit?

(I really like the doctor and the ideas I had while writing her parts, maybe I’ll make a series with her in it?)

The door to the med bay opened with a loud bang, making all three of the occupants jump. Kara stopped and smiled sheepishly, gently closing the door and moving into the room. At the doctors glare towards her dirty supersuit, Kara huffed and disappeared, quickly coming back dressed in DEO sweatpants and standard issue t shirt. 

Kara moved to the side of the bed by Alex, squeezing your good thigh. “Hey, y/n. Sorry I couldn’t come busting down doors, small alien attack in the city.”

“Alex told me,” you reassured, wincing as the doctor started cutting your jeans. “Hey doc? These were my favorite pair, do you think the DEO will replace them?” You asked, grinning at her.

“Stop getting into these situations and I’ll see what I can do.” Dr. Porter negotiated. She had been the one to patch you up whenever you got hurt (usually by doing stupid stuff in the field).

“But how will I see your beautiful face?” You flirted, smiling as you watched her freckled cheeks blush a light pink. You laughed as she lightly wacked you, shaking her head to hide her smile.

“Keep it up and you won’t get no morphine,” you let out a mock gasp, clutching your hand over your heart.

“You wound me.”

Smirking, Dr. Porter left to get the medicine. You turn back to your sisters, groaning at the shit eating grin on Alex’s face. 

“You like her,” Kara taunted in a sing song voice, lightly bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Do not,” you mumble, glaring at both your sisters. Alex was still grinning at you, which was kind of unnerving.

Before you could say anything else, Dr. Porter came back, a couple vials and needles in her hands. She silently put a dose in your IV, leaving it to set in while she readied everything she needed. Dr. Porter sat on a rolling chair and pulled a tray table with her, clamps and threaded needle resting there.

You grit your teeth as she put on her gloves and picked up her clamps. “Em,” you say in a low voice, lightly gripping the doctors wrist. She smiles and nods, knowing how much you hated this part. You turned to your sisters, not wanting to watch.

“Y/n,” Kara’s voice caught your attention. “You remember when we told the school about James cheating?

You chuckle, remembering what had happened. “Yeah! Him and his friends chased us down.”

“Do you have all the pictures?” Kara whispered as she jogged up beside you. With a feral grin, you opened the duffel hanging off your arm.

All the pictures were copies of a built guy in a football jersey kissing a brunette in the park, who was definitely not his blonde girlfriend. You had taken the picture over the weekend on an icecream trip with Kara. And as payback for all the bullying, you and Kara were going to plaster them all over the school and put them in the student lockers.

All day you carried the full duffel, until you and Kara skipped last period and took tape from the storage closet to hang them up. The entire hour you guys worked to hang them all over the walls and fold them into the lockers, that way they couldn’t just tear them down.

Some of them had red marker defacing the image, “CHEATER” and “PRICK” written in bold letters. Right before the bell rang you took out a big sharpie, repeating the words from the images along with “BULLY” and sketched middle fingers all over his locker.

You guys packed up and went into the bathroom, waiting for the bell to ring. When it did, the students were loud but slowly grew quiet as they saw all the pictures. You and Kara left the bathroom, pretending to look stunned at what had happened. Walking towards where his locker was, Kara followed you in walking with the crowds to avoid being caught.

At his locker stood James, staring stunned at the writing on it. His girlfriend stormed up, yelling at him about the pictures. Kara gasped beside you as she slapped him across the face, before turning and walking away. James, face red from the slap and the embarrassment, looked around and caught your eye. You grinned, flipping the marker in your hand.

Seeing the anger in his eyes, you grabbed Kara by the arm and told her to run. You guys took off down the hall, the stomping feet of James and his friends chasing after you. You burst through the front doors, laughing as you let go of the duffle bag and spilling the rest of the pictures all over the steps. You guys sprinted down the sidewalk, towards the town buildings. 

Veering right into a store street and right again into an alley, you pulled Kara behind a dumpster, clamping a hand over her mouth as you grinned. You listened as the guys ran by, yelling obscenities. You peered around the corner, and took off once the coast was clear. Never slowing down, you guys ran all the way home and collapsed on the bed.

After catching your breath, you looked at Kara and her wide eyed expression. You guys let out loud, full belly laughs, laughing so hard you started crying. 

“No one even found out, either!” You exclaim, wiping away tears as you finished telling the story. 

“How did you guys get away with it?” Alex asked, shocked. She had been there, seen all the pictures. 

“I had a friend hack the cameras and delete the footage.” You shrugged, remembering making your friend swear not to rat you out. And he never did.

“Do you guys remember the rooftop marshmallows?” Alex asked, eyes lit up.

“That was so much fun! Mom was so mad though,” you say, wincing at the memory of Eliza’s face.

Alex climbed through her bedroom window, plastic bag clamped between her teeth. Making it onto the roof, she softly walked over to you and Kara, tossing the marshmallows on the little pile you had made. Alex grinned at the sight of her sisters wrapped in a blanket together.

“Alright Kar,” Alex began, squatting down. “You need to get a hold on your heat vision, so we’re gonna roast some marshmallows.”

“Like the ones we had camping?” Kara’s eyes lit up at the thought of food, then she frowned, remembering how out of control her vision got. “What if I hurt you guys?”

“You won’t, Kara.” You say gently, grabbing her hand. “We trust you, ok? You’ve got this.” Kara nodded hesitantly, taking off her glasses.

Alex and you worked to open all the packages as Kara sat with her eyes closed, adjusting to the unfiltered sounds. When she was ready and had opened her eyes, you guys already had sticks setup with marshmallows.

Kara took a deep breath and squinted her eyes, a vein in her forehead popping with the effort. After a couple long moments of silence, a thin red beam shot out and lit the marshmallows on fire. Grinning, Alex blew them out.

“Close!” Alex exclaimed, popping a burnt marshmallow in her mouth. “Try and concentrate more.”

“If it helps,” you interject, holding out your loaded stick. “Focus on one of our heartbeats. That’s what Clark did once.”

Nodding, Kara focused her attention on the stick. A thin beam came out and hit the marshmallows. This time, instead of catching on fire, they slowly started to brown. Kara closed her eyes, opening them again and grinning at you two.

You all made s’mores, getting gooey marshmallow all over your faces.

“We did that for hours,” you said gently, smiling at the story Alex told.

“It was a big step to me controlling my powers,” Kara murmured, fiddling with the blanket. “The heartbeat thing really helped, I still listen sometimes when I need it.”

You and Alex both take one of Kara’s hands, all of you quiet. The moment was broken when Kara snorted.

“Rao, I just remembered the dinosaurs!” Kara exclaimed, laughing.

“You wouldn’t believe us!” You and Alex both yell, grinning.

You three all sat on the couch, a laptop balanced between you. “The birds were believable since I can see them, but giant man eating lizards?” Kara squinted at the screen, convinced it was fake.

“Dude, they were real!” You laugh, pulling up another image. Kara only shook her head, sure that you guys were messing with her.

“Here!” Alex pointed at the TV with the remote, playing a documentary on dinosaurs. Three hours and five documentaries later Kara finally relented, reassured on the fact that the giant beasts were once real.

“There’s speculation that they were actually giant birds and not reptiles,” you grin at Kara as she turns to you.

“Now you’re really messing with me!”

Before any of you could launch into another story, Dr. Porter pushed away, pulling off the bloody gloves. “Done?” You asked shocked, looking down at your stitched up leg and all the other cuts that were now sewn closed.

“Yup,” Dr. Porter said, popping the ‘P’ and the band of her glove at the same time. She held up the bullet, gripped in some tweezers. “Now this will go into evidence.”

“You’re good at that, doc.” You quip, shaking your head. 

In lieu of an answer, she smiles and tells Alex that she can put a bandage over the stitches on your thigh once you took off your jeans. Dr. Porter left, Alex grabbing some scissors as Kara got you new clothes.

You groan as Alex cuts off the remainder of your bloody pants. “I really did like these jeans.” She laughs at your pout as she wraps your thigh. Kara comes back with clothes like the ones she was wearing, helping you change into them.

“That’s ok, I’m sure your dear doctor will help you get new ones.” Alex says, smirking as you groan again.

“Don’t think we would forget Y/n.” Kara says as she helps you stand. “You have to tell us all about her.”

[1988-fiend]

A Very Vincent Christmas

A/N: Fluff piece of Vincent and Cat for the holidays; I know it’s fluff, but be kind and enjoy :) Also artwork is not mine, but found in my archives of many BatB close ups. <3

There are those that swear that there’s no place like New York City during the Holidays--and they would be right. While most of the natives and tourists hoarded in droves through the glitzy shops, or waited in line at Rockefeller Center to gaze upon the what was the Christmas tree of Christmas trees, servants of the public such as Catherine Chandler had the other half of the season to dive into; overtime. All the overtime. Though not nearly as glamorous or festive,  for people living in the city it was a common necessity around the season if only to afford both the end of year expenses and bills. Sure she may have two other people to help with those nowadays, however it never hurt to lend out a hand to other people wishing to spend time with their families, especially when her own were unavailable. Heather had long ago decided to book an R and R retreat to LA for the last two weeks and Vincent...well, Catherine knew she wasn’t the only one working extra hours. Especially since with the way their lives worked, tomorrow could arise some catastrophe anew to where all the long shifts and favors for fellow co-workers in their time of need would paid off. Fighting Beasts may be their Destiny, but she doubted her Building Supervisor would be so understanding if it came in the way of paying rent.

So while the streets were lined up with men in beards and red suits, with Tiny Tots and their eyes all aglow, the only glow Catherine could muster was the exhaustion of a double shift.

Glittering wreaths adorning to the streetlights washed over her windshield in a steady rhythm, and much to the city’s delight, tufts of snow had begun to fall making her feel like she was in a car shaped snow globe as she inched from red light to red light on her way home.

Catherine desparetely needed coffee. Scratch that, she needed wine. She needed a shower. She needed sleep. She needed Vincent…

Catherine shook her head to distract from the ache in her heart, instead focusing on the ache in her feet as she parked and muscled her way to the elevator and pressed ‘5’. While the money helped with their conjoined nest egg, these days she and Vincent were like ships in the night. The best thing she looked forward to for warmth these days was a scented candle and a goodnight kiss emoji from Vincent that he’d have to sneak into the breakroom to send. 

She checked her phone out of curousity. No luck, yet. Then she saw the date. December 24.

Catherine let out a frustrated cry in time with the arrival bell. Another thing she didn’t have time for. Then as if to mock her, practically every door she passed tickled her nose with the scent of pine needles wrapped around the peepholes. Well, almost every door, except hers that is…

Her’s had a note.

A hesitant smile tugged at the corner of her lips at the sight of the familiar yellow scratch paper. Better than any text message, Vincent had been here.

Expecting something simple such as ‘Miss You’ or ‘Love You’ underneath the crease, Catherine’s brow furrowed with what was written in his sharpie scrawl.

Close your eyes. Knock twice.

As much as her heart swelled with joy, the tiredness swept over her in terms of waiting to get into her own apartment, so instead of going by the whole note Catherine unlocked the deadbolt and closed her eyes-- promptly knocking her head into the door as it recoiled from the chain lock still in place.

“Hey, hey, hey,” She heard a deep male voice call out from across the room and then right next to her. Vincent didn’t need his beast-like reflexes to cross the space, but surely the sound of a plan backfiring onto his lover’s skull brought him over faster. 

Catherine groaned but diligently kept her eyes shut, albeit she squeezed them more so now out of pain while the sound of the door closed and fully unlocked itself. Immediately the cold of the snow outside and draft of the wind inside was replaced by Vincent’s familiar warmth.

“Hi,” She winced, still not being able to see him as she felt his hands cup her face.

“Yeah, hello.” Vincent’s thumbs skimmed over the potential bruise on her forehead, then down the bridge of her nose in case she hurt that to. “You couldn’t knock twice?”

“I tried with my head apparently.” Cat sighed. She squeaked a peek at Vincent who gave the all clear. “What are you doing home so early?”

“Not saving you from bodily harm apparently.” Then he smiled until his dimples appeared. “I pulled a couple strings and I’ll be heading in a little after midnight instead. Thought I might surprise you.” He shrugged.

Catherine more or less schlumped into his arms. “That is such a wonderful surprise, thank you.”

Instantly she was enveloped, and if she wasn’t already standing, she may have fallen asleep then and there, happy and content.

“Yeah, well, as flattering as it is that you think I’m the surprise, I actually had something else in store for us.”

Catherine leaned back to look at him through a glance hooded with intrigue. 

“Thing is,” He murmured conspiratorially. “You’re going to have to close your eyes again.”

“Do I have to?” She was already so tired. Really him being there was special enough, and already Catherine was trying to quell having zilch done for him in return. Did Chinese restaurants in the city give complimentary mistletoe? Because that was about all she was good for at the moment.

“Mmmhmm.” Vincent leaned in and kissed her cheek, his evening scruff tickling the at the corner of her mouth. “I promise it won’t hurt this time. I got you.”

With a trusting breath Catherine closed her eyes once more, and taking her hand in his Vincent lead her back into what she could already tell was a pitch black apartment. Even so he left her only to relock the door and then pull her to face the french doors in their living room.

“Keep them closed.” He teased, to which Catherine could only smirk.

“So, so closed right now.” 

“And no, this isn’t like the time you tried to make me a birthday cake. I didn’t set anything on fire.”

Catherine held up a hand in defense. “I might not be Martha Stewart okay, but even with the sudden visit from Firefighter Keller, there were no losses.”

“Other than my favorite T-shirt.” Vincent sparred.

“Eh, you looked better without it. Besides, I don’t believe the end result of that experience caused any complaints.”

“Not at all. In fact, I still think about it whenever I look at the counter top.”

With the intimate memory suddenly making Catherine blush, she felt Vincent’s hands over her eyes despite them still being honorably closed.

“Ready, and..Viola.” 

Catherine had to blink once or twice, but instantly she felt the aches and pains of the day melt away only to be replaced with a genuine grin.

There, in the middle of their apartment, in the middle of their home, was a six foot Christmas tree, lit to the nines with a star on top.

“Wow… Vincent.”

A bit shy, Vincent tentatively wrapped his arms around her. “I know it isn’t much, but I thought since neither of us really seem to have time for the holidays these days...okay, any days...that it might be nice to have a little tradition set up. For us.”

“We didn’t even have a tree in storage.” Catherine wasn’t under any illusion that the one in front of her was real. If there was one thing any of them had less time for than decorating, it was surely cleaning up after the fact.

“We didn’t. That one is thanks to JT before he and Tess took off for the weekend.”

“Remind me to thank him later.” She said, Vincent nodding in agreement.

The two of them stood silent within the glow of the lights as Vincent cradled Catherine’s head against him, their heartbeats syncing to one another’s, but there was still one thing Catherine had to get off her mind.

“You know Vincent, If I’d have known we were celebrating tonight I would at least have made an attempt at shopping for something to give you. After all, it is our first Christmas actually together and not in hiding or on the run. Just…busy.”

With a few extra trimmings still on the coffee table Vincent leaned over and grabbed a ruby red bow and made a popping noise as he placed it on her head. “No tags required Catherine. Just you. You’re all i want for Christmas.” He leaned in for a kiss, which Catherine received, only to lean back a moment later.

“Did you practice that?” She asked.

“Uhhhh, maybe.” He pinched the air. “A little bit.” He watched her smile so hard that her nose crinkled, a sight he adored every time he saw it.

“Smooth.” She went in for another kiss. “So, what did you get me for Christmas then?”

Vincent was silent until she felt the whiskers of his goatee tickle her ear. “You’ll just have to wait and see.” He murmured, sending chills down her spine that had nothing to do with the snow as her jacket fell off her shoulders.

[splendidlyimperfect]

Sting’s entire life changed when he was eleven years old and his best friend Rogue told a secret that he’d promised to keep. Taken away from the father who abused him and the best friend who’d tried to save him, Sting tried to start a new life with his uncle. But the trauma wasn’t easy to escape, and eventually Sting turned to drinking to forget the things that hurt.

Now he’s an adult, and he hasn’t been sober in years. But when drinking nearly kills him and a near-stranger saves his life, Sting has a chance to turn his life around, and maybe become the man that Rogue deserves to love.

Chapter Summary: Sting stays with Ryan, but it isn't always safe. Finding a new friend helps him make an important decision.

Chapters (10/?): 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Rogue Cheney/Sting Eucliffe, Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster, Natsu Dragneel & Sting Eucliffe, Sting Eucliffe & Weisslogia Characters: Sting Eucliffe, Natsu Dragneel, Rogue Cheney, Gray Fullbuster, Weisslogia (Fairy Tail) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Past Child Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Trans Character, Trans Sting, Friendship, Childhood Friends, Sting-focused story, Sting is a disaster, Natsu’s a great friend, Rogue tries to do what’s right, Tumblr: FTLGBTales Series: Part 2 of i’m still standing

**TW for drinking/drug use and insinuations of non-con

-----

unconditional |  \ ˌən-kən-ˈdish-nəl  adjective : not conditional or limited

.

viii winter age seventeen

.

Sting spends his seventeenth birthday in an unfamiliar alley, trying his best not to pass out. He can’t remember how he got here, but he’s got a bloody lip and his knuckles are scraped, so he’s pretty sure it has something to do with Ryan.

The world tilts under Sting and he leans to the side to throw up, but nothing comes out. All he can taste is blood from his split lip, and bile and liquor in the back of his throat. It’s been a while since he had something to eat.

“Fuck,” he whispers, tipping his head back against the concrete wall behind him. He’s not drunk enough to be numb anymore, and the cold is creeping up through his jeans, under his hoodie, up into his chest where it turns into something like fear. If he can’t go back to Ryan’s, he has nowhere to go.

Don’t be such a fucking baby, he thinks, wiping at his face and shaking his head. This is your fault. He pulls his knees up to his chest and takes a deep breath, staring at the wall opposite him. Someone’s written Emily sucks cock in sharpie, and the ground underneath the graffiti is covered with broken glass.

A shiver runs through Sting and he grinds his teeth, pressing his forehead to his knees. He’s more than just drunk, and he vaguely remembers taking pills of some kind from one of Ryan’s friends. Then there’d been touching, and Ryan getting jealous, and Sting’s not sure who threw the first punch but it doesn’t really matter because now he’s cold and alone.

Continue reading on AO3

Sting’s about to try to stand when there’s a rustling sound in the trash nearby, followed by a pathetic meow. An empty can tumbles from the bin, clanging on the concrete, and it’s followed by a thin, orange tabby cat with its foot caught in something. It meows again, stumbling as it tries to pull away.

“Hey kitty,” Sting mumbles, pushing himself up onto his knees and reaching out to the cat. Its ears immediately go flat against its head. “’s okay,” he said softly, settling back down closer to the cat as the ground starts shifting again. “’m not gonna hurt you.”

The cat stops struggling and stares at Sting for a second. He realizes that its paw is caught in a six-pack wrapper and he sighs, reaching out for it again.

“C’mere,” he says softly, rubbing his fingers together. Everything’s still swimming, but he tries his best to focus on the cat. It stares at him suspiciously for a minute, then slowly approaches, sniffing his outstretched fingers before bumping its head against his hand. “Good kitty,” Sting says, running his fingers over its head as it meows at him again.

“Okay, okay, lemme see,” Sting says softly, blinking a few times to clear his vision before tugging the plastic wrap off the cat’s leg. It squeaks indignantly, then realizes its paw is free and immediately starts to purr.

Sting shoves the wrapper into his hoodie pocket, then gestures at the cat. “Get outta here,” he says, pointing toward the end of the alley. “I don’t have anything for you.” He rubs his face. “Don’t have anything.”

The cat meows at Sting again and he frowns at it as it moves closer and nudges his hand again. When he scratches it behind the ears, it starts to purr louder and rubs itself against his legs.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he rubs at his face, digging it out and staring at the screen. It’s from Ryan.

Come back, baby. I’m sorry.

Sting sighs, tipping his head back against the wall and staring up at the hazy sky. He doubts that Ryan’s really sorry, but he doesn’t really have much of a choice. If he has to choose between sleeping on the street and sleeping in Ryan’s bed, he’ll choose Ryan’s bed ninety percent of the time.

Only ninety, though.

Sting looks down at the cat, who is now curled up in his lap, purring so loud that it’s vibrating under his fingertips.

“C’mon, little guy,” he says, shoving his phone back in his pocket and tucking the cat under his arm as he slowly pushes himself to his feet. “Let’s get somewhere warm.”

~

As soon as Sting walks into the door of Ryan’s apartment, he regrets it. The whole room is hazy with the smell of pot, and Ryan’s standing in the kitchen, eyes red and gaze mostly vacant. He’s got a beer bottle in one hand and he stares at Sting like he’s not quite sure who he is.

“’s that?” he asks, gesturing to the cat that Sting has tucked under his jacket.

“I found him,” Sting says, and the way Ryan looks at him makes his stomach hurt, suddenly. “I just—he was cold.”

“What the fuck are we gonna do with it?” Ryan says, pushing himself off the counter and stepping toward Sting. “You didn’t even have the money for Jeremy for the shit he gave you, how th’fuck are you gonna take care of a cat?”

Sting takes a step backward, wrapping his jacket tighter around the cat as it meows at him pathetically. “I don’t… I was gonna take him to the shelter tomorrow,” he says. “Its just for the night. Don’t we have some… I dunno, tuna or something? He’s just hungry.”

Ryan rolls his eyes, rubbing his face and gesturing at the fridge. “Sure, I got food.”

The way he says it makes Sting uneasy. Sting’s been here on-and-off again for the last year – as long as he does what Ryan wants, he gets to stay. The ‘no’ from the first night they’d met had worn down into a reluctant ‘yes’ after several weeks of floating in a numb haze, and it’s been keeping Ryan happy. When Ryan is happy, Sting gets a place to stay and eat and drink.

Right now, Ryan doesn’t look happy.

“I’ll pay you back,” Sting says quietly. “I just gotta—I can find a new job.”

“How ‘bout you pay me back right now?” Ryan says, reaching out and grabbing Sting’s wrist. He pulls Sting close, breathing the words in Sting’s ear. “I had to pay Jeremy earlier, so he’d leave. You already owe me.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Sting says again, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I don’t want your money,” Ryan says. His hand travels down Sting’s arm to his hip, gripping it tightly. “C’mon, baby. Come to bed with me.”

Sting’s suddenly sure he’s going to be sick and he pulls away, backing up into the door. He’s not drunk enough for this, and everything is hitting him at the same time. “No,” he whispers, trying to catch his breath. “I don’t want to.”

“I didn’t ask what you wanted,” Ryan growls, reaching out to grab Sting’s arm again. The cat hisses at him, squirming desperately in Sting’s grip, and Sting pushes Ryan away.

“I said ‘no,’” he says, shaking his head and reaching back for the door handle. “I’m… I gotta go.”

“You got nowhere else to go,” Ryan says. His voice is both hard and sweet at the same time, and Sting nearly throws up.

“No,” he says again, fumbling at the handle until he can push the door open.

Ryan sneers and waves dismissively at Sting. As the door closes between them, Sting hears his final words – “You’ll be back.”

~

Once Sting is out of the apartment building, he runs. He knows Ryan won’t chase him, but a cold terror is pulling him apart, and he can’t get away fast enough. He stops once to throw up behind a bus stop, then keeps going, gasping and trying to ignore the tears on his cheeks.

When he finally stops, he realizes he’s at the bus station.

“Fuck,” he whispers, wrapping his jacket tighter around him and the cat. “I…”

He stumbles over to a bench and sits down, staring at the sign declaring departures and arrivals.

Saint Portage – Departs in 7 minutes

“I can’t,” Sting says, stroking the cat’s head when it starts to meow at him. He’s crying now, and shivering, and sort of feels like he’s going to die. “I don’t… I can’t.”

He can, though. Uncle Wes has texted him every week for the last year, sending the same message over and over.

I love you. I miss you. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, please come home.

This morning he’d texted again, and Sting pulls his phone out now to stare at the message through blurry tears.

Happy birthday, Sting. I hope you’re safe. I know that you’re hurting and life hasn’t been kind to you, but I want you to know that I’ll always love you, no matter what. I miss you every day, and I will always, always be here if you need me.

Love, Uncle Wes.

Sting bites back a sob, rubbing at his face with his dirty sleeve and trying to swallow back the tears. He looks up at the sign again, then back at the text, then at the cat that’s sitting patiently inside his jacket, staring up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Before he can change his mind, he shoves his phone back in his pocket, then darts across the street and sneaks onto the bus to take him home.

~ 

Walking up the steps to Uncle Wes’ house is the hardest thing Sting’s ever done. He turns around so many times that it takes him nearly an hour to get from the end of the block to the front door, and when he’s finally there, he can’t even bring himself to ring the doorbell.

The cat, which he’s decided to name Lector, meows pitifully at him from inside his coat. Sting shivers, clutching his phone so tightly that he’s sure it’s going to crack. He’d read and re-read every message from Uncle Wes for the entire bus ride, and he’s still not convinced that the door isn’t going to be slammed in his face the second Uncle Wes sees him.

Lector meows again and Sting takes a shaky breath, then reaches out and presses the doorbell.

He doesn’t even have time to change his mind because as soon as he takes his hand away from the door, it swings open, and there’s Uncle Wes, staring at Sting with tears in his eyes.

“You’re safe.”

Uncle Wes breathes the words as he reaches out and pulls Sting into a tight hug. Everything in Sting lets go and he starts to cry, pressing his face against Uncle Wes’ chest and letting out a loud, wracking sob.

“It’s okay,” Uncle Wes says softly, pulling Sting closer and kissing the top of his head. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I love you.”  

Lector meows pitifully in Sting’s arms as he’s squished between the two of them, and Uncle Wes pulls back, looking down curiously at the cat.

Sting has so many things he wants to say. The words are stuck – words like I’m sorry, or I fucked up, or I’m scared.

Instead he looks at the miserable cat in his arms and whispers, “Can we keep him?”

[hermidnightstar-edits]

Minä Rakastan Sinua (EvexMaya)

AN: I mentioned a long time ago that I had a small fic to go with this edit. Better late than never, I guess. Based on a scene from Shadowhunters. 

Content warnings: implied/referenced homophobia, lgbtq+ themes.

“Where are we going, Maya-san?”—It wasn’t like Eve was concerned. She trusted her girlfriend more tan anything, but walking around in the park while completely blind was, undestandably, a little risky.

“We’re almost there now! Don’t open your eyes yet”.

Maya guided her by the hand, hoping Eve didn’t notice hers was shaking slightly. Oh god, what if she was sweating? She hadn’t thought about that. She knew Eve wouldn’t say anything because she was an angel on Earth, but it’d still be embarrassing. She shook the thought out of her head.

The silver lock she had bought the day before felt heavy in her pocket. Maybe it was too son. Too serious, too final. We’ve been dating for six months, she thought, isn’t it enough? A lot of couples got married after that time. And get divorced shortly after… No, don’t go there, not now…

What if Eve thought she was proposing to her? She didn’t actually hate the idea. Of course they were too young, Maya had just turned eighteen and Eve still had a few months to go. And even if I did propose, we can’t even get married here. Maya tried to shove that bitterness down, catching herself just in time to prevent Eve from tripping over a step.

She let go of her girlfriend’s hand, taking a second to wipe it on her denim skirt.

“Okay, we’re here. You can open now.”

Eve wasn’t sure what she was looking at. There seemed to be a lot going on. It was some sort of iron cage, with a number of charms and trinkets hanging from it. Her first thought was that Maya had taken her to a modern art exhibition, or maybe to a memorial monument. But why?

“Here, Eve-san…” Maya took her hand and put something smooth and cold in it. Her cheeks were an adorable shade of pink.

Eve raised her eyebrows.

“Do you want me to lock you up, Maya-san?”

“Wha-?” the older girl had turned beet-red.

“Or maybe you want to lock me up? It’d be fine either way.”

“No, no, no one’s getting locked up!” Maya was sure her face was the color of Tomoe-san’s hair now. She knew she wasn’t a master of romance, but how had the situation backfired so badly? She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. Eve was looking at her, puzzled, her blue eyes making Maya’s already burning face hotter.

“Sorry, it’s just… couples come here and leave locks with their names on them. I thought it’d be nice if we did it too. It’s kind of dumb, actually, so I don’t mind if you don’t want to…”

Eve forgot for a moment that they were in a public place and silenced Maya’s soft, warm mouth with her own. She checked out the corner of her eye if there was anyone around. Just a businessman talking frantically on his pone, nothing to worry about. They could have this. She could freely kiss her girlfriend, for now. Maya may have felt the same, because she could feel her melt into the kiss. They kept their foreheads pressed together after breaking the kiss, just a little out of breath, until a dog barked in the distance and startled them, sending them both into a fit of giggles.

Eve decided to explore the landmark a bit more closely. It wasn’t common of Maya to do romantic gestures like that, mostly because it embarrassed her. Eve didn’t mind though, it was just another of the little things that made Maya, Maya. That made her fall more in love with her every day. She was curious about this sudden whim of hers.

They inspected the other locks, keychains, and various knick-knacks others had left before them. Most only had names or initials written on it. Some were old, like a big lock with “S+K” carved on it, rusty from the passage of time. Some were new, like the heart-shaped keychain with “Mei+Kouichi” written on it with a Sharpie. Eve’s heart skipped a beat when her girlfriend shifted closer to her.

“I just wanted to do something nice. For us.” Maya spoke softly, her eyes drifting downwards, “It’s always you doing the grand romantic gestures, so I thought…”

“Maya-san.”

“L-like I said, it’s okay if you don’t like it…”

“Maya-san!”

The older girl stopped her rambling, puzzled at Eve’s outburst.

“I like it.” She said, softly this time, “I love it, Maya-san”

Eve’s smile caused a pleasant warmth to bloom in Maya’s chest. Eve took her hand and squeezed it between hers. She leaned in closer, until their noses touched.

“And I love you” she whispered against Maya’s lips, just for her.

“We’re still in public, Eve-san…” Maya pulled away, but her cheeks were still red.

“Oh.” Eve took the lock from Maya’s hand, examining it. She looked a bit disappointed that her girlfriend had ended the kiss so quickly, “Should we write our names on it?”

“Right! Damn, I completely forgot, let me just…” Maya took a Sharpie out of her pocket, but when she was about to write “Eve♡Maya” on the lock, a dreadful thought slipped into her mind. She withdrew the marker and shoved the lock back in her pocket.

“What is it?” Eve sounded confused, her eyes wide with concern. “Maya-san…”

“I’m sorry.” She felt a lump in her throat, “This was a dumb idea.”

“Why? I told you I wanted to do it.”

“What if someone sees it? If they know PasuPare, they’ll surely know it’s us.” Oh. Eve couldn’t argue with that. Maybe it wouldn’t be a problema if I didn’t have such an uncommon name, she thought. We could just brush it off as a coincidence.

“I didn’t even consider it.” Maya’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, “I was just so excited when Uehara-san told me about this place.” She took off her glasses to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought you here. I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid” Eve guided her crying girlfriend to the steps that led to the landmark, and they sat down pressed against each other’s side. “Remember what Chisato-san told us when she came out to us?”

“She told us not to tell anyone, because it would ruin her career. And that she was just telling us because we’re friends and she trusts us.”

“See? You aren’t the only one who feels this way.” Eve just wanted to hold her, but given the circumstances she settled for giving her hand a small squeeze. Maya responded by resting her head on Eve’s shoulder.

“I guess I’m just not as ready as I thought.” She mumbled, defeated.

“It’s okay. I’m happy with the way things are now. Samurai have a secret lovers all the time in movies.” She closed he reyes, wondering if she should say what was on her mind right now, “Besides, I’d rather have you all to myself for as long as I can.”

Yes, it was cheesy and embarrassing and sincere and so Eve, Maya couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle. She took the lock from her pocket again.

“Guess I just bought this for nothing…” She said. Eve felt bad that her earlier excitement had vanished.

“Maya-san!” Eve got up suddenly, almost knocking her girlfriend over in the proccess.

“Whoa, what’s gotten into you?”

“I have an idea.”

“About?” Her eyes widened at the realization, “Oh.”

“Do you trust me?” She asked, her cheeks pink. What a dumb question, Maya thought as she handed her the lock and the marker. She observed over Eve’s shoulder as she scribbled three words in clear cursive handwriting.

“What does it say?”

“Minä rakastan sinua.” She put her arm around Maya’s shoulders, leaning into her, “Finnish for ‘I love you’.”

She wore the same expression she did when she’d said it the first time, all those months ago. Smiling with her lips as well as her eyes, fixated on Maya’s own, overcome with emotion.

This time, it was Maya who kissed her, long and deep. The rest of the world could wait.