#he still needs a coat of clear nail polish or Several

[alucardsinep]

sick at home so i made a little wishiwashi

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

WIR Everlark are hot-hot-hot. But I wonder could we have a little something about finding out Katniss pregnant. First or second time. I love parents-storyline of that fic just as much as Peeta being horny.

How about a little of both? Lol. No graphic smut here, but there are some very adult themes and language in this piece. Fair warning: sometimes, being pregnant is not fun.

Also, I have one more request for pregnant Wrapped in Red Katniss, and that piece will feature much later down the pregnancy road.

A refresher on ages before we get started. For this piece: Karina - 19 Avery - 15 Olive - 13 Cole - 7

** Karina **

“So is Katniss preggers yet?” Meaghan asks as she half hangs off my bed, painting her nails a deep shade of purple. I watch as several drops of polish land on the towel I laid out on the floor under Meaghan’s hands when she got started on the impromptu manicure.

“Not yet. At least, they haven’t said anything,” I tell her and reach for the polish but retract my hand. “Can’t you do that sitting at my desk like a normal person?”

“No, I really cannot,” Meaghan says happily. “I need some childish insanity like this. I spend too much time at school, stressing over my grades and making sure my dad doesn’t find out too much about my life there because he’d never let me leave the house again if he knew about Jack.”

“And Bryan… and Trevor… Drew,” I tease. “Really half the Zeta Psi house.”

“What?! I’m only nineteen. It’s not like I’m gonna repeat my parents’ mistakes. I’m not settling down to have a kid with The One anytime soon… I’m just… enjoying myself before I get around to finding him. And the Zetas are easy practice for making myself irresistibly charming to the future Mr. Hawthorne.”

I purse my lips and look away. I know she doesn’t mean anything by it. Talking like this. Meaghan’s mom was nineteen when she was born, just like mine when I was born. And my dad, too. But unlike mine, Meaghan’s parents stayed together. Not that I would have wanted my parents to stay together. Exactly. I mean, from where I sit now, it’d be stupid to wish that. Especially since we have Katniss now.

“But my dad is…” Meaghan makes a face and I can’t help but laugh. 

“Overprotective?”

“To say the least,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Oh my god, I didn’t tell you about this one,” she starts, finally screwing the cap back on the polish and handing it to me. I shake it a little and peel off my socks, starting in on painting my toes the same shade.

“What?” I prompt.

“I forgot I was doing my laundry earlier today, and I guess Dad decided to move it for me. Not sure if he was trying to be helpful or impatient, but whatever. And he started yelling for my mom like he was on fire or something. She came to me with my basket of dry clothes and told me that I should probably make sure to keep track of my laundry if I’m going to be washing my thongs at home…so my father doesn’t get traumatized.”

We stare at each other with matching, wide eyed, shocked expressions until we can’t hold it in anymore. Then we explode with laughter and screeches of mingled horror, embarrassment, and amusement.

We’re still screeching when someone knocks on the door, and before I can say a word, Dad pokes his head in. “Kare-Bear, we have really loved having you at home for the summer but--”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, Dad. We’ll try not to wake Cole again,” I say. He sighs softly and runs his hand through his hair.

“Or Katniss.”

“Mom’s already out for the night?” I ask and Dad nods. “Again?”

“Yep,” he says. “So please keep it down just a little.”

We agree and I sigh too as my dad closes the door. “I’m worried about her,” I admit to Meaghan, only half paying attention to my toes as I swipe on the polish. “I can’t remember her ever sleeping this much before.”

Meaghan snorts and snatches up the bottle of clear top coat. “And your dad sounds frustrated as hell.”

It takes Meaghan waggling her eyebrows at me for it to sink in what she’s saying. I grab the nearest pillow and whack her with it as she laughs.

“What? It’s the truth. He’s a total horn dog for Katniss, and you know it!”

“Ugh!”

“You wanted to set them up!”

My cheeks are burning and I shake my head. “That doesn’t mean I want to think about them having sex, let alone talk about it!”

“And you wanted siblings! How do you expect to get those siblings if there isn’t some bow-chicka-bow-wow between your parents?”

“I was fine with adopting them,” I insist and Meaghan guffaws. 

“I think they’re cute. It’s obvious how in love they still are. I figured you’d appreciate that and all given…”

She trails off and I fight the urge to snap at her. She’s not being mean. We’ve talked a lot over the years about how awful the last few years were before my dad and Glimmer finally realized they just needed to get a divorce already.

“Maybe,” I counter, “but unless you wanna talk about your parents getting frisky with each other--”

“Pffft, old news,” Meaghan says with a roll of her eyes. And she really does sound so blasé about it. It truly doesn’t bother her at all, and I wonder what that must be like.

“God I hate you sometimes,” I mutter with false venom and she shakes her head.

“No, you don’t. You--” She stops talking abruptly and her eyes round out, saucer wide. “Holy shit.”

“What?”

“Holy shit!” she practically squeals, but she does it under her breath.

“What?!” I ask again and she motions me closer.

“Okay, you cannot freak out about this, but when I was downstairs, getting snacks and things, they were in the laundry room, and your dad was pawing at Katniss--”

“Really, Meaghan?” I ask, wishing I wasn’t blushing this much.

“Shut up and listen,” she retorts and I snap my mouth shut. “He couldn’t keep his hands off her, and I swear to god, I heard him tell her that the shirt she was wearing made her tits looks amazing and that he wanted to--”

“Does this have a point?” I try not to screech. Don’t get me wrong, I really do love that Dad and Katniss are so in love with each other. So happy together. And that their romance still seems to be going strong, chemistry still sizzling, all those are good things. But that doesn’t mean I want my friend witnessing or sharing graphic details.

“Yes, this has a point. Because he’s right. I noticed it, too. Haven’t you?”

I open my mouth to protest but then I stop. Because I did think the other day that the shirt Katniss was wearing stretched a little tighter, dipped a little lower than anything I remember her wearing before.

“Oh my god,” I whisper as Meahghan starts nodding.

“And she’s tired all the time now…”

“Oh my freaking god!” I squeal again. “I’m gonna be a big sister again!”

We dissolve basically into excited chaos. It’s only when someone knocks on the door again a few minutes later that I realize how loud and squeally we’ve gotten. We silence ourselves immediately, and I call out a timid, “Come in!”

It’s Katniss this time and I have to purse my lips the whole time she’s standing there, with her arms crossed over her chest, only making it more obvious.

“Really, girls? I know you’re enjoying your newfound independence at college, but please. There are people trying to sleep here.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

Katniss smiles softly at us then and notices the nail polish. “Alright. Just try to be considerate while you enjoy your girl talk. I think Dad is planning to make his spinach and feta croissants for breakfast, Karina.”

“Yes! We’ll be awake for it,” I promise and Katniss looks askance at us.

“Uh-huh. Sure.” She slips out the door, closing it behind her.

** Katniss **

“See?!?!” I hear Meaghan hiss through the door and I pause for a moment. “Either your mom got a boob job recently or she’s totally preggers.”

“Do you think they know? And why haven’t they told me yet?” Karina asks and I’m thrown back to years ago, when Meaghan knew that her own mother was pregnant when Madge had only told Gale and myself.

Maybe I should’ve put on Peeta’s sweatshirt before I went in to see them, I think with a sigh. Although it sounds like they already suspected.

“I dunno. But there’s all kinds of reasons why they might not be ready to say anything yet. My parents kept it to themselves after Mom had a few miscarriages.”

“I guess. They were trying for a really long time.”

“Yep. Exactly. But it’s so obvious now. No wonder your dad wants to slide his dick between her tits.”

“Meaghan!” Karina squeals and I almost join her. I can’t believe Meaghan witnessed Peeta saying that to me without my knowing. I can’t believe she’s talking about it. As the girls dissolve into more chatter and laughter, I make my way back downstairs to where Peeta is taking care of a few last cleanup tasks before bed.

“Hey,” he says, clearly surprised to see me. “Thought you were asleep.”

“I am. I think I’m sleepwalking. That or college girls gossiping while on break woke me up,” I tell him and he sighs.

“I warned them to keep it down.”

“Hmmm but how can they with such juicy material like Gale having heart attacks over discovering that Meaghan wears thongs and—“

“What the fuck?” Peeta freezes and stares at me in shock. I blink and bite my lip, trying to hold back his clearly smoking brain as he makes the next logical leap. “You don’t think Karina is wearing thongs too, do you?”

“Love. I would never betray her trust in me and tell you what sort of undergarments we’ve gotten for her. But do I have to remind you that you used to be okay with this sort of thing?”

“I know, I know,” he says and I sit gingerly in one of the barstools at the kitchen island and he moves to stand next to me. “I guess I just… she’s nineteen and I know we’ve taught her to be careful but I still worry she’s gonna get caught up in the moment with someone and—“

“And what?” I prod and his shoulders slump.

“Maybe I should be grateful that the daughter I had at nineteen turned out to prefer girls,” he says and I snort.

“We still could wind up dealing with broken hearts.”

“I just wish she felt like she could tell us,” he murmurs and I set one hand on his cheek to reassure him.

“She will. In her own time.”

“I know, I just… I guess I worry that we’ve done something to make her doubt how supportive we’d try to be, or to make her not trust us.”

“All we can do is keep being there for her, and be there for her as much as we can when she does tell us. And then we’ll definitely be dealing with a whole other host of issues,” I remind him.

“I’ll take them. I like my chance of intimidating a girl better than I do the meatheaded frat boys Meaghan’s been supposedly chasing.”

“Poor Gale,” I say and can barely contain my chuckle. Or my feeling of vindication, knowing what I do about his tendencies before he started seeing Madge. “Too many to count,” he’d once told me.

“But really, Peeta,” I soothe and slide my hand up his arm. “I think you'd be much better at intimidating horny college boys. I mean, you know exactly how they think.”

“Or don’t think,” he offers. “That’s half the problem. Most of them are too young, dumb, and full of cum to be afraid enough of Daddy to do us any good. I was, at least,” he pouts, and I laugh slightly.

“Except you have an advantage.”

“Oh?” He perks up at this and ever so subtly flexes his arm muscles.

“You’ve been acting like one of them lately, according to Meaghan. Wanting to slide your dick between my tits and all.”

He stares at me for a moment and then groans, hanging his head in embarrassment. “She heard that?”

“Yep. And apparently, my amazing new boobs are what clued Meaghan in about our new little one.”

“So the girls know?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“So much for keeping it low key.” Peeta’s laughter softens as he pulls me to my feet and slides his hand soothingly over my belly. I’m still nowhere near showing, but I still love the way he touches me even now. Almost reverent.

“God I can’t wait to meet them,” he whispers and we share a meaningful look. We’d almost given up. We’d been trying for over a year with no luck. Then we stopped trying specifically to get me pregnant and decided that we’d just set it aside, revisit the conversation six months later and decide if we wanted to give fertility treatments a go or if we’d just accept that it wasn’t meant to be.

But four months after we stopped actively trying, I missed a period. Then two. And my boobs started to feel heavy and the thought of drinking milk turned my stomach and then Peeta made a comment about my shirts looking a little tight as things got heated one night. He peeled my shirt off and stared at my breasts, gaping at me and then suggesting I take a pregnancy test.

It came back positive. But it had taken us so long to conceive that I wanted to see a doctor before we told anyone. And then, shortly before our appointment, the nightmares started. Horrifying, violent images that make me question my sanity and drive me to a near paralyzing fear of losing our child. Peeta’s child.

Of course, Peeta has been a rock through the whole thing, waking me from the terrible visions and holding me while I sob. Going to the appointment with me, and when the doctor confirmed what we already knew, Peeta went into what I have dubbed his nesting phase. He’s constantly cleaning the house and reevaluating the safety of it. He’s constantly touching me as though he can’t believe I’m still real, and he’s always checking on me, verbally demanding reassurance that I’m okay. He pampers me like nothing else, too. Back rubs, foot rubs, fragrant baths. All the smallest of tasks that he’s suddenly taking care of so I don’t have to. He brushes and braids my hair for me almost every day. Cooks almost all the meals unless I chase him out of the kitchen with a spatula.

But my food has become a battleground over what’s the most nutritious and has the least empty calories versus whatever the fuck I want to eat without feeling like I’m gonna vomit. But even that, I know, stems from his love for me and our child.

And there’s this, the way he so effortlessly reassures me that everything is going to be okay. We’ll have each other, and our already formidable brood of kids. And it’s okay that Karina still hasn’t technically come out to us. She’ll do that in her own time as well.

“You’re already an amazing mother. I can’t wait to witness you slay at this form of motherhood too. Can’t wait to parent our baby with you from day one,” he tells me.

I smile as he whispers words of love and loop my arms around his shoulders. I’m still smiling and stifling my own girlish giggles when he carries me upstairs and lays me out naked on our bed.

** Peeta **

I’m already awake when I feel Katniss stirring beside me. I couldn’t go to sleep, even after. Wrestling with my own fears and unable to articulate them to Katniss just yet. Maybe I shouldn’t at all, given that it looks like her nightmares might persist awhile longer. She’s dealing with enough. When the whimpering starts, I roll over and shake her awake.

“Katniss. Katniss, honey wake up,” I murmur. It takes twice more before she flies upright with a huge, gasping breath. Her eyes wildly roam the room and her chest heaves before her gaze lands on me and her shoulders sag. There’s a faint sheen of perspiration on her face and chest. I reach out for her and she’s already crying quietly when she buries her face in my shirt.

I fucking hate this. I hate that she lives in terror during the night. I hate that it’s my fault, for wanting another child. With Katniss. I hate that there’s nothing I can do but hold her after the nightmares.

I hold her, rocking our bodies ever so slightly as her breathing comes under control. I reach out and snag a tissue from the box on my nightstand and barely pull back from her, lifting her chin to wipe away the remaining tears.

Katniss takes the whole tissue from my hand and blows her nose rather loudly. I smile slightly and hand her a second tissue when it’s clear one won’t be enough.

“Better?” I ask, tossing the used tissues aside to deal with later.

“Not really.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” I ask and press a kiss to her forehead.

“Not really,” she repeats, but her words are less certain than before. “Peeta… am I going crazy?”

I almost miss the question, she whispers it so quietly. But I hold her face in my palms, dragging my thumbs over her cheeks.

“No more than anyone else,” I whisper back. She bites her lip and in the faint light from our phone docking station, I can see her eyes welling up with fresh tears.

“It’s just… I’m afraid of my own thoughts,” she whispers. “The things I see… they’re horrible.”

“I’m scared too. Scared I’m too old, that I won’t have the energy or patience I need anymore. Won’t be enough—“

“Not like that,” she cuts me off, and something in her voice chills me.

“My nightmares… they’re not about the baby. They’re … they’re about people I love. Hurting other people I love and…” she pauses to swallow, her eyes closing as she murmurs the rest. “And enjoying it. Everyone I love becomes a psychopath in my nightmares and I… see what they do to each other, in graphic, horrifying detail.”

I open my mouth to comfort her but no words come out. She manages to speak first.

“Did Glimmer have dreams like this? With Karina?”

The question startles me. We don’t talk about Glimmer very often. Not because we’re avoiding the topic, but because there’s rarely something that needs to be said about her anymore.

“Not that I know of,” I say. Katniss looks stricken for a moment and I rush to reassure her. “But that doesn’t mean she didn’t. She just might not have told me about them. I looked it up, though, right after the nightmares started. It is sometimes a pregnancy side effect. To have night terrors.”

At this, Katniss snorts. “Great. As if becoming a parent isn’t terrifying enough already.”

I can’t help but chuckle and pull her into my arms again. We lay back down and settle in, although I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep.

“You’re already a parent, Katniss. Karina hasn’t called you anything but ‘Mom’ in years. Avery, Olive, Cole… you are their mother, Katniss. maybe the girls have memories of their biological parents, but a person can have more than one mother.”

She nods against my chest, her fingers clenching to grip my shirt then relaxing, again and again.

“Maybe I should talk to Madge,” Katniss says, just as I think she’s about to fall back asleep.

“I think that’s a great idea,” I tell her. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a slight pang of jealousy. But a few deep breaths and reminders, and it passes. Katniss needs and deserves friends who can truly understand what she’s going through. And while I’ve been a parent longer than Katniss, I’ve never been pregnant. I’m not a Mom.

Her breathing starts to even out and it takes me a while to join her in sleep, but in the morning, I wake up and realize she’s still cocooned peacefully in my arms. No more nightmares after that first round.

Thankfully, we already had plans with the Hawthorne’s, so Katniss won’t have to wait long to talk to Madge about it, although I don’t bring it up. I worry that if I do bring it up during the daylight, it’ll only make Katniss shy away from the idea.

We meet up with the Hawthornes downtown, with plans to eat lunch together and then let the younger kids play in the park while the older ones roam the shops along the main street of the town. After lunch, I engineer a reason to talk to Gale, and we wind up focused on the younger kids in the park while Katniss and Madge sit on a nearby bench, talking quietly, with their heads bent together.

It’s not much of a conversation between me and Gale. Mainly, I listen while he vents about whatever shenanigans his twins have gotten up to lately. Growing up hasn’t stopped Hunter and Archer from being absolute terrors. And they’re both planning on studying engineering, which means Gale is worried that now their shenanigans will only grow more complex and dangerous, and further reaching.

“At least their hearts are in the right spot,” I try to remind him and he snorts.

“Sometimes, I’m not sure.”

His phone chimes in his pocket and I take a second to make sure Cole hasn’t gotten bored and wandered off. He’s actually made his way over to the bench where Madge and Katniss are sitting. I’m about to call him back over, to give Katniss space to talk to Madge, when Gale curses under his breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“The fuck is this shit?” he says instead of answering and walks with purpose towards Madge. “Margaret Denise Hawthorne, what the fuck is your daughter doing with her life?”

“Pardon?” Madge asks, her pretty face already folding into a scowl. And I can’t blame her, based on Gale’s tone.

“First the thongs in the laundry, which you assured me are no big deal. Now Meaghan is using her credit card to buy something from a store called…” he looks at his phone and grinds the name out through his teeth, “Baby Bundles and Booties?”

Madge lifts one eyebrow at him and then coughs. “You really think she’d be buying baby clothes for herself right now if she were pregnant? Especially on her card, which you have access to the statements for?”

“Fuck if I know,” he says. I notice Cole’s eyes going super wide, and Katniss is starting to blush. She leans forward, like she’s going to speak, but Madge holds her arm protectively across Katniss’s chest. 

“Come on, Gale, she’s smarter than that. And why are you getting notifications about every purchase she makes? I thought we talked about trusting her more?”

“One of us has to make sure she doesn’t destroy her life over some asshole boy,” he says and Madge stands up to square off with him.

“You mean like I did?”

Gale sputters and Madge snatches the phone out of his hands.

“Here’s an idea. Instead of spying on your daughter, try talking to her about these things. It’s what I’ve done, and you’ll notice that I’m not making an idiot of myself in the park.”

“All I know is our daughter has been wearing skimpy underwear and now she’s buying--”

“It’s probably for me!” Katniss blurts out and everyone goes silent.

“Katniss, you don’t have to--”

“But I want to,” Katniss cuts Madge off and looks up at me. I hold my hand out to her and give her a slight nod. She places her hand in mine and rises to stand next to me. I wrap my arms around her and kiss her temple, letting her know that whatever she decides to tell him right now, I’m behind her. “We wanted to wait a little longer, because I was afraid, but Gale you’re one of my oldest friends. I know you’d never be intentionally cruel if things don’t… don’t go well.”

Her voice catches and Gale looks down at his phone screen. I can see him trying to make sense of it, so I go ahead and step in.

“The girls figured it out already. They were talking about it last night, but they don’t know Katniss and I know they know.”

Gale can’t help but laugh a little at my ridiculous sounding sentence. Katniss rises up and kisses my jaw. I hope she and Madge at least got in a decent conversation about the nightmares.

“So this is probably them buying something for you two,” Gale says, waving his phone around. “And your… your baby.�� 

“Yep,” Madge says, and Gale’s growing smile fades as he gives her an apologetic look.

“Wait, so we’re gonna have a baby?” Cole asks and I wince. I really would have preferred we had the chance to sit down and talk to him and Avery and Olive about this in private. They knew we were trying, because we talked about it with all of our kids when we first made that decision, and they seemed fine with it at the time, but maybe something has changed.

“We are,” I tell him as gently as I can.

“Awesome. As long as I get a brother and not another sister.” For a second, his face remains intensely serious and I can feel Katniss gearing up to explain to him when his face breaks out in a grin. “Hello, Baby Brother!”

He hugs Katniss tightly and she holds onto him for a minute or two. 

“Can we go out for dinner tonight? To celebrate?” I open my mouth to say maybe not, since we ate out for lunch, but Cole isn’t done. “Babies are a lot of hard work. So Momma needs to rest… so do you, Dad.”

“We’ll think about it,” I say but I can already tell from the look on Katniss’s face that she’s not only going to insist on giving Cole what he wants, she’s probably going to let him pick the restaurant.

From there, whatever conversation we were going to have turns into expressions of happiness and excitement. Madge hugs Katniss last, and I just barely hear her whispering.

“I know they’re awful. You can always talk to me about them, but it’ll be so much easier to deal with them if you tell Peeta, too.”

I try not to feel insulted that Katniss obviously told Madge that she felt like she couldn’t talk to me about her nightmares. Because it’s not really about my ego or my feelings. I’m just glad that she’s felt comfortable talking to someone about them, even if she never does talk about them with me.

The rest of the day is almost a blur. For now, all of our kids seem excited about the news. Only time will tell if that excitement holds. As we’re getting ourselves ready for bed, three of our four children already asleep, Karina knocks lightly on our door.

“Hey,” she says shyly after Katniss tells her to come on in. “With all the excitement today, I didn’t get a chance to give this to you.”

She presents us with a gift bag, pale yellow tissue paper poking up out of it. Katniss hugs her and I watch happily as Karina melts into her embrace.

“Okay, well good night!” Karina says when she steps out of Katniss’s embrace and flings herself briefly into mine.

“Don’t you wanna stay for us to open it?” Katniss asks and Karina shakes her head.

“It’s been a crazy day. I figure you two want some alone time,” she says and scoots out of the room before either of us can say anything.

“Should I bring her back?” I ask as Katniss sits on the bed with a smile. She shakes her head.

“No. We can thank her for the gift in the morning. Besides, if I had to guess, knowing Karina, she’s trying to do something for us, to show us her excitement, without it having any kind of effect on her siblings.”

“Fair enough,” I say and sit next to Katniss as she pulls the tissues from the bag and pulls out a soft, pale green set of footie pajamas, patterned with frogs leaping between lily pads, and a matching cap for an infant.

“Oh,” Katniss says and I have to bite back my laughter when two seconds later, she’s crying on my shoulder and using a thousand phrases of profanity to curse her hormones. “I feel like I owe so many apologies to Madge right now.”

I fail at holding back my laughter when she says that, but I don’t ask her to explain. I think I can imagine pretty well how frustrated Katniss might have once gotten with Madge and her pregnancy hormones, and how Madge would’ve pushed back instead of taking it.

“Can I see the gift?” I eventually ask and Katniss sits back, wiping her nose with her sleeve before gently handing the pajamas to me. I hold them for a second and then Katniss curses again, right before tackling me and flinging aside the pajamas.

We’re a frenzy of movement and my head is spinning by the time she’s got us both naked.

“They’re just pajamas. How am I supposed to control myself when there’s a baby in your arms wearing the pajamas?” she asks, and my laughter at her fury is cut short when she slides down onto me, taking me inside her. I wrap my arms around her and nuzzle under her ear as she starts to move.

“Hopefully, you won’t have to control yourself. I don’t want you to control yourself.”

It’s only much later, when we’re breathless and spent and our bed is a fucking mess, that Katniss rises up on her elbow to gaze down at my face. Her movements are languid as she kiss my pectoral and then sets her cheek over my heart.

“The nightmare last night… it featured what I can only describe as erotic cannibalism.”

“Erotic… okay,” I say carefully. “That explains the way you phrased it. People you love hurting other people you love and enjoying it.”

“It was…terrifying. And I…” She trails off and I wait, but when she doesn't go on, I try to comfort her.

“It sounds terrifying,” I agree and she hums quietly.

“My brain has to be so fucked up to come up with something like that.”

“Not really,” I say. “Dreams are already fucked up without the pregnancy hormones and all the worries you’re working through. These night terrors… they aren’t something you should blame yourself for, Katniss. They’re just nightmares on steroids. Or pregoids… since you’re pregnant.”

I hear her release one reluctant snort and figure I’m safe to try and get her to laugh a little more. Not because it’ll make the night terrors go away, not because it’s funny that she has them, but because maybe it’s better if she doesn’t dwell on them too much.

“So um… who did I roast and eat? Or was I the banquet?”

“What?” she asks and gives me an odd look.

“I mean, not to make light of things, but I think I’d look pretty damn sexy wearing nothing but an apple in my mouth. Perfect feast for a bunch of erotic cannibals. Did I at least get to partake in the orgy before you feasted on me?”

“Oh my god,” she says and covers her face with one hand. Her shoulders are shaking and it's  only when she moves her hand that I see she’s laughing. “You were definitely the main course.”

“Come on now. Did I get to partake in the orgy first? Was I at least delicious?” I ask and she smacks me with a pillow before I can wrench it from her hands. “Oh now you’ve done it.”

By the time we manage to stop playing around, she’s smiling and then holding me close to her. I kiss her temple and wrap my arms tight around her.

“Thank you. Sometimes, I just need you to hold me and I know it’ll be okay,” she whispers as we settle back in to hopefully sleep.

“Joke’s on you,” I say. “This is me pinning you in place to make sure I at least get to take part in the orgy before the feast.”

She laughs again and when she finally slips into sleep, I notice that her expression is relaxed. Maybe, I hope, it’ll help her subconscious stay away from such horrifying images. But if it doesn’t, at least now I know just how terrifying her fears are to her.

[jester-lover]

Painting the Dorm Leader’s Nails

Warnings: fluff, fem! terms, sfw, affection, slight mentions of overworking, shy boys

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, he’s very shy to the idea of painting his nails, he usually wears gloves so what’s the point?

He agrees after some heavy thought (you ask someone else)

He sits perfectly still, Riddle will not move a muscle until you’re done, he wants the full treatment

If you do it, you better do it right

He waits longer than average for the polish to dry

HE CANNOT BE SEEN WITH SMUDGES

Probably paints them gold or white, nothing against red, but there’s enough of that on his outfit

“Remember my pinkie finger dearest, we mustn’t mess up.”

He puts gloves on anyway

Leona Kingscholar

Let’s be honest

He’s a sap for his girlfriend

He’ll grumble, but he’s eyeing your work the entire time

For once he literally can’t stay quiet, literally freaking out bc of how close you two are

Was gonna ask for black polish, but then saw it on malleus and all of a sudden wants green

“It matches my eyes, just paint it already!”

Most likely to smudge them, cuz he literally flips into sleep right after

Doesn’t care though

Lowkey brags to all the other students in his dorm that his girlfriend is so nice

Loveloveloves the smile you have after a fresh painting

Azul Ashengrotto

Is he dreaming or what?

I’m just gonna say it, he was never expecting to have a girlfriend in his lifetime, so the thought of you being so affectionate and loving is frightening him severely

Anyhow

He gives you his hands and he’s shaking, so you have to hold him steady, but also make sure he’s breathing

“The pearlescent shade might go well with my hair.”

After you finish, he waits attentively for his nails to dry, giving you plenty of time to smother him with love <3

The twins will never shut up about how lovey dovey their boss is

If you paint your nails to match his, it’s like his brain does a factory reset and he’s frazzled

(He’s one of my favorites to write if you can’t tell)

Kalim Al-Asim

He is so hyped

Kalim grew up with several siblings, so he has gotten his nails painted before

But with his girlfriend? A completely different story

Definitely asks for black and red, or clear if he has important business to attend

Cannot sit still for his life (same) and will tease you about how cute you look, so focused on him

Will be flaunting to everyone around him

Just please, don’t let him paint your nails, he has little hand eye coordination

“But s/ooooo!!! You did such a good job on mine I just wanted to return the favor!!”

Vil Shoenheit

Most hesitant out of the group to let you paint his nails

Why would he do that? He has a whole team to do it for him.

Then he realized, maybe you just wanted to be closer to him, he’s been so busy lately, and you just want some alone time and attention from your lover

He’s so tender hearted for you

Vil wants the full treatment, for once he wants to pretend it’s just the two of you

“Leibling, I want us to match, lavender or navy?”

It’s all in all a very nice experience

Even if the paint job is a little messy, he’s very appreciative

Idia Shroud

YOU WANT TO DO WHAT???

He’s so nervous about being so close to you, especially if you show him too much affection

Might need a small break to calm himself down, then he’s ok for the rest of the experience

“Just, um, please keep them simple.”

He’s a fan of blues and black nail polish

Give him a hug after and he’ll be the happiest boy in the world

Definitely holds rigid still until their dry

Everytime he looks down at his hands, he gets all giddy it’s adorable

Malleus Draconia

He thinks this is a lovely idea!

Malleus has sharpened nails and they don’t need much shaping, so you apply the base coat immediately

He’s watching you so intensely, not from paranoia, but love, he’s so happy to see you enjoy being around him

“What about this shade? Emerald green would go lovely with my uniform”

It’s better to start conversation whenever his nails are being painted, something fun for him to infodump about (gargoyles!!)

If he doesn’t have anything to do, this will quickly become a sleepover

He will paint your nails, go on a walk, cuddle, it’s a wonderful time

(Until the rest of diasomnia realizes he’s gone and storms ramshackle house)

AN: dialogue is difficult. Thank you for reading! Also, Vil with German nicknames is so real and true.

[tf2-oneshots]

can i get a freedom fries fic(soldier x spy) where spy paints soldier’s nails to look all pretty?(ty in advance!)

YES

warnings: none!

Rating: General

“I want these nails red, white, and blue!” Soldier holds out his hands to Spy as he shakes several nail polish bottles. She sets them down to take a look at the man’s hands, and she is downright appalled. His nails are not only filthy but completely uneven!

“First, they need to be presentable.” Spy drags Soldier to a sink where a bar of soap and a brush await. He douses the American’s hands in warm water, scrubbing under the nails with the bristles coated in soap. She washes them several times until every speck of dirt is gone. From there, a towel dry.

Spy opens her beauty bag and fetches a small rectangle with numbered sides. She starts at the side labeled one, shaving Soldier’s nails to an even length. From there, smoothing the edges and rounding the corners until he can buff the nails. Next comes a bottle of acetone and several cotton balls.

“Lot of work for pretty nails.” Soldier watches as Spy cleans his nails with the acetone. The cotton tickles Soldier’s skin, but he tries to keep his hands steady. At first, Soldier was against having his nails painted. He claimed that in war, no one has time to sit around letting their nails dry. However, the promise of patriotic coloring convinced him otherwise.

“Oui, but the effort is worth it.” She starts with a medium blue on the left pinky. The first coat patchy and uneven as she moves to the index finger of the same hand. After that comes the white followed by the last digit to be red. The same pattern is repeated onto the right hand leaving Soldier with his beloved colors.

Spy carefully blows against the fingers so that they dry. Soldier shifts, growing antsy with his newly painted nails. He wants to run off and show everyone, but what if they smudge? Spy would kill him in seconds.

The final layer is a clear coat to protect the beautiful nails. Soldier is forced to hold still yet again, watching as Spy softly blew onto the wet polish. A moment later, the American is freed from her grasp.

“There. Now you can run along.” Soldier salutes and plants a fat kiss onto her mouth. Spy is left awestruck, face blushing as he watches the man hurry to show their coworkers. Its a good thing that Soldier is too excited to realize that the nail pattern is the french flag.

:3 -H

[namjoonchronicles]

the specialist | six

↳ pairing yoongi, you

↳ genre romance, pretend lovers, angst, eventual smut, office-factory setting

↳ title six |  the trouble with yoongi |  6.829k words

↳ summary delving deeper into yoongi’s life outside the factory, yoongi prepares for the date only to be deterred by an accident on the weekend job. having to spend the day mostly in the hospital for an injured colleague, the time for the date was reduced so pressed for time, yoongi takes you out on his favourite restaurant where you accidentally bumped into your pregnant cousin, lisa and her husband. you also learned a lot about yoongi’s family and his personal motivation. then it rains, yoongi was drenched and in your house

↳ warnings mature themes, strong languages

↳ compressed links one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten  ongoing .

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SIX.

There is a great worry lodged in Yoongi’s heart. So great that he had been polishing his family name plate seven times today. Will it rain today, he wonders. Eyes gliding to the side where his bike was. Should he take a cab instead? How early is too early? He rummages through his antique wardrobe, trying to find something slightly better than his daily wears.

What screams 'I don't want to seem I'm too eager about the date' but also, 'I didn't want you to think that I have a nonchalant feeling about this'. Something that is in the gray area of things, just like how this relationship is.

Yoongi's phone chimes and upon reading what was on the notification, bolted to the doors with his helmet and on his bike. The bike throttles out the junction and into the road at great speed.

Footsteps against the floorings of the premise. White coats and blue uniforms rushing through and from the many doors. The echoes from the pharmacy queue system made its way to this long dull hallway, ramming itself to someone’s subconsciousness, uninvited. Patients walking around strapped with an IV drip, dragging around an IV pole at every corner it seemed. The only thing that was colorful was the coffee vending machine with half of its content lit red for 'sold out'. The long benches are mostly empty except for some in the yellow zone connected to the red zone area. Both the zones were separated with a divider meant to reduce cross-contamination. The red zone is for critical patients, the one needing immediate life-saving intervention. The yellow zone is a high-risk area, whose patients are unable to walk but has a clear airway. Yellow zones are also intended for former red-zone patients, whose conditions had improved but still needed monitoring in a 30 minutes interval.

There has been an awful incident. 

The executive in-charge for the weekend was Seokjin but Seokjin was away on a business-trip. The passover was done on the phone. He sounded sorry for having to reel you in like this but he had no other choices. He never intended the emergency to be this severe. You had been pacing left and right while you waited outside the red zone area. Nails between your teeth, your sundress flowing passed your knees, a constipated expression on your face.

"What's happened?" Yoongi rushed from behind you, hand floating naturally behind your back.

"Uncle Lee had fallen from a stroke during the shift, I drove as fast as I could," you hardly recognised the voice that left your lips but you couldn't care less. You had to tell Yoongi what happened so he could understand what you were going through. You had been bottling the fear long enough for it to explode into a slight whimper. Uncle Lee is a long time employee at the factory. He was an operator with a minimum wage of $400 when he first started working in 1997.

“They found him unable to walk then he fell on the floor after the first break,” you failed to hide the anxiety in your voice that you didn’t realize Yoongi’s hand was guiding you to sit on the bench. He sat on the edge beside you to listen attentively.

“Seokjin already asked them to resume the production but Uncle Lee had to be taken to the hospital, so there was an ambulance mid-day Saturday, the HR wouldn’t stop pestering on what happened, they came in teams and I couldn’t,” through troubled breathing and hand on chest, you tried breathing through your mouth.

“Hold on a sec,” Yoongi lifted himself from the bench and disappeared to the hallway. When he returned, he came with two bottles of water, two packs of egg sandwich. You don’t think you’re able to swallow more than a bite of the sandwich and you don’t want to seem ungrateful.

Yoongi says with a gentle voice, “Just enough to keep your system going,” he pleaded. As the leader for the day, a life-threatening situation like this, you can never be prepared for. Tipping your head back while drinking the water Yoongi bought, you claimed a newfound energy. Leaning back against the chair, you realized Yoongi was all dressed up. He is standing by the wall opposed to you, answering several calls from the shift that were working today as he updates on the situation at the hospital.

His helmet on the bench. He wore a black cap on top of a black tee and an unbuttoned button-down long-sleeve plaid shirt, paired with faded albeit destroyed Levi’s jeans and black Vans. His neck tattoo shows up nicely in this light. Along with his long chains and multiple bracelets; they all look so different yet-put together— a rugged look. When he lifts his hand to scratch his brows, the sleeve falls and it shows his sleeve tattoo underneath. Those arts on his fair skin were a view. His knuckles are bony and his phone looks tiny when he holds them. A group of grieving people came and Yoongi naturally gave way to them on the bench, so he sat himself next to you.

And again you noticed how different he was, on his off-duty days. He smells… What's the word, sexy? He smells so nice. You almost wanted to bury your face into his nape and inhale him in. The way it calms you down, the way your heart noticeably slowed down its pace, you almost thought you were dying for a moment. And suddenly, all you could smell, taste and feel was that cologne of his. This was strange. So strange indeed, how it all takes for a certain Min Yoongi to arrive and make things okay again. You felt safe. With him right beside you here, right now. You were not envious of the nurses rushing in and out the hallway, with panic written on their face, you would hate to have their jobs and upon reliving the memory, you let out a smile.

“You alright there?” Yoongi sounded concerned. “Yeah,” you placed the bottle in between your legs, lying right beside you was the unfinished sandwich.

“I hadn’t been to the hospital in so long, I sort of forget how anxiety-inducing it all is,” you lay your head back to the wall and turned to Yoongi in a brief, fraction of a second. A smile hinted on your lips. Yoongi held his head down, noticing that his laces were loose so he re-ties them so he could feel the grip.

“You were in the hospital before?” he asks. “I studied pharmacy before I took the degree in pharmaceutical technology,” you explained, eyes gliding to the corners of the ceiling of the hallway, “I ran from hospital just to end up back here,” paused, “The pharmacy queue system had me on chokehold.”

The trauma lingers. Yoongi could see it in your eyes that it still lives there— the trauma. He leaned back, mirroring you. You had a pretty sundress on; it's black with sunflowers printed all-over. It looked lovely. Albeit with mismatched track shoes, you still looked lovely.

“Lee Dongwon caretakers?” the doctor called out and you both rushed over to the doctor.

The doctor spoke with unmistakable concern. The family members of Uncle Lee were on their way and they sat with him in his ward when they arrived. He is breathing, and has tubes lodged in his throat to help him eat. After the meeting with the doctor, Uncle Lee’s wife revealed a troubling matter that could have been the reason for his sudden failing health.

Marching out the hospital, the sun stood still on top of your head. Yoongi follows you out.

"What do you plan to do?" He asks. "Good question, I don't know," you pointed your car key to your car and it unlocked, "All I know is, I'm going to do something about it."

Yoongi hurried behind you to say in dire panic, "Something like what? Don't forget this person is also an operator here, you might—" car door slammed. Yoongi lunges to the passenger side, poking just his head in, "You might lose another staff member, we already lost one! There, in the hospital, warded right now."

Your hands gripping tight on the steering wheel, arms straight as you take in every word Yoongi said. Your eyes burn into the Mazda logo, your lanyard hanging at the corner of your eyes, the word 'Production Executive' blaring. You were furious. And in that ferocity, you might burn people. The last time you adhered to your anger, it didn't end well. There was some truth in Yoongi's words but you hoped that the future will somehow improve.

You were not in the right headspace to be driving home, he decided. Yoongi said, "I'll drive you home."

"No, don't take me home," you shuddered.

"Where do you want to go, then?" Yoongi asked. “Where we’re supposed to.”

Just like that, you climbed over to the passenger seat and Yoongi got into the driver's seat. Now that your fear turned into anger then turned into tranquility, those rapid changes of emotions have made you hungry. Yoongi had just the right restaurant for it. From outside, it had a long endless queue of tourists and youngsters alike. The food smells delicious as you stand at the end of the queue thinking that the lines would recede if you stay patient. But Yoongi took your hand wearing a sheepish smile, he guffawed, “What you’re doing?”

“No?” you shake your head in confusion as you thought you were doing what everybody else was doing.

You let yourself be dragged by Yoongi and the moment he showed his face to the waiter at the front, the waiter allowed him in. The restaurant has a table for two at the corner with a view of the city and already, the table was being served with two tall glasses of cold water for relinquishments of the hot weather. Yoongi didn’t forget his chivalry when he pulled out your chair for you and sat opposed to you. He was handed the menu and as his face shone by the reflective light from the menu, you found yourself smiling at ease.

“Two of the signature menu, two Chinese herbal teas, soup and desserts of the day, please,” he closed the menu and looked up at you, “And what will you have?”

You gawked your mouth open and he replied cheekily, “I’m just kidding, I’m kidding. I’ve ordered what you liked.”

“And how would you know what I liked, Monsieur,” you crossed your arm and leaned over the table a bit.

“I cooked for you before, you have a childlike taste buds, you like simple things,” Yoongi took off his plaid shirt and folded them on the back of his chair. It was then you could see most of his sleeved tattoo. Your hand had a mind of its own when it flew to the dragons that coiled along the length of his arm, with some red tiger flowers motif decorating what would be an empty space. The pads of your fingers glide over his skin, floating like you would a delicate relic. Entranced, you whispered, “So beautiful.”

Yoongi didn’t physically respond to it; he froze. But most definitely verbally disapproved of it, “It’s rude to touch a tattoo without its owner’s permission.”

You sat back so quickly, humbled from his words almost immediately.

“Sorry, I’ve never met someone with so many tattoos in these intricate designs, it didn’t occur to me that— I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, I repent,” you blinked to your twined hands in your lap. Yoongi proceeds to stare down at you even when you’re not looking. He clasped his hands together and rested his bottom lips on his thumb as he wondered what you’re thinking of. It is strange how this was your first date and you didn’t feel the slightest nervous.

It probably stemmed from the incident earlier. Uncle Lee's stroke was denting. He wanted his wife to have a better kitchen so he had found himself a contractor that offered a good price. This contractor demanded $6000 up front in order for him to begin the work. Uncle Lee paid $1500 and the contractor had demolished the kitchen then demanded the remaining funds, else he will not continue the work. Cornered, Uncle Lee was forced to empty his savings and handed it in cash to the contractor. He trusted him because the contractor's wife is working in the same factory.

Uncle Lee's funds were spent. The calls he made to the contractor were unreturned. The contractor disappears with the money. After two weeks of no news, Uncle Lee realizes he had been scammed. Worst, it was his whole life-savings. His wife, unemployed. His eldest left the house to work in Seoul. His only daughter is married, unemployed, pregnant and stays with him. Her husband works as a truck driver with barely any pay. Uncle Lee's youngest had dropped off school to work at a car wash nearby.

It is revealed that the contractor, the husband of the coworker, was a drug addict. And most likely used the fund to buy himself an ample supply of drugs.

Since the funds were in cash, there was no digital trace of where it could have been. Uncle Lee's devastation led to him having a stroke.

Not wanting to remember how it all went down, Yoongi tried to distract you.

"I'm upset with what happened to Uncle Lee," you sounded so resigned, "Him not making a police report about it makes me even more angry."

Yoongi starts off with a dry chuckle.

"You get so worked up by it," he shoves the sponge cake into his mouth. When he looks up, he sees you stare at him with bewildered eyes and will himself to explain with his mouth full.

"People like us, like Uncle Lee, we know the authorities ain't going to do shit. We are always left to fend for ourselves. Why report? It's just a hassle."

"Why report? So others don't get scammed–" "—why…? Others had never cared if we had food on the table. If we had a roof above our head. If we get paid on time or enough. What others? Who cares about others. This is us. Who cares about us."

So that is how our mentality differs. The upper middle class and the lower class. It didn't matter. They've given up on the world like the world has given up on them.

It silenced you.

“You don’t actually like me, do you?” he said after a long pause. “You’re very pessimistic of yourself,” you darted back, you propped your elbow on the table and rested your chin on the heel of your palm looking out the window, “This restaurant went viral for its stir-fried beef and plumped brown rice, right? That’s why there were so many people.”

“You changed the subject,” he unclasped his hand and leaned back to cross his arms, smiling down at you. “Yes, because the subject you chose was inherently irrelevant,” you shot.

“How so? We’re on a date. Naturally people will start talking about likeness.” “Is that what they talk about?”

Yoongi tipped his head slightly, in a confusion but mostly disbelief. The defining disbelief that it was indeed your first actual date in life. He clicked his tongue to say something when the food was served.

“Alright, you’ll have to teach me how because I don’t know what goes with what with this much sauce,” you straightened up and wiped your palm on your dress, lasering your eyes to the food.

Yoongi wanted to get back to the former subject about you not liking him much but he decided against the idea since his stomach was grumbling at the sight of these delicious delicacies right under his nose.

“Now that we’ve filled up with some food, I want to ask you why you’re so imminent on taking me out?” Yoongi placed his lips on the brim of the soup bowl and drank some soup. He kept his eye contact on you, though.

“I like the way you work, I like how invested you are. You’re good at what you do and you’re somewhat organized,” you listed.

“That sounds like you’re recruiting me to leave my company for a new one, is this a job interview?” he arched an eyebrow.

“Isn’t dating about that? Selling the best part of you for any takers?” you shrugged nonchalantly.

“Just how many blind dates have you been on?” he asks.

“Five.” “And what part of you are you selling?” “My intellect. My leadership. My pretty sundress and shit— did I wear track shoes? On a date?!” you widen your eyes at your shoes.

“You call this a date? I’m literally saving what’s left of it,” Yoongi drawls, “Because let’s be honest here, how did you shift from hating me to your guts to this?” Yoongi’s palms faced upwards, “You and I both know we work different ways, of different levels, with different approaches to things. So what part of ‘like the way’ I ‘work’ were you referring to?”

Taking a beat from responding, you formulate your words in your mind like you would when you give out training to your underlings. It is true— what he was implying. It feels out of character for you to have gone from hating the sole sight of him to asking him out on a date. Now, you can’t tell him it was because of the house you wanted to purchase that requires a spouse from the area, nor can you tell him that your mother was pestering you to live up to her standards and how he doesn’t fit the general specification of a sought-after husband; no, no absolutely not.

“That you get things done despite not following the protocol,” you straightened up, “By all means, it does not mean I permit some behaviors I’ve rejected openly,” feeling your throat growing dry at the blabbered mess, you reached for the glass of water. Things like changing the part before the maintenance arrives or putting an additional layer of cloth on the cooling pad to ease sealing without permission.

“Does Ms. Protocol have a thing for rebels?” he sneered knowingly. “No she doesn't,” you spat. “I think she does,” he darted right back. “It was a misinterpretation,” you let your forefinger wave around needlessly. “That was the exact interpretation, no cap,” he grins boyishly.

And your heart skipped a beat. That cap on his head, those piercings and tattoos all over his body, the veins— it was all too much for you. Could you really see yourself with someone like him? Would mother approve if this goes further than what it is?

Surely not, that’s why we have chosen Yoongi. We chose him to spite her. But he is so… charming.

“I had the date mindset before I left the house, but I got a call from Seokjin and everything shifted,” you slowed down, “It turned into a coworker lunch, sorry about that. I can’t behave like a lady after being a boss, I don’t switch that quickly. It takes a lot of me to do that. I thought you looked really nice at the hospital,” a small smile grew on your lips.

“You look nice too, track shoes or not,” he grins. And he bits his lips right after. He tips his eyes down at your knees then back up to meet your gaze. Now it truly feels like a stretch from coworker brunch to an actual date.

You were sitting across the entrance so you could see clearly who would be entering the premises and with who. It was not long after the desserts were being served that you heard a familiar laughter coming from the side. It was your married cousin. All your life your mother has compared you to her, down the A’s you’ve got and to when you’ve gotten your degrees. You were running close first in the competition until she sped for the finish line by getting married to a doctor, just like herself.

Not only that, she has gotten herself two-months pregnant so she sealed the first-place spot. She reveals herself from the corner with her husband and panic was the least of your state.

“Why do you look like Taehyung entered the production floor doing audits?” Yoongi moved to turn his head around only for you grab his sleeves urgently, speaking in harsh tones, “Yoongi, there is a  female personification of a demon that I absolutely loathe— “

“ — more than me?” “ — yes, more than you, so as time demands it, I appoint you as my husband-to-be so I ask you to do your best to play your part because I want to see her face when I tell her that.”

“I knew I wasn’t wrong when I saw that sundress before, you wore this at the beach on our family day didn’t you?” Lisa threw her million dollar smile at you as you stood up to hug her. That was so Lisa. No hellos, no proper greeting. Just straight up slander.

“I didn’t know someone would check my dresses out,” you feigned politeness while Yoongi handshakes the man, Yoongi assumed was Lisa’s husband.

“No, I had to remember what you wore so I won’t wear the same thing,” Lisa let out an aristocratic laugh that shows off her divine neck, a glimmering Pandora diamond on her collarbones.

“This is Min Yoongi, my boyfriend,” you hurried the conversation because you already saw her keeping her eye on the guy like he was one of the things on the menu. Yoongi gave his best smile at the introduction.

“Wow, I never thought you were into inked guys because I heard aunties aren’t so welcoming of those kinds,” Lisa cupped her mouth and whispered to you, “Remember Uncle Hong who got kicked out because he had a tiny skull on his wrist.” Lisa clasped her hand over her Gucci purse and shuddered at the remembrance of the incident.

“Sorry that was an awful impression to make, it was the first thing I thought when I saw you,” she pauses, “What did you say name was? Young?” “Min Yoongi,” he nodded. It’s hard to see if he was offended because his face offered none of that negative expression. Alas, he was taking it pretty well for someone who has met the demon in person.

“How did you find out about this restaurant, cuzzie?” Lisa prodded your shoulder as if she was your close friend when she wasn’t, “We both know your work at the factory has consumed you so much. It was in that small God-forsaken town that literally has nothing… I mean it has absolutely nothing, it's just dust and old cafes run by grandpas, not glamorous at all, fitting…” paused and she eyed you, “If you asked me,” she laughed again, this time she turned to her husband and covered her mouth with her hand, elegantly. Annoyingly elegant.

“Literally, no one’s asking…” you gritted under your breath.

“It was honestly a miracle to see you in town such as these,” Lisa’s husband added, “We’re only here because our little rainbow cloud wanted something Japanese,” Lisa’s husband murmured and rubbed his palms against his wife’s tiny bump, “Since she was conceived there you see, the town in Kyoto. Very authentic place.”

“I was so hungry I thought I was feeding two babies,” Lisa gasped excitedly. “Wait honey bun,” her husband paused, “I don’t think she knew— “

Lisa gasped once again and vibrated in excitement, “I will tell her right now. My dearest cousin!” She yelled at you, “We’re having twins!”

“Oh congratulations!” you and Yoongi simultaneously say.

Lisa starts flapping her eyes and it magically becomes watery at the mention of her being a mother, “I know I’ve conceived for a little over 8 weeks, but it has changed me so much as a person. Like, to bear babies, is such a motherly, divine thing to do and not everyone can achieve that level of achievement  and I feel complete as a woman. I’ve become a woman,” she turned to her husband and placed her palm on one side of his face as he stared intently into her sparkly eyes, “Thanks for completing my life journey.”

With that, you may die— you thought.

Then she switches to you with a straight smile and an emotionless eyes to say, “One day, you’ll be lucky like me. You might not know how it feels right now and it might not be soon but you will. I have faith that you will, some day.” Then she pauses momentarily, groaning in place, “It’s the babies…” she claws on her husband’s arm and they hurried out the restaurant.

The lunch was done and dusted. The restaurant continued to receive customers while you walked out with Yoongi. Despite the strange encounter with some interesting people, your day was not ruined much.

“You have an interesting family,” Yoongi commented dryly. “Ugh, she’s the worst,” you shake your head and tip them back as if to lose the memory you had of her, “But that’s what makes a family, right? Each of their own colors and making. What’s your family like?”

“I’d rather not talk about them,” Yoongi sped up a little.

There were new books on the shelves. Yoongi had disappeared into the poetry section and you leisured around seeing what was fast-selling and what people are interested in these days. There were a lot of books surrounding faith and religion. Your guess was that after the pandemic, everyone had a scare of what the ends of the world would be and being human, surges to what’s bigger than human; the Creator. It’s easy to turn philosophical when you have a wider view of the world. At work, you feel boxed. You had to act a certain way, to behave in a socially accepted manner, as well as being mindful of your outward expression.

Your manager reminded you that the new materials he ordered are coming in next week, and you’ll be in-charge of the Performance Validation. What it is is a validation process where the new materials are examined on its workability. You have yet to receive the installation qualification report from Jane of the Compliance team; but you expect it to be ready on Monday, at the very latest, Tuesday. Verbally, she did mention that the room is working exceptionally well in terms of particle counts and filtration system. With that in mind, you lunged over the management section of the bookstore, to see if there is any self-help book that would aid your decision making.

One thing is for sure, you wanted Yoongi around as the machine specialist to work on those new materials. You would want his expert hands on those machines with tricky parts and if anything should go south, best believe that when Yoongi is on the job, you wouldn’t need to call for engineering help. The manager is arranging the team in-charge of Performance Validation; three important figures to be present— 1) the production executive, you, 2) the machine specialist, Yoongi and 3) the quality assurance personnel.

Yoongi felt a tug on his sleeve and when he turned to find the doer, he was met with your innocent bambi eyes. You didn't utter a single word but shove to him the email you got from your manager. The Quality Assurance personnel was Kim Taehyung and not just any Taehyung, it was The Kim Taehyung.

It is true that you're not his favorite to work with and even though you told him you liked the way he worked, it was because he gets things done. Taehyung is the pettiest human being you have ever met. He will make your life hard, you just know that he will.

“Let’s not think about work for now, let’s talk about something else, to hell with Taehyung,” Yoongi persuaded you. Sitting on the floor with a couple of books Yoongi wanted to buy, you leaned your head to the shelves, already imagining how disastrous Monday would be. You already hated  it.

“Fine,” you huffed, “I want to talk about your family.” “Anything but that,” Yoongi let out a dry giggle as he hooked his finger on a spine of a book he had found interest in and took them out to have a read. You tutted your tongue in disapproval and, “I think the old materials are good enough to continue, sure the new materials are cheaper but the performance validation is a hassle to—”

“ — I have an older brother, I live with my grandmother growing up. Money has always been an issue,” Yoongi flips through the pages in the book slowly as he spoke about his personal life. “Because money was always an issue, big brother got into gangs, theft, petty crimes,” he listed, he flipped the pages some more as you studied his face, “Then aggravated robbery, armed robbery, disorderly conduct, unlawful possession of illegal items, car theft, etc. etc.”

It must have been a tumultuous growing up. That poor old woman must have gone through a lot when she was alive. Imagine going home to a makeshift warzone. The pain must have been horrendous. In the eyes of a young boy, he must have questioned every aspect in his life. Why was he here? In the absence of a father figure, he was left to fend for himself.

“That’s why you didn’t further your study,” you finished his story. His bottom lips covered the top and he nodded.

“Getting money was more important,” Yoongi added. Your face shifted to a solemn expression to which Yoongi commented, “This is why I don’t talk about my family. It sucks the joy out of people.”

“I’m not affected in the slightest,” you assured him, “The shift you see is an enlightenment.” “Of what?” he chuckles, bowing downwards to take the books on your lap, your face inches away from his. “Of the person you are, Min Yoongi,” Yoongi could have sworn your eyes were twinkling.

That is why he loves books; they take him to places far away from where he was. That is why he loves machines; they are straight-forward and to the point. They understand him. Because Yoongi could not understand emotions and the motives behind it.

You both had climbed into the car when the rain began to drizzle. The patterings on the windshield dimmed the sound coming from the radio.

“Your bike at the hospital,” you reminded him. “It’s just a drizzle,” he said, wiping off the droplets of water on his plaid shirt.

You drove. When you drove out the junction, the lightning cracked in the skies and loud eardrum shattering thunder followed right after. What was a drizzling rain, turned into a full blown downpour with limited sights. On the third traffic light heading to the hospital, you took the left instead of the right, alarming Yoongi.

“Ma’am, hospital is on the right—” “ — I have a task force on Monday with that son of a bitch, I will not let you ride in the heavy rain and risk you being absent for falling sick,” you darted in a hurry, in an authoritative tone.

Yoongi opens his mouth to say something but closes them up before a word could leave. In his perspective, you were the most hardworking. You were in the burning hour in the morning, trying to make sense of the machines’ manuals that he hates reading. You were churned on the Fridays where everyone had left work for the weekend. The lights in your office are still up at 10 pm, your face buried in the documents due tomorrow. You have emptied the coffee machine more times than anyone in this company. You would work while you were yawning, eyes blurry from the sleepless nights.

You were so strong. You are.

And so smart. Yoongi is guilty of dragging you through half of your miseries. Blame it on his curiosity. He pours it all to see if you’ll soak it up. His knowledge, his expertise— just how much can you take from him. At this point in life, as long as he knew you, it would be a vast amount.

He was curious just how much this pretty brainiac could take in. And it wasn’t his fault you were such a pretty thing to look at as well. All that mouth to match that face, Yoongi was smitten from the moment you explained to him what the machine does, flawlessly; that when he found a tiny speck of mistake— he amplified it. Tried to make himself bigger than he was through how small he made you to be. All because he felt threatened by you.

He doesn’t realize when but a small crush had developed. And staying away from you or making you hate him was easier than hoping that you’ll like him back. That’s why this date made him feel like he was flying above the waters.

Headlights shown over the gates, revealing shadows on the walls as your car swivel in. Yoongi offered to open the gates in the pouring rain despite your protests. To be honest with you, as you sit behind the wheels, you have literally no idea what to do with Yoongi once he is in your home.

This plan was so sudden and it shocked even you yourself. You have not thought this through. He is wet. He is so so wet.

His hair, his shirt is plastered on his body. They hung on him like a second layer of skin. You caught his pectoral muscles and hard nipples through the fabric from inside the car as he shut the gates,  and you cursed as you killed the engine. You took the house key and began unlocking the grills to the house when you felt Yoongi’s warm breath and water droplets dripping on your thin fabric. It made you drop the keys.

You hurried to bow over only to nudge your ass to his front. You froze. Because you definitely feel something that wasn’t there before.

The weather’s just cold, get over yourself, you thought to yourself.

He fetches the keys for you and you snatched it from him. You couldn’t even tell how he looked, you didn’t dare to see. The grills were unlatched finally and you sped to the bedroom to fetch him face towels he could wipe himself dry with. He was dripping when you returned with one and you caught a glint in his eyes that ricocheted the same thought you had.

“I think I should shower,” he said through a shy smile, spoken over a hanging head. His hand flew behind him, scratching his neck. You lifted your eyes up and nodded, “I could arrange that Since I took you here, naturally,” you said, more to yourself than to him, “Right this way, please.” Yoongi takes off his plaid shirt as he walks in, balling them up in his hand as he follows you into your bedroom.

“This room has the only working heater, the one in the back is done for,” you grumbled, “I’ll get you something bigger than a face towel.” You disappeared into the wardrobe.

“Where do I leave the soiled ones?” Yoongi asked. “Just by the sink, I’ll throw them in the dryer,” you hollered from the wardrobe.

Rummaging your clean linen and towels section, you searched for the gray towel you hated because it’s heavy and too long to wrap your body in. Since Yoongi is twice your size, it would fit him snugly, you thought. You turned around to see Yoongi taking off his jeans, leaving on his boxers. There you discovered that Yoongi had a leg sleeve as well, just on his right leg. His upper right thigh had a tribal tattoo native to Koreans. It elongates to what seemed to be a skull and an animal you can’t see in this light. You stayed around until he pulled his shirt from behind, to reveal his back. You felt warm all of a sudden.

“Here's a towel for you,” you placed them on the edge of the bed by the bathroom door where he stands but didn’t offer him eye contact what-so-ever.

The kettle filled with water hisses at the contact of flame on its body. You had two tea bags ready to be brewed and the oven is reheating an instant fruitcake pack you found in the freezer. But your head could not stop reliving the memory of watching him undress in that manner, in your bedroom. The bed was just right there, he was already undressing, all you had to do was voice out the experience you wanted. He was already half-hard.

“From the cold, heavens,” you scolded yourself.

You inhaled deeply, scrunching your eyes hard to erase the memory but to no avail, it kept replaying it with a vividness that would put HD TV’s to shame. His back tattoo isn’t as heavy as the others he had on his limbs or neck or chest, it actually looked like it wasn’t finished, like the colors faded like it was being erased. Whatever it was, nail marks would be apparent on it. And that thigh tattoo… What would it feel like if someone is to grind on it, ride it— would it feel good for him? Would he make noises so erotic it followed you into the day? Would it make you cum? Would you cumming make him cum too? That would mean you would be able to kiss his lips, right? What would he taste like? He’s so close now than he ever was, all you had to do was say.

The door to your room is closed gently. Since his shirts are still in the dryer, he walked out shirtless with only a towel hanging low on his hip.

Placing the fruitcake on the table, “I made tea and there’s fruitcake—” you gaze up at the peering eyes and it was Yoongi leaning against the doorsill watching you.

Yoongi walked towards you and towered by your side, pinching the fruitcake you had sliced for him and placed them in his mouth all the while keeping his eyes on you. Your eyes fell to his soft pink lips as he chewed with his mouth closed, he moaned, “Delicious,” he said and wrapped his mouth around his thumb then his forefinger, licking them clean.

“Tell me boss,” he said in soft raspy low voice, “Do you have a different agenda bringing me here?” he tips eyes from the cake to you, shifting his gaze from your right eyes to your left. A gentile smile toying on his lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you moved away from his warm skin, letting out a dry chuckle, “I stand by my notion that I took you here so you won’t get drenched in the rain and get sick when I need you Monday.”

“Say that again, it sounded good,” he smiled. “Say what again?” you darted, feigning annoyance, when all you wanted to do was pull that towel away from him and let him be colored red with embarrassment. “The last few words,” he pursed his lips and face contorted into concentration.

You knew what he wanted to hear but you refused to hand it to him so easily.

“Monday?” “Before that.” “Get sick?” “No, no, after” “I need you?”

He balled his fist in tiny and did a little celebratory dance, “That’s the one. Sounded so good.”

He pulled out a chair for himself while you sip your tea standing, he resumed, “I’m the best machine specialist, you can admit that.”

“Over my dead body, Yoongi.” “If I wasn’t the best, why would you go to such lengths to protect me from rain? Hmm? I piqued your interest.” “How did you turn so boastful after using my showers?” “Must be the waters.”

There is no sofa outside for him to sleep on. The bed is queen sized. A pillow fort would be enough as a barrier, yes?

“I won’t ask why you have male PJs in your wardrobe when you’re single,” Yoongi slips on the top while chuckling. When his head popped out the holes he said nonchalantly, “Lest, you bought it out on a wimp.”

You were grabbing the blankets when it halted momentarily, hearing Yoongi.

“No…fucking way,” Yoongi shakes his head. You actually did buy a male PJ because you were bored on one weekend.

He climbs into bed with barely any blankets on his side. He tossed and turned noisily.

“What is it, dammit,” you grumbled. “The pillow fort, it’s taking most of the blanket,” he complained. “You’re a man,” you argued, “Make up some heat on your own or whatever.” “You want me to start a campfire?” he spat.

“There's wood and stone outside, good luck.” . . . . Copyright © July 5th, 2022 namjoonchronicles do not repost, and thank you for reading :)

[slippinmickeys]

A Sequel: Amazon Archeologist/Scientist AU, Part 2:

You can read on AO3 here.

1. “How does it feel to have cured cancer?” asked Kathy Lee. Scully couldn’t take her eyes off the rim of the host’s wine glass; it was smeared with lipstick, and the wine contained therein had legs, running down the bell curve of the glass in thin amber stripes.

It was oddly, surreally quiet on the unnaturally blazing stage -- multiple cameras pointing at them, a team of professionals sitting in dead silence in the dark spread out below.

“I only wish I’d done it sooner,” Scully said, going off script a bit. “I think of the people that died while we were still searching, still researching, while the studies were being checked and… I just wish I’d found it sooner.”

The host’s face softened, and she reached forward and put her hand over Scully’s on the arm of the chair where it was resting. She gave it a squeeze and Hoda took over, “Up next, the group BTS is going to sing us their latest single!”

There was a dull bell that rang off to Scully’s right and the stage manager stepped forward, headphones clomped over his ears, his mic slung low around his jaw.

“We’re clear!” he called, “Sixty seconds!”

The show would be cutting to a co-host standing at a stage set-up outside 30 Rockefeller Center. Scully reached up to unhook the mic attached to her lapel, and a trio of sound technicians descended on her. In ten seconds, she was relieved of all equipment, and she was left swaying in the funnel of the Fresnels on the too bright stage.

“You did great,” she heard from her left, and the show’s host winked at her, and retook her hand, leading her to the dim cool just off stage.

She found Mulder standing before her once her eyes adjusted, just outside the reach of the stage lights, looking nervous and out of place, his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing a turtleneck and a suit coat, looking every inch the tenured professor.

“And who’s this?” Kathie Lee asked, looking at Mulder brightly.

Scully shook herself, trying to remember her manners. It wasn’t always easy, having spent so much time in the field.

“Uh, this is Mulder,” she said, “Dr. Fox Mulder. My, um… my fiancé.”

The television host smiled warmly at Mulder and clasped his hand.

“I’ve heard the story of your meeting,” Kathie Lee said, “It’s a real pleasure.”

“I’m a big Giants fan,” Mulder said, giving her hand a firm shake, “the pleasure’s all mine.”

The host winked at him and then stalked off, and Scully exhaled, falling a little into Mulder’s side.

“I’m glad that’s over,” she said.

“The price you pay for changing the course of human history,” Mulder mumbled, squeezing her into his side and kissing her hairline. He led her off the soundstage and into a waiting limo.

2. It had been a whirlwind since the Nobel Prize Award ceremony in Stockholm. It was cold in Sweden in December — especially to a person who’d spent years in the humid jungles off the beaten paths of the world, and she and Mulder both felt out of place and perpetually in the clasp of a bone-clutching chill.

“I just want to be back in the field,” she’d whisper to him, and he would kiss her hand. With the prize money, they could buy a house, start a family — but they both would rather be in a jungle somewhere, sweating into the other’s skin on a too-narrow cot, in a too-hot clime. There was no science when they were in the cradle of the other’s hips, there was just each other. Sex made life more simple. Sex made life more fun. But sex didn’t cure cancer. Pleurotus Mulderatus did that, and the world wanted to hear about it.

3.She had a free ticket. Any university, any assignment.

“I feel pressure,” she told him, her nose pressed into his ear. “What do you do after you’ve cured cancer?” she asked, earnestly, “there’s nowhere to go but down.”

He’d taken her to Rhode Island, to his family’s cottage in Quonochontaug, creaky and drafty and smelling of mildew and old pine. No one had visited in decades and everything needed to be cleaned and aired out.

They kayaked and frolicked in the waves, drank coffee in adirondack chairs and listened to the pinched squawks of hovering sea birds. They’d find a place in the dune grass, down low where the wind wouldn’t catch them. They’d soak up the sun and then go into the cottage and make love between the knotty pine walls, their moans absorbed by the thick shag carpet laced with the grit of sand, faded drunkards path quilts nailed to the walls.

“Down is a state of mind,” Mulder would murmur into her ear, “Up is fighting gravity. You have nowhere to be but here. You have no one to impress but me.”

He would catch her lips with his own and they would sink into each other gratefully.

4.Mulder was burning pancakes in the kitchen when there was a dull knock on the screen door.

Scully was laughing at Mulder’s culinary ineptitudes when she turned toward the sound, her laugh fading when a well-done-up woman appeared on the stoop, holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare, trying to see into the murky depths of the house.

“Are you press?” Scully asked through the screen door glumly, her mood taking a nose dive.

“I’m Samantha,” the woman said, and it took Scully a full five seconds for her synapses to fire, to figure out the identity of the visitor.

“Oh my god,” Scully said, swinging the door open to admit the polished woman waiting on the other side. The door itself was swollen with humidity and didn’t shut all the way -- it caught like there was a second latch. “Come in, come in!”

Samantha had a full head of thick hair just like her brother, but it was curled and tawny, streaks of not-quite-blonde highlights running from the roots. She was wearing Lily Pulitzer pastels, and would have looked at home in a sun hat or on the pages of Coastal Living.

“You must be Dana,” she breathed, smiling widely. Scully nodded and looked around self-consciously. “God, this place hasn’t changed in thirty years,” Samantha finished, shaking her head ruefully. “Where’s Fox?”

“Kitchen,” Scully said, inclining her head toward the cooking space, though she knew Samantha knew right where to go.

“You’re using the cast iron?” Samantha said boldly and apropos of nothing, stepping into the sunny kitchen, “God, I hope you seasoned that thing.”

Mulder’s face brightened at seeing his sister, and he turned to her fully, enveloping her in a hug, a greasy spatula in one hand, held out so as not to soil her clothes.

“Like you can cook,” he drawled, turning back to the smoking pan.

“I know enough to hire a caterer,” she said, plunking down in an olive green vinyl kitchen chair, looking at ease but totally out of place in the dated decor of the cottage. “So. Who do I have to fuck to get a mimosa around here?”

“Me,” said a voice from the entryway. The screen door slammed ineffectually shut and Scully’s own sister Melissa stood awkwardly in the slant of sun showing through it, holding several plastic bags laden with glass bottles and juices, a hopeful, nervous smile on her face.

“Missy?!” Scully squeaked, and Mulder looked to the door, his face chagrined and pleased as Scully launched herself at her sister, wrapping herself in the earthy patchouli smell of the woman, the plastic bags clunking to the floor at their feet.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“I got ordained online,” Melissa said, drinking a Bellini from a yellow smiley-face mug, her feet tucked under her on a rough-hewn dining chair. “It’s perfectly legal.”

“But it’s--” Scully started, then abandoned her argument. She looked to Mulder desperately, who smiled and plunked a cup of hot coffee in front of her.

“It was only an idea,” he said, squeezing her hand and sliding an ancient sugar dish in front of her. The crinkles around his eyes had hardened in the ocean-reflected sun, lending him an air of easy humor she hadn’t witnessed much of in the jungle.

“Don’t you need two witnesses?” she asked, realizing how lame it sounded the second the words were out of her mouth.

Samantha leaned over and grabbed her hand, squeezing her fingers in such a way that made her feel bolstered and secure. “Not in Rhode Island,” Mulder’s sister told her, looking her square in the eye.

“We don’t have to do it,” Mulder said, still standing at her side, “but I thought…”

She felt overwhelmed with emotion, thinking of her father, who hadn’t lived long enough to witness her greatest achievement, which would have saved his life.

“Mom sent her wedding dress,” Melissa said, holding up a garment bag -- it was a yellowed ivory in the kitchen sun, the zipper up its middle aged and brittle.

XxXxXxXxXxX

They exchanged vows on the beach in front of the old cottage in a whipping Atlantic wind. Gulls hovered overhead and the sun was as bright as a brass doorknob, the air clearer than glass.

Samantha had read a poem by an amateur poet named Tim Pratt called Scientific Romance (Mulder having confessed to her later that night that it only seemed right to have had a reading replete with scientific notation for a wedding between two people such as themselves). Melissa had read words as old as the institution of marriage itself and they exchanged simple rings and had eyes only for each other. Scully handed her bouquet -- a small posy of wild swamp azalea and yellow flag that Melissa had picked the hour before -- to her new sister in law as she strode up the peeling wooden steps of the house. Mulder had insisted upon carrying her over the threshold and Melissa and Samantha had stood back thoughtfully, and were now sitting closely on the beach, heads bent together, talking in hushed tones.

Scully didn’t know quite what to do with herself, dressed in old lace in the heavy salt air, her left ring finger feeling as heavy and pendulous as an old bell. Mulder wrapped his arms around her from behind and told her they never had to leave.

“Nobel Laureates live in Rhode Island, too, you know,” he whispered into the hair behind her ear.

“Mmm,” she said happily, watching her sister and his dig their feet in the gritty sand.

He kissed the skin where her shoulder met her neck. “Life can be as simple as the state motto.”

“Which is?” she asked.

“Hope.”

5. She stood above the riverbank, the grass a trampled, muddy squelch. A monkey called from overhead, a high primate shriek that echoed through the canopy. Its compatriots soon joined in, the welcoming committee announcing the rare arrival of a visitor.

He sat in the back of the approaching hollowed-out canoe, his knees practically to his neck, the lanky bones of him jutting out at all angles. He wore jeans and chambray, all wrong for the climate, but the blue set off the dark mink of his hair, and his eyes -- as green as the river upon which his boat perched -- caught hers from twenty yards away -- they held her gaze as the craft glided to shore, and he leapt off with the galumphing grace of a power forward.

“Dr. Scully I presume,” he said, finding his balance on the slippery shore and reaching a hand forward. She clasped it gratefully, then brought it to her belly, which was protruding out like a carved fertility statue, a life-sized goddess, gravid and full. “I thank God, doctor, that I have been permitted to see you,” he finished, and they embraced on the shores of the jungle river, perspiring and damp and finally, finally feeling at home.

[imaginedhaven]

Reluctantly Rooming: Part Fourteen

Link to Masterpost

Good things are coming! I hope you enjoy this. I’m hoping to get the next part out on Monday, before we all hide away from the internet with ACOSF and don’t come back until we’re all done reading.

Today’s prompts:

Person A walking in on Person B changing

and

Rowan walking in on Aelin doing her nails and talking to Lysandra

~*~*~

Aelin called Lysandra and set her phone to speaker mode as she carefully painted her nails in a shade of dark red. “Come on, pick up,” she muttered as the phone rang.

Finally, her friend picked up. “Don’t you have someone cuter than me to bother?”

Aelin laughed despite herself. “There’s no one cuter than you, except maybe for me.”

“I’m flattered. Isn’t this the big day? What are you doing talking to me when you’ve got a smoking hot roommate to not-date?”

It was. In about eight hours, she would be heading to some hotel’s ballroom on Rowan’s arm and staying near him to make sure his ex, Remelle, got the hint and stopped bothering him. Every time she dwelled on it for too long, she felt a fluttering sensation in her chest, and so she was trying to distract herself as much as possible.

Now, though, she needed the help of her closest friend. “It is, and I’m calling you for advice.”

“Surely you’ve done all of this before. Drinks, dancing, maybe coming back and waking up in your date’s bed…”

“Lys!” she shouted, scandalized, before dropping her voice. “He’s here. What if he hears you?”

“Then you can thank me for getting you laid despite your best efforts. Now, what do you need my help for?”

Aelin sighed and glanced at the pile of clothing currently scattered over her bed. “I can’t figure out what I’m supposed to wear to this thing. I think I’ve gone through my whole closet twice.”

The sound of her friend’s laughter rang through the room. “Did he not tell you what kind of party this is? Or are you trying to decide because you want to look good for him?”

“Lysandra, you can’t just say things like that!” Aelin hissed, fearing her cheeks were turning as red as the polish on her nails. “I have you on speaker while I’m letting my nails dry.”

“You almost never bother with your nails. This must be really important.”

It was, though Aelin was certainly not going to admit it. “Are you going to help or not?”

“Of course I’ll help. I just can’t believe you think you seriously need my help to look good for a guy.”

“It’s not even that,” she protested. “This is a big deal, okay, these are his coworkers and even though this isn’t real whatever impression I make will impact him going forward at work.”

“Okay, yeah, I see your point. So you want to look like you’re a reasonably well put-together adult, but you also want to look hot.”

“I love that you know me well enough by now to know that that part isn’t a question.” Aelin smiled at her reflection in the mirror, only to jump out of her seat as her door opened without warning.

“Hey, I wanted to make sure you…” Rowan’s voice trailed off, and she blushed as she recalled that she’d stripped down to a bra and panties as she raided her closet.

“Hey, wait, what’s going on?” Lysandra’s voice sounded confused, even through the tinniness of the speaker.

Aelin did her best not to actually look at Rowan, but she couldn’t help chancing a quick glance at his face. He was looking back at her as well, confusion clear in pine-green eyes, and she bit her lip before picking up the phone again. “Yeah, Lys, I’m gonna have to call you back, okay?” She hung up without waiting for an answer and then reached for the robe she’d thrown over her bed.

Rowan spoke again as she tied the robe around her waist. “I just wanted to see if you needed anything from me before we have to get ready.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Rowan’s eyes left her, finally seeing the utter wreck her bedroom had become. “What happened in here?”

“Picking an outfit happened here. I want to make sure I don’t embarrass you, is all.”

He nodded, glancing over the options she had cast aside on her bed before stepping into her closet. “Are you just looking for general advice, or do you actually want help?”

“You know what? Sure. I can’t promise I’ll pick it, but show me what you think would be best.” If nothing else, she’d get an idea of the formality of the event from him doing so.

He hummed an acknowledgment, and the sound of rustling fabric filled the air. Finally, he stepped back into her room with a hanger in his hand. “I like this one.”

She looked it over and slowly smiled. She’d forgotten about this option entirely. “I bought it years ago on a whim, but it was too old for me at the time. Maybe it’ll look better now.”

She already knew it would, and she couldn’t deny the small thrill she felt at the idea of wearing a dress that Rowan had specifically mentioned he liked. She wouldn’t say as much to him, but she knew her decision was made.

~*~*~

Several hours later, Aelin grinned at her reflection as she admired the dress Rowan had selected. It was black velvet, the neckline embroidered in gold and skimming her collarbones before flowing into long sleeves. What was more interesting, though, was the back.

It was cut almost dangerously low, low enough that she would be going without a bra for the evening, and the embroidery continued, forming the shape of a dragon along the edge of the fabric. From there, the fabric hugged her waist and hips before flaring out into a skirt that ended just above her knees.

As she had hoped, she had matured enough that she filled it out nicely now despite the richness of the fabric and the embroidery. She had paired it with a simple pair of black heels and no further accessories, allowing the dress to speak for itself, and she had simply pulled her hair into a half-up, half-down style with loose curls.

She was as ready as she could be, dressed to do battle with whoever dared question her presence at Rowan’s side. She just had to make sure he was ready as well.

She knocked once on his door before pushing it open, only to freeze in the entryway to his room.

Rowan was standing by his own closet, black dress pants open and slung low on his hips as he looked through a drawer and pulled out an undershirt. He tried to turn to her as he put it on, only to somehow get stuck in the fabric with a growl.

Aelin laughed, crossing the room before gently tugging the shirt over his head and smoothing his platinum locks with her fingers. “If I’d known dressing was going to be such a struggle for you, I’d have come by sooner,” she teased.

He scowled at her, but didn’t disagree as he turned to grab a dress shirt. “How long have you been waiting?”

“I haven’t been. I just finished getting ready myself.” Telling herself it was only because to save time, she deftly buttoned his shirt, stopping herself from reaching for his pants and hoping she wasn’t blushing as she stepped back.

If she was, he didn’t notice. “Good. That looks nice, by the way.”

“You’re not even looking.” It was true; he was leaning back into the closet, pulling out a tie and his jacket.

“I saw you when you walked in.” As always, his voice was matter-of-fact to the extent that she found it impossible to figure out if he meant anything by it. That was truly the most maddening part of having him for a roommate.

Aelin coaxed a smile onto her face regardless. “I see. You need anything else?”

“I need you to make sure you’ll be warm enough. We’ll take my car to get there, but it’ll still be a cold walk to the lobby.”

“I asked if you needed anything,” she laughed. “Not for you to fuss at me.”

He shook his head, green eyes bright with amusement. “I’m almost ready. If you head on down, I’ll be right behind you.”

Aelin nodded and left before she embarrassed herself any further, slipping down the stairs as quietly as her heels would allow.

Gods, what was she thinking? This was a terrible idea. He was a successful professional, and she was playing at being an adult and pretending she deserved to be seen with him. She would just go up the stairs and tell him she couldn’t do it after all. Maybe if she was lucky she would actually twist her ankle on the way up, and they would both have an excuse to skip the party.

Before she could move, though, she heard footsteps on the stairs and soon he was joining her in the living room. As he moved, she couldn’t help but stare; his dark suit fit snugly against his trim torso, highlighting his muscled shoulders. She was used to seeing Rowan wear a shirt and tie, but seeing him in a suit was something else altogether.

Gods, she really wasn’t going to make it through the evening at all.

“Are you ready?” he asked, and from his expression she had to wonder if he could read her nerves. He stepped closer, and she bit her lip and nodded mutely.

He smiled. “Good. Let’s go.”

He grabbed their coats, handing hers over to her before slipping on his own. Soon they were out the door, and despite having grown up in Terrasen Aelin couldn’t quite hold back the gasp at the sudden cold of stepping outside. He glanced at her as if to say I told you so before quietly opening the passenger door of his car for her.

She took a deep breath. Once she got into his car, there was no going back and she would have to see this night through to whatever end. Her nerves threatened to overtake her, but before she could back out a sudden calm settled over her and a single thought entered her mind.

I am Aelin Galathynius, and I will not be afraid.

Aelin slid into the car and closed the door, and soon they were on their way.

~*~*~

Tagging:

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @queen-of-glass @fangirlprincess09 @sassys-world @morganofthewildfire @superspiritfestival @perseusannabeth @sis-it-dont-add-up @jlinez @julemmaes @emilyoftheshadows @thegoddessofyou @mymultiversee @swankii-art-teacher @rowansfirebringer @livsdriverslicense @courtofjurdan @danibutterr @woollycat22 @rowaelinismyotp @sleeping-and-books @acciowests @stardelia @anidealiveson @autophobiaxx @rainbowcheetah512 @camilamartinezdunne

[5-falsehoods-phonated]

Hows about finger in the mail with Patton receiving the finger? ((& if you feel particularly bold, perhaps it's Roman’s?))

(Prompts with boxes have been taken, highlighted have been written)

Requests for this card are closed, thank you to anyone who sent in requests! If you don’t want to see these you can block the tag #false bthb. As always shoot me an ask if you wanna be tagged in future stories, whether it be for bad things happen bingo or any of the other series, one shots or in general!

Thanks for the request I hope you like it!

The Perfect Manicure

Summary: Roman hasn't answered anyone's calls in a week. Patton wants to know why.

Warnings: gore, severed finger, vomiting, missing person, panic

Prompt: Finger in the Mail, requested from tumblr

Ships: platonic Royality (Patton and Roman), background Intrulogical (Logan x Remus)

WC: 2750

“If I never see another goddamn bubble sheet again I would be the happiest man alive.Can you believe they still have us using those even if the thing to check them is broken?”

Patton smiled over at Roman who was currently gesturing wildly with his hands as he ranted. “Language please. But yeah, I don’t know why they couldn’t just get a cheap light box to replace it.”

“Because all the school's funds go into sports! Which is great but teachers have no respect as it is and then they go and rub it in our faces with not enough pencils and a broken grading machine and damn bubble tests.” 

“Language.” Patton chided again but he was largely ignored. Roman had been an English teacher for a couple years now, his love of writing being something he wanted to share with growing minds. His bright outlook had been somewhat dashed however as he learned just how important sticking to a curriculum was and teachers etiquette and preparing students more for state tests than learning how to nurture their creativity. It hadn’t stopped him though, instead making him push for a creative writing club which he poured most of his free hours into to make sure the kids that were a part of it got as much direction and encouragement as he could give them.

He was a great teacher and an even better friend. Patton had known him since college and since then they were inseparable, boisterous but genuinely caring personality making him a perfect match for Patton who liked to nearly smother his loved ones with attention that Roman practically lived off of. From there he had met his brother Remus who acted just like him except more...demented, and his husband Logan which Patton was surprised about until he saw how well the more logic based man reeled the chaos in when it got to be too much and Remus knowing just how to push the others boundaries to remind him to have fun. Meeting Virgil who’s anxiety brought some much needed caution to the often very impulsive group had created an incredibly tight bond that Patton could sincerely say he wouldn't know what to do without.

An idea struck him suddenly as he looked at Roman’s hands, a bit dry and without their usual coating of colorful polish since he had been so busy lately. Patton looked down at his own ragged hands from always chewing on them, never quite breaking the habit even if he did set a terrible example for any of his own students who might catch him in the act. Decision made he interrupted Roman mid rant, feeling slightly bad for not paying attention for at least five minutes but pushing on excitedly nonetheless.

“We have a week off for winter break don’t we? Why don’t we go get a manicure for the holidays, something to relax and feel pretty.”

Roman grinned back at him, thankfully not seeming to care that he had been cut off. “Patton that’s perfect! We can actually hang out together properly instead of only catching each other over lunch. Oh! I just got that new polish from Virgil too that I can bring in!”

They set a time to meet and went off in their own directions, warmth pooling in Patton’s chest at the thought of finally being able to properly talk to Roman rather than stealing whatever time he could in between classes. He loved his job and he knew at the end of the day Roman did too, it was just you had to try so much harder at friendships as an adult with a job than you did when you lived in the same dorm in college. He shook his head. It didn’t matter; they had a relaxing date set and short of Remus and Logan blowing up their kitchen again and calling him and Roman to help clean up before the landlord noticed nothing was going to ruin it.

----

Patton was worried.

Winter break had been just what they all needed to unwind. The whole gang had gotten together at Logan and Remus’ house to celebrate the holidays, Virgil hiding a smile as Roman had shown off his bright red and sparkly nails to anyone who would pay attention, which was everyone considering how loud Roman could get when he really wanted to. They had all exchanged gifts and everyone had been overjoyed that the gift they chose had been received with excited happiness. Movie night had then gone off without a hitch with all of them being too tired and comfortable to go back to their own homes for the night so it had ended up turning into an impromptu sleepover where everyone scrambled to find something to wear as pajamas...unless you were Remus in which case you just stripped, wrapped yourself up in a blanket and faceplanted on the floor. Patton’s mouth twitched up a bit from his worried frown; no amount of yelling from Roman had reversed that decision and eventually they had all settled down and accepted the late morning in store for them the next day. 

And now a few days had passed- a week to be exact. Patton had sent out a text or two to the usually talkative man to see how the rest of his break was going and if he wanted to hang out again before their holiday ended, not receiving any response. He had tried not to be hurt about it since as little time they had to spend with each other they also had just as little alone time, so Patton just took the lack of response as Roman needing to decompress a bit before coming back to classrooms full of students and meetings full of teachers, silently congratulating him for setting his own boundaries and taking the time he needed even if he wished Roman would have said something first. But now Patton was at school, teaching his class, while Roman was not. A sub had had to be called in when it became clear Roman wouldn’t be showing up and didn’t answer the call the office had sent out to see if maybe he was just running late. Patton had sent a couple of texts himself with no response, the ones he had sent before break ended left unread.

So Patton was worried, and he was going to go to Roman’s small apartment directly after school and see what was wrong or at the very least why he seemed resolute not to answer anyone’s calls or texts or voicemails or- Patton shook his head a bit. He had a full day to get through and he truly could not afford a meltdown in front of his students. He made a vague gesture towards the board saying something about due dates and homework before he flopped heavily onto his chair and tried not to look at the clock too much as a small courtesy to his students. Instead he busied himself organizing random files in his computer until the bell rang, making sure to tell everyone goodbye just like always while packing up faster than he ever had to get out the door as quickly as possible. Driving to Roman’s apartment building was a blur- he had done it so many times he was startled when he realized he had made it there without even noticing. Logan and Remus lived in this building too in a slightly bigger apartment since they were still saving up for something better. Patton and Virgil lived in a building not too far away where the rent was just slightly cheaper but the apartments a little more lived in as a result. Quickly sending a text to Virgil, Logan and Remus letting them know what he was doing he got out of the car and made his way up, Virgil shooting back a text that he’d be there in ten and was bringing their mail with him.

He hurried up the steps as he sent another text to Roman telling him he was coming up, hoping that maybe he’d finally answer but as he stood in front of the silent doorway with no answer his mind was made up. He only hesitated a moment before knocking loud enough the neighbors could probably hear, opening the noise would scare Roman into answering.

“Roman, open up this prank isn’t funny!” Fishing the spare key out of his pocket he quickly fit it into the lock and pushed his way inside. Politeness be damned he wasn’t going another second without knowing what was going on. 

The apartment was dark, curtains drawn and the lights off making it look like he had just gone on an extended holiday rather than what was supposed to be a short winter break. Flicking on the light revealed a thin layer of dust covering everything and absolutely no sign of Roman, even as Patton searched more and more frantically through the small space in a desperate attempt to find something, anything, that could point towards where he had gone. The bed was made neatly with clothes draped over a chair like he was going to change into his teacher’s attire the very next morning, coming in late to twist some dramatic speel about why he hadn’t been in and what adventure he had found himself sucked into. But there was nothing. Hallway to closet to living room to kitchen to bathroom to bedroom. Over and over and over again until Patton was thoroughly sick with worry turned up not a hint.

Patton sat on the bed and buried his face in his hands. Should he call the police? File for missing person’s? He’d call Logan first; Logan would bring Remus and Remus could try and find something and Logan would know what to do. That was fine. Shakily he opened his phone to find he was still in Roman’s messages, blinking back tears as he sent out one last “Where are you?” before exiting and finding Logan’s contact info.

And froze as a sharp buzz cut through the silent apartment.

Snapping his head he looked around in confusion. Surely not- he opened up Roman’s messages again and typed out a quick “Hello?” hearing that same sound a few seconds later coming from the living room. Standing on wobbly legs he typed out a quick “Come up.” to Logan before stumbling into the adjacent room to search for the phone. Said phone was sitting upside down on the coffee table, overlooked in his panic from earlier. He sat heavily on the couch and reached for it, numb fingers fumbling until he finally got a firm hold of it and typed in the password. They all knew each other’s phone passwords in case of emergencies, Virgil and Remus had insisted on it when it became clear they were a unit, and Patton had never been more grateful to both of them.

So many message notifications- all from him and Logan and Remus and Virgil; all of them simply assuming he needed his space since he did sometimes disappear for a day or two for self care. It annoyed them all but they had learned to respect it, staying out of the way until he showed up again more energized than usual and up to his normal idiocy and flamboyance. But this time...this time something had actually happened, and Patton had done nothing for a week. He had been worried and had done nothing and now Roman was gone with no way of knowing where he was or what had happened and-

“Patton.” Patton looked up to see Logan, Remus and Virgil all standing in the still open doorway, all of them glancing around in concern.He shook his head and weakly held the phone up for them to see, Remus’ eyes blowing wide as he took large strides across the room to snatch it from his hand to start scrolling through it, trying to find some kind of indicator as to what had happened. Virgil walked over as well but chose to sit next to Patton, setting the mail down on the dusty table and wrapping an arm around his shoulders to pull him close. 

“Your thoughts are really loud, Pat. This isn’t your fault, we'll find him.” Patton bit his lip to keep from crying, instead glancing over at what the other had brought up only to sit up suddenly to get a closer look at the lone package sitting on top. It was addressed to him but he didn’t recognize who it was from, the return address from some town he had never heard of. He picked it up as Remus threw the phone back down to the table and stalked into the kitchen where he and Logan began whispering. Patton paid it no attention, transfixed as he peeled up the tape and opened the box. In it was a sealed box, small and sitting innocently surrounded by paper packing for padding. He carefully dug it out as Virgil stood and he numbly followed, peeling up the tape of the smaller box intending to throw the other one away. Carefully he folded back the flaps and picked away the paper, frowning as some of it stuck together with what looked almost like rust. Which he knew it couldn’t be... since paper doesn't rust. 

He blinked as he stared at what was underneath the paper, brain having to work double time to catch up to what his eyes were telling him was there. Pale, solid and very real, laid a perfectly intact finger. 

Patton was fond of pranks. As much as he loathed spiders, the occasional plastic one being hidden somewhere he’d find it was a classic. Canned snakes and a dumb joke were always a sure way to make him laugh. Even a dumb Halloween prop could get a rise out of him in the right context. But looking at the finger didn’t make him laugh. Nothing about the crusted blood flaking off the severed stump made him want to giggle. The scar on the second knuckle he knew to be from a stick sword fight earned as a six year old couldn’t make him smile. And the slightly chipped, glittery red nail polish coating the neatly filed nail failed to even make him smile. Instead he dropped the box, rusty paper and neat package slipping through his fingers and hitting the floor with a dull thud.

He barely registered his friends looking over to him before he turned to the side and spilled the contents of his stomach over the tiled floor. His brain shut down as his throat burned, clutching his stomach like a lifeline as he faintly heard a gasp and then one of the others gagging as well while Remus outright screamed, the sound barely cutting through the fog that settled over Patton’s thoughts. If he had just come sooner, had called more, if they had checked on him  after a couple of days instead of simply assuming- who had even done it? Why would someone- he couldn’t finish  the thought, his stomach and brain both rejecting it as he dry heaved through mounting panic. 

He didn’t know who it was that took him out of the building and sat him on the curb. He barely saw the police lights and definitely didn’t hear any questions directed towards him, shock settled so deeply that it was a chore to simply move from the curb to a car to an office and sat down in an uncomfortable creaking chair. His hand was squeezed tightly but he did nothing in return, simply staring at a file in front of him as various people made their way in and out of the room they were in. He was numb and cold and wanted more than anything else for this to be an elaborately cruel prank that would end any second now. Roman would come through the door and hug him and apologize and Patton would never, ever forgive him for making it go on so long but eventually they’d be fine because they always were. And Patton could wave at him in the mornings and laugh with him about Logan yelling at him for breaking into their apartment again to jump on Remus to wake him up.And they’d smile and sort paperwork until their classes came and everything would turn out fine.

Everything would turn out fine in the morning.

This work is also available on AO3!

If you like this, please consider reblogging, as sharing a creator’s work is very encouraging to us and helps our creations reach more people!

[bestillmyslashyheart]

“Get the first aid kit!” Kyle yelled needlessly as they all stumbled through the front door. Alex left the others in his living room to grab the two first aid kits he had stashed in the bathroom. When he turned around, Jenna was already there to take them from him and he handed them over gladly. Relieved of that burden, he started rifling through the drawers and the medicine cabinet for anything that might help, knowing that the two kits weren’t going to be enough. He found extra strength pain killers and two bottles of nail polish remover and carried them back to the living room.

In the few minutes he’d been gone, the room was transformed into a triage center. Max was laying flat on the floor, his breathing surprisingly steady for the size of the blood stain on his shirt. Isobel was crouched over him, her hands pressed to his chest, clearly trying to will that familiar glow into existence despite the blood coating her own body. On the couch next to them, Rosa was wrapping Liz’s arm in her t-shirt, the blood already starting to seep through the cloth. Across the room, Kyle was bent over Maria’s still form while Jenna dressed the wound on his leg. Michael stood hunched over a couch in the middle of it all, trying to catch his breath. Alex handed him the first bottle without pause and the second went to Isobel. She took a few grateful sips before capping the bottle. Max would need the rest. 

While Michael sucked down enough acetone to prevent him from spilling his guts all over the floor, Alex went to the kitchen for water and vodka. Acetone only helped so many people in that room. When he came back, he handed the painkillers to Liz along with a bottle of water. She tossed a few pills back gratefully and turned her attention to her sister.

That done, Alex stood on the edge of the room and eyed everyone carefully. There wasn’t much more he could do, Kyle more than capable of helping the humans while the aliens took care of each other’s wounds, but Alex couldn’t do nothing.

“Manes, sit down,” Jenna ordered. She hardly spared him a glance as she neatly stitched Kyle’s leg back together.

Alex wanted to protest, surely there was something more he could do, but instead, he sank onto the one spare couch. He couldn’t contain the sharp hiss that came out as the movement pulled at his leg but thankfully no one noticed. Just like no one noticed that the growing blood stain on his pant leg wasn’t anyone else’s. 

“What the hell was that?” Rosa finally asked. She let out a short ‘ow’ when Liz poured vodka over her arm and started cleaning the blood away. Alex was going to have to get all new furniture after this; blood stains were a pain to get out of the fabric. “Well?” She asked when no one answered her.

The problem was no one could answer her. The attack had come out of nowhere. They’d been having brunch at the Crashdown, a new thing they were trying on Sundays, when three military vehicles screeched to a halt outside and seconds later the diner exploded in gunfire. 

No one had escape unscathed.

It was a small blessing, or careful planning, that the place was nearly empty except for them. Only two other tables were full and most of the employees were in the back room, Arturo included. Alex and Jenna had managed to get almost everyone out alive. It would be a long time before Alex forgot the sight of Meredith Aires’ lifeless eyes; she’d been in the guitar club with him in high school and was one of the few people to seek him out when he got back last year. He squeezed his shut at the memory, her face lingering behind his eyelids with a sharp burn. “It was my father,” Alex forced out when the silence dragged on too long. He opened his eyes to see surprised looks on everyone except Kyle and Michael’s faces. “I saw him just before-” 

“Michael,” Isobel said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at her. Beneath her hands, Max’s chest was barely moving. Isobel had improved her skills but she was losing too much blood of her own and she’d already healed Maria in the car on the way over. If they wanted to save Max, they needed Michael and Michael could barely heal. She reached out and forced the acetone bottle in his hand into his face. “Drink up.”

Michael obligingly took several large gulps before capping it with a third of the bottle left. He cast a concerned eye over at where Kyle was working on Maria before dropping to his knees and putting his hands over top of Isobel’s. “Just follow my lead, okay?” Isobel asked. She waited until Michael nodded before closing her eyes. Alex had never really understood what their process was but soon enough Michael’s hands and then Isobel’s hands started to glow. A few moments later, Max half sat up with a gasp. He sucked down lungfuls of air and Michael quickly diverted his attention. He finished the last of his bottle and stumbled over to Maria’s side.

They’d dated for a few months before deciding to ‘re-evaluate’ their relationship and Alex had no idea what to call them now. Maria insisted that she wasn’t his girlfriend, but Michael’s face told Alex something different. “Is she going to be okay?” 

“She needs a hospital,” Kyle replied tersely.

“We can’t,” Liz denied immediately. She had a hand clutched to the bullet wound in her arm but she was otherwise okay. “That was blatant. They shot up the diner in broad daylight. If we go to the hospital, they’ll find us.” It wasn’t anything that hadn’t already been discussed on the drive out to Alex’s house. They’d originally planned to get to Max’s but Alex’s was closer and they didn’t have time to spare. Alex could only hope that the security measures he’d put in place and his father’s general apathy about his son’s life would protect them but even he didn’t know how long for. 

“How bad is she?” Max asked. He was panting and his face was too pale but he was upright under his own power. “I can-”

“No,” Isobel protested. “You were almost dead a minute ago.”

“And now I’m not,” Max countered. “I don’t know how much I can help but I can do something if you need me to.”

Kyle didn’t answer right away. “Let’s see if she wakes up soon,” he offered. Maria had been gut shot trying to pull Meredith away from the window and she’d passed out in the car from blood loss. Michael had pulled the bullet out immediately and Isobel had healed what she could but Maria was still in bad shape. Kyle worked silently for a few more minutes before stepping away. He limped slightly from the injury on his leg but otherwise he was unharmed. 

“Who’s next?” He asked. 

No one replied right away. Finally, Rosa pointed at Liz. “She got shot in the arm.”

Liz shook her head. “It went through and I don’t think it hit anything. I’m okay for now. I can wait to get stitched up.” She nudged her sister. “You got a face full of glass and I’m not sure we got it all out.” It was true. Rosa’s face and neck was a myriad of small cuts. None of them were particularly deep but there were a lot of them.

“Isobel? Max?” He asked. “Alex?”

Alex waved him off as did Max. “I can wait,” Isobel insisted. “This certainly isn’t going to kill me.”

Kyle frowned but finally sat down next to Rosa and got to work making sure her skin was clear of glass and each wound was treated. Without a word, Jenna took a place next to Liz and unwrapped her makeshift bandage before quickly and neatly stitching up the wound. “Are you okay?” Liz asked her.

Jenna smirked. “I’ve had worse.”

“Not what I asked.”

Jenna held up an arm and showed off the two streaks of bloody skin. “Just grazes. I’m fine.” Liz eyed them but nodded.

The room fell quiet. Michael was holding vigil over Maria, his eyes watching her every breath carefully. Kyle and Jenna finished with Rosa and Liz before Kyle turned his attention to Isobel and Jenna poured a large swig of vodka straight into her mouth. “Alex, you good?” She asked.

Alex nodded. She eyed him like she wasn’t convinced. In all honesty, she shouldn’t be. Alex’s right pant leg was wet with blood and for good reason. While he hadn’t gotten shot, he’d slipped on the shattered glass that littered the Crashdown floor and his prosthetic had buckled under him. It twisted on his leg and glass somehow got through his jeans and in between his prosthetic and his leg. At first it was just uncomfortable, a chafing as it rubbed up against his sock, while the twisted position of the prosthetic itself made it hard for him to walk. He made it work and the blood he’d slipped in on the floor had covered up any of his own blood that was seeping through his pant leg. Because a good deal of it was his. At some point the glass tore through the fabric of the sock and started cutting into the skin of his stump. 

The smart thing to do would be to remove the prosthetic, remove the sock, clear the glass out of his skin and treat it. But Alex wasn’t sure he could do that on his own and he knew he couldn’t let anyone else do it. 

Alex had issues. He knew this, accepted it even. Rather than confronting and dealing with his issues, Alex preferred to simply ignore them. Case in point, he didn’t like people touching his stump. If there was a medical reason for it, he could force himself into allowing another’s touch, but other than that no one touched it. Not even during sex, with one notable exception. So for Alex to deal with his own injury today, he’d have to let someone put their hands on his leg in a way he was intensely uncomfortable with. The easiest choice would be Kyle; he was a consummate professional when he was working and Alex had enough experience with doctors to know how to handle that but Kyle was also his friend and he didn’t want his friend’s hands on him in that way. The harder choice (the only other choice) would be Michael but Alex couldn’t do that either. Once, months ago, it would’ve been fine. Michael’s touch was not only permitted but welcomed but this wasn’t then and after everything Michael had said about Alex and their relationship and how he wanted nothing to do with Alex anymore, Alex couldn’t imagine letting Michael near that part of him. 

“Alex?” Kyle asked. Alex blinked and Kyle was crouched in front of where he sat on the couch. He was clearly tired but he also clearly still ready to work. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“I’m fine,” Alex replied instantly.

“Good,” Kyle nodded. “That didn’t actually answer my question, though.”

Alex glared. Kyle just stared stoically back. “I’m fine, Kyle. Help everyone else.”

“I did,” Kyle replied. Alex looked around in surprise and sure enough, everyone looked tended to. Even Maria was awake and sitting up, though Alex assumed Max’s hunched over form next to her had something to do with that. 

“Huh,” he huffed. How had he missed all of that?

“Alex,” Kyle said again. This time his hand hovered over Alex’s pant leg. The blood stain had grown significantly while Alex zoned out. “Are you hurt?”

Alex made a choice. “Yes,” he admitted. Kyle started to lower his hand. “But do not touch me.” Kyle’s hand froze and he looked up at Alex’s face in surprise. “I’m serious, Kyle. I do not want you touching my leg.” He looked around and spotted the open first aid kit. It had been ransacked but Alex was sure there was still something left. “Hand me that and I’ll do it myself.”

Kyle grabbed it without a word and came back to Alex’s side. “Are you sure?” He asked calmly. 

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Kyle agreed. He sat back. “If you change your mind-”

“I won’t,” Alex told him firmly. “I do not want you touching my leg,” he repeated. Kyle nodded in acquiescence. 

Kyle didn’t move far away though and with the rest of the group seemingly occupied, Alex pulled himself into an upright position and started tugging at his pants leg. It took considerably more effort than it should have and Alex had to consider for the first time that he was more injured than he’d thought. “Okay,” he relented. “I might need help getting my pants off.”

Jenna huffed from her spot on the chair next to him. “And you want Valenti’s help with that?”

Alex allowed himself a small smile. “Maybe some scissors? Try the ones in the knife block,” he suggested. They were the strongest ones he had close by.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked when Kyle returned with scissors in tow. He sounded exhausted. “Alex?” He left Maria’s side to loom behind Kyle. 

“I’m fine,” Alex hissed as Kyle cut through the fabric of his pants and accidentally jostled the prosthetic.

“Yeah, you sound fine,” Michael snarked. “Why didn’t you say you were hurt?”

“Because I’m fine,” Alex didn’t look at him as Kyle pulled the torn cloth away. “Shit,” he breathed when he caught sight of the blood soaked sock. There was definitely a lot more than he’d been expecting.

“Do you need help getting it off?” Kyle offered quietly.

Alex was already shaking his head. “Same rules.” He knocked Kyle’s hands aside as he reached down to undo the straps. He got one undone before the whole thing twisted and dug glass deeper into his skin. “Fuck.” Alex held the prosthetic in place with both hands.

By now he’d managed to garner everyone’s attention and that just made it worse. He was normally fine with people seeing his leg, something he’d really had no choice in accepting, but the current situation was not ideal.

Kyle started to reach for him but paused midway. Alex could appreciate his consideration of Alex’s refusal for help but the blatant offer wasn’t helping. He took a deep breath and reached for the other strap but couldn’t quite get it undone before had to stop. With his pants out of the way he could see that he’d taken two bullets to the lower leg. One was lodged near the ankle joint and another was just below where it connected to his leg. It was the second bullet that had mangled the prosthetic out of shape.

After a moment when nobody moved, Michael took a step forward. “Here,” he stretched his hands out. Kyle shot a hand out to stop him. 

“No,” Kyle said. “He’s got this.” Alex very much did not got this but again, he appreciated Kyle’s consideration.

Michael glared at Kyle before turning to Alex. “You can’t hold it and take it off at the same time,” he pointed out sensibly. He reached out again and Alex didn’t think. His left leg was in the air and planted in Michael’s chest just as he felt Michael’s fingers brush the skin of his knee. In an instant, he straightened his leg and shoved Michael back a step. 

“Don’t touch it,” he cried. Michael’s eyes snapped to his, realization dawning. Alex cursed himself. He’d never meant to tell Michael he was the only person permitted to touch Alex’s leg but it had slipped out one night. Now, Michael took a step back in what looked like shame and guilt as he realized he’d lost that precious privilege. 

The room was silent.

Alex fell back against the couch with a heavy sigh. “Fuck.” His leg throbbed.

[sageblogsthings]

[image description: a map, brownish-yellow with age, fills the background. the text over the image reads “Dust, Drams, & Dragonsblades” in white all-caps font. /end id]

Dorian walked through the lower town, passing shop after shop as they closed for the night, until he finally came upon an old, seemingly abandoned shack. A rusty sign dangled by a single chain above the door, the slightest breath of wind threatening to knock it loose. Squinting, Dorian could just make out the lettering on the sign: The Culterus’ Cup. With a smile, he leaned on the door, not so much pushing it open as pushing it aside, its hinges broken long ago. Warm light from the street-lamps outside filtered through the doorway, but was immediately swallowed up by the murky interior. The smell of dust, drams, and desperation seeped through the doorway and settled around Dorian’s boots.

Ah, the smell of alcoholics in the evening, he sighed. Seem’s like nothing’s changed.

He walked into the impossibly dark building, eyes squinting through the dust and cobwebs in search of a familiar face.

“Well my eyes must be failing me in my old age, or my mind is starting to go,” the voice brought an immediate grin to Dorian’s face. He wandered vaguely towards its source, dodging tables and uprooted floorboards by memory alone.

“Matthias,” he grinned. “It’s really me, somehow I’ve managed to not get myself killed.” He finally reached the source of the voice: a stout, rounded man with crinkled grey hair and eyes. His head barely cleared the bar behind which he stood, but he emanated such an aura of authority and confidence that you barely noticed.

“Hmm, small wonder that is,” Matthias grunted. “And not bound to stay that way for long from what I hear,” he peered at Dorian over golden spectacles in a way that was part concern and part disdain.

“Ah, so you heard about that?”

“I think half the town has heard about it at this point, my boy.” Dorian winced slightly.

“I really tried to stop them from making a mess of Tov’s place, damned mercenaries.”

“Is she okay?” the man feigned disinterest, but Dorian could see his brow crease ever-so-slightly in concern.

“Yeah, she’s fine. Apparently she knew the leader from before so he left her alone, he was really just after me anyways.”

“Wait, Tov knew him? That big brute everyone is scared of now?”

“Yeah, he got a room there a few nights back. She said he seemed like he was hiding something, but also that he seemed kind, just quiet, so she didn’t push it.”

“That sounds like Tov alright,” Matthias huffed. “Always seeing the best in people even when they’re hulking mercs.”

Dorian chuckled, “I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I also don’t want her getting in trouble because of me.”

“Ah, there it is,” Matthias grinned as he polished a glass.

“There what is?” Dorian asked, confused.

“The part where you ask me for something.”

Dorian blinked. “No getting past you is there? I thought you said that your eyes and mind were going.”

“Ha!” A deep laugh shook the bar-top. “You wish, Vispillo.”

“Wow, and just when I thought we were on a first-name basis!” Dorian pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “But yes, I do need your help. Mr. Galba,” he breathed out the last part in a conspiratorial whisper.

Matthias craned his head upwards, piercing Dorian with those inscrutable grey eyes. He stayed like that for several moments, and Dorian was beginning to lose hope. Maybe I should just turn tail and leave before I embarrass myself more.

“Of course I’ll help you, foolish boy. With the tab you still owe here, there’s no way I’m letting a bounty hunter get ahold of you.”

Dorian laughed, swooping an arm over the bar to give Matthias a half-hug. “Thank you!” He beamed. “And I will pay that tab, I promise.”

“Mhm, I’ll believe it when the coin is on this bar-top. Now, what do you need?”

“I’m looking for a man.”

“Ha! Nothing’s changed with you, has it Dorian?”

Dorian groaned. “The man who attacked me, Matthias.”

“Yes, yes I know. I’m just messing with you kid. Though from what I hear the man who’s after you isn’t exactly hard to look at.” Dorian shrugged, not denying it but refusing to say more on the matter.

“Apparently I have something that he believes belongs to him, or whoever employed him I guess, and he means to take it from me by force.”

“Okay, so it seems like a pretty easy solution, yeah? Give him back what you stole.”

“See, there’s the problem. I don’t know what I stole.” Matthias blinked over his glasses, once. Twice. He exhaled slowly, his brow creasing slightly as he did so.

“How—,” he paused, rubbing his forehead. “How do you not know what you stole? Were you that drunk when you stole it?”

“No!” Dorian paused in thought. “I mean, I was likely drunk but I still remember everything I’ve stolen lately. I keep a log and everything!”

“So just show this man the log and ask what’s his, right?”

“Assuming they don’t shoot first and ask questions later that could work. But finding the object isn’t what I need help with.”

“Astralis help me,” Matthias muttered into a calloused hand. “Would you just spit it out boy?”

“I’m trying! Okay, look, the problem is this: I have no idea who this mercenary band works for, where they’re from, who their devilishly handsome leader is, or where I can find them.”

“I knew you thought he was a looker,” Matthias grinned with  a wink. “But you realize none of that was a question, right? What do you want me to do?”

“Don’t be humble, Matthias. You know that most people come here for the tracking services, not the drink, right?”

Matthias stepped back from the bar at the affront to his drinks. Glancing around the bar, he saw dilapidated tables strung with cobwebs, small candles nearly burnt out, and scattered patrons meeting in corners in hushed whispers. A figure in a cloak stood near a wooden board with papers plastered across its surface. The top of the board read “Bounties & Warrants.” He turned back to Dorian to find the tiefling smirking at him.

“See? Nothing against your mead, it’s fantastic, but this is the place where criminals and lowlifes come to find out if they’re wanted yet.”

With a deep grumble, Matthias propped his arms on the bar-top. “Fine, you red demon, you’ve made your point,” the slightest glimmer in his eye told Dorian the insult was purely in jest. “So you want me to help you find this brute, then?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Fine. But only because the sooner we get them off your tail the sooner you can pay me all that gold you owe.”

“Oh come now, Matthias, you’re fond of me, just admit it.”

“You wish, devil.”

Dorian chuckled. “Here, this is all the gold I have right now. I’ll give you the rest later, I promise.” Matthias eyed the gold suspiciously, then turned his gaze upwards to the tiefling.

“Keep your gold for now. I don’t want you getting into even more trouble because you’re broke. You can pay me after we find him.”

“Aww, you big softie,” Dorian crooned, giving the top of Matthias’ head a light noogie, which earned him a deeply unsettling glare from the older man.

“Get off of me you damned tiefling. C’mon, we have work to do,” and with a huff he shuffled through a doorway behind the bar. Dorian stooped to clear it, and found himself in what seemed to be Matthias’ office. Despite how many years they had known each other, Dorian had never stepped behind the bar. He wasn’t really sure what he was expecting Matthias’ private quarters to look like, but somehow this fit. Papers scattered across every inch of the room, many of them looking important, candles burnt down to the last bit of wax decorating every available surface, maps and diagrams hanging and overlapping on even the tiniest fragments of wall space. It was chaotic, but somehow also cozy. Like Matthias, Dorian thought. Not that he would ever tell him that, at least not as long as he wanted to live.

Matthias perched behind his desk, eyes scanning back and forth across map so aged Dorian was surprised he could read it at all. Dorian perched on his tiptoes behind him, scanning the map over his shoulder.

“Could you stop that?” Matthias shot a half-hearted glare over his shoulder.

“Ah, sorry. I just — do you need help with anything?”

“No, just let me — wait,” the older man paused, scratching the salt and pepper (though mostly salt) scruff on the side of his head. “The mercenary leader, did he have any kind of crest or uniform or anything?”

Dorian inclined his head, nail pressing lightly into his temple as he tried to recall the encounter.

“No, I don’t think so. He was just wearing normal mercenary clothes I guess? He had a pretty heavy coat on though so I couldn’t see most of what was he was wearing.”

“His weapon didn’t have any embossings of a guild crest?”

“I mean I wasn’t exactly admiring the craftsmanship when he had it pressed to my jugular,” Dorian half-joked, earning a glower from Matthias. “But no—,” he coughed, “I don’t think so. Seemed like a pretty ordinary cutlass to me. And come to think of it, each of the mercs were wearing something different. Seemed like a bit of rag-tag group, didn’t think they were mercs at first honestly.”

“Hmm . . .,” Matthias trailed off in thought, glasses slipping down his nose. “That is odd. Most mercenary bands have to be approved by the Culterus’ Council. If this was just a randomly put together group, I don’t think there would be a way to track who hired them.”

“Well that’s fantastic,” Dorian huffed. “How are we—”

“I wasn’t finished yet,” Matthias waggled a finger to shush him. “If someone hired this mercenary band outside of the Culterus’ Council, they're either operating outside of the law or above it.”

“What are you suggesting, Matthias?”

“Well if they were operating outside the law they would probably be some kind of high-level criminal, a nihilimancer at worst. That seems unlikely though because hiring a mercenary band would just draw more attention to them when they could have attacked you directly.”

“So you think it’s someone operating above the law, then?”

“Likely, yes. A government official of some sort.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed heavily at this. A government official? What could he have done to piss them off?

As if reading his mind, Matthias stared up at Dorian over his glasses, grey eyes boring into golden ones. “Dorian, what the hell did you get yourself into?”

Dorian hunched over the desk, rubbing his face with both hands. “I—,” his voice cracked slightly, as though the full weight of the situation was bearing down on his throat. “I don’t know, Matthias.”

“C’mere, kid,” Matthias waved Dorian over to him and scooped an arm around his shoulder. “Listen, we’ll figure it out okay? And when we do we’re going to give those bastards what’s coming to them.” His voice was stern and gravely, but the twinkle of his eyes belied the slightest hint of compassion.

Dorian smiled lightly. “Thank you, Matthias, but —,” he paused, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “Me. Not we. I need your help finding them but I can’t ask you to come with me.”

The older man grumbled, “Dorian, if you think that you’re going alone to face an entire band of mercenaries—,” he was interrupted by Dorian vigorously shaking his head.

“I’ve handled worse. Besides, someone has to stay here and look after everything. Who’s going to help all the lowlifes and criminals find other lowlifes and criminals if you’re not here?” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Don’t you have any Thieves Guild buddies you could ask?”

“I got kicked out of the Guild, remember? Besides, I don’t want anyone helping me with this. These mercs aren’t likely to forget a face and I’m not putting a target on anyone else’s back.” Dorian’s breath caught and he cast his eyes toward the floor. “I already hate that they know what Tov looks like.”

Matthias folded his arms over his chest. Dorian seemed determined to face this alone, but that didn’t mean he needed to face it entirely without help. “Fine. For the record though, I don’t like this at all.” Dorian seemed ready to cut him off again, but Matthias continued, “If you’re going alone, at least let me give you something that might make things a bit easier. Saved my skin a few times anyways.”

“I’ve already got a hip flask,” Dorian waved a crimson hand dismissively, but the smallest tug at the edge of his lips and the twinkle in his eye did not go unnoticed.

“Ha ha, ever the jokester. No you idiotic devil, it’s something that’s actually helpful.”

“Idiotic devil?” Dorian blinked in surprise, a grin spreading across his features. “I think that’s a new one, congratulations.”

Matthias huffed in response and crossed the room to rummage around one of the bookcases. After moving several papers, candles, and unsettlingly unidentifiable objects out of the way, he pulled a heavy leather chest from the shelf, heaving it onto the desk with a groan. Dorian peered over his shoulder as Matthias opened the chest, startled backwards a few steps when amber light poured out of the box and flooded the room around them.

“What the hell is in there?”

“You’ll see,” Matthias chuckled. He threw the lid back, completely bathing the room in the brilliant light. After muttering a soft incantation, the words of which Dorian couldn’t quite decipher, the glow died down and for the first time Dorian could see the contents of the chest. A dagger.

“That’s it? You’re giving me a tiny dagger when I have two perfectly good rapiers right here, a couple of daggers, and a handful of throwing knives already.” Matthias looked a bit unnerved at how many weapons Dorian could fit in clothing with no discernible pockets.

“Yes, it’s a dagger, but do you really think this is just a normal dagger? It’s enchanted.”

“Okay, and all of my weapons are poisoned. What’s your point?”

Matthias sighed, something he seemed to do a lot more of when Dorian was around. “You really have no knowledge of magical enchantments do you?”

“Nah, poison seems to do the job just fine so far.”

“Exactly. So far.” Matthias paused, hoping Dorian would understand the gravitas of his words. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with now, what you could be walking into. You need a weapon that will give you an edge in every situation.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll use your fancy dagger.” Dorian reached out  towards the chest, then paused, curling his fingers into his palm. “Uh, what does it do exactly?”

“It is a Dragonsbane blade. They can only be forged in the dying flame of a High Dragon. The gilding is made from the precious metals found in its heart, set into the hilt by a boiling tear shed in the dragon’s final moments.”

“Ha—,” Dorian crossed his arms over his chest and threw his head back, eyebrows arching up doubtfully. “I call bullshit. You really believe all those dramatic tales, Matthias? I had you pegged for more of a skeptic than that.”

“It’s not a dramatic tale, Dorian.”

“And how, exactly, would you know that?”

“I was the one who forged it.”

“Haha very funny, of course you were,” Dorian cackled, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. When he looked back at Matthias, he saw the older man was staring straight at him, unblinking. “Wait. You’re not joking?”

“Nope. Why would I? I’ve got enough wild tales from running a bar, no point in making more of ‘em up.”

“But why —,” Dorian paused, rubbing his increasingly furrowed brow. “How — ?”

“I have a life outside of this bar, you know,” Matthias paused, then added “well, I used to anyways. But that doesn’t matter right now.”

“You can’t just drop something like that and then not tell me!” Dorian squawked. “Oh, yeah, I used to be a famous adventurer with a fancy dagger,” Dorian continued in a deep, rumbling voice, a rather terrible impersonation of Matthias. “Forged from the last breath and final fart of a dragon, but you don’t get to hear about that now, Dorian,” he scrunched his nose and pushed up an invisible pair of glasses as he finished his speech, giving Matthias the same deflated, exasperated look he often gave Dorian.

“Was that supposed to be me?”

“Who else would it be?”

“Well I don’t know but that was downright terrible. Good thing you don’t make a living doing street performances, you’d be poorer than you are now.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dorian huffed. “Look, whatever, you can tell me about your grand adventure stories later I suppose. Now, would you please just explain why I need this dagger?”

Matthias huffed again, giving Dorian that look. Dorian had done a pretty good job of impersonating it if he did say so himself. “This dagger is incredibly powerful, I figured that much would be obvious. If —,” he paused “if this dagger tastes your attacker’s blood, its power grows stronger.”

“Okay, but what is its power? Does it suck the souls of men or something like that?”

“Now who’s the one believing dramatic tales?” Matthias smirked. “No, nothing like that. Because the blade was forged with the aid of a dragon, its power is tied to that of the dragons. In a moment of dire need, the spirit of the High Dragon from which this blade was borne will come to your aid. The more battle this dagger has seen, the more powerful of an ally you will have should you need it.”

“So you’re saying I should stab as many mercs as possible that way if I die I’ll at least have a dragon on my side?”

Matthias hung his head, rubbing his temples furiously. “Honestly, Dorian, just take one magic class. Just one.”

“Well, am I wrong?”

“Ye—,” he cut himself off. “I mean, no, not technically. The more blood the dagger collects the stronger the dragon will be. But I’m not saying that you should just stab people indiscriminately. That dagger has seen a fair amount of blood already, so if you do need the dragon to come to your aid, and I pray that it is an if, you do not need to worry about the strength it already possesses. I wouldn’t give it to you if all it would do is summon a weak dragonling spirit.”

“Wait, you’re giving this to me?”

“Lending!” Matthias spluttered, correcting himself. “Definitely lending. Please take care of it.”

“I’m messing with you, old man. But of course I’ll take care of it, thank you Matthias. I know I give you a hard time but I really do appreciate it.” A somber grin plastered itself across Dorian’s face as he spoke. “I hope that I won’t need to use this, but I do feel a bit safer knowing that I have the option.”

“Good, that’s all I wanted,” his eyes crinkled at the corners, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him well. “One more thing. I have some health poultices and some poisons, likely stronger than the stuff you’ve got anyways.” Before Dorian could protest, Matthias was shoving bottles, vials, and poultices of every color and size into his hands.

“Umm, Matthias?”

“Umm, Dorian?”

“Forgive me if the drink has gone to my head and I forgot this part of the conversation, but how exactly am I supposed to find this mercenary band? You’ve just given me a whole armful of supplies and nothing to find them with.”

“Oh, well I thought that part was obvioeus.”

“Obvious?” Dorian tried to gesture with his hands despite the delicate arrangement balanced on them. “Well enlighten me then, please.”

“You’re just going to wait for them to attack you again.” Matthias chuckled deeply as Dorian’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline.

“You—?” the words wouldn’t come. “You? Gave me a dagger? To defend myself with, but you want me to be a sitting duck for an entire band of mercenaries? How does that make any sense?”

“Dorian, they’re going to find you one way or another, that’s sort of their job isn’t it? If you go looking for them, you’re likely going to find them on a terrain they’re familiar with. If they come looking for you, there’s the slightest chance you’ll have the upper hand. The slightest chance that you’ll win this idiotic battle you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Oh,” Dorian breathed. “That — that actually makes sense.”

“I know. You really ought to stop underestimating me, boy.”

“Maybe after you tell me some of your tall tales I’ll take you a bit more seriously,” Dorian said with a wink.

The smallest smile pulled at Matthias’ lips. “When you bring that dagger back to me, how ‘bout that? We’ll have a pint to celebrate you not losing your life, and to commiserate you losing all your gold once you pay me back.”

“Sounds fair enough,” Dorian chuckled. “Thank you, Matthias, I really appreciate it. If I find out who hired them I’ll let you know.” Dorian began to walk out of Matthias’ office, but was stopped by a gravelly voice.

“Wait —,” Matthias fidgeted with a golden ring on his thumb. “Dorian. Please be careful.”

“Starting to sound like Tov, aren’t you?” When Matthias didn’t smile, he added, “I will. I promise.” He turned on his heel before he could change his mind, and strode towards the main entrance of the tavern, stuffing the various potions and poultices into the multitude of pockets hidden in his clothes. When he reached the door, he traced his chipped nails along its surface, hoping this wouldn’t be the last time he saw it. With a final huff, he stepped onto the lamplit street. Time to go get murdered, he thought with a forced smile, and set off across the cobblestones.

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[mc-amps]

Unknown Identity

There had been something cathartic about logging off Ray’s chatroom account. It was just the way he liked it. No name. No avatar. Just unknown.

Which made it harder to log back in several hours later. Unknown hated the flowery speech bubbles and nerdy emojis dominating his screen. But this would be worth it soon.

Now it was his turn.

Parked in his car, hidden by trees and darkness, he savored every sensation of being awake. The freedom of sitting behind the wheel made his heart pound.

The most exhilarating part was the promise he made to a certain Princess.

“You’d better be ready for me,” he whispered and opened the RFA app. Smirking, he pressed the call button. With each ring, he clenched his hand in anticipation.

“H-hello?” Each time she answered his call, her sweet voice became more cautious and fearful. He loved it.

Unknown didn’t respond right away and instead concentrated on her soft breaths. Every exhale was like a sweet treat. He closed his eyes, before letting out a shaky gasp. “P-princess!” It was easy to mimic the whiny voice in his head.

“Ray? Is that really you? Are you really back?”

Unknown held back his grin and instead forced his lips to tremble. “I m-missed you so much!” he whimpered. “I-I hope the other me didn’t frighten you. I-I’d never forgive myself if he upset you.” It was hard not to laugh, but hopefully she would mistake the waver in his voice for tears.

“I’m fine Ray, but are you okay?”

“I came here to get you, but it’s so dark and I’m scared.”

“Wait!” Her voice came out strained. “What do you mean? You’re here?”

“I had to rescue from that v-vile V!” Unknown was careful to mask his hatred as he thought of the teal haired fiend. Instead he made his voice more frantic and higher pitched. “Please come outside. I really need you.”

There was a pause. “I-I… I don’t know if should.”

She wasn’t as obedient as he hoped, but that was okay. “Why not? Is it because you hate me?” He pretended to cry.

“No Ray, I-!” she let out a shaky breath. “…I’m coming.”

Unknown bit back a triumphant cackle. The Princess would soon be his. “Th-thank you...” He hung up and stepped out of the car. The humid night’s breeze rustled through the hair he hadn’t bothered to brush as he adjusted Ray’s magenta suit jacket. It still was a mystery how that marshmallow enjoyed wearing such foppish things. Even after removing the cravat and gloves, the ensemble still suffocated Unknown. For the sake of his sanity, he already added his own touches like a leather choker and black nail polish.

Little things like that made him feel real.

He reached a clearing. Illuminated by the moon’s white glow sat the traitor’s cabin. Did they really think they could hide here?

The door creaked opened and there she stood. Unknown couldn’t hide his smile any longer. The hazy images of Ray’s memories became reality. She was even more breathtaking in person. His heart slammed against his chest as she dashed towards him.

The warm rush of her arms wrapping around him and her head resting on his chest sent delightful tingles down his spine. Was this a hug? Affection like that felt a distant dream, but now he craved it.

“I missed you so much. I was so worried.” Her voice cracked.

“I know,” Unknown whispered and tangled his fingers in her soft hair. “But I told you I’d come get you.” His hand found her cheek. Ray had always wanted to touch her without his gloves, but he had been too cowardly to let her see his chewed-up nails. Prideful satisfaction welled up in Unknown’s chest. Now he would be the only one to enjoy his Princess’s warmth.

Her fingers grasped his hands, but soon her eyebrows furrowed as she stared at his black nail polish, and then up at his face. Adoration transformed into fear.

“What’s the matter, Sweetie?” Unknown cooed with a mocking pout. “Don’t you know that I’m the angel who will lead you back to Paradise~?” He burst into high pitched, hysterical laughter. No point in holding back any longer. He grabbed her before she could escape and dragged her back to the car.

Ignoring her pleas, he lifted her into the passenger seat. “Safety first~” He sang, before buckling her. She would never leave his sight again.

Unknown slammed the door and rushed to the driver’s side. He ripped off Ray’s suit coat before snatching up an oversized leather jacket from the backseat. Slipping it on felt so liberating. He let it slide off one shoulder. “Like my new look~?”

Instead of answering, she unbuckled herself and threw open the door. Unknown rolled his eyes, but grinned. How exciting. He sprinted after her, and caught her, covering her mouth when she screamed and flailed.

This time, he put her in the back seat, and crawled in after her, clicking his tongue. “No wonder Ray couldn’t handle you.” He shook his head, and with a cheerful smile, pinned her wrists. The way she stared sent heat waves throughout his insides. It wasn’t hatred or disgust in her wide eyes, but something else.

“What are you thinking about?” He caressed her cheek, delighted at the way she blissfully closed her eyes. “Oh, you must like me more than you’re letting on.” He leaned closer only letting his lips hover over hers. “You know,” he began, a low rumble of a growl escaping his throat. “That marshmallow wanted to kiss you so bad, but he was too much of a wimp to do anything about it. Now I’m thinking you wanted to kiss him too.”

She didn’t argue, however she needed encouragement. “Don’t be shy~” He leaned closer and closer…

Until her lips captured his.

Unknown’s eyes widened as shockwaves rushed throughout his body. He smirked against her lips before returning the kiss with pure passion. Ray’s desires, memories, and fantasies were like a distant dream to Unknown, but now he wanted to make it a reality. He wanted to claim these feelings as his own and continue from where Ray had left off.

The Princess was his.

He could kiss her forever, but unfortunately, needed to breathe. Panting, he pulled away and stared into those deep, beautiful eyes of hers. The way she looked at him… was it because of Ray? He almost didn’t care. Almost. “I want you.” His voice lowered and he kissed at her neck. “But first,” he let his lips buzz against her soft skin. “I’ll need to go destroy those traitors and take you back to Savior.”

“No, don’t!” She pulled away and grabbed his shirt. “Don’t hurt anyone!”

His jaw twitched. Why was she being like this? Didn’t she like him? Unknown clenched his teeth and his grip on her tightened. “So you really did want to run away with V and leave us forever.”

“N-no!” She shook her head. “I wanted Ray to come with us. That place isn’t good for him. All he does is slave away in front of the computer. He doesn’t sleep enough, or have friends. No one should live like that.” Her voice cracked.

“Yeah well, what about me?” Unknown countered, scowl deepening. His head pounded when a familiar fire burned through his chest. “I’m right here in front of you, but all you’re doing is thinking about Ray! Focus on me!” His voice grew louder with each agitated word.

“How can I focus on you when I don’t even know your real name?”

Unknown recoiled. His real name. What was his real name? He certainly wasn’t Ray, and while Saeran felt more natural, there was something about it that ticked him off. It made him feel fake.

“All you’ve done since we met is threaten me and-“

Unknown pressed his hand against her mouth, muffling her words. “Just listen. No talking.” He averted his gaze. “I… I still don’t get who I am.” His voice softened and he huffed. “I’ve only been awake a few times, and I still don’t get how it happens. But I know one thing… I’ve been so freaking mad from the very beginning. I want to crush everything I see. I can’t control myself. Before I came for you, I broke every single flower pot Ray was tending!” He snickered at the delightful image of the crushed orange shards and trampled petals. “It felt so good crushing those frail little roots!”

His stomach lurched when his twisted words and actions sank in.

“What am I?” he whispered. And what was this feeling? His throat blazed, and his chest ached. How annoying. He hated this so much. “Why did I wake up so suddenly?” He dared a look at her. “Did I wake up for vengeance?”

These were the same questions he asked Savior every time he woke up. Her answer was always the same.

Don’t worry about that now. Go back to sleep. You’ll know when the time comes.

Always with that same calm voice and small smile. She stared right through him. Always waiting until Ray returned.

Be careful, Ray. Don’t let Saeran take over.

He still wasn’t sure if that last part was just a dream. Did Savior not like him? He was better than Ray so why-?

“Revenge isn’t the answer.” The Princess’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Hey!” Unknown scowled. “I told you not to talk-“ He flinched when her hand caressed his left cheek. Something about her touch took off of the edge.

“Can’t you see that you and Ray are miserable?” Her words tumbled out with a desperate urgency. “But if you leave, you can find your real purpose.” Her eyes sparked with hope. “You both can be happy.”

He reached for her mouth once again, but hesitated. “If you want me to go with those traitors, then sorry, not happening. Your precious Ray wouldn’t want that either.”

She didn’t respond. Unknown should have been happy with stumping her, but the way she looked at him made his stomach ache. Her sorrowful eyes stared directly at him. She didn’t look through him, or search for Ray. She cared. She was the only person that cared. Savior wanted Ray, and the traitors tossed him aside the first chance they had, but the woman in front of him was different.

She wouldn’t go back to Magenta, and he refused to join the RFA. But he wanted her. He needed her.

“Then let’s run away together.” He snatched up her hands.

“What?” She stiffened. “B-but where would we- I don’t-“

No, he wouldn’t let her go. “You promised Ray you wouldn’t abandon him. He’s still here, you know. You care about him, don’t you?”

“I do!” Her face became serious. “I lo-“

He squeezed her hands. “Then come with me. I’ll be good to you. We’ll be good to you.” He once again leaned closer, letting his lips linger near hers.

There was a pause where Unknown heard only his pounding heart and the chirping crickets outside. Then she kissed him. That was her answer.

Ray wanted to be the angel who would lead their Princess to Paradise, while Unknown was determined to be the demon that would drag her back. Maybe he still was a demon. Deceiving her with the promises of an angel. Was it deception? He didn’t know. He didn’t know how much longer he would be awake, or if Ray would ever come back, but he didn’t mind. As long as he had her, he would gladly face the unknown.

 Bad Ending?

Here’s my short story I did for Unknown Zine. I based it off the Unknown phonecalls in V’s route. They’re honestly my favorite part of another story. I hope you enjoyed <3

[theawkwardterrier]

(In Our Togetherness) Castles Are Built

Learning to live together takes work. Written for @steggyfanevents​ Hearts or Butts Challenge (hearts, obv! well, hearts-ish)

AO3 link here.

They are not, it turns out, naturally compatible roommates.

Oh, they’re both courteous enough people. They both pitch in on cleaning up, take out the trash when the bin is full, replace the toilet paper roll or lightbulbs when needed instead of pretending they haven’t seen them - they’re not monsters.

But Steve wears his shoes inside the house without even thinking while Peggy takes hers off as she walks in the door, and she ends up irritated by the remaining street grit he unknowingly brings inside which she constantly feels through her nylons. He acquices easily when, three days in, she asks him to start removing his shoes when he comes home. He’s solicitous by nature and happy to make her happy. But they have been in such synchronicity since they met, in personality and values and choices, that these times when they stumble into dissonance are made all the more confusing for it.

And they keep stumbling. Peggy has changed from fire red nails to shell pink to deep plum, swiping firmly with polish remover and buffing and adding practiced coats in the evenings, before Steve mentions, carefully controlled, that the acrid smell in the small space is overwhelming to him. Several weeks later, as she asks him to contain his art supplies more carefully when he is in the midst of a project, she does not bring up the scent of paint in the room but the idea of it lingers.

He can’t understand why she insists on washing her breakfast plate and teacup even when she’s rushing out the door, and objects when she sighs and washes his too if he tries to leave them to wash with the supper dishes later. She can’t fathom why he insists on regularly listening to baseball games, and especially does not grasp why he must commentate aloud while he does, his soundtrack of groans and curses and punctuating affirmations making an already disruptive pastime she has no interest in even more so. He likes having the windows open, especially on these summer nights, and she closes them at every opportunity against the bugs and the noise, the city-scented breeze. She buys new paperbacks nearly every week or at least every other, and he stares baffled at the living room bookshelf, quickly filling with books she will likely never read again, and reminds her of their local library.

They are not good at it at first. But they do, it turns out, get better at it.

“It might be sensible to have a box of cold cereal in the house,” Peggy calls from the bedroom one morning. They’ve once again spent a bit too much time in bed, and as she rushes to get ready for the day, he’s gone to prepare toast and an egg for her - soft-boiled because they’re short on time.

“Easier for us on mornings like this,” he calls back, “but easier for the pests too.”

Coming into the room affixing an earring, she asks, “Do we have some sort of infestation?”

“Nothing I’ve seen lately, but you never know with these kinds of things.” He shrugs.

“I suppose not,” she says, reaching down plates for the two of them (no time even for egg cups). “But I don’t usually think of it.”

He laughs, taking out the butter. “Oh, you would if you’d seen the things I have,” he says, and it’s lucky Peggy isn’t squeamish or easily put off her food, because the casual mentions over breakfast of occasional scuttling roaches and his mother’s broom corralling fist-sized rats would turn a weaker stomach.

“I had thought your insistence on canisters for the oats and sugar was simply a homey touch,” she comments as she slips on her pumps and glances around for her portfolio.

“It is,” he says, handing it to her along with her purse. “Just from a different kind of home than you’re used to.”

That evening, when she comes home and sees his shoes leveled neatly beside each other by the front door, she asks him about that too. She hadn’t even thought to before. And he tells her about floors that somehow always seemed grimy no matter how often they cleaned, about times when there wasn’t any heat - not in the dead of winter, not usually, but in the trailing autumn and snappish early spring when the chill was still biting - and Steve and his mother kept their shoes on because taking them off would have meant frigid feet.

And so they begin to understand each other. Not automatically the way they do with so much else, not without asking, but in a different way, just as deep, just as necessary. She tells him about growing up with a mother who insisted that everything in the house be tidied before it was possible to turn to the marketing or visiting friends, about boarding school demerits for an unmade bed or an incompletely cleared table in the refectory (Peggy was somewhat particular about how she acquired her demerits), about going into shelters during the Blitz (or sometimes not going into shelters) wondering if someone was going to have to return to her bedsit and find her clothing dropped onto the floor or a crumb-covered dish on the table, remnants of a life to which she would never return.

He still doesn’t feel the need to keep things as constantly tidy as she does, but now he knows that element of her, sees her requests not as something to tolerate but to understand as a part of who she is. And she understands, too, about how comforting he finds the smell of paint, the sounds and scents of the city, how familiar they are, how sometimes for weeks throwing the windows wide and letting those things in was the only way he had been able to have a bit of the outdoors with him. She didn’t know him then, but she knows about that part of him now.

So they compromise, buying window screens and keeping the gap to only a few inches, switching places in bed so Steve sleeps closer to the window, feeling the play of air across his face as he falls asleep.

They compromise, agreeing that Peggy can polish her nails as long as she leaves a window open. Steve has always liked how they look anyway and, more importantly, how they make her feel: pretty and coordinated and in control of the way she’s perceived. With the issue of smell dealt with, he can admire each new color she chooses. They decide that Steve’s tradition of listening to baseball can continue at a lowered volume and with more limited commentary, though Peggy eventually finds herself looking over with fondness at his avid appreciation of the game (even if, when he finally takes her to one in person, she still finds it far inferior to cricket).

She becomes more judicious about buying books, finally allowing herself to leave behind her tradition of newly purchased detective stories that buoyed her during the war; they go to browse at the library together during evening hours instead. He starts running free art classes at the local community center and is allowed to have his own easel there for paintings in progress.

Peggy is permitted to take Steve’s undershirts and button-downs without asking as long as she knows they’ll return to him after laundry day. Steve can eat her marmalade, but only if he’s reasonable about his sampling and willing to buy another jar if he finishes the last of it.

“I sort of liked the part where you were all exasperated with each other,” a disgruntled Howard tells them, heaping a serving of spaghetti onto his plate the first time they host dinner at their place. “Some of us like it when you aren’t perfect all the time.”

Steve laughs. “We definitely aren't perfect, but we had something good and we knew it.”

“Well, you knew enough to be damn obvious about it,” Bucky says, helping himself to bread. “And not do anything but moon for years.”

“We were at war,” Steve scowls. “And we were taking time to build a foundation.”

“And now we know,” Peggy takes over smoothly, “that good foundation or not, relationships actually take work.” She knocks back the last of her scotch sour (she’d charmed the recipe out of the bartender at the Stork Club) and looks at Howard over the rim of the empty glass. “Perhaps one day you’ll be lucky enough to take part yourself.”

Mr. Jarvis coughs politely into his wine glass, his mouth thinned against a laugh. Ana reaches over to cuff her husband on the shoulder before patting Howard on his. “I’m sure you will one day,” she says with kind consolation.

“Not one day soon, I hope,” Howard says. “I’ll leave that kind of work to you for now.”

And they keep working at it, communicating and laughing and finding middle ground, discovering who they have each been and who they can be together. They make a life that is theirs: talking in the mornings while Peggy puts on her makeup, their eyes catching in the mirror; sitting down together every month to pay bills and review their savings, their plans for them the future, treating themselves to something sweet once it’s done (berry tarts when Steve buys, brownies when Peggy does); a dance at midnight on New Year’s Eve regardless of where they are.

It’s an art, living together, being together, and they become expert at it.

And, several years down the road, when the new roommate they’ve discussed - a smaller, squirmier sort of roommate - joins the family, they plan to teach them too.

[gvbejvmes]

Drabble: The Present

Title: Fridays with CeCe Rating: PG-13 Characters: Gabriel James-Michaels, Bella James-Michaels, Constance James, Miss Alison, Andrew James, Maxxie Turner, Jonathan James-Michaels (mentioned), Velvet Starr (mentioned), Tommy “Kid” Kidderro (mentioned) Relationship: Implied Gabriel James-Michaels/Jonathan James-Michaels, Andrew James/Maxxie Turner, past Andrew James/Velvet Starr Warnings: Implied drug use and child endangerment, mentions of canon murder and incorrect medical diagnoses  Summary: Twice a month Bella had a playdate at social services.

Twice a month Bella had a playdate at social services. She called it her ‘CeCe Day.’ He or Jay would take her down there, and she would bounce excitedly in their arms as she told them about all the things she wanted to do while she was there. It was always on a Friday, and it was always four hours in the morning. When they picked her up, she would either chatter on and on at 100mph about what she and her CeCe had done or she would be mopey because her CeCe showed up late or forgot about their playdate. Mostly she loved Playdate Days. Gabe, on the other hand, despised them.

While he and Johnny called them ‘Playdate Days,’ they’d never actually explained to Bella what they were. They would when she was older, but for now, she was too young to understand. All she knew was that her Mommy’s name was CeCe (well, Constance, but she chose to call her CeCe), and she had a standing playdate with her every other Friday. She never asked why it was always in the same room. And she never asked why Miss Alison, their caseworker, was always there. She only knew that she only got to see CeCe in a certain place at a certain time - the specifics didn’t bother her yet. Bella was three months old when Gabe got the call from social services asking if he could take custody of his granddaughter; she didn’t know any other life than this one.

Like most ‘Playdate Days,’ Gabe arrived a half hour early to pick Bella up. He didn’t know why he did it. Sometimes it was because he was already in the area and didn’t want to stray too far away. Other times it was because he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Today it was a combination of the two. He still needed to go to the art store to pick up a couple of brushes he had custom ordered, but something in his gut had told him to stop by the social services building first.

Instead of going in right away and sitting in the waiting room, he went around to the back of the building to the designated smoking area first - and that was when he saw her. 

Constance James was skinny in a way that didn’t look natural. She had definition around her collarbone and chest that reminded Gabe of bird bones. It was like her body didn’t know how to retain fat or muscle tissue on that part of her body. She almost looked concave, but Gabe wouldn’t go quite that far. Her skin didn’t sit quite right on her bones - like she’d lost weight too quickly and her skin tried to conform to her body, but failed. It didn’t hang, but it didn’t look entirely normal either.

Her long blonde hair was streaked with black dye and was pulled back into a severe ponytail at the crown of her head. A cigarette was dangling from her lips as she texted rapidly on her phone. Her nails were short, and the cuticles looked picked at. Chipped nail polish caught the sunlight as her fingers moved across the screen. 

She must have seen him approach because she suddenly groaned and put her phone away. “Did they call you?” She asked as she pulled the cigarette out of her mouth. Her foot was pressed against the side of the building, which made Gabe think of a flamingo for some reason.

“Should they have called me, Connie?” He asked his daughter as he pulled out his own cigarette and lit up. He leaned against the wall near her, knowing better by now than to try to have direct eye contact with his estranged daughter.

She shrugged and took a long drag of her cigarette. She looked better than the last time he had seen her. A lot of the time she ducked out before Gabe could get a good look at her. Today she was wearing jeans that actually fit without falling off her hips, and a thick gray sweater that fell off her shoulder, but that looked like it was the style and not the size. She looked healthier than the last time he’d seen her. Of all the things to have inherited, she inherited her mother’s terrible parenting and her grandfather’s temper and addiction.

“I dunno. They always seem to call you when I fuck up.” She admitted. “Ari kicked me out of the room.”

That was going to be a fun conversation with the case worker. He nodded and took a drag, using the time to think about what to say to that. “She prefers being called Bella.” He finally settled on.

Connie finished her cigarette and dropped the butt onto the ground before pushing off the wall. “No, you prefer Bella. She’s three. She’ll answer to any name I call her.” And with that his daughter started walking back towards the street. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

He watched his daughter walk away before finishing his cigarette and sanitizing his hands. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but they both knew she wouldn’t listen.  Pushing all thoughts of his daughter away, he went inside to pick up Bella. And sure enough, as soon as he walked into the waiting room, the receptionist led him into a conference room to wait for the caseworker.

“Mr. James-Michaels.” Miss Alison greeted him.  And it was Miss Alison. He’d tried just calling her Alison once and she nearly bit his head off. His husband said it was a Child Services/Social Worker thing and to just roll with it. 

“Miss Alison.” He greeted in return, watching as she sat down at the table across from him. “I ran into Connie outside.”

The younger woman’s face paled. “Did she tell you what happened?” She pulled out her tablet and Gabe knew from experience that she was pulling up their file.

“Just that Bella threw her out of the room. And that she’s trying to make ‘Ari’ happen.”

Miss Alison sighed. “I put in a call to the judge. We may have to terminate her visitation for a couple of weeks.” It looked like she was looking for the best way to explain to Gabe what happened. Technically there was video footage, but Gabe hated watching it and Miss Alison knew that. 

“Miss James has once again refused to follow the rules of visitation. She was thirty minutes late, she insisted on referring to Bella as Ari, even after both myself and Bella asked her to refrain, and she once again told Bella she was going to buy a house and take her away from you. It was at that point that Bella screamed and asked her to go away. We escorted Miss James out immediately. It’s become very clear that the current arrangement is not conducive to Bella’s wellbeing. You and your husband will likely get a summons within the next week or so with a court date to meet with Judge Murphy again.”

Before Gabe could respond, there was a knock on the door, and one of the assistants popped their head into the room. “Sorry, Bella kept asking me to call you. When I let her know you were already here, she demanded to see you because and I quote ‘the connatution says so.’” And he looked like he was trying so hard not to laugh.

Gabe rolled his eyes. “That she definitely got from my husband.” He dug around in his satchel and pulled out a package of freeze dried apple slices and tossed them at the assistant before pulling off his beanie and tossing that to him as well. “Those should tide her over until I’m done in here.” He promised. “I have to go over my and my husband’s availability for the next couple of weeks with Miss Alison.” 

By the time Gabe finished his conversation and went to the other room to collect Bella, she was standing by the door, coat on and his beanie shoved down over her wild hair. “Took you long enough, GG.” She complained as he signed her out and carried her out of the building. “You dunno what I had to deal with today.”

His granddaughter was definitely three going on forty-seven.

After going to pick up his custom brushes, they headed over to the Collective so they could drop them off in his studio and because there were some orders he apparently needed to authorize. As soon as they walked inside, Bella told him she wanted to watch ‘the spinning’. He had no idea what she was talking about, until they walked to the classroom and he saw Maxxie running his beginning pottery class. Bella scampered off to sit near Maxxie and watch him move his clay around. Somehow he had a feeling she was going to wind up covered in clay - again. Shaking his head, he walked out of the classroom to find Andrew James sitting at the reception desk.

His son was twenty-six years old and all dark hair and tan skin. There was something about his hair that reminded Gabe of how his hair had been when he was his age. It was long and hung in his eyes - all the damn time. He was broad-shouldered, but was constantly hunching in on himself. It was like he was trying to make himself smaller everywhere he went. If he had to describe his son in one word, it would be skittish. 

He spent years on medication he didn’t need after he claimed that he saw aliens take his aunt away. It wasn’t until he was older that he finally saw a therapist who saw his story for what it was: a way for his brain to comprehend a horrible thing he’d witnessed. Unfortunately by that time, he’d already spent years on medication he never needed and the side effects were irreversible. Thankfully the worst of it was memory loss and shaky hands.

“What are you doing working today?” He asked curiously as he gestured for his son to let him onto the computer. His son had been working at the Collective since he moved to New York. He’d made it clear he didn’t want any handouts, but he’d connected so well with the others at the Collective that it was strange to think about him working anywhere else. “I thought you refused to work on days Maxxie and Velvet were working.” 

He’d dated both Velvet and Maxxie and now tried to avoid both of them whenever he could. His relationship with Velvet hadn’t been all that serious. As soon as he found out Velvet slept in a coffin, he was out. Maxxie, on the other hand, had been very serious. They’d dated for six months, which was the longest he’d ever seen his friend in a relationship. It had ended badly, to say the very least. He wasn’t entirely sure what happened between them, but fire had been involved somehow. 

Drew made a face as he perched on the desk, shoulders hunched over and ankles crossed. “That’s not true.” He lied. “I traded shifts with Kid. He had his first GED prep class today.”

Gabe smiled at that. It had taken Tommy long enough. He pulled up the order he needed to review. There were still things he needed to do up in his office, but knowing that his son was working made him want to stay downstairs with him for as long as he could get away with it. 

“CJ texted me.” Drew said after a long moment. “She wanted me to talk some ‘sense’ into you.” 

He rolled his eyes. “And how’s that going for you?” While Connie didn’t talk to him, she still talked to her brother, but mostly only when she needed something. Drew, for his part, didn’t take sides. He loved his sister despite her faults, but he also knew how she was and what was best for his niece.

Before Drew could respond, Maxxie’s voice came from the classroom. “Pookie! Can you come get your little sister?! She’s throwing clay on the ground.” And nothing about that surprised him except for…

“Pookie?” He mouthed at his son, eyebrow raised. Maybe there was more to Drew working today than just taking Tommy’s shift.

His son blushed as he hopped off the desk. “That’s the part you’re focusing on? Not the fact that he keeps calling my niece my sister?” He grumbled out. “I’ll watch Bella; just go work.” He waved a hand in his dad’s direction. 

As his son disappeared into the classroom and he could hear Bella squealing in delight, he couldn’t help but to mouth out again: “Pookie?”

[sparksinthenight]

I feel scared about posting this but the truth needs to be revealed.

So I just had a terrifying yet potentially revelatory nightmare.

Idk how to describe it. It was all very creepy. So, it was winter. But it wasn't how winters are out in the woods or the fields or anything, with everything being peaceful and friendly and full of life, the cold stirring up your energy and the ice bringing forth wonder. Nah, I love nature-winter, just as I love nature-summer and nature-spring and nature-fall.

But no this was city-winter. It was sharp and unforgiving and tinted dark with air pollution. The buildings were gray, the air was gray, the streetlights towered and cars sped by, leaving thick trails of smoke. Candy wrappers and cigarettes littered the ground and the sidewalk was frozen hard under your shoes. It was the kind of day unhoused people dreaded. The kind of day I would have had to suffer through wearing torn shoes and a too-thin coat while waiting outside at the bus stop. It was the kind of day where you really feel the effects of capitalism, in all it's uncaring nightmare glory, beating down on you.

I had just walked out of my school and towards the crowded bus stop at the end of the street. On my way, I met these two girls. They were very pretty but there was something off-putting about them. Something dangerous. They were handing everyone free money. Three dollars, in the form of a loony and a toony. They told me it was for a birthday, which was kind of weird but okay. I put the money in my pocket, beside my bus ticket, intending to give it to someone who needed it.

I joined the crowd that was  waiting for the bus. There were many people waiting anxiously for the bus to arrive. They were just as cold as I was, in pain in the frigid weather. This part of the dream actually doesn’t make sense in real life since other people waiting for the bus tend to have much better and more wether-resistant clothes than me. So they tend to not be cold in the ten-fifteen minutes at most that we have to wait. But for some goddamn reason today everyone was wearing shitty clothes made more for the autumn than the winter. Anyways, it gets worse.

I was waiting for the Number 6 bus. As I usually am. So were a lot of other people. As they usually are. But the first bus spend by us. The second bus was not in service. The third bus was on route to go to all the wrong places. We kept waiting and waiting and more buses passed us by. It was starting to get dark. We were cold. We were desperate. We could see the worry in each others’ eyes. We waited and waited until finally a bus came by. It was more of a van than a bus really. Small. But it it could take some of us. We all lined up, chasing the bus as it came to a stop, crowding around the edge of the sidewalk. We tried to all cram in there as much as we could. But the bus driver - a fat man with dark greying hair and amused eyes - sped away after only accepting two of us.

I was on the bus. I felt really bad that it had left my comrades behind. It wasn’t fair. But there was an energy of fear in the bus, sharp and sticky and cloying. Hidden by the uncharacteristicallly plush seats and the merry mood of the driver. I look around. The other people in the bus had anxiety in their eyes. But while talking to them they assured me that the bus would take us to our destinations.

The bus driver was jovial, in good spirits, and assured us he would take us where we wanted to go. For a while we drove by, familiar buildings passing by as we went down the well-known road. But then the familiar buildings became unfamiliar ones, increasingly unfamiliar ones as we twisted and turned through the streets. I was so lost. I had no idea where we were or where to get off. Eventually the driver took us to the arena district - which was the most posh entertainment district in the city, filled with very expensive clubs and bars and restaurants and casinos and stuff I didn’t even know. He made us get off of the bus into the cold, harsh, bitter and unforgiving morning outside.

His appearance had changed. He became tall and slender. The colour of his skin, hair, nails, everything, was the same colour as the winter outside. His dark eyes were full of cruelty, full of a raging, ferocious, corrupted hunger. Not the hunger of not having food, no. Not the hunger of actually being hungry. This was the hunger of wanting more, more, always more. Of never being satisfied. His nails were just a bit to sharp, just a bit too pointed, almost not human. His eyes were just a bit too dark, the colour a bit too indecipherable, and they were hungry, hungry, hungry. They were powerful. And they were raging. Inside him, you could tell, was a bottomless pit. One you could fill and fill and fill and fill and it would still be deep, and dark, and bottomless. His face was set in a cruel, severe expression. He didn’t look human. Not really. But almost. You could believe that he was human, if you only glanced over him. Not if you looked at him for a while though. If you focused on him, you could tell. That he wasn’t human. He was a black hole given human form.

He told us that we needed to work for him now. We needed to work to make him money. He told us that he must make money and we owe it to him to work. After all, he had so generously driven us. Never mind that he didn’t even drive us where we wanted to go, I thought but didn’t dare say out loud. None of us dared speak. We were all terrified of him. We were all acutely aware of the terrible and all-encompassing power he held over us. And we were all aware of the terrible and destructive rage he would fly into if we didn’t do as he said. We were all aware that we were stuck. And that he had powers we did not know. Even if there were no walls, no fences, no chains binding us. Even if we could technically make a run for it. We couldn’t. He would kill us. We knew that money was what he hungered for. Money was what he used to fill the ever-continuing, ever-reaching, ever-growing abyss inside him. We knew that he had a dark and twisted desire, a cold and cruel desire for money, money, more money. Consuming like  some sort of demon. Which we was. No, he was worse. Demons weren’t real. There was nothing not real about him. He said that we had to do the jobs he told us to do. It was freezing and we were cold, cold, cold. But we were terrified. He told us that we had to do repairs and other maintenance around the arena district. We had to repair the tall, shining, artfully architected buildings that people spent their Friday evenings and weekends at. We had to keep the district up and running. Keep it pretty and beautiful as it shone full of metal and stone and glass. We had to serve him. And line his pockets. Nobody could see us. Nobody could hear us scream. Not unless we got away from him.

He put us to work immediately. We had to scale the large, spiralling buildings without any protective equipment. We had to work up there perching on the ridges and folds

... I’m too terrified to write any more. I don’t know what about this dream scared me so much but I am so fucking terrified and I need to take a moment before I go on ...

I think I should describe the district. Most of the buildings were really new-age. They had walls and roofs that curved and folded and bent over themselves and twisted and spiralled and rolled like hills. It was all very artistic. It was all very materialistic. It was all very decadent and opulent. There were tall buildings that stretched up into the sky and wide buildings that sprawled out across multiple blocks, connected by twisting, glittering interior bridges. There were glittering and polished windows. Often the windows were from floor to ceiling. Often the windows took up the space of the entire wall. Often the walls were made of glittering metal. A very popular way to gild walls was with folded, overlapping panels of shiny silverish metal. There were also many buildings built with the straight edges and straight walls of the slightly older building style. They were all very tall, very straight, very imperious, as they stretched up towards the cloud-swamped, softly glowing sky. They were very clean. They had large windows, the bottom floors always being made of looming floor-to ceiling windows that were clear as crystal. They had many ledges and ridges. Like I said before all the metal was shining silvery-grey, sometimes more silver and sometimes more grey. But always so very clean. Sometimes it was reflecting like a mirror. Sometimes it was had such a certain lustre that it almost glowed. Sometimes it almost had a sickly yellow tint. Sometimes it had a blue tint. Sometimes it even managed to have a pink tint. The stone, on the other hand, used in buildings, was imperious gray, jet black, shimmery brown, blood red, rich maroon, light creme, or even sometimes granite. Everything was so opulent. Everything was so rich. Everything was so oppressive.

The atmosphere was oppressive and heavy and it was dark and twisted. The surroundings held no life in them. Not any of the spark of life and kindness that lit up the kinder parts of the world. The air was polluted, polluted, oh so polluted. Everything was heavy and pressing. The world, the world around us was uncaring, apathetic, twisted, dangerous, and cruel. It was almost suffocating. An air of danger, hung thick all around. An air of terror, of unholiness, of corruption pressing and swirling in the weight of the air all around. It was claustrophobic despite - no because of - the grand scale of everything.

We couldn’t take in the “beauty” of it. We couldn’t notice any of the grandeur. It mattered not to us but rather passed by beyond our reach.

We were too busy being tired, sick, aching, scared, and cold in our hearts and in our bodies and in our minds. We were too busy being caught up in work, work, work. We were too busy pushing ourselves forward in the repetitive, agonizing, mind-numbing labour we were forced to do. We were too busy freezing and ignoring how we were freezing. We were too busy feeling our life force drain from us. We were too busy being tired, body and soul, and ignoring the tiredness in order to make him more and more and more money. We were too busy trying to ignore how our arms and legs and everything ached. We were too busy pushing ourselves to do dangerous work and feeling how it felt to not know if you were going to die or not. We were too busy not having anything. We were too busy being exploited. We were too busy slowly dying. We were too busy feeling pain and fear and death. Death hung over us ever-present.

He sent us up buildings, to scale walls and stand on ledges and balance on folds and whatnot, shining and cleaning and repairing without any safety equipment. We had no nets or harnesses or anything to protect us from falling. We had no helmets or any other protective gear. We had no warm clothes to protect us from the majority of the winter’s chill. We had to work, work, work at a brutal, frantic pace, pressing our hands and bodies onto the cold of the stone and metal and glass.

I remember being up high, on top of the curve of a folded, new-age wall. Straddling the curving slope on either side. I had a bucket of cold, soapy water that was making my hands burn but I had to clean the building. All the while making sure I didn’t fall off and die. I remember hating it so much and feeling myself die. But I was trapped in a crystal of his corrupted making. I couldn’t do anything.

The people entertaining themselves and going about their day in all the bars and restaurants paid no attention to us, to our misery. They couldn’t see us and even if they could they wouldn’t care. They had cushy, intellectual day jobs that paid well, that they did in the safety of an office, that they pretended to hate so they could justify their lavish spending habits. Meanwhile the monster was getting richer and richer. And still he wasn’t satisfied. He was never satisfied.

Every time we finished a job we had to come to him. He sat ruler-straight, imperious, and ever hungry. And we were aching and tired and we just wanted to rest. But he didn’t care. He gave us no rest. He just gave us another job. And we had to go do it. We had no rest. No time to sooth our bleeding souls. No time to find some peace and calm. We only had the constant demand of filling his ever-expanding emptiness with coins that were as poisoned and tainted as he was.

We didn’t want to but we were scared of him, so scared of him, so scared about what he would do to us, what he could do to us. He was unholy, and his unholiness extended out to all the world around us, choking us, poisoning us, feeding off of us. But he was all-powerful. His corruption was everywhere. His spirit reached out in all directions like electric wire, watching us, keeping us in line.

I wanted to escape, to go somewhere I could call home. We all did.

I was picking up trash from the stone courtyard of a great library/movie theatre when I figured out. I was between the slanted walls of two cold, looming glass pyramids. Despite the fact that the public sidewalks were littered with trash, the grounds of private property had to be kept clean. It almost felt protected though, between those sloping walls that provided the illusion of privacy. I realized what he was. I realized what he was doing to us. I had felt my life force draining out of me bit by bit but I had never paid attention to it. I had never known why. But now I knew. I felt it. He was drinking us. He was draining our life force and turning it into corrupted money for him to consume. He was slowly killing us and soon we would be dead. I knew I had to escape. I knew we had to escape. But how? We had no power.

He made us gather around. He told us that if any of us gave him six dollars he would let that person go. But none of us had that kind of money. At most we had three dollars from the girls on the street corner but many of us didn’t even have that. I saw his offer clearly for what it was, a ploy to make himself seem good and reasonable while keeping us trapped in servitude anyways. He wanted to seem like he wasn’t interested in oppressing us, only in making money. But I knew how he was draining our life force for money. I knew how draining us and oppressing us was inextricably tied to his ability to make money.

I had to think of a plan.

One time I was working near the very edges of where he was keeping us trapped. I was separated from him by two walls made of rough stone. They were also granting me the illusion of privacy. On the ground I saw some coins. A toony and two loonies as well as a few quarters and nickels. I was shot through with amazement and hope. But upon closer inspection I saw that the money had the unmistakable quality of being tinged with the type of corruption that can only come from him. The money was unmistakably his. And this was a trap. Of course it was, it was too good to be true. Just a bit more than the money I needed to get free, and then some. He wanted me to pocket his change, to bring the money to him asking to be let go. And then he would accuse me of stealing and he would utterly destroy me. He would scrape the flesh off my bones and tear into my throat and drink my blood and bite into my bones and leave nothing left. Maybe he knew I was onto him. And he wanted to consume the last bit of me that he could. But still. I had to get free. I had to get free. I had to get free.

I pocketed the larger coins, too cautious to waste my time picking up the handful of smaller ones. He could come at any second. I did not intend to give him the money. But I knew that in this world, money was hard to come by and people could use it to keep themselves alive. I intended to give the money, along with the other money I already had, to someone who actually needed it. I don’t know what happened after that. Maybe the rebellious act of stealing had given me the power I needed to break out of the spell for just a little bit. But I just started running as fast as my legs could carry me. I ran and I ran and I ran through the forcefield that had been keeping us in. I knew I ignited his anger. I felt it the moment that I was free from the force field. So I kept running. My legs were sore and aching but they felt invigorated. My lungs were sore as I fought for every bit of oxygen I could get. I kept running and running until I reached my home.

For some reason my home was my science teacher’s house. Like, my science teacher from real life. I’ll tell you about her or else this part won’t make sense. In the “real” world, the world outside the dream, where you and me and everybody lives out their waking lives, this woman was my science teacher and now she teaches other people. I’m not going to tell you what year she taught me because on the off chance that she ends up reading this it would be incredibly awkward for her to know that she saved me from a capitalism demon in a dream that I had. Anyways, she really likes nature and really cares about the environment and taught me a lot of what I know about climate activism and stuff. She’s also really nice to all her students and she’s a communist.

Anyways in the dream she was all of that and she was also my mother.

In the dream I ran to her. And she felt bright and new and green like nature-spring. I told her everything that had happened. She told me that she knew what kind of creature he was. She had travelled the world and heard many stories of what exists beyond the physical reality. He was a Capitalist, a terrifying and dangerous creature that had an everlasting hunger for money and grew fat from harvesting the life force of humanity. She told me she didn’t know how to get rid of him but that I must try, and I had her support.

I was scared. But I was also full of determination. I knew I had to end him. I had to end him immediately. I knew that I had a high chance of failing. A high chance of dying. A high chance of getting enslaved again and having my life force drained out of me. I did not care. I knew I also had a chance of killing him.

I marched up to him. He looked at me with his terrifying, dark eyes, and he snarled. I told him that if he wanted money he could come get the money. I held a toony up. He opened his mouth and rushed at me. But I jammed the coin into the roof of his mouth, making him bleed. He howled in pain as I jammed another coin into the roof of his mouth and two into the floor of his mouth, under his tongue. He howled in pain as he bled to death. And then finally, he was gone. Dissolved and carried away by the wind. Into nothingness. My friends were free! They were safe! They could go home and rest and live their lives as free people. They smiled and cheered.

But I still had the coins that I stole from him, which carried his corrupted essence. I was unsure of what to do with them. It was then that I realized. He might be gone but there were so many other creatures that were just like him. That were on the prowl. That were gaining power and draining their own victims and making the world what it was. We lived in hell.

I startled awake. Out of the dream. Into real life. I was so overwhelmingly scared. I tried really hard to forget about the dream, to stop thinking about it, to put it behind me. But I could remember his sharp teeth and his empty, abyssal eyes and his hard, uncaring expression. I felt his power all around me. And my heart thudded in my chest. He was coming to get me. He was coming to get me. He was coming to get me. But then I realized. That words have power. If I could explain to the world what happened, if I could explain what he was, what he did. If people knew about him. If more people knew. Then he would have less power. Then he would be foiled. I needed to fight him in real life, just as I had in the dream.

It’s true that I woke up terrified but I woke up safe. I woke up in a house that was mine despite not being the home I wished was mine. I woke up secure. So many people don’t. So many children wake up separated from their families all alone in dark rooms on hard floors. They’re all alone. They’re young. They’re small. They’re uncared for and unloved by all that surround them. They have no one they could call and no-one that would hear them if they did call. They have only their fear. Only their grief. Only their aloneness. They have no-one and they have to be quiet and not wake anyone. They can’t even cry. They can’t even scream. They have no-one to comfort them. No-one to help them. No-one that sees them as a person. No-one that sees them as a child. No-one who holds them and strokes their hair and tells them it will be alright. They just have to lie there silently, flooded with fear, silently trembling as they drown in their terror and grief. Young and already a victim of the system’s destructiveness, of the cruelty of the people who benefit from it.

And I know because I’ve met children like that. I’ve turned my nose up at them. I’ve stayed silent to their injustice. You don’t know what happens in places that aren’t the West. You don’t know what gets hidden and swept under the rug and never talked about and never taken seriously even if it is. We divide the world up into meet little categories that can easily be sorted. Put strangers in neat little boxes. Think that we can learn everything important about their whole lives from just a glance. We justify our wealth however we can. People are individuals not groups. 

[chellerbelles]

Rogue/Gambit Fanworks week, Day 4: What Gambit Keeps in the Pockets of his Trenchcoat

FYI: This story takes place in the X-Men Evolution universe

Rogue straightened, Vertigo’s unconscious body on the ground before her. She caught her breath sharply and began running down the hallway.

“Rogue!” Jean called after her. “Where are you going? We have to stay—”

Rogue turned the corner, continued running down the hall, made a left, and finally stopped outside of a door, which she opened using Vertigo’s code. She stepped inside.

Hanging from the ceiling in an excessive number of chains, and stripped down to his underwear, was Gambit.

“Why Roguey, isn’t this a nice surprise?” Gambit greeted her.

“Huh,” Rogue said as she looked him over. “And here everyone was thinking you were working for Sinister.”

“Everyone?” Gambit asked pointedly.

“Well,” Rogue gave him a coy smile, “everyone except me. I’m guessing Sinister doesn’t trust you.”

“I can’t imagine why he would think I was at all untrustworthy,” Gambit replied. “Soooo, whatcha say you get me down? I think I’m starting to lose feeling in my arm…” He looked over at his left arm and flexed his fingers.

“I think I could manage something.”

Rogue looked around the room. It was little more than a cell. There was a camera in one corner, but Rogue knew Kitty had already disabled base security so the camera was recording exactly nothing right now. Rogue frowned and tugged at Veritgo’s mind, which was still fresh.

“Hmm…” Rogue said thoughtfully. “Your stuff is just next door. I’ll be right back.”

“I already miss you,” Gambit called after her.

Rogue chuckled to herself. She let herself into the nearby storage room, where a box simply labelled “Gambit” had been temporally stashed. She lifted the lid and peeked inside, but everything was still as Vertigo remembered it. Rogue grabbed the box, and his staff which was leaning on a wall nearby, and headed back to Gambit cell.

“Now, let me see,” Rogue said as she set the staff against the wall. “I’m sure that you’ve got multiple sets of lockpicks in here.”

“Whatever makes you think that?” Gambit asked mischievously as Rogue sat on the floor and opened up the box once more.

“What do you think?”

Rogue started pulling things out of the box. Half a dozen decks of cards, one half empty; nail clippers.

“Talcum powder?” Rogue asked, and held up the small container for him to see.

“Did they go through the pockets on my coat?” Gambit frowned.

“Yep. What’s this for?”

“Stopping my cards from getting sticky,” he replied, “you know, from the oils on your skin.”

Rogue looked at him, and then set the powder by the mostly-new playing cards. “I find it very hard to believe that any deck of cards stays in your hands long enough to get sticky.”

Gambit grinned wickedly at her. “There might be other, say we say, professional reasons why I keep that on me.”

“Now that I can believe,” Rogue replied.

Out came a set of weighted dice, his phone, a packet of gum, and a palm-sized mirror. Rogue held the mirror up.

“I always suspected you were a narcissist,” she said teasingly.

“How else am I supposed to make sure I look gorgeous before entering a room?” Gambit replied with a smirk.

Rogue gave him a long look and shook her head. “This is a thief thing too, isn’t it?”

Gambit chuckled as she set the phone aside. “Mayyyybe.”

“Uh huh.” Rogue pulled out a bottle of oil, partially wrapped in a cloth.

“My lockpicks cannot possibly be that deeply buried. I have at least seven sets on me at all times.”

Rogue removed a small bottle of graphite. “Better make that eight and start keeping one in your underwear.”

“Good idea.”

Rogue glanced up at him as she set aside a small ball of rubber bands. “Of course you would take that seriously.”

“I’ve been chained to a wall.”

Rogue gestured towards him with a slim jim. “If you had any in your underwear right now, you wouldn’t be able to reach them.”

“No,” Gambit replied slyly, “but you would.”

“Touche.”

She pulled out a cable crimper, a pair of pliers, tweezers, and a bottle of clear nail polish before she finally found not just one, but three sets of lockpicks.

“Ah ha!” Rogue stood, lockpicks in hand, and looked up at Gambit hanging from the ceiling. “Right, so, how are we doing this? Do I need to absorb you and pick the locks myself?”

“Nah. There’s a notch on the end of my staff. Just hook the lockpicks on that and lift them up to my mouth,” Gambit replied cheerfully.

Rogue grabbed his staff and spotted the notch. She hooked the lockpicks on and then looked up.

“Wait, what lock are you going to be unpicking?” she asked with a frown. “There’s nothing in reach.”

“This one,” Gambit said, and gestured with his head towards a lock that was just to the left of behind his head.

“How? You can’t turn around.”

“I can turn around enough. Just pass me the lockpicks. I wasn’t kidding about losing feeling in my arm.”

“Alright,” Rogue replied dubiously.

She lifted the staff and held it carefully in place. Gambit snagged the lockpicks with this teeth, and after taking a moment to move them around, twisted himself around to attack the lock.

“Oh hell!” Rogue exclaimed. “No! No one should be able to contort themselves like that. It’s just wrong.”

She turned around in complete refusal to watch any more, and looked back at the box. She started pulling out his clothes, all but his belt and boots had been cut open in various places, no doubt to get at hidden pockets. As she shook the clothes out, other items were dislodged, which she put back into the box (along with the other bits and pieces she’d taken out in her search). She found the rest of his lockpicks, most of them singular; a screwdriver with multiple heads; a pen; and electrical tape.

“Ooh, condoms,” Rogue said as she picked them up off the ground. “Good to know you’re fully prepared for our next date.”

The chains rattled and Rogue reluctantly looked up to see Gambit wriggling himself free of several layers of chains. He passed the lock picks along to his right hand, and started work on the next lock.

“I won’t be caught off guard again,” Gambit replied. “Although, it was fun breaking into Scott’s room.”

“I thought you said it was easy?”

“It was. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t still fun.”

And with another rattle of chains, Gambit dropped to the ground. He stretched and wriggled his arms and legs.

“Ah,” he said. “Much better.”

As he began to get dressed, Rogue looked around for anything she might have missed. She turned, and saw that a small white jewellery box had fallen behind her. She grabbed it.

“Who’d ya steal this from?” she asked as she opened the box.

Inside was a ring. A heart shaped ruby, surrounded by smaller diamonds, and set in a white gold band. She started at it. Her mind raced: Was this what it looked like? Was it meant for her? Did her original thought still apply and this was just something he stole from someone else? Were both options true?

Gambit dropped his tattered coat into the box, interupting her chain of thought. “Gonna have to fix that before I can be seen wearing it again.” He grinned at Rogue, who continued to look at the ring. “Thanks for getting me out of a jam.”

Rogue’s head jerked up. “Oh, um, sure, any time, sugar.”

He smiled faintly at her. “You should read the inscription.”

Rogue gave him a long, searching gaze, and then slowly pulled the ring out of the box. Inside it said “Queen of Hearts.”

“Is… is this…” she stammered.

“Yes,” Gambit replied as he lifted the box of his gear. “But I’m not going to pop the question in one of Sinister’s lairs.”

Rogue smiled shyly at at him. “It’s not very romantic, is it?”

They heard the sound of multiple footsteps coming towards them and tensed up. A moment later they heard Logan say “she went this way.”

Gambit looked back at Rogue. “Not in the slightest.”

The door burst open. Rogue snapped shut the jewellery box and dropped it in Gambit’s box of stuff just as Logan stepped in. Scott and Jean were close behind him.

“Rogue what are you…” Logan stopped and looked at Gambit, then at the chains behind him. He narrowed his eyes. “You.”

“When I absorbed Vertigo, I found out they’d taken Remy prisoner,” Rogue explained, then took Gambit’s hand in hers, and smiled at him, knowing he would feel the ring on her finger. “I wasn’t about to leave you behind. Ever.”

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Furuba zine. This is uh, a little old, and I’m not sure how I feel about it anymore, but I love writing these three together. And I want them to all live together post-series, even if only for a little bit.

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…

“Arrrrgghhhhh,” Uotani moaned, pillowing her head in her arms. She leaned on the low wooden table, shoving the textbooks aside to make room. Pressing her skin to the cool surface, she asked, “It’s summer, isn’t it? The time when we’re supposed to be at the beach or in a pool or outside?”

 “I think so,” Tohru confirmed eagerly. Uotani could almost hear the cogs in her head churning, a mental checklist run through. Something like: it was sunny, check. It was hot, check. The skies were clear, check. Her head turned every which way, from the window to the door to Uotani to their clothes. Finished, she announced triumphantly with a fist pump, “It’s definitely summer!”

 Hopefully somewhere on that list was a fan. Uotani was practically dying, her shirt drenched with sweat, because a certain, stupid red-head had broken the AC. As fun as it was watching Kyo and Yuki go at it, she wished it didn’t have any consequences for her. She was a bystander! Let her bystand in peace!

 “I am feeling some heat,” Hanajima concurred demurely, her voice soft and low.

At that, Uotani peeked out her interlaced arms. Dressed in a pitch-black dress with a pitch black shawl, Hanajima looked like the embodiment of winter, rather than summer. No, to be frank, she looked like the embodiment of death. As usual. Her delicate fingernails, coated in black nail polish, gently nudged Tohru’s face to one side so she could finish her latest masterpiece. Half of Tohru’s hair was a series mini braids and Uotani wasn’t sure what the end result would be. Dryly, she asked, “Really?”

 “Really,” Hanajima confirmed, not a trace of irony in her voice. Her left hand tugged the shawl slightly, baring her neck.  She fanned it lightly. “Truly, it is summer.”

 “I have no idea how you do that. Or can even say that with a straight face.” Not sure if she should be awed or worried, Uotani shrugged. It wasn’t worth debating over. She had long ago learned there was no point in questioning Hanajima and her ways. The supernatural was the easiest explanation and she stuck with it. Unfolding an arm, she rested her cheek on the other one as she eyed the table. Two textbooks were open, math diagrams taking up the majority of the pages. Several papers were scattered on the table. She gingerly picked up her work sheet, pinching it between two fingers as she stared at it disdainfully. A whole morning of homework and all she’d really got accomplished was a doodle of a bowl of ramen.  God she was hungry. “We need to shred these. Or maybe we can have a dog eat it. There’s one here, right?”

 “N-n-n-no,” Tohru shook her head so fast, it looked like it would spin off her head. “No dogs. Not a single one. No animals either. Nope. Not at all.”

 “Burn them,” Hanajima suggested, her lips curving up into a slight smile.

 “The animals?” Tohru yelped fearfully, her hands covering her cheeks. “Y-you can’t do that!”

 “I thought there were no animals?” Uotani rolled her eyes. It was like this every time they came for a visit. She wasn’t exactly sure what secret the Sohmas’ were keeping, but it seemed to involve owning an illegal menagerie. Or maybe Tohru was; she was soft-hearted like that. Maybe she was hiding stray pets in her closet, feeding them when no one was looking.

 “That’s right!” Tohru slammed her fist into her open hand, looking like she’d just realized something. “There are no animals. So you can’t burn them.”

 “Not the cat, dog, or rat,” Hanajima smiled sweetly, ignoring Tohru’s quiet gasp at each word on the list. “Burn our homework.” Her eyes and voice remained at a deadpan, making it hard to tell how serious she was. “You can start with mine.”

 Knowing laziness, she was probably dead serious. Horrified, Tohru tried to turn to Hanajima, stuttering, “F-f-fire?”

 Hanajima sternly wrapped her hands around her face, turning her back to the front. “I’m not done,” she admonished, selecting the next strands to weave into a braid.

 This did little to assuage Tohru’s concern and she stared at Uotani fearfully. “Uo-chan?”

 “It sounds like a good idea.” Curious, Uotani picked up Hanajima’s sheet. Her name was written beautifully on the top, elegant strokes to make the kanji of her name. The rest of the sheet was left a pristine white, not a single pencil mark on a single question. Not even the easy ones, the ones that Uotani herself managed to scrounge up an answer for. “You didn’t even try.”

 “It makes it easier to burn.” Hanajima smiled serenely. “And I didn’t waste a single pencil.”

 “I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of.” Uotani sighed, glancing at her friend. How she made it into high school was a mystery. Did she study the precise minimal amount required? Use her waves to sense the right answer? Or something else entirely? Still, a fire sounded fun. “Maybe we can have smores later, use this to make a big bonfire.”

“We c-c-can’t burn it!” Flustered, Tohru waved her hands rapidly in front of her. Her eyes darted around the room in a panic, her face flushed red.  “We have to do our homework! The teacher’ll be sad!”

 Breaking into a laugh, Uotani dropped the paper. Sometimes it was too easy to tease Tohru. Cradling her chin her hands, she grinned mischievously at her friend. “Don’t worry, I promise to leave yours alone.”

 “That’s good…” Tohru sighed with relief for a moment before realizing the implication. In a moment of desperation, she tumbled out of her seat, yanking her hair out of Hanajima’s hands. Crawling quickly to Uotani, she grabbed the paper out of her hand. “No, you can’t burn yours either!”

 Uotani covered her mouth as she snorted. Maybe she was a little too mean. “Alright, alright, we won’t do that either.”

 “Promise?” Tohru asked doubtfully, no longer trusting her.

 Hands up, Uotani nodded her defeat. “Promise.”

 Tohru’s eyes narrowed. Scrutinizing her friend for a long minute, she sank to her knees with a smile.  “Phew. That’s good.”

 As Tohru started organizing the papers, gathering them into one large pile, Hanajima got up. “I didn’t make a promise.”

 The papers fell out of Tohru’s hands. Slack-jawed, she stared at her. “What?”

 “But I won’t burn it as well.” Hanajima sat down next to Tohru, folding her legs neatly beneath her. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she added, “Not this time.”

 “Oh. Good.” Worn out, Tohru’s shoulders slumped and she rested her head on Hanajima’s shoulders. She closed her eyes, leaning into Hanajima’s touch as she tenderly patted Tohru’s head. “I’ll help you.”

 “…I think you missed an important line there.” Uotani raised a brow at Tohru’s content face, not sure how she missed the not this time part. Rolling her eyes, she moved on. What homework did they have left to finish? The closest sheet was math and Uotani scowled as she scanned it. “This is so frickin’ useless. I’m never going to need this.”

 “Maybe in university?” Tohru suggested, sitting straight now. Picking up a different homework assignment, she stared determinedly at the sheet. Uotani could make out a few chemistry symbols on the back—H20 was water, right? “I think Yuki said that it would be useful there.”

 “With my brains?” Uotani snorted at the idea, at the improbability of it all. She could just picture it, a yankee girl in a room full of straight-laced honour students. Maybe she’d make it in, but lasting longer than that? “Not gonna happen. Can you just imagine it? I’d get thrown out after a day.”

 “You can’t think that way, Uo-chan!” Tohru refuted, her expression cross. She glared at Uotani, her fingers crinkling the paper. “You’d last more than a day! A week even!”

 Uotani blinked. Processing it, she shook her head wryly. “So I’ll get kicked out either way?” Taking the paper out of Tohru’s grip, she smoothened it out on the table. “All that staring is just going to burn a hole in the thing.”

 “If I look long enough, the answers might appear,” Tohru suggested hopefully, her hands clasped in front of her chest as though she were praying to a science god. Or maybe just a homework god. Uotani would take a math god, if she could.

 “You’ve been spending too much time with the Sohmas’. At least, the idiotic ones.” Uotani flopped on the ground, staring at the ceiling. Man, she couldn’t wait to graduate. At least then there’d be no homework. Lowering her eyes to Tohru, she asked, “You’re going to university?”

 For a moment, Tohru sat straight, her hand pumped up and ready for whatever speech she was about to give. Her mouth dropped open, she took a deep breath, and then she sighed and slumped forward. “I’ll just get a job.”

 Uotani winced. Yep. That sounded about right. “Gotcha. We’re a trio of idiots. Maybe we can find a job together.”

 “Oh, that sounds great!” Tohru perked up, her eyes shining at the thought. “We can work together and have lunch together.” She started counting on her fingers, excited. “And walk home together and—”

 “We can do almost everything together,” Hanajima agreed, grasping Tohru’s hands gently. She squeezed once before dropping them. “Except for the work part. I will go to university.”

 If Uotani had a drink, she would have choked. Actually, even breathing air, she choked. Hanajima. In university. No matter what angle she looked at it, it was impossible. “You’re going to university? What would you even do there?”

 “Get my M.R.S.” Crossing her arms, Hanajima nodded seriously. “While it would be ideal to be Kyo’s mother, I want to check my options.”

 “Kyo’s m-m-mother?” Tohru’s jaw dropped, her eyes as wide as dinner plates.

 “Step-mother,” Hanajima corrected.

 “You, stop that.” Reaching over, Uotani chopped Hanajima on the head. “Save it for when Kyo’s around.” The joke was less funny when he wasn’t there to react. At least, she hoped it was a joke. “You can barely study for a test, how’ll you pass the entrance exams?”

 “That’s easy.” Hanajima picked up a pencil, one with the letters ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘C’, and ‘D’ at the end, and rolled it. “I just have to choose the right multiple choice answers.”

 “There’s more to tests than multiple choice answers!” Uotani growled, facepalming. Still, either way, she wasn’t really too concerned about Hanajima’s future. No matter what she ended up doing, she’d probably be fine. That just left her and Tohru and whatever workplace would take in a delinquent and a saint.

 “Do you think I could do that?” Tohru asked seriously, gripping the pencil tightly.

 Uotani stared at her blankly. There were a few times when she wondered if she was the only one that had any common sense. “That wasn’t even a real thing.”

 There was no point to her advice. Not listening, Tohru rolled the pencil herself. It rolled over the table, falling off to the side, and landing on the plush carpet. The ‘B’ landed up and she stared at it for a long minute before looking at Hanajima helplessly. “I don’t know what that means.”

 “No one does,” Hanajima sympathised, patting her on the back.

 “Guys! Seriously!” Uotani resisted the urge to bang her head on the wall. Judging by the clumsy plaster marks on it, someone else had already beat her to it. And to breaking the doors and windows. Actually, now that she thought about it, there were a lot of patches in the building. Sure, Kyo and Yuki fought a lot, but clearly they were worse at home than she thought. Was that a hole on the roof too? Maybe she shouldn’t let Tohru stay here after all.

 “They’re like wild animals,” Hanajima muttered, reading her mind. Probably reading her mind. Uotani had never really gotten a clear answer on that one.

 Tohru froze at the words. Stiffly, she stammered, “W-w-what do you mean?”

 “The Sohma family.” Hanajima sighed, pointing at the patches. “They fight like wild animals.”

 “Oh.” Tohru blinked once. Twice. Third time, she smiled with relief and patted her chest with an open hand. “Kyo isn’t good at fixing—you should see Yuki’s. I can barely tell there was a hole sometimes.”

 “And the roof doesn’t like when it rains or anything like that?” Uotani asked, incredulous. No matter how skilled the Sohma boys were, they were still teenagers. And how the hell did a pair of teenagers break a roof? Even in her days in the gangs, she’d never heard of such a thing.

 “After the first week, my room was declared a safe zone.” Tohru smiled proudly, pointing up. “They’ve always broken somewhere else.” After a moment’s thought, she stared at her door worriedly. “You don’t think they’re getting leaks?”

 “A safe zone…are you in a war?” Uotani was 80% certain that this was because it was Tohru’s room, more than anything else. 20% was the fact that they were terrified Hanajima would curse them if Tohru even mentioned it once.  “Nah, they’ll be fine. But…you know…since it is worrying, maybe we should just live with you.”

 “Huh?” Tohru stared owlishly at her, not comprehending this sudden twist.

 “If we’re going to do everything together anyways—” Uotani explained, brightening at the thought.

 “I’m going to university,” Hanajima reminded, returning to Tohru’s hair.

 “If we’re going to do everything together anyways,” Uotani continued as though she hadn’t heard a thing. “Why not just live together too?”

 “It’d be economical,” Hanajima pointed out, perhaps her only good idea of the day.

 “Ohhhh!” Stars filled Tohru’s eyes and she clapped her hands together at the thought. “All of us. Living together.”

 “There’s enough space here for all of us.” Uotani counted on her fingers the number of rooms she’d seen. The living room. The four bedrooms. The kitchen. The building definitely had a few rooms that weren’t used, it was fricking big. With a little bit of cleaning, they could make them livable. “We could get the boys to help clean. Kyo has to be useful at something.”

 “He’s really good at moving things!” Tohru chirped, almost vibrating in her seat with excitement.

 “If he complains, I’ll pummel him,” Utonai grinned. “And that perverted author would definitely be happy to have more girls here.”

 “He’s very nice!” Tohru defended, though she didn’t argue about the ‘perverted’ part. “I’m sure he’ll let you stay.”

 “Right. If you say so.” Uotani was pretty sure Tohru didn’t have a firm grasp on the reality of her housemates. She probably saw their fighting as nothing more than a petty squabble either. “Anyways, it’d be nice. Remember that time I stayed with you and Kyoko for a week? It’d be like that times a hundred.”

 “Oh that was great!” Clapping her hands together, Tohru nodded eagerly. “You and Mom made…” Tohru’s eyes darkened, and she lowered her lids. Her hands clutched her skirt tightly. Her voice softened. “Do you think she’d be happy?”

 “Happy?” Uotani asked, straining to hear her friend. She leaned closer. Already Hanajima was hugging her from behind, her arms loosely folded around Tohru’s neck as she rested her head on Tohru’s shoulder.

 “That I’m not going to university?” Tohru bit her lip. Her fingers started to dig to dig into her thighs. “That I’m getting a job like her.”

 “Tohru…” Not wasting a minute, Uotani grabbed Tohru’s hands and squeezed them tight. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead against Tohru’s. “She’s definitely happy. Like, the most fricking happy mom there is. You’re graduating high school! She didn’t even get to do that.”

 “I know she’s smiling at you,” Hanajima comforted her. There was something reassuring about her saying it, as though she was looking at her ghost right now and translating from the other side. “She’s proud.”

 “Really?” Tohru looked up now, staring at Uotani. “Do you really think so?”

 “I know so.” Uotani chuckled, remembering the crazy, ex-gang-member-turned-doting-mother. There was not a single parent who loved their child like Kyoko loved Tohru. Hell, there was not a person alive who loved anyone as much as Kyoko loved Tohru. “As long as you’re happy, she’d be happy.”

 “I am. I am really, really happy.” Tohru turned her hands over, clasping Uotani back.

 “And I’m happy and even Hanajima is happy, if not somehow surviving a heat stroke.” Uotani grinned, before slowly untangling herself from Tohru. Reaching back to the table, she grabbed the math sheet once more. “Though we ain’t graduating without actually finishing this.”

 “Right…” Tohru’s smiled dropped as she stared at the paper. “I don’t know how to do that.”

 Releasing Tohru after a last squeeze, Hanajima flopped backwards onto the ground. She stared at the ceiling blankly.  “We could just take an extra year to graduate. Your mom would understand.”

 “No, we…” Tohru stared at the paper once more, biting her lip. Reluctantly, she looked away and mumbled, “It still counts, right? A delayed graduation is still graduating.”

 “Guys, no. We’re not letting that orange-haired bastard graduate before us,” Uotani vehemently bit out, already picturing Kyo’s smirk. Reaching down, she yanked Hanajima back up into a sitting position. “We just need a little help. And what better help than the resident prince?”

 “Yuki!” Tohru brightened immediately and sprang to her feet. “He’s downstairs.”

 “Good.” Uotani paused, realizing that they hadn’t heard any earthquakes, mass destruction, or even plain old arguing for the past hour. Mount Kyo-Yuki was set to explode. They’d get nothing done if that happened. “Don’t invite Kyo.”

 “Huh?” Already skipping to the door, Tohru immediately halted. Her head cocked one way and then the other before she finally turned around and looked at Uotani in confusion. “Why?”

 “Yuki. Kyo. In a room,” Uotani explained slowly, enunciating each word clearly. When it was clear Tohru didn’t get it, she spelled it out. “They’ll fight and we’ll fail a year.” Not to mention. Tohru’s room would probably get destroyed. Cursed by Hanajima or not, Tohru’s room or not, there was no way the pair would be able to handle tutoring each other for a few hours. Not with Kyo’s pride—he’d take offense at the smallest thing.

 “Kyo could fail too!” Apparently the only word Tohru heard was failure and she ran out of the room in a panic. “Shigure! Kyo! Yuki!”

 “Wait that wasn’t—” It was too late, Uotani could hear Tohru’s shouts as she raced downstairs. Well. There went any hope of a peaceful study session. Uotani glanced at the table once more, at their pile of papers. To be honest, they weren’t getting anything done today anyways. They’d been studying in this room for at least two hours and the only thing they had to show for it was Tohru’s new hairstyle.

 “He’ll fail with us,” Hanajima consoled, with such certainty it felt more like a prophecy.

 “I don’t know if I should be happy about that or not.” Uotani winced as she heard an angry stomping up the stairs. Turning to Hanajima, she raised a brow. “It’s not too late to burn them all, is it?”