#he's chewing on bones. he has to ask for help reaching the top shelf.

[plumbogs]

i'm so glad i did werewolf beau honestly. by far one of the silliest things i could have let happen. he's the creature of all time now

[imtrashraccoon]

This might be my favorite chapter to date, mostly because they're warming up to each other even more. Also, I like including little personal anecdotes from my own life. Maybe you can spot them?

@owl-bones

First Day, Previous Day, & Next Day.

Bad Sansuary: Horror - Compliments

Word Count: 1,862

Curse your stupid kitchen cupboards!

You let out a quiet huff and crossed your arms in frustration while giving the top shelf an evil glare. You just wanted to get your beautiful bone china teacups down so you could have a tea party with Axe today.

You only had two of them and they were a gift from your grandmother who used to collect them, but she gave these ones to you when she had to downsize her collection. One cup had a couple of painted large red Roses while the other had a few bunches of painted blue African violets. Both cups had matching saucers and while you didn't ever use the dishware for fear of breaking them, Axe was a good friend of yours so it was worth doing.

Unfortunately, because you didn't ever plan to use them, you'd put them on the very top shelf, where you were unable to reach. Still, you were an adult, you'd put them up there so you could get them down again too!

You'd just managed to climb up onto the counter when Axe must've noticed what you were trying to do. He quickly moved to stand next to you and put his hand out in case you were to fall, all the while his skull was scrunched up into a concerned frown.

"what are ya doin', lil' chip?" he asked in a tone that was rife with worry.

You were half sitting, half crouching on the countertop and glanced up sheepishly at him. "Uh, trying to get the nice cups down?"

Axe made a tisk sound and shook his skull. It felt like he was almost scolding you, as if you were a child who didn't know better. He easily reached up and with a featherlight grip, gingerly took the two china cups out of the cupboard and set them on the counter next to you.

"ya should've asked... i was right here," he said. "what if you fell and hurt yourself?"

Your cheeks were definitely bright pink from embarrassment right now. You stared down at the floor and chewed your lower lip. "I know... I wasn't really thinking as I don't have to reach the top shelves very often," you muttered. "But thanks for your help anyways..."

He gave your shoulder a gentle pat and extended his other hand to help you get down, which you accepted. He had an amused grin plastered across his skull and you knew this was going to be just another thing added to the list of weird things you did on the regular.

"it's alright now, but maybe you should consider getting a step stool or something safer than climbing up the kitchen counters." His voice had a teasing inflection that made you almost want to lightly smack him, but you didn't.

With a sigh, you smoothed out your clothes and glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. "Must be nice being so tall, you don't have to struggle so much like I do," you said.

He didn't look so sure but didn't protest, instead his red eyelight got a bit of a mischievous glint. He crouched down to be on your own eye level for once, which was kind of funny when he lost over a foot of his height just to do so.

"it has some advantages... like how much smaller ya look compared to down here..." He chuckled and added, "it's downright adorable."

Oh no...he didn't...

You clenched your fists and refused to look at him, which was rather difficult considering how close he was currently standing to you. Sure, you were a little annoyed but he wasn't being cruel at least. Although, if he was going to tease you about your height, you hoped he could take it as much as he could dish it out.

"Oh yeah? You're lucky to be so tall... Has anyone ever asked you how the weather is up there, big guy?" you asked in a slightly snarky voice.

He nodded, his amused grin never faltering as he stood back up to his full height. "all the time, lil' chip..." he chuckled. "has anyone ever remarked that you'd be the last one to know if it ever rains?"

Confused, you blinked a few times before the meaning of his joke managed to set in. "Oh, that's a new one actually. Clever...but I'm still annoyed that you called me short."

Axe crossed his arms and briefly looked you up and down. "you are quite adorable though... pretty sure i'm like twice your size too. i kinda like it actually..." he murmured.

You'd barely considered the sheer size difference between you two lately. Not only did he have a whole foot and three inches on you, being at least six foot five, his entire body frame was indeed at least twice that of your own. Neither of you had ever acknowledged this fact out loud until now, despite how apparent it was.

"ya know what's funny?"

"What?"

"i could easily carry ya, even if you tried your hardest to get away... there's literally nothin' you could do to stop me."

You felt a chill run down your spine at his words. For a moment, you believed it too. He really could just randomly decide to kidnap you and there would be no way to prevent it. Despite what you'd once told him, not even you were crazy enough to fight a guy who could likely wrestle bears and handily win. Not to say you wouldn't try mind you, desperation had a way of motivating even the smartest person to do the unthinkable afterall.

Axe seemed to sense your concern and the corners of his smile fell slightly. "i was kiddin'! sheesh...i wouldn't actually do that to ya..."

You chuckled nervously, "I know you wouldn't but I also know you could. It's a good joke, just very dark..."

"i probably shouldn't have said anythin'... sorry," Axe muttered. He couldn't look at you now and ran his claws over the right side of his skull.

You couldn't help but flinch when he seemed to barely register hooking his phalanges into his right eye socket and you put your hand on his arm to try and gently stop him. When he glanced at you questioningly, you gave him a small smile and patted his arm in a reassuring way.

"It's okay now, Axe. I'm not actually upset," you said softly. "Why don't we forget about it and have some tea?"

He nodded in agreement seemingly all too willing to move on to a more pleasant topic.

Despite owning two china tea cups, you weren't fancy enough to own an actual tea pot. So instead of brewing a bunch of tea at once, you had to settle for pouring the boiling water into the individual cups with a tea bag in each one. Not that it really mattered, you could just add more sugar if the tea got too strong.

You both decided that rather than sit at the table, you could just sit in the living room where it was more comfortable to have your tea party. So, you did just that and put some fresh fruit and cookies out on the coffee table as well.

It was rather nice actually and you couldn't remember the last time you'd done this sort of thing with anyone. You couldn't help but smile at how small the tea cup was in comparison to Axe's large hand. He seemed to especially like the cup with blue African violets so you let him use it, even though it was your favorite of the two.

After a little while when you'd both finished the tea and snacks, you noticed Axe had been staring at you, as if he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how. Although, he quickly glanced away and looked down at the tiny cup he still had clasped in his claws when he realized he'd been caught.

"Is something wrong?" you asked.

He shook his skull and murmured, "no...i was just thinkin'..."

You tilted your head with curiousity. "Penny for your thoughts then?"

That beautiful cobalt blue glow flickered across his cheekbones and he gave a bit of a nervous chuckle before responding. "could i...try holding you...?"

You hadn't expected that question at all. Still, you trusted Axe by now so you didn't mind the idea. "Why not?" you answered with a shrug.

He seemed surprised you'd actually agreed to an admittedly odd request. He stared at you for a solid five seconds but when you didn't change your mind, he couldn't stop the wide grin from taking over his face.

Then, to your surprise, rather than just giving you a hug, he quite literally pulled you into his lap before engulfing you in what was best described as a bear hug. You'd let out a quiet yelp from the sudden movement but let him keep holding you tightly.

The longer you sat there with him, the less embarrassed you felt and the more you realized that you actually liked this situation. While his bones were normally cool to the touch, being close like this made you realize that he was actually pretty warm. Not only that, he felt...alive, as in you could literally feel the magic flowing through his mana lines that kept him alive. It made a sort of quiet humming sound that kind of reminded you of a heartbeat, although less pronounced.

Another interesting thing was that being in this position was more comfortable than you'd expected. Sure, he still had sharp edges and you could feel his ribs basically pressing into your back, but it was oddly comforting. You couldn't sleep like this unless you were dead tired, but that wouldn't be hard to fix if you had a thick enough blanket.

Did this mean anything? Friends didn't do this sort of thing to each other...right? Were monsters naturally more affectionate than humans were? You weren't complaining either way, this felt really, really nice. Or maybe you were just much more touch starved than you thought.

Although just when you thought things couldn't get any better, you were proven wrong. Axe pressed his skull against the back of your head and gently nuzzled into your locks of hair. You inadvertently shuddered from the pleasant sensation and your eyelids briefly fluttered shut.

"Axe?"

A low rumbling hum was the only answer to your query until he shifted and rested his chin on the top of your head.

"you're really warm...and soft...and so small..." he murmured.

You just knew your face was flushed from how intimate this moment was and his comments seemed only to make it worse. Your tongue felt heavy and your mouth felt almost as if it were sewed shut. There was nothing you could say to either defuse or add to the mood of your current predicament it seemed.

"you're the perfect size to fit in my arms," he added. "and ya smell nice...like mint and cucumber..."

You were going to be incapacitated for a while...both physically and emotionally. Oh well... If this counted as kidnapping, you wouldn't mind doing it more often.

[westerhos]

Our Story: Chapter 6

[December 24th, 1998]

There is something to be said for the peculiar hour of the blue-morning, when a hospital beeps into quiet life. Death rattles behind drawn curtains, expletives are spat over set bones, and shots are taken in the thigh. It is not like Jamie’s Grampian refuge, which springs forth naturally from the earth. Instead, Boston GH scars the landscape, numbing loneliness through morphine drips and the tug of sheer necessity.

It is during this gradual reawakening that Claire hides in a closet, imagines the pink, wet sacs of her lungs contract and expand. She counts her breaths to release the night’s chaos, still lodged deep in her throat.

During the wild evening hours, Claire sees only what exists outside her body. Such an easy thing to do as a doctor, this sudden corporeal separation—a leap into the procedural dance, a temporary loss of oneself to the staunching of blood and the sewing of sutures.

But eventually the window of calm arrives, and the wall of dissociation begins to crumble. Claire, in her closet sanctuary, returns to her body once more, the sight of her arms and her hands like four old friends reacquainted.

Claire hunkers down between two shelves, and relief travels from foot to torso, settling somewhere inside her gut. As always, she has brought her medical bag—a gift from her husband, CER embossed in golden filigree—and rummages through it. As always, she finds the folder and flicks it open, seeking the page that is stowed inside. She is forever tethered to its final sentence, which launches a fresh rip of longing straight to her chest.

And as always, she goes back to the beginning, following the words. Fingers like greedy sponges, text absorbing into skin.

NEW YORK CITY, 11:30AM - The diner hushes when the bell tinkles, announcing the arrival of literary darling James Fraser. He is a giant in more ways than one: six-feet tall, wide-set shoulders, and a critically-acclaimed author with legions of fans. But for all his inches and his clout, Fraser is blissfully unaware of the eyes on his back. When he sits opposite me and shakes my hand, I, like the rest of the world, find him to be impulsively likable.

Sporting one month’s growth of beard and a wrinkled v-neck, it doesn’t take long for Fraser’s roguish charm to earn a complimentary meal. He is quick to thank the waitress, and for not the first time, one has to wonder how the man could possibly be single. Surely his good looks, his talent, and Reformed Bad Boy reputation draws the ladies in?

Point proven: Our waitress lingers, hungry for Fraser’s attention, but he closes his menu after ordering a glass of lemonade. (An odd choice, but then our writing heroes are full of idiosyncrasies, aren’t they?) I almost leap to console the girl, that poor thing, as she runs a self-conscious hand down her apron.

Alas, one gets the impression that it isn’t pickiness keeping Fraser romantically unattached. Nor is it misogyny or closeted homosexuality (despite what those tabloid vipers spit). James Fraser simply enjoys his place in the lonely hearts club—and is perfectly content to stay there, sipping ice-cold lemonade.

Frank’s ring glides across the lines, pauses over “single”. Such a different life, so removed from Claire’s, though here it thrums beneath her hands. Suddenly, her head grows heavier, weighted by the chain draped around her neck. Jamie’s thistle ring dangles there, cold as death. Forever tucked inside her shirts, a secret between her breasts. (Frank lets her wear it, just as she lets him wear his stained button-downs, other women smiling from the collars.)

Fraser’s second and latest novel, Two Centuries in Purgatory, released just last month to stellar reviews. Hailed as a “modern classic” by The New York Times (and truly, it is), Purgatory has found a comfortable seat at the top of the bestseller lists, and shows no signs of losing momentum. Now touring the U.S., Fraser seems nonplussed by the bustle of the Big Apple, his eighth time to our concrete jungle (“I’ve a parade of publisher meetings and interviews tomorrow,” he grumbles). Though he’s a longtime resident of both Edinburgh and Glasgow, he says no city feels like home nowadays. “Where is home then?” I ask him, and in traditional Fraser fashion, he deadpans: “Lost.”

For all his fame and glory, there is something decidedly melancholy about James Fraser. But of course, we all know why. We’ve read his books, haven’t we? We know his story.

Gillian Edgars: Are you enjoying your lemonade, Mr. Fraser?

James Fraser: Aye, verra much so. Lemonade in Scotland doesna taste like this.

GE: Mmmm, exploring the pleasures of America. I like it. Now, shall we begin? Let’s start with Two Centuries in Purgatory.

Claire brings the page a few inches closer. This is not the first time she has read the article, its edges worn to yellowing curls.

A familiar anger sinks its claws into her side as this reproduction of Jamie staggers into a flickering half-life. Gillian Edgars thinks she knows the man behind the book jacket. The entire world, for that matter, believes they can claim the bold-faced names on their hardbacks.

But, Claire seethes, do these people know that Jamie smiles in his sleep? That he’s prone to seasicknesses, could not wink at the waitress even if he tried? No. Only Claire knows these smaller, intimate truths—but still, they are not enough. Jamie is no longer only hers, but a communal being disseminated and shared amongst millions. Strangers have molded her Jamie into something new, into hollow casts of their false impressions.

Without warning, the closet door swings open and Joe Abnernathy leans in. “Knew I’d find you in here,” he says, but he draws up short. His smile falters when he sees Claire on the ground. Falters further still when he reads the headline, "Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero," on the page and on her face.

“Lady Jane, why do you do this to yourself? We’re working, I know, but can’t you try to be merry? It’s officially Christmas Eve!”

Joe kneels down, and levels his gaze with hers—the gentle but silent disappointment of an older brother. Claire holds firm when he pries the clipping from her grasp, the paper snagging the skin of her palm. It glides over and up, a shallow curve that splits into fine, shining rubies. A jeweled J, just at the base of her thumb.

Claire presses the wound to her teeth, tastes the heady, metallic taste of herself. (Later, she will trace the cut with reverence, grateful to be marred, at the very least, by a shade of Jamie.)

Joe tsks and reaches for a shelf, bringing back the first aid kit.

“Perks of hiding in a hospital supply closet. Bandages, everywhere. Take this.”

“It’s fine, Joe,” Claire assures him but accepts the bandaid anyways. “I’m fine—just a bad day and a scratch. See? No significant blood loss.”

“Thought I’d witnessed the first fatal paper cut,” Joe says, but then continues, more softly, “LJ, I thought you’d given this up. That Frank made you promise you’d stop.”

“He did,” Claire replies. “And I did too, for a while.”

Her stomach turns as the memory resurfaces: her husband, feeding the shredder a feast of papers. The machine’s tight-lipped and fanged smile destroying Claire’s collection of articles, her glimpses of Jamie. Frank had held her as the teeth had chewed, tightened his grip when she repeated his words back to him, “Time to leave the past behind.” And afterwards, once the the bin had emptied into the trash, Frank had dragged the bag of shreds to the curb. Claire had looked on, standing in the doorway, a soldier’s wife already in mourning.

(That evening, she almost snuck outside to piece the words together, for old habits die hard and a planet will always yearn for her sun. But then Frank’s arm had risen in the darkness, flopped sleepily across her waist. The weight of it had held her there, and so she’d stayed, picturing the night creatures stealing Jamie away, piece by piece.)

“I just…wanted to see what people were saying. About his new book.” She sighs. “I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s just that…”

“He’s everywhere, isn't he? In the papers, on TV. Saw they’re making a Lifetime adaptation of A Blade of Grass. Jesus.”

Claire nods. “Steering clear of that one.” (But she won’t, of course. Claire will want to see herself and Jamie on that screen, their better, manufactured selves broadcasted in technicolor.)

“You’re really gonna let me down like that, Lady Jane? I thought we’d drink cheap Scotch, put the movie on mute, and invent the dialogue ourselves. Next weekend, the two of us. Drunk and vengeful. Whaddya say?”

“A hard pass, Joe. We’ll be in Oxford for the holidays, anyways. Visiting Frank’s family.”

“Well, la-di-dah. I’ll be on this side of Atlantic throwing popcorn at my TV.” Joe leaps to his feet when his pager beeps. As he walks out the door, his hand flies to his coat pocket and he withdraws a shabby paperback. “Before I forget—a Christmas gift, for the Lady. If you’re gonna scramble your brain with nonsense, let it be Tessa’s ‘membrane of innocence’. Not ‘Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero.’”

Claire laughs and flips through The Impetuous Pirate, inhaling its smell of antiseptic and mildew and the vestiges of long-ago fingerprints. A Harlequin, taken from the hospital waiting room. “Aye aye, captain. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay here in Davy Jones’ Locker for a while longer.”

Joe nods, consoling, before he turns to answer an intern's cries for help.

Alone again, Claire tucks The Impetuous Pirate inside her bag, picks up the discarded article from the floor. For the first time, she notices its publication date, October 20th, was her 31st birthday. She cannot remember the details of the occasion—Did Frank take her to a concert, or to a movie? Buy her flowers or chocolates?—and yet a foreign scene plays so clearly in her mind. It is something cut from the script of her life, the stagehand’s hook pulling her to the wings before she has a chance to speak. Cast in the closet’s dim spotlight, it unfolds as the playact that could have been but never was:

Jamie, in the New York diner, drinking lemonade. Condensation like dew drops, rolling down the pitcher. A young girl in Gillian Edgars’ place, singing a high soprano. And Claire, beside her, blowing out candles in a single huff.

As she slices the birthday cake, this almost-Claire nicks her finger on the knife’s blade. “Kiss to make it better!” the young girl cries, and Jamie does, his lips are on the sting, and then Claire’s mouth. He tastes of citrus, of yellow and sunshine, a marigold paradise in a city of dying autumn leaves. “Does it still hurt, Sassenach?” he asks her. “Not anymore,” she says. And when the little girl giggles, watching them, it is something sacred. She licks the frosting from the candles. “So what’d you wish for, Mama?” she asks, not knowing that, in a moments like these, there is no need for wishes.

Claire’s pager rings, rearranging her memories. Now she remembers her 31st birthday—and knows it did not happen in that diner. On that day, there was no little girl; no citrus kisses in a molting New York.

Instead, Frank had taken Claire to the opera house, a drawn-out affair they had both fidgeted through. Back at home, he had led her to the bedroom and its king-sized bed, had slipped off her dress while she kept her chain on. “Talk to me,” he’d panted, silver thistles against her chest. And when she came, it was not Frank’s body that drew her cries. It was not Frank’s name that rose from her lips.

Claire scans the article, skipping again to the final paragraphs. Here lies the line she reads over and over, the very reason she shells $15 for subscriptions and scavenges in bins for scraps. Anything to discover some evidence of herself, some proof that she still lives in the peripheries of Jamie’s life. And whenever she finds it, it pours into her and lingers, like wine.

GE: Your debut was quite impressive—an instant bestseller, an Oprah Book Club pick, an upcoming TV movie. I’m sure you’ve been asked this before…but allow me to be a hack for just one moment. Let me ask the nosy questions. Let me pry.

JF: I dinna have a fear of rats [SMILES]. Get on wi’ it then.

GE: I appreciate it, Mr. Fraser, I do [LAUGHS]. The protagonist’s struggles in A Blade of Grass—the financial woes, the criminal record, the years of solitude—they seem to mirror your own. Is it accurate to say that the book is autobiographical?

“Randall?” a voice calls from outside the closet. “Randall, are you in there? Mr. Duncan in Room #18 needs to be—”

“Prepped for surgery, I know!” Claire finishes. Her voice is shrill, rising with her goosebumps as she nears the interview’s end. “I’ll be out in a second, Dr. Hildegarde!”

JF: In some respects, aye, A Blade of Grass is autobiographical. Mind, I made a lot of it up myself. Embellished a few things.

GE: Oh yes, certainly. But even without your embellishments, your life does make for such an interesting tale. In a way, your struggles are what made you a literary sensation. But still, I do wonder—do you regret any of it? The gamble, the money, the arrest?

JF: [LAUGHS QUIETLY] I thank ye for the compliment, Ms. Edgars, but I hope my sins are no’ responsible for the book’s success. And for the record, they were largely exaggerated by the press.

GE: Ah, right. We rats are despicable creatures, always desperate for crumbs. But they never fill the belly, not really.

JF: Have ye tried poetry before, Ms. Edgars? You’ve a knack for it [LOOKS AWAY]. But nay, it isna the crimes themselves that I regret most. Whether they were exaggerated or no.

GE: Really? There’s something else [LEANS FORWARD]? Will you tell me then, your life’s biggest regret? Or will you keep me and your readers in the dark, forever wondering what keeps our beloved James Fraser up at night?

Now Claire closes her hand into a fist, forces herself to bleed out from that thin, half-mooned J. She imagines Jamie’s face, inscrutable to Gillian Edgars, but fixed in an expression that she, and only she, can read. And if Claire had been there on that October afternoon, sitting in the diner’s vinyl booth, she would have understood. Would’ve known already what Jamie regretted most, what he would and could not say aloud. For within this precious, final line—their spoken and unspoken wishes:          

JF: My biggest regret? I let the story end early.

(JF: I should have loved her better—God! I should have loved her better.)

_______

I have very few comments about this one, but I will say A) Jamie’s POV comes much more naturally to me—probably because I, like Jamie, love Claire so frickin’ much—so writing this was like pulling teeth. And B) As I was writing this chapter, I knew it was time to bring Jamie and Claire back together. Even I was rooting for them to reunite.

I love Joe and Claire’s friendship, and I wish I’d shown more of it in this fic (although what’s here I think fits pretty naturally). And I have to say...I love Geillis—or the idea of her: witchy, feminist, and confident—a whole lot, despite her Voyager crimes. Here, she is my Outlander version of Harry Potter’s Rita Skeeter, and I could write an entire fic from her voice any day.

[thebigqueer]

fic prompt: a vibey group of friends (all diff aesthetics but they fit) being very swaggy and then they engage in THIEVERY and get away with it like the cool peeps they are - for flavor throw in a bunch of androgyny and no romance but instead they are very good friends

at first i was considering using my OCs but then i remembered that i really wanted to do a fic with the Art Hoes TM so thank you for this perfect prompt (also lakjsdljkdf yes this is very late but in my defense i also could not figure out how to write this one) thanks for the prompt! i hope y’all like this! and, as always: I do no editing on these, so please don’t be too judgmental.

The light overhead flickers, brushing strokes of darkness over the ceiling intermittently. A low hum emanates from the packed freezer, showcasing the variety of expired milk and sweet ice creams. Perhaps they shouldn’t do this to the poor twenty year old at the counter, but in their defense, the cashier seems like they’re too dead to even notice what’s happening. They should really be focused. In the quick flash of darkness, two beings flicker into existence in a corner, shadows coiling like snakes behind them. They balance themselves against the wall to fight off the wave of dizziness and wait for the signal of Lou Ellen. She stands by the candy aisle, browsing through an assortment of teeth-rotting delicacies, all the while brushing her hand over the air to pull them all under the guise of invisibility through the Mist. The beings step into the light once again but there’s no anxiety in doing so; the cashier won’t see them. They whisper past the shelves of snacks and junk food and approach Lou Ellen. Alex pulls out a dark green bag and quietly shifts through the snacks, pushing only his favorite ones into the sack. Nico opens a rip of darkness between the bottom and top shelf and shoves Twizzlers, gummies, and a wide assortment of chocolates in. They’re careful to keep silent; the Mist can only really hide the most bizarre of scenes, most incomprehensible of scenes. It’s not created to hide the image of three shithead teenagers very obviously committing shoplifting. A bead of sweat pops over Lou Ellen’s forehead as she shoves a pack of Starbust into Nico’s rip of darkness. “We’re gonna need to hurry,” she hisses, fingers trembling as she pushes Sour Patch Kids into Alex’s sack. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold it.” Nico sighs as they scrutinize a bottle of Coca-Cola. “I knew I should have brought Hazel with us. She would be able to help you. Sorry, Lou.” “Less talky, more stealy,” Alex mutters, opening his arms wide and shoving almost an entire shelf of candy into the tear of darkness. He fixes Nico with a glare. “Honestly, it’s like none of you have stolen before.” Lou Ellen mutters, “Sorry we haven’t exactly mastered the art of thievery.” “Speak for yourself,” Nico whispers, a smile creeping over his lips. “I’ve had my fair share of thievery when I was rogue.” Finally, when it seems like Alex’s back can’t hold anymore and the ripple of darkness that Nico opened is bursting with stomachache-inducing goodies, the three stop shoving food in. Nico tilts his head and frowns. “I think we have more than we even need.” “It’s fine,” Lou Ellen says, face turning a little red. “We don’t have time to pull it back out. We can just give it to Will and Magnus and Percy and maybe the Stolls. They’ll find a way to sell it off.” Nico snorts, eyes glimmering in amusement. “Can’t believe we’ve become candy dealers.” Alex laughs silently. “Oh, we are so bad. Maggie’s gonna be so scared of me.” Lou Ellen glares at the two of them. “Okay, yes, ha-ha. Can we go now? I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up.” As if on cue, her eyelids flutter and her hands drop. She sways on her feet and almost collapses, but Alex is there to hold her steady. Lou Ellen wipes her face over her palm. “See? Let’s go.” Alex and Lou Ellen hesitate, watching Nico. But he gazes ahead to the cashier with his eyebrows furrowed as if deep in thought. They pull their hand into their pocket; the clinking sound of money chimes from his pockets. 

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Nico, let’s go.” 

“Hold on.” And before Alex can protest, Nico disappears into a nearby shadow, leaving only the darkness lingering behind them like smoke in the air. Alex’s heart punches against his chest with anxiety. What is wrong with him? he asks himself. Turning abruptly, Alex discovers Nico standing before the cashier, placing a pile of coins over the counter. The cashier doesn’t seem to notice Nico, perhaps fooled by the mist, but he certainly notices the new money appearing before him. His eyes widen in surprise, a panicked look overcoming his face. 

Alex facepalms. “Of course. Nico just has to go ahead and be a noble hero.” He sighs. “At least he’s quiet. Maybe the poor cashier will think it’s just a ghost giving him money.”

But then, right at that moment, Lou Ellen gasps and stumbles to the ground. A large whoosh flows through the convenience store, the sound of the Mist slipping away from her grasp. For a second, everything stills. There’s a tense hestiation in the air, as if everyone’s waiting for something to happen. Alex bites his lip.

And then the cashier screams, pushing against his chair, a look of pure fear erupting in his eyes. Nico’s eyes widen and they step back into the shadows, melting away. A second later, they pop up right next to Alex, skin pale.

He glares. “Is there something-”

Nico shakes his head and pulls a finger to their lips. “Come on, we gotta go,” they whisper. They lean in for Lou Ellen’s arm, who’s panting on the ground, and reach for Alex’s arm with his other hand. Then, before Alex can even process what’s happening, the world melts into darkness. Shadows surround them, licking their bare skin like cold flames. Nothingness surrounds them. Time is nonexistent.

And then they pop up in a cold area, darkness envelops them. The three collapse onto the ground, exhaustion spilling into their bones. 

A figure steps before them, hands on their hips. “Well, look who’s made it to the party.”

~ 

About twenty minutes later, the group has made itself comfortable on the grass of Central Park, scavenging through the loot that Alex, Nico, and Lou Ellen managed to pick up. Midnight bleeds over the sky, the only source of light being the stars that poke through the encompassing darkness. A cool breeze flows past them. Nico lies on their back, staring at the sky, trying to fend off the exhaustion threatening to pull their eyelids down. 

When the three demigods finally came to, Alex had his fair share of scolding: “Are you stupid? Do you realize what you’ve done? We could be caught! Why did you do that? Do you realize what robbing is? Putting money on the counter defeats the entire purpose!” 

It went like that for fifteen minutes, just enough time for Nico to regain his stability and stand. They shrugged and smiled. “Hey, it’s not our fault that the poor dude had nothing going for him. Besides, he’ll forget about it.” Opening a Twizzler packet, the child of Hades smirked and said, “They always do.”

Now, as he and Alex, Hazel, Rachel, and Lou Ellen circle around each other on the grass, all the anxiety of earlier fades away, replaced only by a tranquility. Alex has his arm around Rachel, the two of them munching on some Twix; Hazel leans back on her arms and watches the stars with Nico. Lou Ellen rummages through their candy pile. A comfortable silence surrounds them. 

When Rachel snorts, Nico sits up and offers her a confused look. She laughs. “I can’t believe you really threatened the entire mission. You’ve fought monsters and can’t even rob a store for just candy?” 

“Hey, fuck the rich,” he replies, stealing a gummy from Hazel’s hands. She protests but they ignore her. “The dude deserved some money. He looked like he was barely living.” Raising an eyebrow at Alex, he adds, “And that’s saying something, because we literally have a dead person here.”

“Aren’t we all dead inside, though?” Lou Ellen reasons, frowning.

“Yeah,” Nico agrees, pulling a Twizzler out from a packet next to him. Placing one end to his mouth, he says, “But he looked even more dead than the average person.”

Alex scoffs and leans his head against Rachel’s, the green locks dramatically clashing with her bright red. “As much as I want to agree with you, it was so incredibly stupid.” He lays his palms out in a placating manner. “I mean, yeah, fuck the rich, but... come on. Now the rich are gonna fuck us.” 

Nico shakes his head and chews a piece off the candy, feeling the bland sweetness of the candy sweep over his taste buds. “They won’t see anything. These things usually fix themselves with the Mist. Percy once crashed his stepdad’s car and he got away with it.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Yeah, only after he was chased halfway across the country.” 

“Hey, now, no need to get into the specifics.” 

Hazel laughs, her voice tinkling in the eerie quiet. “Can’t believe I’ve got an accomplice for a sibling.” Edging her toe against the grass, she adds, “Almost wish I was there.” 

“Hey, no wishing!” Rachel exclaims, frowning. “You and I had a blast robbing my dad’s car from his house. Let’s not forget that we were the most important mission. We literally got all the tagging supplies.”

“Yeah, but who got all the candy?” Alex asks, raising his eyebrows. “We got the nutritious food for you children. Honestly, Rachel, it’s like I’m the only one who cares about keeping the roof over the house.” 

“Okay, shut up.” Rachel’s fingers clamp over the ground. “Say one more word and I will throw dirt at you.” 

A daring look comes over Alex’s eyes and he raises an eyebrow. “One more word-” 

Rachel throws a fistful of muck against his face and he stumbles backward, spitting and groaning. His laughter echoes, and soon Rachel’s own giggles sprinkle into the air. 

A car blares in the background. Lights from the city blaze against the sky. Streetlamps glimmer over the outskirts of the park. The familiar electricity of New York buzzes in the air, making Nico’s blood simmer with anticipation. Euphoria fizzes within him. It’s something about hanging out with these four that makes their heart pound with excitement, makes their body glow with superfluous joy.

They lie back down again. Grass prickles the back of their head, tickles his bare hands. Laughter continues falling over him in a waterfall of sounds.

They smile. 

[lyorofthequill]

The Runaways

                                                 Chapter 1.                                               The train stop.

''Hey Mam, I know that was a lot. But please, when you get on Lunch, please respond. The train comes soon and the others come sooner.''

''See ya soon Mama, I love you. Even after everything.''

She tapped the hardened finger against the side of the Broadcast Transmitter. A small device, like a holigraphical-pad. It was a communication device, a small rectangular cube, that acted as a phone, yet could also send digital letters, it was called texting. She kept her head down as she walked to the train station. The sounds of currus's were distant. This part of Nihon, of Osaka had currus's. Large, metal vehicles that had seats on the inside. It was engine driven, by Flectomancy and Aeromancy. It had these metallic semi-circles that would push air out to the direction that you would want to go in. She once had been in one, when she was helping Hiroaki and his parents when they were bringing supplies in to their shop. Currus would be used mostly for heavy transport or for the elite that could afford the sleek ones that had lounges on the inside. He chewed her lip, reading the texts. There was only one check-mark to show that her mother did not have the B.T.P on, but the messages were delivered. She paused as she felt the smack of cold metal hit her forehead. Tears welled in to her eyes as she stumbled back and looked straight up for the first time. The metal pole next to the door, she sighed as she took a step to the left and entered the large railway station. A retail shop was on the left, it had tourist trinkets, children's toys, books and hats as well as magazines and a shelf full of snacks beside a wide drink refrigerator. On the other side, was a small coffee shop. She came to the barriers and put her ticket in. It came with the letter. It let her in as it walked behind her and simply jumped over the machine. She smiled as she walked in to a small cafe, that had a view of the other platforms, it was up some stairs. It was like a cafe and dinner mix. She ordered a sweet tea and a toasted cheese and bacon sandwich. She paused as the woman frowned and looked over her shoulder. ''No animals allowed Ma'am.''The cashier sighed and gestured.

''Oh! No! It's a familiar and a Yokai.'' She smiled. The cashier stood slightly on her tippy-toes and looked down at it. Before nodding and picking up her ticket, ''Sorry about that. Does it shed?'' She paused and looked down as she felt it climb up her head and then sit on her bag. ''No, fully spirit.''She explained, the woman nodded as she took her money and placed it in the till, then handed her, her change. She placed it in the side pocket of the duffel bag, her make shift purse. She paused as the woman cleared her throat, ''I'm sorry. Can I get your name for the order? First and second name, please.'' ''Oh! Charna Dracul,'' She smiled as the woman paused. Charna spelt out the first name for her, then sat down in the corner and window seat. The Yokai joined her. It had the body of a ferret, yet the head and front legs moved about like a cats. Its grey fur ended with a black triangle at the end of its tail, which looked like a fluffy beaver tail. The back legs had hooves at the end for when they climbed trees and rocks in their natural habitat. Four, dark red wings with dark grey on the top, while the wings could not fly, they were there for them to float and from branch and ledge. The wings were connected together at the stumps. It had two more legs, in between the front ones and back ones. They were the same dark red and had two massive claws either side for them to hook on to prey and berries. The front legs were sort of like cat or raccoon paws. Its head had four wide eyes, fully black as it stared up at her. The ears were like foxes, and they also had some black markings on the  top. It's three horns were used for jousting, two were hooked slightly at the side and the other was like a unicorn horn, and they all sat on the forehead. It had a dark red mane around its neck, to  indicate what diet it has, like a flamingo. The red marks mean it has mostly being fed on meat. Which it was. They got a more pink or blue-ish purple colour when its berries. Shorei was her Uncle's Yokai, one he had picked up on his own journeys. Yet Shorei was always more fond of Charna, so it was coming with her to Qnao Academy. 

Hiroaki was coming to say goodbye, he was always up early since he did have to help with the shop, she wondered if she should have ordered a drink for him. But, it would have probably cold by now. So it did not bother her to much.

She paused as she looked at herself in the reflection of the glass. Her dark purple eyes stared back at her as her dark, almost crimson hair flopped from side to side. She still remembered her Uncle, Corvus Dracul, reaction to her saying she wanted her hair cut this short. Most of it barely reaching the nape of her neck. He had taken out his sword and said that he should do it to save money. She managed to get Hiroaki's mum to do it. Her large black hoodie slumped over her frame, she frowned as she saw her wrist. The bone sticking out, she was quick to pull the sleeve over it. Hiding it, that was why she wore hoodies so much. To hide her body. Mostly from herself. She paused as footsteps tapped against the floor, heading her direction. She raised her head and a smile spread across her face. 

Hiroaki Genkei, son of two local shop owners. He was chubby and had his square glasses on. Those were his new glasses. He was wearing his school uniform, as his blue eyes scanned her. He pulled a chair to the table and sat beside her. ''Charna! Excited?''He chuckled, she smiled and nodded as he stretched. Yet he frowned, ''And the hoodie.'' He leaned down on his arms as they were crossed on the table. She looked down, her eyes drifted along the hoodie. He, never did approve of her hiding her body so much. He was quite in to body positivist. Even if it meant he got hit a few times for calling a girl, ‘The perfect type of roundness’. Charna laughed, she remembered that so clearly. ''You know how I feel about my body.''She muttered, he nodded as he sat back and then laughed, ''Still! So what? A little hard skin and some bones are showing. Not like we can see your spine and rib-cage! You just have a quick metabolism, so what?'' He paused as Charna's name was called. Shorei sat on the table and Hiroaki was quick to give the creature affection. He tilted his head as she returned with the toasted sandwich with cheese leaking out and the sweet tea with ice bobbing up and down in the cup. ''Treating yourself are we?'' Charna paused before laughing, Hiroaki smirked at the success to make her smile. Her laugh faded as she sipped at her tea, just as she liked it. Could be colder she supposed, but it wasn't homemade so she would not argue. A thought came to her, she slowly placed the cup down. She supposed this was the time to tell him, they had been friends for years and she would feel guilty if she left without telling him. She felt her nerves build a ball up in her throat, a lump jiggled as she spoke. ''Hiroaki? Can I admit something to you?''She asked. He narrowed his eyes and sat up straight as he readied himself, ''What is it?'' She swallowed as she took a swig out of her tea. Letting it roll down her tongue as Shorei jumped on to her lap. ''We never talked about my Discipline did we?''She asked, he nodded as he scanned his eyes up and down her. He opened his mouth, and then closed his mouth, he raised a finger. She nodded as he laughed, ''Don't tell me! You are a Double?''He joked. Hiroaki laughed.

To be a double was a unique affliction. For humans usually they stuck to one Discipline. They had to. They did not contain, their soul did not the magic needed to diverge. Magic could be dictated by your ancestry. Seeing how Umbramancy, was a part of her ancestry, she had an easier time learning it. To be a double wasn't unheard of it. But it was rarer then being left handed. So that was fun. All you needed was strong enough magic and the right genetics. She felt her heart go hollow and her heart beat go fast. Hiroaki's eyes went wide as he sat up fully, almost jumping out of his seat as he saw her nervous and ashamed look, ''Charna! What!?'' He paused, before going in to a quiet whisper, ''Your a Double? That is so cool!'' He exclaimed. She smiled faintly at this. That was not what she was going to tell him, but it wasn't far from the truth. He stared at her as he smiled.

''Calm down. But yeah. I am...'' She watched him fall back in his chair, processing the information, ''It is a bit weird. And before you say anything, I ain't doing Hyrdomancy,'' Little white lines, that would do, ''I don't like that whole. Pyromancy and Hydromncy thing. I'm doing Umbramancy and Pyromancy. A little odd, I know.'' He lifted up a hand, stopping her. She nodded and gave a nervous giggle as he facepalmed. ''Okay, Mrs Edgy.'He sighed in disappointment. She frowned before realizing something as the biggest smile stretched across her face, ''You just mad I'm not doing Hydromancy.'' He frowned as he rolled her eyes. ''I don't care. Is Umbramancy and Pyromancy even good together?'' He raised an eyebrow at her. She frowned as she looked down, thinking about the question. A minute of silence filled the table. Hiroaki wasn't surprised. ''Shut up!''She snapped. He laughed as she ate her sandwich, Shorei eating crumbs that would fall on to the table. Hiroaki paused as he was about to start to talk, but stopped when Kira Senshi appeared, her footsteps soft as she smiled at them. Kira had Vitiligo, its when certain parts of your skin don't have pigmentation. Her skin should have been this soft, almost light chocolate skin color. The parts where the Vitiligo affected her skin was still pretty. She had very pretty clear skin. She was also every pretty. Charna looked down as that crossed her mind. She shrugged it off, it was just appreciation of a close friend. She had a long strip that went over her eyes, it went just above her nose and a bit above her eyes. There was also a line that went up her cheek, with pointed end. There were two lines that wrapped along her right arm like rings they were just below her shoulder. On the other arm the lighter shade was like a glove that went a bit below her elbow.Just below he shoulder on the left arm, there was a another line. It was like the spike on her cheek, but it was smaller and had two ends both curved and spiked. She had a almost exact copy of that patch on her right leg. But it was surrounded by spots. Below that patch was a few bumps of the light shade that poked out of her boots. On the opposite leg was a ring like the left arm had, it went right across her knee. On the back of her right leg was a heart shaped patch with spots surrounding that as well. She was wearing her usual outfit. Her pinkish, wine tank-top and ripped jean shorts with long brown boots. Well they weren't supposed to be shorts. But Kira made them that way. Charna had a special kind of respect for Kira because of her outfit. The fact she wasn't afraid to show her skin despite of her condition. Also because they were friends for so long and Kira had escorted Charna to her Uncle's house when her parents kicked her out. Kira was raised by her Granddad, he and Corvus were good military friends when they both served in the army. Hiroaki raised an eyebrow, a silent question which Charna nodded. Kira knew the full truth. Of course Kira already knew, she had partially taught Terramancy to Charna. Her lank, dark purple hair fell down to her shoulder blades as her dark, rusted yellow eyes scanned them both.

Hiroaki eyed Charna. Kira nodded, yet did not stand. Instead looked on to the counter, obviously she had ordered some food. ''Hiroaki, I've known Kira for longer. Don't be butt-hurt that she knew before you.''Charna pointed out. He shrugged as Kira walked up to the counter and collected her food and drink. She had two sweet teas, two water bottles and some sandwiches. She sat down beside them. Placed two of the sandwiches in front of Hiroaki and Charna. Hiroaki paused, ''Oh! Kira, you didn't need to buy me food.'' She ignored him as she placed a water bottle in front of him as the two sweet teas were placed before Charna. She smiled as she devoured all the food in front of her. Hiroaki opened the cap of the water and flicked up his finger, blobs of water moved up and in to his mouth. ''So, what is the hardening skin then?''He asked. She paused as slowly she rolled up her shirt. Revealing a patch of hard skin, Hiroaki paused as they were parted, a crack in it. Kira pulled Charna's  shirt down, grunting as she eyed the other people. Charna could see why Kira did not her to show off the hardened skin.

''So where is Riku?''Hiroaki asked. Kira looked up, before shrugging and then eating her food. Riku was the last of the friend group. While Hiroaki was not going to Qnao Academy, Riku was. Charna took a sip out of her tea as she thought. ''He'll come when the train comes. He always shows up exactly on time.''She reasoned. Hiroaki nodded as they all ate. Shorei was purring as they moved from lap to lap. Getting the attention it wanted. Hiroaki paused as he sat up, ''Oh yeah!'' He turned to Charna, ''My friend! Kaito! He's the Captain of the swimming club and Hydromancer at club. I told him he can join you guys.'' She paused. She had heard of Kaito, his mum always made pies and crumbles for the school bake-sale. Now that she thought about it, when Kira once hit Charna in the face a dodge ball during gym class once, it was Kaito who had brought her to the Nurse's office. ''Oh, yeah. Him. Cool, but you really should have asked first.'' Charna said. Hiroaki shrugged as they ate.

A half hour went by. Hiroaki was saying his goodbyes, hugs and tears were had. Charna and him had to be pried away by Kira. They waved goodbye as they walked away. Kira hand rested on her back, leading her as Shorei sat on Kira's shoulder. Charna frowned as she asked, ''Do you think I'll have to keep it a secret as well in Qnao Academy?'' Kira paused as she thought for a moment. She sat them down on a bench next to the platforms. Finally she shook her head, Charna knew that was her answer. She smiled at that thought, of not having to hide anymore. She smiled as Kira ran a finger along her hairline, stopping at the scar. She became stiff at that. She pushed Kira's hand away. The other nodded as Charna pulled out the panflet. Checking the time table. The train for Qnao Academy was called 'The galactic frontier', a little cheesy for both their tastes. The name was on the board, on its own special one at that. The platform would be open in a few minutes. It was like a building of its own, black glass and black heavy doors. No one could see the train enter or exit, nor the platform itself. ''Do you want to wait outside the doors?''She asked, Kira nodded and stood up. Shorei in tow as Charna scrambled to get her bags and ran after them. Kira frowned as a crowd was already gathering in front of the door. Charna could hear all their voices, asking each other about themselves. She froze as a girl smiled at her, ''Oh! Whats your Discipline!?''Her two friends smiled at Charna as her throat tightened. 

She found it hard to breath as she stared at nothing. The girls frowned as her body went rigid. Kira pushed Charna behind her eye and grunted at the girls. Who got the message and stepped away. Kira wrapped her arm around her shoulder as Shorei hissed at people.

''Kira. I'm fine!''Charna smiled as she took a step away from her friend and in to the boy that was running in to the crowd, in a panic. She yelped as a shoulder hit her back and they fell down, on to the cold floor. She gasped as air were pushed out of her lungs. She rolled on to her back, as people stared. Kira stared in horror, and tightened her hands in to a fist. The boy clambered up to stand as he stared down at Charna. He had peach coloured hair and bright yellow tips at the end, with yellow eyes that complimented him well. He was wearing a soft yellow shirt, and dark pink cargo pants. He was quick to help her up, she laughed. She paused, his shirt was for the swim team, a uniform, like a jersey. As he turned to grab her bags for her, the name 'Kaito' was on the top with 'Junpei' on the bottom with a number one in the middle. ''Oh! You're Kaito! Hiroaki's friends.'' He scooped up her bag and smiled.

''Yep! Nice to fall in to you! You must be Charna.''He shook her hand and then handed her the bag. She smiled down at him, ''Oh? How do you know I'm not Kira?'' She joked. Kira eyed everyone else. Her gaze burning in to all of them, moving the crowd away from the three, ''Because your not scary as Hiroaki described her to be! Heh, also because he told me... Well.'' ''Hiroaki told me that your a...'''His voice trailed off. Charna's eyes widened as Kaito continued, ''He was just rambling on about it.'' He smiled, before pausing as he saw the horror on Charna's face and Kira hitting her fist against her open palm. ''B-But don't worry! I think it's cool! I... I actually really want to be your friend because of it! I want to see what it's like to combine all those two things in to one fighting style!''He explained. She paused. The words not reaching their target. It took her moment to think, she had never used more then one type of magic in a fight before. So the thought of using combinations was not something she really thought of. ''Yeah... I suppose.'' He smiled and then he stared at Shorei. ''Is that a spirit!?''He exclaimed, Shorei seem to be taken back by the excitement. Charna nodded as it eyed him, ''I love spirits.'' He muttered an almost whisper. Charna laughed and nodded as she spread her arm out and Shorei twisted and crawled along it, till it reached her wrist.

''A well trained one, the carnivorous spirit! Shorei of the cherry tree forest! Familiar of Corvus Dracul, and companion of Charna Dracul!''She announced like a ring master announcing the next act of a grand circus. Kaito clamped his hands together, excited as the other children stared. Charna paused, she had an audience as an idea came to mind, she smirked. ''Shorei?''She called, the creature knew what to do as Charna threw her arm up. Shorei spread it's wings and twirled in the air like a ferret-dolphin hybrid. It dropped down, floating as it landed on to one of the low rafters. It strutted along it, one paw in front of the other. Once it reached the end, the middle limbs came out and struck the column. It used the claws to throw itself up and backwards, doing a cartwheel as it flew along the side, about to do the landing on to Charna's wrist, and then dangle by the tail. But before it could, it's tail was grabbed as it fell limp with a squeak. Everyone look and saw, the boy with the black glasses and sleek black hair. He was wearing a white button up shirt and black business shoes and trousers. His watch was rested tightly on his wrist as he brought the creature down, to eye it.

''Charna?''His stern voice called. She laughed nervously as Kaito took Shorei from him and cradled the creature, ''We are to be getting ready for one of the most prodigious school known on Gaia, not some slum circus training!''He snapped. She nodded slowly as he adjusted his glasses.

''Hello to you too, Riku.''She looked down, Kira eyed him with distrust and a strong dislike. Riku eyed everyone, ''The door opens now.''He walked to the front, and as he said. The door opened up when he placed his ticket against a scanner. Charna froze and was quick to copy, Kira gently pushed Kaito forward, letting him do his ticket first and then hers before the rush started. The inside was surprising. A lounge, with large chairs and a pool table. Even vending machines and some arcade games. All the other kid's sat down, or started to play the games. Charna stared as she turned back, you could see the outside from in here. One way glass she supposed. Kaito was quick to grab Kira and drag her to the air hockey table. Charna laughed as she joined them. She wondered if all the train stops would be like this one. She hoped it was way. Yet, she also hoped that Kira was right, and she wouldn't have to hide. As she watched the others, even some showing off their magic.

She decided there and then. Charna Dracul, would hide no more.

[itsmyusualphannie]

an elemental match

Title: an elemental match (ao3) Author: itsmyusualphannie Artist: fay-pepper - check out her amazing art here!! it’s so good. like how. <33 Beta: m0xicity - thank you sm for your help!  Word Count: 8.5k Rating: T Warnings: Blood, broken bones, earthquake Summary: “one moment can change a day, one day can change a life, and one life can change the world”  - not buddha dan and phil, who like everyone else in their world have some level of superhuman powers, are out and about when tragedy strikes. they have powers, though. they can fix this, right? right. (right?)

Author Notes: i’ve been wanting to do a powered-dnp (not superheroes) for a while now, so this was super fun to write! it went a tad darker than i intended, but don’t worry, it has a happy ending! (sort of?)

~~

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick. Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

“Nope!” The chair’s legs screeched against the floor under Phil as he slid back from the desk. He rolled his shoulders and stood, shoving the chair back into its place. His open laptop on the desk was brightly lit, cheerfully mocking him. He frowned at it. “No. I’m done.”

The clock tick-tocked again from where it hung a few feet above the desk. Phil wondered why he had even gotten it. He turned and left the room.

He found Dan in the living room, prone on the floor with his face upturned toward the ceiling. His eyes were closed, mouth opened slightly as he breathed steadily. Phil stood over him and nudged him with a socked foot. “Hey, Dan.”

“Shh, fuck off,” said Dan without opening his eyes. “I’m...meditating.”

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

“Meditating,” Dan insisted.

Phil poked him in the side again. “You said you wanted to look at the video once I finished editing it.”

“Ugh. You suck,” but Dan had opened his eyes and he was heaving himself up now. His fingers dug into the rug as he gained his balance, and then he stumbled to his feet, grabbing Phil’s arm for balance. “Whoo,” he said. “That’s fun.”

“Don’t pass out,” Phil told him. He reached to nudge a curl that had fallen across Dan’s forehead. 

Dan let him. “So you’re finished editing, then? I thought it’d take you longer.”

“The clock was driving me insane,” Phil admitted. He tucked the curl back to rejoin the tumbled mess on Dan’s head. The bare skin it revealed felt too intimately naked, so Phil replaced the curl with a quick kiss. Dan laughed when Phil’s lips pressed against his forehead. “Dork.”

Phil shoved his shoulder half-heartedly. “I’m romantic. Shut up.”

“Sure you are,” Dan agreed, too quickly. He headed toward the office. “Come on, I’ll look over your video.”

Phil let Dan go ahead of him while he detoured to the kitchen. Although they had eaten lunch a few hours ago, he felt like a snack was necessary right about now. He opened the first two cabinets and, finding nothing good, left them wide open as he wandered to the next cabinet. Finally, he found a pack of Haribo that had been shoved to the very top of the self just out of reach of his fingers.

“Phil!” Dan called from the other room. “You’d better not be getting something to eat. We’re going shopping as soon as I’m finished with this.”

Phil glanced up at the bag of sweets, then toward the office. Making up his mind, he turned back toward the cabinet. He stretched his hand up to the high shelf and flexed his fingers, wiggling them a little in a come-hither motion. The bag, untouched by his physical fingers, nevertheless heeded the mental call. It shifted on the shelf, and then, in an abrupt movement, threw itself off the shelf into Phil’s waiting hand. Phil hurriedly ripped it open and dumped a handful of the gummies into his other hand, then held the bag in his palm and lifted it back toward the shelf. The bag floated off his hand and back into place, adjusting itself between two other containers.

Phil abandoned the kitchen, leaving the cabinets open as he popped a few gummies in his mouth. “Nope, not eating anything!” he assured Dan. He pushed open the door to the office and crossed the room in a few strides, stopping behind Dan, who was seated at the desk chair in front of Phil’s laptop.

Dan didn’t look back at him, but his voice was amused. “You know I can literally feel that you’re lying to me.”

Phil shoved the rest of the gummies in his mouth, hastily chewing them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said around his mouthful. He glanced over Dan’s shoulder at the video that was playing on the laptop. “Any suggestions so far?”

“I’m only two minutes into it,” but Dan paused the video. “Actually, yeah, here. This transition is a little weird. I’d cut it a second or so sooner.”

Phil watched as Dan rewound the clip. The Phil on-screen was laughing as a handful of glitter floated around his head like a halo. Dan, with a few swift clicks, deleted an awkward segment that Phil had missed in his editing earlier. He pressed play again, and now the video showed a smooth flow between the moment Phil had been easily controlling the thousands of particles of glitter and the instant he had released his power over them and they had all cascaded over his head. Since Phil had filmed all of this in one take, he’d had to be careful with the use of his powers, not eager for a headache. If he overused them, one of his dreaded migraines would creep up on him, and not even Dan’s empathic powers could help him. In this case, though, the abrupt release of the objects he was controlling hadn’t been intentional - he had heard a dog barking outside, and naturally, had lost his concentration.

Rubbing at his hair in memory, Phil grimaced. “That was two days ago and I still have glitter in my hair.”

“Please don’t remind me,” said Dan, his gaze still affixed to the screen as the video continued. “I have glitter in my pants.”

He laughed. “Well, you didn’t have to let me - ”

“Nope. No. We’re stopping that line of conversation.”

Still chuckling a little, Phil didn’t finish his sentence. He kept watching as Dan finished the video, making a few more small adjustments that Phil hadn’t caught. He was pleased with the small reactions he got from Dan’s perusal, the involuntarily laughs and moments of surprise. This was one of his favourite parts of the video-making process.

The video was barely ten minutes long, but Dan took his time looking it over and it was a good half an hour later when Dan saved the file for the final time and sat back in the chair. “It’s good,” was all he said.

“Good?” Phil huffed a laugh. “Is that all?”

Dan stood up in an elegant movement, spinning and draping his arms over Phil’s shoulders. “It’s fantastic. It’s creative. The bit with the glass dildo-looking thing was a bit much, but I love it. So will everyone else.” He punctuated his input with a lingering kiss.

Phil hummed against Dan’s lips, letting his hands drift to loosely hold Dan’s waist. “Mmm, okay. Good. Thanks.”

Dan pulled back and cast him an unimpressed stare. “You taste like Haribo.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Phil blinked widely.

Dan scoffed but gave him another quick kiss. “Twat. Come on, we need to go shopping.” He pulled back from Phil’s grip and left the room. Phil grabbed his phone from the charger on the desk before he followed, checking to make sure that it was fully charged.

“Are we just going to Tesco?” Phil asked after Dan, swiping at his phone as he wandered into the living room.

“Unless you want to go somewhere else!” Dan yelled back. He had detoured to the bedroom, apparently.

Phil pulled down the notification bar on his phone and frowned at the bright news alert that was visible. He clicked on it and was directed to a BBC One news article. “Uh...maybe Starbucks!” he called absent-mindedly. “After we’re...done shopping…” He trailed off without noticing it, his finger tugging up the article page so he could quickly skim it. There had been another tremor on the east side of London. Specialists were considering it minor, as it was under a 4.0 on the Richter scale and was barely noticeable. Still, it was one of several that had happened over the past few months, and the tremors were never located in the same place.

“Weird,” Phil mused to himself. He jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder.

“What’s weird?” asked Dan, peering over his shoulder. He sounded breathless, tugging down the bottom of the shirt that he had apparently just changed into. His hair was mussed, but artfully so. He must have gone by the bathroom for a moment.

Phil showed him the screen. “Another tiny earthquake.”

“Huh.” Dan thoughtfully regarded the article for a moment, then turned away to grab his shoes from the rack by the door. “There’s been a few of those, haven’t there?”

Phil closed the article and set his phone down on the table in the hall beside him, joining Dan to slip on his own shoes. “Yeah, it’s a little odd.”

“I dunno,” said Dan. He tied his shoelaces and stood, glancing around. Clearly spying what he was looking for, he trotted across the room to grab his phone from the coffee table. “It could just be nature. Y’know, the world is ending and whatever. I wouldn’t be surprised. It could also just be some kid coming into their powers and still figuring out what’s going on.”

Considering that, Phil admitted to himself that it made sense. Every child on Earth was born with some power lying dormant in their genes, which usually revealed itself at puberty or during some traumatic stressor in their life. Few were truly powerful; most were just tiny, usually-ineffectual powers like an abnormally strong bladder, tasting by touch, changing colours of fabrics, and being able to moisten objects by touching them. Most people had versions of their parents’ powers that were easily recognized once they manifested.

Phil’s own power had been a sort of combination of his parents - his mum could manipulate bursts of wind and his dad could make anything float as long as he had touched it in the past few hours and was able to physically lift it. Phil’s power might have been on the higher spectrum of abilities since he could manipulate many objects at once such as thousands of glitter particles, but since he couldn’t do it for very long, he wasn’t considered particularly powerful.

“That could be it, I guess,” Phil acknowledged, “but if so, it’s odd that they wouldn’t have been identified yet and taught to control it.” Since most powers were so various and weak enough that they couldn’t affect anyone’s surroundings much, there wasn’t any specialized public education for them, but in the case of stronger manifestations, there were private schools to help individuals control them.

Dan just shrugged, fishing the keys from the bowl on the coffee table. “It’ll be fine. Unless it’s nature, then we’ll probably all die.”

“Dan,” Phil scolded.

“Global warming,” He said darkly. “It’s going to kill us all.”

Phil shoved him toward the door, laughing despite himself. “Stop it!”

Unlocking the door, Dan ducked outside, chuckling. “Oh, you know I’m right. The icecaps are melting and the penguins are - ”

“If you say one more time that all of the penguins are dying out, I’m going to revolt,” He threatened, snatching the keys from Dan’s hand and locking the door resentfully.

“I can feel that you think I’m funny,” Dan laughed at him.

Phil waved a finger at him. “Stop reading my emotions when I’m pretending to be upset. You could just...you could single-handedly save the penguins, is what you could do.”

He scoffed and held up one hand in demonstration. “This thing? I touch things with it to cool them off. I can’t refreeze the entirety of the polar ice caps. That’d be nice, though.”

“What would be nice,” Phil shot back, hesitating only briefly, “is your mum.”

Dan shoved him this time, huffing a laugh. “Oh my god, shut the fuck up.” His hands were cold against Phil’s shoulder even through his shirt, a clear demonstration of Dan’s secondary power.

That - his hands - was what automatically placed Dan in the top 1% of humans with powers. Neither of Dan’s abilities was remarkably strong - his empathy power and his ability to chill his hands to the freezing point of 0° celsius - but having a second power at all was incredibly rare. Like Phil, however, overusing either of his powers resulted in a negative drawback. Dan’s was mind-numbing exhaustion.

Dan’s secondary power also gave them an...interesting bedroom life. Before he met Dan, Phil would never have thought he’d have any sort of wild kinks. Now, though…

Dan poked Phil in the cheek with his cold finger. “Oi,” he said. “Stop thinking about sex.”

“I’m not!” Phil protested. “Besides, you can’t read my thoughts.”

“I can sense your sex emotions,” Dan said, unimpressed. “We need to get groceries, and if you start imagining us in bed before we even leave the building then we’re not going to get anything done.”

Phil cast him a haughty stare. “That’s just proof of your lack of self-control.”

“We’re leaving,” Dan declared.

“Coward,” Phil retorted, but followed him toward the stairs without further argument. They trundled down to the ground floor and made their way out onto the street. It only took a moment to hail down a cab, and then they were on their way to Tesco.

“Did you get the list from the fridge?” Phil asked a few minutes later, a belated question since the cab was already pulling over to let them hop out at Tesco. It was, after all, a little late to go back and fetch the list.

He looked exasperated as he shut the door behind him. “No, Phil, I told you to get it.”

“What? When?”

“When I was changing!”

Phil considered that. “Oh. Huh. I didn’t hear you.”

Dan rolled his eyes, but it was more fond than annoyed. “I knew you would.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket as they walked inside Tesco. “I took a picture of it last night just in case.”

“Oh, good. We need cereal too, since I added that to the list this morning. For...no reason. I just decided that we need more...to add to what we already have.” He grabbed a trolley and pushed it ahead of them while they headed for the far side of the store.

“Sure you did,” said Dan, clearly not believing him. “And it’s definitely not because you ate the rest of it during a two a.m. snack spree.”

Phil nodded. “No, definitely not,” he agreed innocently. He swerved the trolley into the bread aisle. They didn’t actually need any bread, since they still had half a loaf, but Phil didn’t think they would go shopping for another few weeks so it wouldn’t hurt to stock up.

“Do we have any tortillas?” Dan asked, trailing beside Phil as he swiped at his phone. “It’s not on the list, but I wanted to make fajitas tomorrow night.”

“I don’t think so,” Phil replied after a moment of thought. “I don’t remember using them all up, but I haven’t seen any.”

Dan leaned to grab a loaf of bread and toss it in the trolley as they walked. “Oh, didn’t we have those wraps last Saturday when PJ and Sophie visited?”

“Oh yeah, we did.” Their friends had come over right before lunchtime, so Dan and Phil had offered them the easiest food they could make quickly. Phil recalled the tea that had cooled as they chatted, and PJ briefly using his ability to warm liquids and reheating it with a wave of his hand. “And we ate the rest of the biscuits, add those to the list, too.”

Dan complied, tapping away at his phone. The rest of the shopping trip commenced this way, wandering down aisles searching for items on the list and occasionally getting distracted by things that weren’t. Phil had to convince Dan that he did not need four of the exact same candle since one would serve the same purpose, while Dan was very firm about not getting a massive chocolate bunny.

“But we need it,” Phil had insisted.

“Philip Lester. No. You’ll get high on the sugar.”

And that was that. They were leaving Tesco only an hour after having entered it, arms laden with bags.

“I have realized our mistake,” said Phil as they stood on the pavement outside Tesco, waiting for the Uber that Dan had called.

“What?”

“Well, I wanted to get coffee. But now we have to take these groceries back or the refrigerated stuff will go bad.”

Dan shrugged, glancing at the phone balanced in one hand to check for the status of their ride. “We can go back out. We need more exercise anyway, we’ll just walk to the one a few blocks from our flat.”

“I guess,” he agreed reluctantly. Dan was definitely more into the exercise than Phil was - they had already both gone jogging this morning and Phil was perfectly happy with that level of effort for the day. Coffee would be worth it, though. He was jolted from his thoughts of exercise and coffee by a bag that was starting to slip down his arm. “No,” he told it, eyeing it suspiciously. It didn’t listen, the weight of the bananas inside dragging it further and leaving faint red lines on his arm. He loosened his grip on the bag in his other hand and wiggled his middle and index fingers at the bag. It obediently slid back up his arm, ignoring gravity to settle in the crook of his elbow.

A car up in front of the pavement and Dan waved briefly at the driver. “Uber’s here,” he told Phil, already heading for the trunk of the car. The driver hopped out and helped them load their groceries into the back of the vehicle, putting the most fragile items into the safety net. Once they had everything arranged, Dan and Phil climbed into the backseat and they were off back to their flat.

~~~

“Straw?” Phil asked hopefully, but the barista had already turned away, harried and rushed with the line of customers out the door. Phil looked down mournfully at his drink. The straws by the door were gone and Dan was already tucked into their usual table in the corner, sipping at his macchiato as he swiped through his phone.

Excuse me, Phil heard from a woman slipping past him to escape the Starbucks. He only had time to notice her arms piled with coffee and a bag of chips clenched in her teeth before she was gone. She must have mentally projected the words at him using her power, he supposed. Taking a step back as another customer navigated through the line in front of him, he craned his neck to see if there were any straws left in the container behind the counter. There were some left, in a half-full box of straws tucked beside the syrups. A barista snatched one and handed it, along with a drink, to a customer, then immediately went back to making drinks. Phil squinted, making sure he was focusing on just one straw - he didn’t want another incident to occur - and then casually, unobtrusively stretched his fingers toward them. Nothing happened for a moment, and then a straw wiggled in place. It squirmed free from the confines of the other paper wrappers surrounding it, then leapt high in the air, above the customers’ heads. Phil released his control over it, then hurriedly snatched it before it plummeted to the floor.

Pleased, he unwrapped it and shoved it in the lid of his drink as he made his way to the corner, where Dan was still on his phone.

“I can’t believe yours was done first,” he said, sliding into the chair across from Dan. “And then you abandoned me.”

“I can believe it,” said Dan, not looking up. He sipped at his own boring-looking drink. “I got something normal, and you got that...monstrosity.”

Phil glanced down at it. It was pink and glittery and ...definitely different. “I had to try it,” he protested. “Look, it’s delicious.” To demonstrate, he slurped deeply from the straw. He could feel his face collapse into disgust as soon as the first sugary drop hit his tongue. “Um.”

Dan laughed, finally glancing up, probably to take a mental picture of Phil’s expression. “It’s a good thing everyone here isn’t an empath, or that raving recommendation would turn them all away.”

“It’s...unique,” Phil insisted. He took another sip and resisted the grimace that wanted to live on his face.

Dan set down his macchiato and sighed, reaching out for the drink. Phil handed it to him unhesitantly. Taking a brief sip of the drink, Dan winced and shook his head. “Sometimes, Phil, you don’t need to try new things.”

Phil stole Dan’s drink to wash the taste from his mouth. “Well...now I know not to get it. Besides, it’s limited.”

“Float it over to the trash bin,” he instructed, shoving the colourful drink back to Phil and taking his own back. “Limited doesn’t mean it’s good.”

Rebelliously, Phil drank from it again. “I’m not going to waste it.” He set it down after a few moments when the icy cup became a little too much for his hands. Dan was having no trouble with his own iced macchiato clasped unflinchingly in his free hand - but then, he wouldn’t, with hands that were unaffected by the cold.

It was unfair, Phil decided, that Dan could consistently keep his drinks cooled to the perfect temperature. To retaliate, he stole his drink again.

“You’re going to buy me another one,” Dan threatened mildly. He was on his phone again, though, and Phil didn’t feel particularly intimidated.

“Who’re you texting?” he asked around the straw in his mouth.

“Cornelia. I was asking her about a new merch idea.”

“Ooh, the gloves one?” Phil thought that one would sell brilliantly. Dan’s secondary power was the one most prominently used on his channel - in fact, only diehard fans even knew about Dan’s primary empathic power. It just wasn’t something that could be visibly touted in his videos. As a consequence of that, while both Dan and Phil had sold merch themed around their abilities, Phil had a logo shaped like a burst of wind that was stamped on some products while Dan’s was an icicle, only marketed toward his secondary power. One of Dan’s most recent items - a foam cup holder that chilled drinks while keeping hands warm - had sold out in the first week.

“Yeah, she likes it, but she thinks they need to be a different type of fabric.” Dan frowned at his phone and typed out a message that was disturbingly fast for only one hand. “As if leather isn’t practical.”

Phil laughed. “Dan, just because your hands never sweat doesn’t mean everyone else don’t.”

“I mean, I was joking about the leather, but I don’t want them to be solid wool. That’s just as hot, right?”

Shrugging, Phil took another long sip from Dan’s drink. “I don’t know anything about fabrics.” He glanced down at the cup, noting the liquid dipping below the melting ice. He probably would have to get Dan some more.

“What kind of useless gay are you?” asked Dan half-heartedly. He sighed and set down his phone. “I don’t feel like figuring out merch shit right now.”

“Tired?” Phil regarded him, a little concern niggling at him. Dan didn’t look exhausted, particularly, but if he had been overusing his powers, it might be weighing on him.

Dan waved a dismissive hand. “No, I just...don’t want to deal with it. It’s really busy here, too. It’s a little distracting.”

Sometimes Phil forgot that Dan couldn’t particularly turn off his empathetic ability. He could narrow his focus onto one person to read every aspect of their feelings, or even project his own emotions, but unlike Phil, it wasn’t something he had to consciously activate to use. Phil remembered Dan once describing it as “street noise, like cars driving past outside. You’re not always paying attention to them, but you know they’re there. And when an angry or upset person is near, it’s like an ambulance going past with its sirens on.”

“Any sirens?” asked Phil. They used the analogy often, an easy way for Phil to gauge what Dan was feeling from the people around them.

Dan shook his head. “Maybe in the distance. It’s just...heavy traffic.”

There were quite a few people packed into this small Starbucks. Phil pushed the macchiato back toward Dan. “Here, have a drink. And chill it again? The ice is melting a little.”

“You’re so generous.” Dan’s lips twisted wryly, knowing. He could feel Phil’s attempt to distract him from their surroundings. “It wouldn’t be melting if you hadn’t stolen it.” His hands had already gripped the cup, and Phil watched, unendingly fascinated with the way condensation spread in tiny frozen crystals as Dan’s long fingers wrapped around the plastic. Phil sometimes wondered what would happen if he had gotten a secondary power along with his telekinetic abilities. He doubted the results of any other power would look as elegant as Dan’s.

“Are you going to finish yours?” Dan asked, raising an eyebrow at the drink Phil had forgotten existed. It was still sitting abandoned, pink and bright and eye-searing, by the puddle of melted water that Dan’s cup had left.

Phil took a stubborn sip from it, refusing to let himself react to the explosion of bitter-sweet that soured his mouth. His eyebrow twitched defiantly. “Yes. I spent almost four pounds on it.”

“Sometimes, we just have to acknowledge that an experience wasn’t what we wanted it to be, and chalk it up as a lesson learned. Sometimes, we just have to move on from our mistakes.”

Phil glowered at him and his wisdom. “I hate you.”

“You hate that drink more, though. Are you really going to continue to suffer just to prove some sort of asinine point?”

“I could,” Phil said mutinously. He tried to take another insistent drink, but his mouth refused to cooperate. The straw tap-tapped vainly a few times against his lips before he gave up. “Ugh, fine. Shut up,” he added before Dan, his mouth parted in a wide, silent laugh, could say anything. He glanced around for a trash bin, ready to push his failure of a drink through the air and dispose of it.

“Come on, let’s head back to the flat,” Dan interjected. “You can throw it away on the way out the door.”

Phil dubiously eyed the crowded line of coffee-impatient customers stretching out the door and down the sidewalk. “It’s too bad neither of us can teleport.”

“That would be convenient,” Dan agreed, standing and fetching his phone and halfway-finished macchiato. “Do you know how many awkward situations I would have just abandoned?”

“Who needs to converse when you can reverse?” Phil added, then frowned. “Wait, that’d be a time power wouldn’t it?”

Dan laughed. “Yeah, like that kid I told you I knew in primary who could like rewind twenty seconds of time? Everyone knew when he did it, though - he got uncontrollable hiccups for like an hour after.”

Phil didn’t like getting a headache if he overused his powers, but he couldn’t imagine it happening every time he used them. “Poor kid.”

Dan made his way determinedly for the door of Starbucks, going just slow enough for Phil to navigate past two teenagers and catch up. “Well, you know, the more powerful the ability, the stronger the body’s backlash. I think it’s a good thing, so we don’t have time-warping and mind-destroying supervillains trying to take over the world.”

“It sounds so ominous when you say it like that,” Phil squeezed behind a rotund woman happily chattering away on her phone and found the bin just beside the door. It was almost full, but he dropped the drink in anyway. He mournfully watched it fall into the rest of the rubbish and thunk heavily against an empty cup, taking a moment to wish it had been a better drink.

Dan had already ducked outside. He tapped the window, raising an amused eyebrow at Phil’s inability to keep up with him. Come on, he mouthed.

Phil shrugged helplessly back at him. He had to grieve for such a beautiful monstrosity - it was only right. The sugar deserved to be missed. Dan just rolled his eyes at him.

Fine, Phil mouthed back. He waited a moment for a gap in the line of customers, and then he edged his way between them. He had just reached the door, swinging shut as someone stepped inside, when he felt it. It was just a tiny shudder at first, and Phil thought maybe someone had nudged against him, but then the floor trembled beneath his feet.

It took a few seconds for everyone around him to become aware of the ground’s awakening, but a more violent palpitation caused a visible disturbance and the conversation in the Starbucks abruptly ceased, a loud silence falling among the inhabitants. Phil became aware that someone was gripping his arm, their nervousness allowing them to abandon civility and grasp onto the nearest stationary object. He could see the display case to his left quivering minutely and an abandoned cup atop it wavering, undecided whether to topple to the floor. The floor juddered again, and Phil felt his knees knock against each other in an attempt to keep him standing. The cup fell.

A hesitant scream breached the silence of the room, testing if it was the right reaction. It trailed away after only a moment, and now Phil could hear a low rumble somewhere deep beneath the ground.

Then the panic started; It wholly infected the group within seconds, and there was an instant rush for the door as dozens of people simultaneously decided that getting outside was their best option. Phil’s ears rang with screams, but since he had been directly in front of the door, he was immediately shoved out of the door and onto the pavement before he could even attempt to react. He staggered as his feet hit the concrete, almost losing his balance, but regained his equilibrium and forced rapid steps away from the pushing, sudden mass of bodies exiting the store. The ground still rumbled warningly beneath him, threatening worse. He could feel the intensity of the tremors increasing. The sign on the pavement that proclaimed the coffee and pastry of the day bounced a few feet and then, with a heave of the concrete beneath it, toppled sideways and was immediately trampled by urgent feet.

Dan. Stricken by the thought, and that his brain had abandoned it until now, Phil backed into the side of the store to get away from the stream of people and stood on the tips of his toes to look around. The brick dug into his back, rippling uncertainly, but he ignored the movements to scan the crowd. He and Dan were both taller than most of these people, but he couldn’t see Dan’s familiar curls or sloped shoulders anywhere.

“Dan!” Phil called, but it was drowned by the yells and screams of others around him. Someone bellowed “Earthquake!” but everyone already knew, and everyone was already running, as if there was any way they could escape the earth’s rebellious upheavals.

He attempted a step away from the wall, but an angry roll of the earth split the pavement in front of him and he moved back hastily, his shoulders thudding painfully back onto the brick. Feet juddering for balance beneath him, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the crack in the pavement. It seemed surreal, the casual rip through the concrete as if it was paper. Phil’s thoughts grasped desperately at his memory of that very morning - the article, the one with the earthquakes. The possibility that it would happen here seemed so infinitesimally low, but here it was.

Call 999. The idea came to him so suddenly that he realized it wasn’t his own - the woman who had pushed past him only a few minutes ago must have still been in the area and was projecting her thoughts to everyone in the area. And stop running.

Phil couldn’t see a single person stop running - projection didn’t control anyone - but there were a few people that scrabbled for their pocketed phones. A phone, he should call Dan. He reached for his pocket, but his fingers slipped uselessly against the empty fabric of his jeans, and he remembered with sinking despair that he had put down his phone on the table back at the apartment and forgotten to pick it up again. “Dan!” he called again, a vain effort lost amongst the noisy crowd now filling the pavements. The other stores along the block were emptying, all of the customers desperate for the open, freeing space of the street. Phil was vaguely sure that, in an earthquake, people were meant to get beneath a table or hold onto something and not run outside, but he had no way of stopping the panic from spreading as quickly as the tremors had begun. He felt utterly useless.

Someone screamed, just another noise amongst the commotion, but Phil’s attention was grabbed by the sound. It seemed like it was still inside the Starbucks, the one he had been unceremoniously propelled from in what seemed like hours ago but couldn’t have been more than a minute or two. His gaze jumped involuntarily from the panic before him to the glass door of the Starbucks just a few feet to his left. It was juddering in its frame, the glass shimmering in place as it threatened to break. There was another piercing wail from inside, and Phil was suddenly sure that someone had been left inside.

He moved without thinking, feet dancing around the shallow crevices that were splintering the ground to make his way to the door. Aware that the glass could shatter at any moment, he grasped the handle and tugged gently, but the door didn’t move. Glancing down, he found the cause of its impediment - the stone around the frame had climbed to escape the ground’s movements and imprisoned the door.

“Help!”

Phil’s gaze snapped up and past the shuddering glass of the door, and now he could see where the screams had originated. There were two teenagers in the far corner of the store. One was sprawled on the floor, a leg twisted at a grotesque angle. She was grasping it with both hands, her head bowed as if she was fighting against the pain. Another girl crouched beside her, trying to hold onto both the wounded girl and a table beside her at the same time. She shivered minutely, but Phil couldn’t tell if it was from pain or the ground still trembling beneath them. She opened her mouth to yell again, but then her gaze locked with Phil’s and her expression collapsed into relief. Waving, her voice shuddered as she spoke. “Help, please! My girlfriend tripped and we can’t get out!”

Phil was quite sure that coming outside, amongst this disaster and panicking people, wouldn’t help, but he wasn’t going to leave them. A few details of the scenario jumped out at him: the flickering lights in the shop; the abandoned coffee cups and pastries strewn abandoned across the tables and tumbled to the floor; and then, the worst of everything, the cracks climbing the darkly painted walls of the Starbucks. It was that which made up his mind more than anything.

“Keep holding onto the table!” he called through the nervously warping glass. “Give me just a second.” He braced himself against the next fierce roll of concrete beneath him. It felt like surfing a wave of brittle, uncertain catastrophe. He had never surfed, and he didn’t think he ever wanted to now.

A cautious tug on the door handle did nothing but anger the glass. A crack seared across the top corner and Phil hesitated. He didn’t want to shatter the glass if he could avoid it. The solution sprang to him as soon as he glanced back down at the frame that was held captive by the upheaved ridges of the stone walkway. Releasing the handle of the door, he flicked a finger and a mental order at the jagged edges of the rock. It resisted him for a moment, yearning to obey the more powerful force of the yawning earth beneath him, but he insisted, and it reluctantly complied. The obstruction sank into the walkway, the stone seeming to melt as it reformed under his power, freeing the frame, and he opened the door instantly, careful but persistent. It took him more than a few moments to navigate inside and across the trembling floor, almost tip-toeing to keep his balance when the ground heaved beneath him. He couldn’t help but glance up at the cracks that were webbing across the wall just beside the two girls on the floor. There was something almost anticipatory about the scrawled lines and the way they stretched eagerly for the ceiling. This building wasn’t safe.

Phil wasn’t sure anywhere was safe right now.

He knelt beside the two girls, ignoring the way his knees dug into the powdered concrete. He didn’t bother asking if they were okay - they weren’t, and neither was anyone right now. The wounded girl, her chin still tucked to her chest, was breathing shakily, her fingers bloodless at the grip on her own leg. Her hair, cascading around her face, shuttered her expression from Phil’s view.

The other girl had watched Phil’s approach with anxious eyes, and her voice sounded gritty now when she spoke. “We need to get out of here.” Her own hand was tightly gripped on the other’s arm.

Phil glanced up briefly at the wall and its spreading cracks. “Yeah, we do.” He surveyed the wounded girl’s leg, then, a hasty inspection that made his stomach twist. Her knee was twisted beneath her in an unnatural position that felt wrong to look at. At least there was no blood. “Do you think you’ll be able to move?”

She simply shook her head, the tips of her hair swaying. Phil could see the tiny purse of her mouth, the pain-tight crinkles that squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m suppressing her nervous system,” the other girl hastily explained. “That’s my - I can do that, but only when she isn’t moving. Can you...you pushed down the ground outside? What can you - ?”

“I can control small objects,” Phil said, and then hesitated. “...Usually. I might be able to float larger objects, but it’s a lot harder and it doesn’t always work.” He had rarely, other than a few playful mental shoves during his childhood, actually moved a human being. Skin and muscle and bones were so much more fragile than blocks of wood and malleable concrete. Experimenting wasn’t really an option with this aspect of his power, not when he could easily injure delicate skin or breakable bones with the wrong mental nudge, and torn humans did not zipper back together like a ripped piece of fabric would under Phil’s attention.

Something was prickling at the back of Phil’s mind, a bubble of suggestion that felt familiar, but he dismissed it with little effort. When he focussed back on the nerve-suppressing teen crouched beside her girlfriend, he could see her eyebrows furrowed tightly together.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her. She hadn’t seemed injured, but she must have been the one screaming earlier. He might have missed something obvious.

She blinked, then nodded. “No, I’m fine. I just got...tired for a second.”

The floor shook beneath Phil again, gritting bits of crumbled wall into his knees, and it shook his awareness back to the store around them. He studied the cracks again, noting their rapid spread. His throat felt tight, too tight. Spreading cautious fingers, he tilted his palm toward the corners where the wall met the ceiling and prodded at the cracks, little more than a mental brush against them, in an attempt to gauge how deep they went.  He needed to know if the structural integrity of the building was compromised. A few pieces of plaster crumbled and showered all three of them, mocking his efforts, but he got his answer only a second later when the ceiling creaked ominously above them.

“Okay, we need to leave,” Phil ordered.

Both girls started to move at the urgency in his voice, but they had all waited too long. With another heave of the ground and a groaning protest from the wall supports, the ceiling lost its will to stay perched precariously on the rebellious walls.

The ceiling fell.

Phil threw up both hands instinctively as the lights, plaster, and wooden beams crumpled inwards and down toward them. The entire building was crashing down upon him and he could feel the weight of it sink past his fingertips, past his desperately outstretched hands, past his arms and shoulders and chest, and settle deep into his bones. It wanted to crush him, and all he had to hold it back was the tightly wound threads of his ability that were twisted around his mind. The strings, those bits of energy that he associated with his power, yanked tight around his head and he clenched his eyes shut against the sudden, searing pain that blossomed in his mind. It was all-consuming, an instant migraine worse than anything he had felt even on his worse days. Briefly overusing his power and regretting the headache it invited was nothing compared to this. It had been less than seconds, and his blood was fiery pain in his veins, his bones quaked, and his skin crawled at the whispered sensation of air against it.

But...he could feel the air. He wasn’t physically crushed beneath a tonne of destroyed ceiling. The cords of his power were strangling his mind, but, somehow, he was still alive.

Phil opened his eyes. Around and above him, the building hung suspended in broken fragments, chunks of plaster, thick beams of wood, and glinting pieces of shattered lights all frozen in terrifying stillness.

“Oh my god,” breathed one of the girls.

He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t move. If he moved even one hand, still flung out at the mass of destruction hovering above them, then he didn’t think he could maintain it. He didn’t even know how he was doing it, not really. There was a part of him that felt detached and silent, observing the display of frozen destruction in a quiet curiosity.

“Oh my god,” said one of the girls again. He could feel her looking at him, shaken. “You’re bleeding.”

One of the threads of Phil’s power reached out for her with anticipation, but he let it slip away. The words that she had spoken registered faintly in the back of his mind, and yet it seemed inconsequential through the haze of pain that surrounded him. He could feel it, though, the blood creeping from the burst vessels in his nose and pooling in the dip above his upper lip.

“Holy shit,” said the other girl. It was the hurt one. Her voice was tight with her own pain from her leg, but she sounded clearer than Phil felt.

He had to force his thoughts to arrange themselves. Most of himself was vacant, wrapped around every misplaced molecule in the air above him, but the strings strangling his mind were drawing ever tighter and he knew something was going to break. Blood dripped from his lips when he spoke. “You need to get out of here.” His throat clamped around the words, and he had to force them out. Slowly, slowly, he let his gaze drift to the way out - and there was still a way out. It was narrow, and surrounded by dangerously suspended bits of the ceiling, but there was a path to the still-open door.

“We wouldn’t leave without you!” Her voice was desperate, but Phil knew in a distant sort of way that yes, she would.

But he could move. He had to move.

“Wait, can you...here.” The girls were moving now, and one hissed with pain, but Phil didn’t dare let his concentration shift enough to take notice of what they were doing. They were done in only a moment, and then they were standing beside him, one leaning heavily on the other. He was still in a half-crouch on the floor, and his fingers trembled in the outstretched pose he maintained.

“Please,” said the girl supporting the other. Her eyes were ringed with white, and she trembled in fear, but she held out a hand unhesitatingly to him. “Please, stand!”

The ground rumbled beneath them again, very briefly. Phil hadn’t noticed that the quaking had stopped until it moved again. It was only a brief slip of concentration, and Phil snatched back control in half a second, but one of the threads digging deep into his mind stretched, and stretched, and snapped.

It started in the corner of the room first. A whisper of suspended plaster pattered against the floor, and then a heavier particle of a lightbulb shattered on an overturned table. Phil clung desperately to the strings of his power, but they were fraying and his mind ached and he was so, so tired.

He was lurching to his feet before he even thought about it. His hands still outstretched, he swayed in place, half-expecting the ground to collapse beneath him or the broken chunks of the building to come crashing down upon them all, but somehow, there was no immediate consequence. His lungs stuttered in his chest, and he sucked in a breath, realizing that he hadn’t been breathing for a few long moments. His chest heaved, and he hurt. Tearing his gaze from the effects of his ability that surrounded him, he met the wide-eyed stares of the girls. The threads of his power began slipping from his grip.

“Run,” he said.

They ran. The injured girl cried out each time her wounded leg hit the floor, but her girlfriend was gripping her waist with a ferocity that Phil would have approved of if he wasn’t distracted by his own mind ripping free from the destroyed ceiling that he held in midair.

A beam, heavy and wooden, crashed to the floor behind the crumpled counter of the shop. Another string tore in Phil’s mind, but he fought against the others trying to wrench themselves from his grip. He took an unsteady step after the girls, who still hobbled desperately for freedom. If the ground moved now, he wouldn’t make it to the door.

The ground didn’t move, but the ceiling did. More clutter fell piece by piece, raining down upon the floor and crushing tables beneath them.

Phil held on, and he held on, and he slowly made his way for the door, and he held on.

And then he was stumbling out of the door just after the girls, and the store was crashing down behind him in a thunderous, bone-rattling roar, and his thoughts were warping terrifyingly inside him. He could taste the blood on his lips, mingled with the fresh air of freedom he had gained. His eyes felt glazed, and he stumbled off the pavement to get further from the store, still tumbling and settling in its ruin. Something crumpled, and Phil realized it was him. Someone caught him, but he didn’t know who it was. His mind was too loud, crashing against every nerve in his body. He felt hyper-sensitive, every touch and smell and glimpse of light screaming pain into him.

Suddenly, blissfully, it all quieted, and Phil let his eyes slip shut to embrace the warming darkness that enveloped him.

~~~

Phil woke up slowly, his thoughts piecing themselves back together as his eyes blinked open. It was dark in the room he was in, but he could make out a slumped form in the chair beside his bed. A slow, steady beeping came from a machine on the other side of him. He was in the hospital, then. He lifted careful fingers to his forehead as if to check that it was still in once piece, and was pleasantly surprised to find that nothing...hurt. He would expect his head to be splitting with a migraine after the bits and flashes of what he could recall.

“You got the good stuff,” came a gravelly voice from the person beside him. “A doctor with a healing ability was in here earlier.”

“Dan,” said Phil. His eyes stung, tears prickling at the corner of his vision as emotion swamped him. “You’re okay.”

“Fuck you,” said Dan, but it was too soft to be anything but fond. He moved abruptly, leaning halfway out of his seat to drape himself across Phil and bury his face in the crumpled neckline of Phil’s hospital gown. “God, you dick. You scared me so much.”

Phil’s arms had moved instinctively to grip him. “I couldn’t find you,” he said, the memory of that frozen panic flashing back to him. “You were just...gone.”

Dan’s laugh was a half-sob, muffled against Phil’s chest. “I couldn’t find you,” he said. “I got shoved across the street somehow and when the tremors stopped and I made it back to the Starbucks, it had already collapsed. I only found you because these two girls were bawling beside you thinking you were dead.”

“Are they okay?” Phil asked, suddenly urgent with the reminder of the couple that had survived an entire crushing building with him. “One of them had a broken leg, I think.”

“Yeah, there were a lot of ambulances and shit that pulled up seconds after everything stopped shaking and falling. They’re safe.” Dan finally sat back up, swiping ineffectually at his eyes with one hand, but the other found Phil’s hand under the thin, sterile hospital blanket and gripped it tightly. “I would have given them my phone number or something, but I was a little preoccupied with you being fucking unconscious.”

“Sorry,” Phil apologized weakly, but Dan laughed, the noise wet and catching in his throat.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, you controlled an entire building. That’s insane.”

It was insane. Phil didn’t want to do it ever again. His head throbbed at the reminder of the crushing sensation and the terror he had felt when he slowly lost his grip over his ability. “Yeah,” he said. “It was...crazy.”

Dan sighed, and he looked exhausted suddenly. The evening sun peeked through the room’s blinds, highlighting his chest and face in rosy golden strips. “God, Phil. You scared me so badly. Never do that again.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Phil agreed. He examined the deep, blood-bruised bags under Dan’s eyes and patted the narrow space on the cot beside him. “Here, nap until the nurse comes to check on me.”

“I’m not going to fit,” Dan protested, but he was already climbing in beside him. His curls tickled Phil’s cheek as he settled in, and his body felt like the missing piece of a puzzle when he pressed himself into Phil.

Phil still didn’t know quite what had happened - what was causing these earthquakes, how he survived such an overextension of his powers, or even what tomorrow would bring - but for now, he closed his eyes and let his arm curl around Dan’s hip and he breathed.

They were both okay. That was all that really mattered.

[thewhumperinwhite]

Café: Gas Station

Previous: Teaser 1, Teaser 2, Hospital/Squad Car, Empty Bar, Used Car Lot 1, Used Car Lot 2

TW for: referenced domestic abuse, traumatic flashback caused by past abuse

@whumpitywhumpwhump

They’re ten miles outside of the city by the time they run out of gas.

“I can’t fucking believe we’re stopping already,” Sol says, frowning out the window. The rain has turned into a thick white fog that hangs low over the road and makes the lights of the gas station smoky and indistinct.

“Not my fault you picked a car with only half a tank,” Paxon sing-songs, but when Sol turns to glare at them he sees that their shoulders are tight and their hands are sort of white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

“Do you think it’s safe here?” Kent asks from the back seat, and Sol turns back to frown at him. He fell asleep almost the second they started driving, his bruised forehead resting against his window in a way that seems like it must hurt, and Sol is--a little more worried about him than he wants to admit, maybe.

He looks--pretty awful, Sol thinks. Well, they both do, really, but like, Kent looks especially awful.

“Should be,” Pax says brightly, and pops their car door open like there’s not a thing in the world to be afraid of, though Sol notes that they’re very quick to open the backseat driver’s side door and pick up their sword from where they put it when they climbed in. “The bleeders don’t spread that fast, so I’d be pretty surprised if they’ve made it this far already.”

Without really meaning to, Sol exchanges a worried look with Kent. Kent bites his lip, looking— a little afraid.

Sol has a sudden, insane desire to reach out and ruffle Kent’s hair and tell him it’s all gonna be okay, which he mashes down inside himself with savage force.

“Hey,” Sol calls, crawling over into Paxon’s vacated seat and rolling down the window, “don’t you think it’s gonna be a little suspicious if somebody sees you pumping gas while wearing a huge fuckin’ sword, genius?”

“Like you’d be brave enough to complain about it,” Paxon says sweetly. “You guys wanna go buy somethin’ from the store? Advil or something, at least? You’re lookin’ a little green around the gills, sunshine.” Sol notes with some annoyance but no surprise that their voice is a lot less snide when they’re talking to Kent, which— tracks, honestly.

“No, that’s alright,” Kent says softly. “We wouldn’t want to leave you all by yourself out here.”

Surprised, Paxon turns back to look at Kent, and Kent holds their gaze with an expression Sol can’t read for the life of him— but it seems to make Paxon uncomfortable.

“Uh— yeah,” they say, with an awkward laugh, and turn back to watch the pump, fidgeting. “We’ll— all go in together, then. I could use some coffee if we’re gonna keep driving.”

Sol looks from Kent’s unreadable expression to Paxon’s tight, uncomfortable-looking back, confused. “Uh— what the hell was that?”

Kent’s face clears immediately, and he gives Sol a smile. It’s— kind of unsettling, actually. “What was what?” he asks, and sounds for all the world like he’s honestly confused.

“Uh— “ Maybe he’s imagining things, and nothing significant passed between them after all. Sol shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess.” He frowns at Paxon’s back— they’ve swung their sword back over their shoulder, like it was when he first saw them. “You’re not really gonna go into a convenience store with that thing, are you?”

Paxon fishes around in the pockets of the hideous pink motorcycle jacket they’ve got on under their equally-hideous poncho. “Guess I am,” they say lightly, though their cheer sounds even more forced this time. “Sunshine’s right— we would stick together, us three.”

As they say this they turn back to tip Sol a wink over their shoulder. Rolling his eyes, he relaxes a little. Guess it was my imagination after all.

Apparently, the “bleeders” have not reached this little highway gas station yet. On the bright side, that means nobody suddenly gnawing on his arm as they walk through the parking lot. On the downside, boy do they get funny looks from the front desk clerk, who seems to be debating whether he should kick them out or not.

Kent flushes under his bruises and tries to absolutely no effect to rearrange his blood-caked bangs, but Paxon just shoots the clerk a wide scarred grin and bids him a cheerful ‘good evening,’ and the clerk quails under Paxon’s gaze and apparently decides it isn’t worth it.

Despite Paxon’s assertion that they should ‘stick together,’ he and Kent almost immediately dart off in separate directions— Paxon to the coffee machine, Kent to the pharmaceuticals aisle. Sol is torn for a second between his desire to keep a sharp eye on Paxon at all times and the need to make sure that Kent, who is not exactly steady on his feet, doesn’t keel over, and he— isn’t sure how to feel about the fact that it’s the second impulse that wins out. Keeping close on Kent’s heels, Sol compensates by glancing over his shoulder at Paxon. 

Paxon, noticing, pauses in the act of dispensing coffee to raise an eyebrow and waggle their fingers at him. He flips them off.

“Hey, Sol,” Kent says in a low voice, as they reach the aisle filled with over-the-counter pain killers and also chewing gum, for whatever reason. “Are you doing okay?”

Sol stares at Kent, whose entire torso seems to be made out of bruises. “Are— are you fucking kidding me, man?”

“Your wrist, I mean,” Kent says, gesturing at the offending limb. It’s gone sort of purple and is swelling a little, and Sol doesn’t mind admitting to himself that wow it does hurt a lot. “You hurt it when you were fighting— didn’t you?”

Sol was kind of hoping Kent hadn’t noticed. He looks away, shuffling his feet. “It’s no big deal. I didn’t even notice, in the moment.” That much is true, anyway— he was too pumped full of adrenaline to even register the pressure he was putting on the recently-relocated bones until they’d already been in the truck, at which point he’d had to fight pretty hard not to cry in front of Paxon Fields— but Kent was asleep by that point, anyway.

Kent gives him a look that says pretty clearly how much of Sol’s bullshit he’s buying, and reaches for a box labeled Motrin.

He freezes before his fingers touch it, though, and his face goes totally blank, like someone has just hit his ‘off’ switch.

“Uh—” Sol reaches out for his shoulder.

Smiling, Kent moves just out of Sol’s reach, like he’s trying to be subtle about it. “Sorry,” he says, a little too loudly, and grabs a box of Advil, instead. “This should help with the swelling,” he says, pressing it into Sol’s good hand— the one he reached out with.

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” Sol mumbles, frowning down at the box, which is the same damn medication as the first one, and Kent smiles at him brightly for another second before turning to wander back over toward Paxon.

Sol tries to ignore the uneasy fluttering in his stomach. Because— goddamn, he has way bigger things to worry about than Kent Graves’s mental wellbeing.

Maybe it was a mistake to come with him, Sol thinks, miserably.

——

Sol is still staring down at the box of Advil Kent handed him, and Paxon is preoccupied with pouring far too much sugar into their coffee, so Kent takes a second to press his hand over his mouth and close his eyes.

He thinks of the first time he ran to his mother, after his father’s fist sent him crashing to the ground. She’d smiled, and dabbed at the blood on his face with a tissue, and told him that everybody lost their baby teeth sooner or later. And when he told her that it hurt, she handed him painkillers.

She didn’t even notice the first time he hit Chase, so it had been Kent’s turn to pass along the lie

(it’s alright, it just happens sometimes when he gets angry)

and climb up to the top shelf for the Motrin.

Chase— 

(IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!)

Kent runs a finger over his scar and forces a smile back onto his face. Because he’s alright. He can do this, if only because he has to. He’ll get to St. Ben’s, and then— 

Well. He guesses Sol will know the whole thing, then. That thought turns his stomach even more than he expects it to.

Maybe it was a mistake to let him come.

——

Pax doesn’t actually like coffee, which is why they’re currently stirring their third packet of sugar into the cup; but it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than any of the energy drinks and they have a feeling neither of their two freeloaders possesses a penny to their names, which means they better start saying up.

...Okay, maybe ‘freeloaders’ isn’t really fair.

This, they’re starting to realize, might be a little bit harder than they thought it would be.

Solemn Michaelis, whatever else he might be, is at least easy as hell to read— he doesn’t trust Pax, and probably never will unless Pax really works at it, which they aren’t sure they need to bother with. In fact, he said as much, when he shepherded Kent into the back seat and climbed into the passenger seat himself.

“Boy, I’m flattered,” Pax said, grinning. “Didn’t expect you to be so eager to sit with me!”

And Sol said, “Fuck you. I just wanna be right here if you try anything funny, asshole. Kent might be dumb enough to trust you,” (he said this very loudly, and Kent serenely ignored him) “but I sure as hell don’t.”

And then he proceeded to glare at Pax for the first twenty minutes of the car ride. Which is fine. Pax doesn’t need Solemn to like them, particularly.

Which brings them around nicely to Kent Graves, who was nothing but polite and courteous to Pax until he went quite peacefully to sleep in the backseat, which had of course led Pax to dismiss him as a bit of an idiot.

Which. Is actually a little embarrassing, now.

Because all he had to say was that he didn’t one to leave Pax on their own, and Pax immediately saw what he really meant, which was— well, he didn’t trust Pax either. And Pax hadn’t noticed that at all until just now, and they were fairly certain the only reason they knew how he felt now was because Kent Graves wanted them to know.

Maybe it was a mistake to take him with, Pax thinks, taking a sip of sickly-sweet coffee.

[strawberriestyles]

Part 4: Pentagram

(BANNER MADE BY MY TALENTED SWEETIE PIE @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy)

Harry X Reader (AU)

In which you’re persuaded to help a young witch named Harry.

Read previous parts here.

Word count: 5.1k+

Author’s note: HEY HI HELLO. There will be one more part and a short epilogue after this. WE’RE NEARING THE END. I’ve had and am still having so much fun with this series. Fantasy is my favorite thing to read, and to be able to blend that with fanfiction has been super cool and experimental. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I do. PLEASE LIKE, REBLOG, LEAVE FEEDBACK. It’s super helpful to writers and can also aid in motivating them. Xx

“Hello, dove.”

When you glance up from your books, you’re unsurprised to find Harry standing at your table. You’ve been wondering when he would show up. But you start at his use of that pet name. He holds a steaming coffee in one hand and an entire meal in the other, and he doesn’t ask permission before he slips into the booth across from you, setting his refreshments down on the tabletop, laying the plate of food on top of your book.

“Had a lot o’ trouble finding yeh today."

“Why’s that?” you ask as you sift your way through the contents of the sandwich he’s placed before you.

“Dunno. Maybe whatever magic’s in your blood is sparkin’ up. Yeh’re gettin’ hard to trace.”

“You trace me?”

“Not with a spell or anythin’,” he says with a shake of his head. “Jus’ been pretty easy to kind o’ feel out your presence. Air feels weird around yeh.”

“Well, that makes me feel good about myself,” you mumble with a thick sigh. “Why did you buy me a panini? I’m not hungry. And how do you know that you picked something I like?”

“Well, I was guessing based on what I know about yeh, but yeh could have said thank you.” Harry sips his coffee and leans his head against the back of the booth. "Or yeh could at least not act rude about it. Just thought yeh could use a good meal right about now. Wha’s wrong?”

You sigh again and settle your chin into your palm, picking at the sandwich bread with your free fingers.

“I have all these midterms coming up. And they’re not for my major-required classes they’re just general classes that everyone needs to graduate. Which is stupid because why do I need to take a college-level math course as a Latin major? That makes no sense. Any career that I end up—“

“I get it,” Harry says with a soft chuckle. “But it might come in handy. I liked t’skip out on my Latin studies when I was younger, and look where that got me. I need a mortal t’help me perform fuckin’ spells.”

“Well, first of all, I’m not all mortal,” you tell him with a frown.

“Mortal enough,” he mutters, twirling his coffee cup to stir its contents. You ignore him for the time being.

“And second of all, that was rude of you. Are you upset that you need me? Because I can just stop helping you at any time.”

“No, Y/N, no.” Harry smiles that annoyingly amused smile of his. “Not upset that I need yeh t’help me with translations. Just upset that I can’ do ‘em myself. Makes my mum crazy proud o’ me, I’ll tell yeh that much. Eat your food, please.”

Despite your prior statement, you do find your stomach aching for the panini he’s ordered you. It’s nearing eight thirty in the campus library. The other students that have been working throughout the day have already trickled out in search of their own dinners or a Netflix recovery session from all the studying they’ve suffered through. You wish you could join them. The fluorescent lights above you haven’t helped to keep you peppy and motivated.

You cave and take a grateful bite.

“Thank you,” you whisper to him when you’ve finished chewing. “I actually haven’t eaten for about six hours. I’m just stressed out.”

“Well,” he says, leaning forward with a quirk to his lips, clearly smug, “tha's perfectly fine, because I think I have the perfect way to relieve your stress. Yeh ‘bout ready t’be done for the night?”

There are surely mountains of work for you left to do, preparations to make, papers to map out—but with your mouth full, you give him a desperate nod.

***

“Was that your first time on campus?” you ask.

Your voice quivers with a faint wariness. Nicks, for whatever strange reason, has decided that she doesn’t mind a close proximity to you. At least for today. She’s sitting on the arm of the couch, just a foot or so from your elbow. Granted, she’s not paying you much attention at all, but it’s a start.

“No.” Harry is laying down a large, thick black cloth. It’s stitched with a white design that only becomes clear as he pulls the fabric out flat—a pentagram. Like a satanic blanket. “I took a few classes a couple years ago. Just t’see what you mortals learn in your higher education.”

“Not a mortal,” you remind him. “Speaking of…”

As Harry skims a page full of his notes from the spell in his book, you remember the warning he gave you that first time you ever helped him. It’ll burn the eyes right outta your skull.

“Can I actually look in the book? If I’m not fully mortal, I mean.”

“No.”

You sigh and Harry begins to lay items out around the edges of the cloth, just outside of the pentagram’s circle. Closed jars and bottles, a bowl of ground up somethings that you’re not sure you want to ask about, something that looks like criss-crossed bones tied together with twine.

“What are we doing?” you ask. “I thought the spell wasn’t going to happen until tomorrow night.”

“’S not,” he says, sprinkling some red powder over the inside of the pentagram. When he stands up he hands you a different sheet of paper with his usual translations and begins to arrange the candles that the two of you made last week at the five points of the pentagram. “This is just a preparation.”

You frown as you lower your eyes to the Latin scribbled out in front of you. They’re odd commands about the arrangement of the items around the pentagram. You glance up at the cloth intermittently to second check Harry’s placements.

“Um,” you mutter after a few minutes, “this says something about a human fingernail.”

“Yeah. Where does it go?”

“Is there any point in me asking you where the human fingernail came from?”

“No.”

You shake your head as you point toward the pentagram. “It’s supposed to go where those bones are right now. And the bones are supposed to be two places counterclockwise.”

Harry rearranges his items while you scan over the rest of the Latin, right up until the words make you freeze. As he stands back up to survey his work, you toss the page to the other end of the couch.

“’S that it?” Harry asks when he turns around again. He travels back toward his shelves and pulls down the jar of Hellfire that the two of you prepared a few weeks ago, still burning dark and ominous, even with its lack of oxygen. He reaches his hand inside and scoops the flames out, kneeling down to light each of the candles and then returning the remainder of the fire to its glass jar and replacing it on the shelf where he found it. He glances up at you when you still haven’t answered him.

You nod your head, perhaps too vigorously, and he sits down beside you, his ringed fingers splayed out over your thigh.

“Harry, I…”

Your voice trails off as he settles his cheek into your shoulder, his lips prodding at the curve of your jaw. You let your eyes fall closed for only a short moment before throwing yourself onto your feet. At the sudden motion, Nicks hightails it from the room.

“What are you doing?” you demand, pressing your lips together as you stand before him.

“Says we’ve gotta fuck, righ’?” Harry asks. So nonchalant. "I may be shit at Latin, but I do know the word for orgasm.”

“Harry.” You let out a disbelieving, airy laugh and shake your head. "You’re just assuming I’ll have sex with you because some dusty book says so?”

“Well, I was hopin’ yeh’d want to.” He gives you that signature smug look that often makes your blood run with heat and his arms settle over the back of the couch. Then he raises an amused eyebrow. “Wha’? D’yeh want it t’be more romantic? I’ve already got candles lit and everythin’.”

“Those are ritual candles burning at the points of a pentagram, Harry.”

“Good observations.”

Your jaw tightens and you turn toward the door. “I’m leaving.”

“Y/N, stop.”

“No, you can’t just expect—"

“Please.” Harry’s footsteps follow you. He doesn’t touch you as you reach the door, but the tone of his voice makes you stop. You fiddle with the zipper of your jacket slung over your forearm. “I need your help. Can yeh help me?"

Your teeth close around your lower lip as you stare at the front door. Candlelight flickers against the walls, painting Harry’s shadow just beside yours. “How do I know this is what the book actually says and that you’re not just making it up?”

“I guess yeh’ll just have t’trust me,” Harry answers. You hear him lean against the wall. "Would it be so bad if I wasmakin’ it up? That I’d wanna have sex with yeh even if the book didn’ say so?”

Your eyes close. He has a point. Haven’t you been drawn to him from the beginning? Didn’t his kiss from last week leave you reeling for days afterward? What would be the harm, really?

When you turn around you’re still hesitant, but Harry stays where he is, his eyes steady as he watches you.

“You make me a little uneasy,” you whisper.

“‘M sorry.” Harry straightens up just by a little bit and smiles very softly. It’s not an expression that you’ve seen on him before. “Get that a lot, actually.”

“It’s not anything you do, really,” you assure him. “It’s just…”

“Yeah. The witch part.”

You bite at the corner of your mouth to keep your laugh at bay. When he smiles at you again, you close the few steps between you and rise up onto your toes, pressing a kiss to his lips with almost the same amount of confidence that he kissed you with last time.

“Yeh trust me?” Harry mutters when your mouths part for a short moment. You fall back on your heels and he looks at you, all hazy-eyed.

“Depends,” you reply. “Are you gonna slit my throat in the middle of this and make me a sacrifice to the devil?”

Harry chuckles to himself and grasps your hips. His fingers press into your skin and you drop your jacket as he pulls you sharply forward. “Not today, dove.”

You fold. Harry gathers you up in his arms and kisses you hard, hands roaming, lips feverish. You lower your fingers to the hem of his shirt and he lets you go only long enough to peel the layer away from his skin.

The trip back down the hall is a mess of clashing teeth, bruising lips, stumbling over each other’s feet. By the time the two of you reach the couch, you’re in your bra and underwear but Harry is somehow still wearing pants. You fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans as he leans against the arm of the sofa. He distracts you with wet kisses that trail down your jaw, fingertips that pluck at the straps of your bra. His pants pool at his feet and he wastes no time shedding his boxers right along with them.

It’s almost as though Harry can sense your persisting wariness as he kisses at the top of your chest and toys with the clasp of your bra. You see his free hand lift beside you and then lower, palm toward the floor, slowly, in time with the dimming of the candles lit around the living room. You sputter out a laugh that makes his teeth scrape against your sternum. Your bra falls to the floor beside his pants and boxers. He sits back on the couch’s arm, that smirk on his face, unashamed, waiting for you to slip out of your underwear.

“You swear this isn’t some weird sacrificial ceremony or something?” you ask him, thumbs poised in the sides of your panties. “You’re not gonna hurt me?”

“Not unless yeh want me to, dove.”

Harry grasps your wrists and pulls them toward your knees, dragging your underwear down with them. His eyes lick back up your body like flames until he’s focused on your face again, and you swear that for a moment they glow that electric blue. But then he’s standing straight again, hands hot against your bare waist, lips prodding at yours, and he’s walking backward with a confidence that you can feel in every step. He begins lowering himself to the ground, dragging you down on top of him, and it’s only when you break the kiss that you find the two of you are positioned in the center of the pentagram, surrounded by odd relics and candles, their wicks lit with Hellfire but their wax still unmelted.

Harry lays back on the blanket, his head positioned in the center of one of the pentagram’s triangular spokes. You’re perched on his hips, very aware of every bit of bare skin that touches him. His fingers curl around the thickest part of your thighs and he says nothing, only blinks lazily up at you.

You pull your lower lip between your teeth as you shift, reaching between you to wrap your fingers around his hard dick. You guide him to your entrance and all of your nerves diminish when he’s inside of you. His hands tighten on your flesh as you sit back. Slowly. Gently.

You settle your palms over his ribs, fingertips curling into the tattoo of a butterfly painted there. The light in the room flickers as you roll your hips to acquaint yourself with this experience—Harry sprawled out on the floor, his hair mussed from your hands as he draws his tongue in a stripe across his lip. You don’t know if it’s the pentagram or Harry or if it’s only your imagination, but your senses feel heightened. A brush of his thumb over the bend in your hip makes your entire body shiver. Like he knows exactly where to press. But it’s still all so foreign.

“Go ‘head, dove,” he whispers, as though he knows exactly what you’re thinking. He stretches out his neck and gives you that smug look—it’s the familiar in this uncharted territory that you needed. A touchstone. “Fuck me.”

Your fingers curl further until you can feel your nails digging into his skin. Harry only flutters his eyes closed. You lift your hips up, forward, feel his cock dragging against your walls, lower yourself back down. Harry lets out a huff of air. He pushes against your thighs, urging you on. It’s easy to fall into a rhythm once you ground yourself to the feeling of him inside of you, thick enough to make you ache. Your body works for you without the need for thought.

“More,” Harry mutters after a minute. It’s not gentle. It’s demanding. One of his hands drift up your stomach to spread across the area between your breasts. Your belly lurches as the fingers of his other hand grip into your waist with a bruising strength, and you whimper, picking up your pace.

“There yeh go,” he praises. He lifts his head up far enough to watch your hips meeting, to see the way your legs quiver. His hand sneaks back to grab at your ass. There’s no question to his movements, only a dauntless fluidity that makes a thin sheen of sweat collect at your hairline. He kneads your cheek and tips his head back against the pentagram. His own skin is growing slick beneath your hands. “Yeh’ve gotta come, dove. Can’ do that if yeh’re holdin’ back on me, yeah?”

Harry lapses back into silence as you find a beat in this candlelit room, quickened by the pressure of his fingers, by the draw of his unsteady breath, by the urgent pulse of his heart beneath your hands. Your knees are chafing against the cloth laid out under the two of you, but you don’t slow. Sweat trails along your scalp and into the tracks of your hair as you tilt your head back. You close your eyes and find the image of Harry’s face imprinted there, cut into slivers between the glint of regular candlelight and the shadow of Hellfire.

You’re jolted out of your own mind when Harry delivers a harsh smack to your ass. You can feel yourself tensing around his cock, even as he rubs soothingly at the sore area of your bum. You’ve stilled on top of him, your chest heaving, a guttural moan poised at your lips. It’s translated into a gasp as he flips the two of you around, settling your head gently within the pentagram where his was positioned. He’s slipped out of you and you don’t think going without food for a week could leave you feeling this empty.

“Let go for a second,” he whispers when you’ve latched onto his arms where they frame your head. “Wanna try somethin’.”

You loose your fingers from his biceps and settle back against the cloth beneath you as Harry reaches to the perimeter of the pentagram’s circle to grab a candle. The Hellfire burns steady and straight, unswayed by any air flow. The wax around the wick looks melted, liquid, but it doesn’t run down the sides. It’s unnerving. Especially when Harry leans back and tips the candle over your chest. Hot wax spills and stings the skin between your breasts. You gasp, pushing Harry’s hand and the candle away, stomach thrashing up against him, but he surrounds you like a cage.

“Hey, relax,” Harry says, settling his hips between yours at last. He leans down to kiss you for the first time since the two of you have entered the pentagram. His lips graze down your neck after leaving your lips, along your collarbone to your shoulder, a peck to the outside of your breast. He lets out an airy chuckle. “Yeh like it, don’ yeh?”

“What?” you mutter, tilting your head forward. The wax has hardened and begun to cool on your chest. He still holds the candle in his hand.

“Nipples are hard,” he observes, raising a brow. “Yeh like it. Hurts for just a second, yeah? A good pain?”

Your response is swallowed back down your throat as Harry tongues your hardened nipple, teeth grazing along your skin. The fingers of your right hand tangle up in his hair, yank at the roots as he sucks your nipple into his mouth. More hot candle wax spills across your skin, this time along your upper belly. You shy away from the quick sting but it only lasts for a moment and you find yourself moaning as the wax dribbles up the side of your body, heats your other breast. The flame of Hellfire still doesn’t sway. It also doesn’t burn up toward the ceiling as a regular flame would. It remains in line with the candle.

Harry sighs at the sound of your moan and hurries to return the candle to its place on the pentagram. He reaches down to stroke his cock once, twice, and then thrusts into you without a warning.

“Jesus,” you gasp out. It feels different when he’s the one moving. He takes no time to find a rhythm, just fucks into you with all of the force of his hips. Your ankles curl around the backs of his knees and the hand not buried in his hair grapples for a hold on his back.

“There’s no Jesus here,” Harry mutters, lowering his face into the crook of your neck. His teeth tease at your pulse. “Yeh feel like a fuckin’ goddess, though—fuck. Tha’s what I wanna feel.”

He moans when your walls clench around him. His thrusts drive deeper, arms trembling on either side of you. One hand lifts to lay across your side, over your ribs, and you can feel the dried wax there heating up, dripping down to pool beneath your back.

“Wanna fuck yeh harder,” Harry groans. “D’yeh want it harder? Can I fuck yeh harder?”

“Please,” you breathe out, “please.”

The air is forced from your lungs as Harry’s hips smack back into yours. Your body is tingling beneath the weight of him, thighs aching at the stretch of his hips between them. The skin behind your ear heats with pain as he sets his teeth into it. And he’s fucking you relentlessly, desperately, so urgently its making your mind grow fuzzy.

“I—” You can’t even finish your words. The pits of your stomach are coiling up like a spring. The fuzz in your mind is making your vision grow dark around the edges as you stare up at the wooden ceiling. All you can do is squeeze at Harry’s back, tighten your hand in his hair.

“Yes, fuck yes,” he grates out. The hand covered in melted wax snaps to the back of your thigh, angling your hips up and yanking you to meet his thrusts as he fights to finish himself off. “‘M gonna come.”

Your throat is thick with words that can’t escape as he fucks you over the edge. One hand falls to the blanket at your side and curls into the fabric. You let out only a strangled moan. Harry grunts as he feels you coming around him. He pulls his face out of your neck and props himself up on his arms, tipping his head back against his own shoulders until he’s jerking into you, swearing into the silence of the house. This time you’re positive that you see that blue glow around his irises before his eyes close. You shake while he empties himself inside of you and all at once the flames around the room are snuffed out.

Harry huffs out a breath of exhaustion and lowers himself back down on top of you, forehead smearing sweat along your shoulder. You can see almost nothing at all while you gasp for breath. Your body still buzzes in the darkness. You can smell the subtle sweetness of smoke from the extinguished candles.

There’s a pressing silence filled with nothing but heavy breathing. Harry’s become almost a dead weight on top of you. You can feel liquid leaking from you, his skin sticky where it meets yours. The knowledge somehow doesn’t worry you.

“Thank you, dove,” Harry whispers right into your ear. His lips plant a wet kiss to the edge of your shoulder, waxy hand thumbing at your hip.

The moon peeks out from behind a thick layer of gray clouds. It seeps through the grimy window above your heads, filters through the wisps of smoke that hang about the room, illuminate the drops of sweat that linger on Harry’s back. You close your eyes for a moment—only a moment—and when you open them there is a face at the edge of the pentagram, just beyond it. An entire body mere inches from your feet. His eyes are wide, still, staring down at the two of you, graying hair frazzled around the lines of his frozen face.

Air is drawn loudly into your lungs but then it traps itself. You can’t scream. You can’t exhale. Your body tenses, fingers pressing into Harry’s spine, his scalp. He feels the shift and lifts his head to look down at you. Blocking your view of the stranger. But you can still see him behind your eyelids as you blink.

“Wha’s wrong?” he asks when he sees the wild look in your eyes. His brows pull together, fingers smoothing up your jaw. “What?”

The face looms up again behind the mess of Harry’s hair, leaning over the two of you, its expression still frozen in place, and the air finally finds a way to escape your chest.

You scream, shoving at Harry’s body, scrambling out from under him. He doubles back for a moment before you reach the edge of the pentagram and he catches at your knee, pulling you back toward him. The cloth is pulled beneath you. Candles topple over and the twined bones are sent scattering across the wooden floor. “Stop—” You swipe at his hand and he catches your wrist too. “Stop, Y/N, stop!”

Your lungs are heaving as you struggle against his grip and spin your head to survey the room. It’s empty. There’s no one else here. Not even a suspicious shadow.

“I thought—” You stop struggling and shake your head. Your fingers are trembling. “There was a man standing right there,” you whisper to him, pointing to the spot just outside the circle. You sound crazy. At least you think you do for just a moment before you remember that Harry is a witch and the two of you just had sex inside of a pentagram, surrounded by candles burning with flames from Hell. You squeeze your eyes shut. You can feel a headache coming on.

“Okay, okay.” Harry shifts onto his knees and wraps his fingers around the back of your neck, nodding. “Okay. He’s gone now though, right?”

“You believe me?”

“Of course I believe yeh. Why wouldn’ I?” Harry leans in to kiss your forehead. It’s so gentle, so sincere. You can feel your pulse beginning to slow when he pulls back and you tip your face into his chest. He slides his hand down your spine and rubs at your lower back, still slick with sweat.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’ be.” He pulls you away from his chest and kisses you with a slowness that you find gratefully comforting. “’S dark in here. How ‘bout we get some candles lit and get yeh cleaned up, yeah?”

You nod and let Harry help you up to your feet. He steps gingerly out of the pentagram and makes his way to the nearest candle, on the wall by the hall to the kitchen. His fingers close over the wick until it sparks to life and illuminates his flushed face. He gives you a soft smile and reaches for his boxers by the side of the couch.

“C’mon, dove,” he says once he has them pulled on, "I’ll make yeh some tea.”

***

“Yeh okay?” Harry asks as he comes back into the room. He’s carrying a hot mug of tea. You notice the way his hair is still standing up around the sides, where your fingers have left it tousled.

You give him a short nod and continue peeling at the dried black wax encasing your ribs, holding your shirt up with one hand. Harry sets the tea on the floor in front of the couch and then sits down, turning your body away from him. He picks at the wax on the back of your thigh, in the vague shape of his hand.

The room is much brighter around you. Harry has lit every candle in the vicinity that wasn’t meant for rituals and spells. But you still find yourself glancing cautiously into the corners every few minutes. You can still see that jarring face whenever you close your eyes.

“Hey.”

“Sorry,” you whisper, turning your attention to Harry when he’s finished ridding your thigh of wax. He shakes his head and helps you finish with the wax coating your side.

“No, yeh’re spooked. ’S okay.”

You chew on your lip. Harry finishes and brushes his thumb over your skin.

“Was that supposed to happen? Did you know that was going to happen?”

“What, the guy?” Harry asks. He allows his hand to fall to his lap as you take a step back from him and shakes his head. “No, I didn’ know that was gonna happen.”

“Well, do you know who it was?” You pull your shirt—Harry’s shirt—back down your abdomen to meet the line of your underwear.

“Think I might.” He says nothing more and you shake your head.

“You’re not gonna tell me? Really?”

“I can’ right now, dove. ‘M sorry.”

“No you’re not.” You let out a dry laugh and rub at your tired eyes. You know he’s not going to give you any more information. You’ve grown used to his secrets and mysteries. It’s really no use pushing. “Do you get spooked?” you ask him instead.

Harry sits back and lets out a soft sigh. “Not really. Not anymore, at least. Used to when I was a li’l bit younger.”

“Right.” You sit down beside Harry, close to his side. You hate to admit it but touching him really is comforting when you’re this shook up. His hand falls to your opposite arm and rubs gently at your skin. “You haven’t really told me about when you were younger. Do you have siblings?”

“Have an older sister.” He gives you a tight smile. "She’s a much better witch than me.”

“You always say things like that but I don’t think you’re bad at any of this.”

“Yeh should tell m’mum that.”

Something topples over onto the floor and you jump, hand finding Harry’s in your panic. When you turn your head, you find Nicks prowling around the edges of the pentagram, pawing at the items the two of you haven’t cleaned up yet. Harry chuckles quietly.

“Drink some tea, dove.”

You shake your head in an effort to clear it as you lean forward to grab the mug off of the ground. It’s warm and sweet-smelling as usual. For the first time since he’s begun brewing the tea for you, you sip it without hesitation. Harry kisses your temple.

“Do you not like your mom, then?” you ask, settling your cheek against his shoulder.

“Like her just fine. I just happen to disappoint her. Sucked at Latin because I thought it was borin’. Fucked up a bunch of spells. Tha’s part of the reason I moved across the fuckin’ Atlantic.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper out. You feel dizzy. Maybe it’s just everything that’s happened in the past few hours.

“’S okay. Pretty close to provin’ I’m not entirely useless. Thank yeh for that.”

Your vision suddenly blurs, so quick and so sudden that you have to close your eyes. The mug falls from your hands, crashing to the floor. Harry catches you as your body slumps forward.

“Shh, shh,” he hushes when you try to speak.

Your limbs all but melt as he lays you back on the couch. All of your senses begin to fade against your will, and you don’t even have enough energy to panic.

“‘M sorry, dove,” he mutters into your ear. “I really am. Hope yeh can forgive me.”

And then you’re pulled into unconsciousness.

Part 5: All Hallows’ Eve

[xoxopandapanda]

Little Family Ch. 18

Chapters  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

FF.net

AO3

As it grew closer to night fall, Inuyasha felt his strength finally slip away, along with all of his senses. Thankfully, Grandpa had only needed his height, not strength, for sorting out the shed. Inuyasha set the last vase on the top shelf before he heard Kagome calling them in for dinner.

He walked slowly behind Grandpa, listening to the old man talk about the new baby that had been borne to some patrons recently and the shrine visits of late.

Entering the house, he paused to wipe his feet before helping Grandpa get his shoes off.

He wasn’t sure the older man needed the help, but he didn’t reject it ether.

Kagome nodded at Inuyasha as the two of them entered the dining room, and Inuyasha nodded back.

“Can you go get Koji and Souta?” Kagome asked her husband.

Inuyasha didn’t acknowledge the request verbally, instead just turning to go upstairs.

Inuyasha walked into Souta’s room, where the toddler was still sitting on his uncle’s lap. “Was he good for you?” Inuyasha asked.

Koji looked over his shoulder at his father when he heard his voice, giving him a big smile. As soon as Koji lifted his arms up in the air, Inuyasha scooped him up and held him close. While it had only been a very brief amount of time they had been separated, it had felt long since it was rare they were apart.

Souta smiled up at his brother-in-law. “Yeah, he was helping me with my math. Weren’t you, little man?” Souta tickled the bottom of Koji’s feet, causing the boy to squirm and squeal with joy.

“Good to hear,” Inuyasha said as he bounced the boy up and down slightly in his arms. “Dinner’s ready.”

Souta stood, nodding his acknowledgement to Inuyasha’s statement. Inuyasha turned, still holding Koji close, and walked out the door, Souta not far behind.

Kagome and Mama Higurashi had set up the dinner table while Inuyasha was collecting the boys. The very simple meal of grilled fish, rice, and several appeasing smelling side dishes gather Koji’s attention very quickly. He squirmed viciously in Inuyasha’s arms, trying to gain access to the food as quickly as possible.

Inuyasha sat cross-legged, placing Koji in his lap and trying to keep him from toppling the dishes in his excitement to get to the food. Grandpa, despite Inuyasha’s attempts to keep the food away from Koji until everyone was seated, started to give Koji small amount of rice with his chopsticks.

Koji used his fists to cram the food into his mouth.

“Koji, are you making mochi with your rice?” Kagome teased her son as she sat next to her husband.

Koji looked over at her when she spoke, chewing loudly on the food in his mouth.

Once the rest of the family was seated, and Souta laughing at his nephew’s antics, Inuyasha put the side dishes close enough for Koji to grab some while Kagome pulled the fish apart into smaller pieces, removing the bones so Koji wouldn’t choke.

Koji shoveled food into his mouth as normal, getting just as much into his body as he got onto his and his father’s clothes. Inuyasha and Kagome took small bites here and there, wanting Koji to have his fill more than them.

Koji made a mad scramble for Grandpa’s rice again, this time very determined to eat that particular bowl and not the one his father had tried to put into his grasp. As his little fist made contact with the rice, Kagome tried to pull his hand away, but a fistful went with the offending appendage.

“Oh Grandpa, I’m sorry.” Kagome took her untouched bowl and moved it towards her grandfather. “Here, have this one. I’ll eat the one he touched.”

Grandpa laughed loudly, a sound that both fascinated and started Koji. The smaller child leaned forward, his red ears peaking up and standing at alert from the sound.

“You say that as if this is the first time I’ve eaten with a child.” Grandpa offered more of his food to Koji, who was happy to oblige and take it. “You used to do the same things to me when you were little, Kagome.”

Kagome felt the heat of an embarrassed blush creep up her ears and cheeks.

Grandpa continued, paying no mind to Kagome’s embarrassment, “Why yes, it has been quite a while since I’ve had this much entertainment at a meal.”

Koji, despite not understanding what was going on, was gleeful for the attention and extra food and flashed a big, bright smile at his great-grandfather. Grandpa returned the smile, leaning his face towards to rub noses with the toddler.

Koji’s eyes went wide at the contact, but he didn’t pull away.

Grandpa did however, touching one finger to the end of his nose. “Why,” he exclaimed, “he’s got a wet nose!”

Inuyasha snorted loudly. “Yeah, he’s a dog demon.”

Souta asked from across the table, “Do you have a wet nose, Inuyasha?”

“Well, yeah.”

Kagome added, “Not right now you don’t.”

Inuyasha shrugged, picking up some food from his leg to eat it. The action caused Koji to look down, and, upon seeing the treasure trove of food on his father’s pant leg, started to eat it as well. Kagome shot Inuyasha an unamused look that he ignored.

Mama patted Kagome’s arm tenderly, before speaking. “Oh, that’s just what dads and their kids do, Kagome. Don’t be too upset by them eating dropped food.” She addressed Inuyasha next. “Why isn’t your nose wet now?”

“It’s my human night. I start to lose a lot of my demon features as the day goes on.”

Mama nodded understandingly. “Right. I apologize. I forgot about that.”

Inuyasha pulled a piece of lint from Koji’s hand to prevent him from eating it. “The transformation will start soon. You’d have remembered then.”

Mama smiled at Inuyasha’s attempt to comfort her, looking tenderly over at Kagome who was trying to bribe Koji into eating some fish. “You two have grown up so much…” she whispered out.

Kagome paused, still holding up the fish in her chopsticks by Koji’s face, not that the boy was paying any attention to it. “You think so?” she asked her mother.

“Yes. I can tell how much you’ve grown just from becoming his parents.”

Grandpa agreed. “You two are much more mellow, too. The hotheadedness is just about gone from both of you.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, old man. I was never hotheaded.” Inuyasha’s comment earned him a stare from his wife.

Kagome looked at Inuyasha, wanting to scold him for his stubbornness. But, Inuyasha, sensing his wife’s look, gave her a smile that reached his eyes. He was teasing her.

Kagome rolled her eyes and tried to get Koji’s attention away from the rice and seaweed on his father’s lap to eat something other than dropped food. Koji finally looked over at her, took the fish in his hand, shoved it into his mouth, and returned to picking up singular rice grains from his father’s pants.

Kagome sighed in defeat. There was no pulling Koji’s attention away from eating the remnants on Inuyasha’s leg. “I guess,” Kagome spoke, returning to her mother’s comments from before, “the world seems so different with him in it. Like there’s no reason to argue; he’s healthy. There’s no reason to be mad; he’s growing up just fine. He relies so heavily on us for daily needs and survival, that the little things that used to annoy me just don’t matter as much anymore.”

Kagome looked over at her mother. “I think that’s what parenthood is supposed to do, right?”

Her mother nodded, smiling softly at her daughter across the table. “Yes,” she responded softly. “That’s what parenthood does.”

Their attention was drawn away from the conversation at hand as Inuyasha’s body thumped, his blood rushing with the beginnings of his transformation. Koji was startled from eating and looked up, twisting his body all the way around to look up at his father.

Inuyasha looked back at Koji, scrunching up his face to hopefully distract the toddler from the transformation happening, but Koji paid no attention to the look that usually made him laugh.

As Inuyasha’s ears retreated from the top of his head into the lower half, going from furry triangles to plain human ears, Koji lurched to grab the top of his father’s head in concern.

“They’re not there anymore, kiddo.” Inuyasha tilted his head down so Koji could thoroughly investigate his scalp.

Koji shrieked in horror as Inuyasha’s hair, starting from the root, turned pitch black, and he grabbed on as hard as he could. Inuyasha yelped from the pain and Kagome rushed to pull Koji’s hands from her husband’s head.

“Not so hard, baby!” Kagome used her finger to wedge Koji’s fist out of Inuyasha’s locks. “That hurts!”

Inuyasha, once Kagome had loosened Koji’s grip enough for him to pull away, raised his head up, giving Koji a stern look. “What? You act like you’ve never seen this before,” he said flatly.

“Maybe he hasn’t.” Kagome went to take Koji from Inuyasha, but the toddler pulled away from her grasp. “Maybe he’s never seen what he looks like on his human night.”

Inuyasha cast a sideways glance at his wife, considering her words. Koji’s life before them was all but unknown, and on his human night not too long ago, he hadn’t been near anything that would have allowed him to see his reflection.

Perhaps she was right, he thought. Perhaps Koji’s never seen what a hanyou’s transformation looked like – just felt it.

Inuyasha eyes, now a soft gray instead of a blazing gold, took in Koji’s body language. He had grabbed his father’s front when he was forced to let of his hair, his body ridged and eyes wide. He was taking in the sight of his father’s appearance, frightened by the change.

Inuyasha pulled Koji close, patting his back and humming to him once he saw the welling of tears in his son’s eyes.

“Hey now,” he spoke softly, rubbing the tiny back that was barely bigger than both of his hands, “why are you crying?”

Koji whimpered, burying his face into Inuyasha chest and rubbing his nose harshly on the firerat robe.

Inuyasha gave Kagome a confused glance, hoping she could clear up his confusion.

“Maybe he’s scared for you? He knows how terrifying the experience is first hand.”

Inuyasha shook his head. “There’s no need for any of this though.”

“Perhaps so,” Mama’s voice flittered from the other side of the table, “but he’s young and everything is very new to him.”

Inuyasha lifted his gaze to his mother-in-law and considered her words very carefully. He sighed to himself, lifting Koji up to his shoulder and cuddling him. Koji accepted the change of position readily, pressing his face firmly into the crook of his father’s neck. Inuyasha was at a loss for words, unsure of how to offer the small child comfort or relief from his distress.

Kagome scooted closer to place her head by Koji’s on Inuyasha’s shoulder and put her hands on both her husband and child’s back. Koji let out a soft, shuddering sigh at his mother’s contact, his body still trembling.

Mama asked Souta for help cleaning up the dinner table, telling Kagome she would set aside food for the three of them to eat later. Kagome nodded her thanks, not moving from her husband’s side. Koji’s body continued to shake slightly in Inuyasha’s embrace.

Inuyasha confessed to his wife, “I don’t know what to do.”

Kagome kissed his shoulder. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out together. Right now, we’ll just be.”

Inuyasha was thankful for Kagome’s unwavering resolve. His mind whirled with all the ways he was, in that moment, he was failing Koji as a father. He couldn’t offer any sort of comfort to his child, and it was his condition that was scaring the boy. What kind of father allowed his child to remain frightened?

Kagome’s soft embrace on both of them stilled his worries for the time. He wanted to tell Kagome about his worries and fears, but he didn’t know how. He had never had a family he could rely on, and now that he did, he often didn’t know how to ask for help.

But Kagome’s constant presence and love eased his mind enough for him to just be, like she had said.

Koji, after a while, lifted his head up from Inuyasha’s shoulder and touched Inuyasha’s face to look at him. Inuyasha saw the welling of tears still just sitting on the surface of Koji’s eyes, the brown irises boring into his. Koji patted the side of Inuyasha’s face gently, in the same way Inuyasha sometimes did when Koji was upset or overly tired.

Inuyasha blinked at the contact, feeling the tiny palm smack softly against his face. Koji leaned forward to kiss Inuyasha’s cheek before resuming patting the side of his father’s face.

Inuyasha smiled, recognizing that Koji was trying to offer the same kind of comfort he received. He leaned his head down to press their foreheads together, rubbing them softly and mussing up Koji’s fine hair.

“Thanks, bud,” he spoke softly to his son.

Kagome’s heart nearly burst at the sight of Koji’s affection for his father. It must all be very confusing for the poor child, trying to figure out what was going on with Inuyasha. But still, despite his confusion and fear, Koji was trying to offer Inuyasha some sort of comfort himself.

She wondered whatever they had done in their lives to deserve such a loving child.

Koji placed his head back down, satisfied that he had soothed his father’s worry for the time being, and sniffled lightly. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, the other reaching behind Inuyasha’s neck to hold onto his other shoulder.

Grandpa, who had been watching the whole exchange with gentle interest, look the peace and the relaxed state of the boy as a sign that the stressful events were over. Reaching into the cabinet next to the wall, Grandpa pulled out the television remote and turn it on. The slight rumble of static perked Koji’s ears up, and the sudden talking of a news report put the boy on full alert.

Koji’s head shot up from his father’s shoulder and he looked at the television in confusion. His ears twitched and flicked back and forth. He tilted his head left and right, assessing the sounds he was hearing from the box across the room.

Kagome watched him as he stared at the television. She remembered the first time Inuyasha had seen a new report. He had stalked around the room looking for where the person was hiding, and had moved the TV around to confirm the man wasn’t in the room. He had asked Kagome how this man knew about the weather, and how he was talking to them, urgent in his demands.

Inuyasha had come to accept that technology of the future was beyond his understanding, but had come to enjoy the past time of watching a program with Souta or Grandpa while Kagome was at school.

She saw the same wonder and fascination that Inuyasha had experienced play across Koji’s face.

Koji squirmed to get out Inuyasha’s arms, moving to stalk across the floor and around the table. He watched the face of the man on the television intently, the same way he watched Inuyasha when they played together.

As the man moved on to the local news, including the breaking ground ceremony that had happened earlier in the day, Koji moved suddenly to stand before the screen.

He stood, tense and rigid in front of the large screen, his body ready.

“He’s not going to notice you, Koji,” Inuyasha called to his son. “He’s not in the room.”

Koji side stepped to get out of the line of vision of the man on the television before turning to look at his father. He looked back and forth between the screen and his father, as if asking what was going on.

The screen flashed clips of the breaking ground ceremony, dozens of people lined up to watch the event and a priest in a large hat and heavily decorated robes began a blessing chant over the ground. As soon as the priest appeared on the screen, Koji’s body froze and his eyes remained on the man.

As soon as the camera panned over to the crowd, the toddler scrambled to run back to his father before the priest appeared on the television again. Climbing up to cling to Inuyasha’s torso, Koji looked over his shoulder at the image of the blessing ceremony. When the priest came up again, Koji buried his head into Inuyasha’s shoulder, whimpering in fear.

Kagome rubbed Koji’s back, placing her hand just under Inuyasha’s one that had rose to hold the boy close to him. “It’s okay, baby,” Kagome murmured. “He’s not here.”

As soon as Koji had run into his father’s arms, his great-grandfather had pulled up the remote and was in the process of switching the channel to a rerun of Pokémon. The change of sounds, especially the Pokémon’s noises, caused Koji to lift his head up.

He returned his attention to the television and watched as Pikachu and Squirtle moved across the screen. Once again, he stood and approached the source of his fascination slowly, moving around the furniture and moving his head which way and that to get a better idea of the sounds he was hearing.

The animation was intriguing to him, and he patting the screen with sticky hands, leaving a residue to finger and hand prints over the surface. Kagome made a mental note to clean that up once the boy had gone to bed.

“Is he afraid of priests?” Grandpa asked the parents once Koji’s attention was raptured by the television and the Pokémon.

Kagome shrugged. “Apparently so. We don’t know the extent of what he went through, or what he’s afraid of.”

Inuyasha stretched his legs out under the kotatsu, enjoying the warmth and return of blood flow. “He could have been attacked by a priest. I was when I was young, before I left the village.”

“Attacked? Why?” Kagome twisted her body to get a better look at Inuyasha. “Why would a priest attack a child?”

Inuyasha kept his gaze on his son who was now circling the TV stand, looking for the things on the screen in the room. “Because,” Inuyasha spoke slowly, feeling a familiar pang in his chest, “the child is half demon. Priests only protect humans.”

Realizing her mistake, Kagome shifted to face forward and look at Koji, who was unfazed by the attention he was receiving from the other people in the room. Sometimes Kagome still forgot that there were people who would harm her husband and son just for existing.

“Well,” Grandpa announced, shattering the silence that had overcome the room, “no priest will bother my great-grandson at my shrine.”

Kagome’s mind went back to when Grandpa had thrown seals at Inuyasha and tried to cast him out, but her mouth remained shut. No point in poking an old bear, especially since Inuyasha bore no grudge from the past.

But the ticking of the side of Inuyasha’s mouth was clear sign that he had thought something similar to Kagome.

Souta walked past the room and saw Koji watching the Pokémon battle on the screen. He crossed to sit on the floor and watch the show with his nephew. “He’s got good taste in shows,” Souta said over his shoulder to his sister.

Koji, hearing Souta’s voice, moved away from television to sit in Souta’s lap, tossing his legs outwards and lounging. Souta leaned his back against the table and relaxed as well. Kagome chuckled to herself at the sight of her son and little brother hanging out watching anime together, taking a moment to rest her head back onto Inuyasha.

“They look cozy.” Grandpa teased the two boys who were intent on watching the show.

“Yeah,” Kagome agreed. “That’s all I could ask for, too.”

Two episodes later and it was bed time for the little boy. Souta handed Koji off to his mother who was holding out her arms for him. Once she was holding Koji, she took a moment to snuggle him briefly, sorely missing his affection as he had spent most of the day in his father’s arms. Inuyasha was in the kitchen, finishing up the meal he hadn’t had a chance to eat earlier and talking to Mama.

Kagome began to walk upstairs to give Koji a bath and get him ready for the night when she heard the tell-tale “Rowr?” of her cat emerge from her room.

“Buyo?” Kagome called up the stairs, and a soft, sad “Merow?” echoed back. Koji lifted looked up the stairs, making eye contact with the large cat standing at the top of them. Kagome could feel the energy begin to rise in Koji’s small body.

“You leave Buyo alone, Koji. Your father bothers him enough as it is.” Kagome softly chastised her son as she walked up the stairs. Once she reached the top, Buyo scurried his way into her room again, his abrupt departure giving Koji a reason to try to give chase.

But Kagome didn’t let the toddler escape her, holding him steady as he moved around to get down. “Nuh uh. It’s bath time.”

Koji knew that word and stilled, giving his mother a pitiful face. Kagome shook her head, and walked into the bathroom with him.

The water was warmer than the river, and Koji didn’t protest nearly as much as he usually did when Kagome bathed him. His attention was kept by multitude of plastic bottles and other items in the bath that were foreign to him, so Kagome was able to wash him up quickly.

Inuyasha had knocked on the door just as she was finishing rinsing the boy off. As Inuyasha opened the door, Kagome asked, “Are you going to take a bath tonight?”

Inuyasha shrugged, holding out a towel to dry the toddler off.

Kagome knew to take that as a no.

As soon as Koji saw his father, his face lit up and he tried to make a break for him. Inuyasha stepped in and scooped Koji up in a towel before he could run across the wet floor and hurt himself. “Hey there, long time, no see.”

Koji huffed at Inuyasha and pulled himself close.

“I’ll take him to your room while you’re in the bath.” Inuyasha exited the bathroom, a bundled boy in his arms. “Try not to stay in too long. You’ll turn into a prune.”

Kagome let out a dry, “Ha ha” at her husband’s retreating back.

Once her bath was finished – and had managed to not turn into a prune – Kagome went to her room to find her boys sitting on her bed, inspecting one of her old cram books.

“Witches spells, Koji,” Inuyasha told his son. “These are witches spells.”

Kagome pulled on her nightclothes, snorting at the comment. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s just algebra.”

Inuyasha’s eyes sparkled as he looked up at his wife. Kagome cocked one eyebrow up at him. “No,” he continued to tell Koji, “these are witches spells.”

Exasperated, but not upset, Kagome rolled her eyes and sat on the bed by them. Inuyasha closed the book and placed it on her night stand. As he stood, Kagome scooted to sit under the covers and held her arms out for Koji. Inuyasha tried to put him down to sleep next to Kagome, but Koji pulled hard against Inuyasha and wouldn’t budge.

While it did sting that Koji wouldn’t go to her, Kagome took the opportunity to tell Inuyasha, “Looks like you have to squeeze on with us.”

Inuyasha snorted. “Can’t. Fat cat takes up too much room,” he said, referring to Buyo who was at the foot of the bed and not budging.

It was his bed, damnit.

Kagome shook her head. “There’s enough room for the four of us.”

Inuyasha stared at Buyo’s head, but the cat kept his eyes shut and didn’t move. Sighing and resigning himself to squishing on the bed and having to maneuver around the fat animal, Inuyasha swatted Kagome’s side to get her to move over.

She wiggled to the other side of the bed and lifted the covers for Inuyasha and Koji to climb in.

Inuyasha was only able to fit one leg on the bed due to the way Buyo was sprawled out, so he laid back, half on the mattress, half off.

“Oh yeah,” he told his wife. “Real comfortable.”

Kagome smiled at him and moved to curl into his side. “He’ll move soon enough.”

Inuyasha shook his head while moving Koji to rest in between them. Koji slid happily over into his usual sleeping spot nestled between his parents. Before Inuyasha was able to make a snide comment back at Kagome, Buyo stood and walked up to lay on Inuyasha’s now free chest.

Taking a moment to get all the way onto the mattress, Inuyasha told Buyo, “That wasn’t an invitation.”

Buyo purred loudly, dropping his head and closing his eyes, quick to fall asleep once again. Koji lifted his hand to pat the fat cat laying on his father’s chest, before closing his eyes and succumbing to sleep as well.

Closing her eyes, enjoying the feeling of her most beloved people sleeping close to her, Kagome yawned out, “He’s just getting even.”

Kissing the top of Koji’s head, Buyo’s face, and then Inuyasha’s lips, Kagome whispered, “Good night, my boys.”

She received no response, but she felt the love radiate back.

[quinzelade]

Making One’s Bones (chpt 10)

Chapter List

--

Porter Gage is in a pickle. Nuka-World needed a new boss and some woman just killed her way to the top. But a pre-war Mafia boss on the theme park's throne? Well...at least she'll have experience.

--

Hello, everyone! Welcome to my newest fanfic! While this is technically a ‘sequel’ of By No Constraint, you don’t need to read BNC to read this. It can be read as standalone.

--

Fight and Flight

--

Crack.

Sarah’s breath expelled in a rasp as her ribs buckled. She blinked away blood and tears in time to see a foot swing towards her head.

Crunch.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream. Her chest spasmed, her mouth open wide, begging for air that wouldn’t come. The raider reached down, hooking his fingers into her nose cavity, and dragged her across the marketplace. He dropped her carelessly, her head bouncing off the dirt, and Sarah saw the traders sitting in a row, their eyes fixed to the ground.

They won’t watch, Sarah thought dimly, as a fist slammed into her face.

--

“Sarah,” wheezed Mr. Glass, clutching his stomach. “You need to go.”

Sarah nodded, wiping her eyes, and forced her way through the gap, the loose wire clawing at her clothes, demanding she stay. She pushed on, wincing as it tore at her, shredding skin and fabric alike. It was holding her in place, pushing her down, it was—

--

“Shh, I’ve got you.” The voice was kind and soft.

Sarah tried to open her eyes but found she couldn’t. Pain splintered through her as she tried to touch them. Sarah gasped and tasted blood, her skin tight and burning. She lay there, drawing rattling breaths, all thoughts clouded by agony.

“My eyes…?” she croaked, her throat feeling like it was packed with glass.

“They’re swelled shut,” said the same kind voice.

Sarah focused on the voice. She knew it. After a few seconds, she remembered. It was Mackenzie.

Firm, but gentle hands touched her face, dabbing carefully at her skin with something cool, and Mackenzie said, “I’ve given you nearly all the stimpaks and med-x we had. Not enough, but…”

Sarah didn’t answer. Too much hurt. Mackenzie continued to dab at the sore spots, and Sarah imagined the frightened look she always wore when the raiders grew bored. At least they were finished with her for now.

The beatings were becoming more frequent. Sarah recently overheard Mr. Corbett saying something about ‘the cusp of change’ causing restlessness. She wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, until Mackenzie explained it in a more colourful way.

“You know when you need the bathroom, and then just before you get there, you need it even more?”

“Yeah?” Sarah replied through a fit of giggles.

“Well it’s like that, except violence. The raiders are about to get their own spaces now the new boss is here. And suddenly they’re desperate to go.”

Desperate to go. Sarah felt the same.

Mackenzie said that the day before Sarah had gone to Kiddie Kingdom. When she came back, the raiders pounced. The others bore marks of punishment for her disappearance. Then it was her turn.

Sarah tried to open her eyes again and whimpered. She remembered the way her friends sat in a line, their bruised faces turned from hers. Their cut lips shut tight. She always got the worst of it, even when it wasn’t her fault. The image of them burned bright behind her swollen eyelids, and resentment ignited within Sarah. Wiseman wouldn’t have sat by. He’d have fought to protect her, even if it killed him.

Sarah’s fingers twitched, scraping at the gritty surface beneath her, and she shivered. Oswald’s voice echoed in her head.

“If anyone tries to hurt you again, I’ll make ‘em disappear.”

A sob escaped her lips in a little gasp and pain ripped through her face. But she couldn’t stop herself. On and on she cried, waves of pain crashing down around her. He had told her. He had warned her. But no matter what he said, she’d never thought it would get this bad. She knew nothing, and it hurt so much.

She wanted Oswald. She wanted to leave everyone behind and go back to him. None of them cared about her, tried to help when it mattered most. She came back for them, and now she was nearly dead. She wasn’t a person to them. And she never would be.

“Oh, Sarah,” whispered Mackenzie’s voice in her ear. Her hand touched Sarah’s arm, the other wiping the tears from her face. “Don’t cry. Don’t—”

“Promise?”

“Cross your heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.”

“Go away!” Sarah shrieked, turning from Mackenzie’s reach. Fire erupted through her, blistering her from the inside out, but she ignored it. She couldn’t stay a moment longer. Pushing through the crippling haze of pain, Sarah forced herself onto her hands and knees.

“Sarah, no! You need rest!” Mackenzie’s fingers snapped at her but did not take hold. Maybe she was afraid of hurting her more.

“Go away!” Sarah could feel cracked stone beneath her palms, her legs scrambling uselessly behind her. She coughed, and something wet and salty sprayed from her mouth. Her head was spinning, but she shuffled forward, reaching out to the walls and getting to her knees.

Oswald never asked anything of her. Never made her do something she didn’t want to. He gave her toys, showed her magic, healed her hurts. He made sure she was warm and safe, begged her to stay with him. And she abandoned him.

Sarah swayed, staggering along the wall until she crashed into some sort of shelf. It rattled, and things fell off, clattering around her. Sarah clung on, shrugging off the hands still trying to pull her back.

Get to the door, get to the door, get to the door…

The room was spinning around her, the darkness making her feel sick. The effort of staying awake was draining her. Finally, her fingers brushed the cool door handle.

The next thing Sarah knew, she could feel the grit of the ground beneath her, and hear Mackenzie frantically yelling, “Aaron, get the med-x! I don’t care if it’s our last one! Get it, now!”

Rough hands were dragging her back, soft ones touching her cheeks, words whispering she would be alright. There was a slight sting, somewhere in her arm.

--

“What’s your name, honey?”

A soft, kindly face peered in from the entrance of Sarah’s hiding place, wearing the gentlest of smiles. Sarah pushed herself deep into the crack in the wall, heart hammering against her ribcage. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know what had happened, or how she’d got here. There’d been Mr. Glass, and then raiders...and then…

Sarah swallowed, the new metal band pushing uncomfortably into her throat. A slave collar, they’d told her. Tears began to slide down her face. She wanted to go home, back to the Slog, where Wiseman and Dierdre and all the others were. Where she’d been happy.

“Hey,” came the voice again, and Sarah blinked until her vision cleared. The kindly face was still there, waiting. She hadn’t tried to force her way into Sarah’s hiding spot, but sat patiently at the boundary. “I’m sorry for scaring you with that needle—I just wanted to give you some medicine. You took a pretty bad beating for your first day.”

Sarah said nothing. She didn’t remember much of the raiders the night before—only their fists pummelling into every inch of her they could reach, and then someone holding her in their arms. She thought it had been Mr. Glass, come to rescue her. When she woke up, a strange woman had been crouched over her, needle in hand. Now she was here.

The lady must have decided she was tired of crouching, because she settled herself down on the floor and crossed her legs, still smiling at Sarah. “My name’s Mackenzie. What’s yours?”

Sarah hesitated, but Mackenzie’s smile was so disarming she couldn’t help but relax a little. “Sarah.”

“Pretty name.” Mackenzie shifted where she sat to dig in her bag for something. As she moved, Sarah spied the metal collar on her neck.

“You’re a slave?”

“Yes.” She stuck her tongue out a little as she thrust her arm deeper into the bag. “Aha!” She pulled out a Dandy Boy Apple, still wrapped in its shining plastic wrapper. “We don’t have many of these, but…” Mackenzie leaned over the threshold and held out the apple to Sarah. “I’d like you to have it. As an apology for...well, everything.”

Sarah shied away the second Mackenzie moved in closer. But when she stayed still, holding out the apple without pushing herself further into Sarah’s space, Sarah reached out tentatively and took the apple. Mackenzie waited until Sarah had the treat in her grasp, and then withdrew. She said nothing as Sarah slowly unwrapped it and nibbled at the candy shell. It didn’t taste like anything bad had been done to it, but then again, what did she know?

“If you want to stay here,” Mackenzie said, “I won’t stop you. But when you’re ready, I would like to take a better look at you. You’ve got some nasty cuts and bruises, and I think a stimpak or two and a bit of med-x would really help. Luckily Aaron managed to hide a few off the last shipment, so we’ve got more to work with. Will you let me help you?” She held out her hand, her fingertips breaching the invisible wall Sarah had built in this hidden place.

Sarah stared at Mackenzie for a while, still chewing the candy shell of her apple. Then she looked up into Mackenzie’s face. She had eyes like Mr. Glass: tired and kind.

Sarah took her hand.

--

Sarah felt pain before consciousness truly took hold. Aching, stabbing sensations wracked her body, her head spinning and swaying, though her body lay still. She shifted, wondering why she was on the floor and not in her bed, and tried to remember if she had dozed off in Mr. Glass’ workshop.

Memory hit her all at once, and Sarah’s eyes snapped open. Was she dead? The room was just as dark when they’d been shut.

If I’m dead, please make it hurt less, Sarah thought, closing her eyes again. Being dead might not be so bad. She’d see her dad again. And...

“Go.”

A door not far from her opened slowly, its creak loud and unwelcome. Heavy footsteps approached, and someone knelt down beside her, carefully touching her face. They were not the slight hands of Mackenzie, but large and coarse...and yet gentle.

More footsteps.

“Aaron?” came the hiss of Mackenzie’s voice.

“Just checking she’s okay,” murmured the figure next to her, his low voice so familiar. It was Mr. Corbett. “She’s been through hell and back.” What felt like a thumb trailed carefully across her cheek. “Have we found anymore med-x?”

“No.”

Mr. Corbett sighed. He stood up and walked from the room. “We’ll have to trade the rest of our food. Talk to…”

His voice trailed away into the distance, leaving Sarah alone in the cold, dark room. She opened her eyes again, peering through her swollen lids, and saw the door had been left open. A small chink of light burned against her vision, showing the way.

With a whimper, Sarah tried to roll onto her hands and knees. After a few tries, she managed it, and crawled across the rubble-strewn floor. They were feeling guilty now for what happened—enough that even Mr. Corbett was being nice. Well, it was too late now. She was leaving.

She opened the door slightly more so she could squeeze through without any creaking. White hot fire burned through her limbs, but she persisted, thinking of Oswald and Pansy and Petey. Thinking of the lollipops twice as high as a man, and the teacups the size of Buttercup, and—

Sarah hesitated, biting her lip. She had forgotten about Buttercup.

The adults were in the distance, arguing about what to trade for the med-x, or whether to leave Sarah as she was. Sarah remembered Oswald’s magic, and how freely he gave it. Her resolve hardened, though tears spilled from her eyes, and she continued on, hate stabbing her heart. She knew it wasn’t quite the same, but she’d had enough. She couldn’t live like this anymore.

She crawled and crawled, until her knees bled and her hands stung. She crawled through every snug space she knew, avoiding raiders and slaves alike, biting her lip when she heard Mackenzie’s panicked voice at her absence. She crawled until she made it out of the park and into the wild green beyond, with its straight paths and dead hedges, all neat and orderly.

Sarah tried to stand up, but couldn’t. So she stayed on her hands and knees, telling herself over and over, Just a bit further. Just a bit more.

Once again, her thoughts trailed to her first day in Nuka World, and of Mr. Glass. The fear as they’d made their way through the traps and choking gas of the Gauntlet, creeping past radroaches and strange, swarming ants. But no matter what, she kept hold of her Bella Buttercup toy. Mr. Glass had given it to her after all. Then they reached a set of rooms where the ceiling had been replaced by wire mesh.

The raiders above screamed with delight when they spotted her. Mr. Glass picked her up and sprinted through, not bothering to defend himself. On and on he ran as the bullets flew, pinging off the floor and walls. His panicked breath hot in her ear, broken only by grunts of pain until they made their way to safety.

Sarah had tried to help him walk. She’d been aware of the red stain growing all over his clothes but couldn’t quite register what it meant. Even when he’d collapsed, crashing to the ground and twitching, Sarah was convinced he would be up again in no time. Mr. Glass was supposed to stay with her. She didn’t want to be alone.

“Sarah,” wheezed Mr. Glass, clutching his stomach. “You need to go.” He reached down, and with a grunt of pain, dragged up the wire fencing so the hole was just big enough for her. “Go.”

“No!” She clung to him, gripping his sodden clothes, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You’re hurt! You come with me. You—”

“I’m dying, Sarah. Even if I get out, I’m dying. There’s nothing you can do. But I can save you.” He raised his free hand and touched her cheek with trembling fingers. “I won’t lose another daughter.”

Sarah bit her lip. Mr. Glass’ pain-stricken face blurred and disappeared behind a veil of tears, and she groped blindly for him, clutching his arms. He tried to stop her, but she wormed her way through, clutching him in a tight embrace. His chest was wet and sticky.

“I love you,” she gasped.

“I love you too.” He kissed the top of her head, and then pushed her away with the last of his strength. “Go!”

Sarah nodded, wiping her eyes, and forced her way through the gap, the loose wire clawing at her clothes, demanding she stay. She pushed on, wincing as it tore at her, shredding skin and fabric alike. Bella Buttercup was left behind.

The overboss came out personally to hunt her down. When he found her, he told her the raiders wanted blood. Sarah drew her knees to her chest and said nothing. She remembered a man with a funny patch over his eye standing next to him, looking angry.

But the overboss seemed more interested in her than in killing her.

“Ghouls ain’t affected by radiation, are they?” he said, tucking the barrel of his rifle under her chin and forcing her to look up at him. “And you’re small...can get into places others can’t.”

“Boss,” said the one-eyed man, “forget it. The Disciples want their corpse.”

“Fuck ‘em. They killed the other one, didn’t they? Collar her, Gage.”

Would she have minded if they’d killed her then? Probably not. Instead some of the raiders dragged her all the way to the marketplace. That was her first beating. But not her last.

Sarah swayed as a sharp rush of pain hit her. Blood was dripping steadily out of her mouth. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Kiddie Kingdom was in sight now—Sarah spied the very tips of the castle spires peeking just over the boundary wall. Oswald was in there, with his magic and his letters.

Her body could do no more.

She hit the ground with a thud, the coolness of the dead, dry earth sweet against her aching face. She cried. She wanted Oswald to stop the hurting. She wanted to see the tricks, to learn the magic herself. To sit in the castle, where she’d be with people like her.

Where she’d be safe.

Instead she lay in the dirt, the stabbing pains growing steadily stronger as her head felt fainter and fainter. The world was whirling around her, and it was all she could do to dig her fingers into the ground and cling on.

A few minutes later—or maybe it was hours—she heard footsteps. Her heart leapt, but she was too weak to look up. A gentle hand touched her back, before pressing a finger to her neck. She tried to open her eyes to see who it was, but they were silhouetted in the sun, a dark, aimless shape. The hand pressed to her cheek, and Sarah smiled. Their palm was rough and dry, like hers.

Strong arms scooped her up, and Sarah felt herself enveloped by warmth. Her fingers gripped at their clothes, but she didn’t bother to open her eyes again. She knew who it was.

“I’ve got you,” a voice croaked into her ear. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

[nciwch]

“Happy Birthday Ms Deepa...”and other gems from the Sunflower Peacekeeper Classroom

“Happy Birthday Ms Deepa!” said a just turned 4 year old! “How old are you?” “Well,” I said, “let’s say I will not be 53 again.” “But how old are you?” he persisted. “54,” I said. He gasped and looked at his 6-year old sister who I was working with. “You are really old, maybe older than our grandmother.” “Probably,” I said, trying to be as nonchalant as I could without feeling a sense of panic about my age. “No,” said the sister definitively, “you are not as old as our grandmother.” I felt a spark of hope as I looked to this child who was so certain. “How do you know that for sure?’ I asked. “Well, because your skin is still attached to your bones,” she said touching my hand. “See?” she said, “your skin is still connected. When I touch my grandmother’s hand, the skin comes up, it’s not attached to the bones any more. And my grandmother said that was because she was old.” 2 or 3 children had gathered around us now and we were all peering at the back of my un-manicured, unattractive hands. “Oh yeah...,” said the original interrogator and younger grandchild of said grandparent. “I see that. So that means you are not as old as my grandmother.” I was just beginning to preen a little at the thought of my youthful skin when a 5-year old remarked as he was returning to his work, "Maybe she is actually older than their grandma and she shed her old skin like Cornelius (our corn snake) and now she has new skin.” 

It was the last week of May and we were still wearing fleece jackets to go on our hikes. A 4 1/2 year old was battling with the zipper of her fleece jacket and was grumbling under her breath. She was getting increasingly angry and before she lost her composure totally, I knelt down beside her. “I see that you are getting frustrated with your jacket zipper,” I said in a matter of fact voice. “How can I help you?” “Ms Deepa, you cannot help me. Nobody can help me, nobody in the whole wide solar system can.” “Oh...why is that?” “Because my brain is ready for summer and my hands are ready for summer but the world isn’t. For the world it’s still winter. And I am telling my brain to tell my hands to zip up the zipper but it’s not happening. And nobody can make my brain do anything, except me! So it’s no use,” she finished hopelessly. I made myself more comfortable next to her and said, “That’s true...but how about if you give your brain a lesson on how to work the zipper? Just like you are giving a zipper frame lesson to a friend?” She looked at me with skepticism. “No harm trying,” I said. She took a deep breath and then silently, and almost in slow motion, she gives her brain a PERFECT lesson on the zipper dressing frame. And she pulls up the zipper successfully. She pauses briefly and then she looks straight into my eyes, smiles and says, “Wow...I am such a great teacher!” And leaves to confront the world which wasn’t yet ready for summer.

A couple of weeks before school closed, I shared with  our community at gathering time that it was time to let Yertelle, our 14-16 year old red eared slider turtle, go. She had not been eating for over 3 weeks and the vet had recommended releasing her into a large pond she had. She said after the summer, we could get a turtle from her pond for our classroom but there was no guarantee it would be our Yertelle. I explained this to  the children and how it would be difficult to identify our Yertelle from all the other turtles in the pond. Arms shot up with solutions to the problem : writing “Sunflower Peacekeeper Turtle with Permanent marker on her shell; painting her shell with glitter, painting her name on her shell..were some of them. I encouraged them to say goodbye to her over the next few days and they did. One 3 year old who barely reached the top of the shelf on which Yertelle’s tank was, stood there looking particularly mournful. I walked over and stood beside him without saying anything. After a few moments he looked at me and said, “I am just staring at Yertelle.” “I see that,” I said. He said, “My mom says I never forget anything. So I am staring and staring at Yertelle so I won’t forget how she looks.”    

“Ms Deepa, are you going to India again in the summer?” asked a 6 year old. “Yes, I am,” I said. “Are you visiting your mom and dad?” “Yes, I am.” “Are you going to eat your favorite spicy food?’ he asked. “Oh, absolutely, I am really looking forward to it.” “Are you going to visit your grandma’s house?” “Why, yes!” I exclaimed. “You must have an elephantine memory!” He walks away with a wide, pleased smile on his face. Minutes later, I overhear him telling a 4 year old, “ Ms Deepa’s going to India in the summer and she is visiting her mom and dad and her grandma and she is going to eat her favorite spicy food.” Asks the impressed 4 year old, “How do you know this?” Without missing a beat he says, “Because she does the same thing every summer...and I remember everything because I have an elephant in my memory.”     

I was sitting with a 3 year old as he was eating his lunch with gusto. “I loooove seaweed. I just love it so much.” “I see that,” I said. “It’s really healthy.” He stops chewing, tilts his head and looks at me. “Healthy for my body?” “Yes, it helps your body cells stay strong and healthy.”  “I may even get super powers,” he says. “Ms Deepa, did you know my dad has superpowers?” I widened my eyes and gasp and say, “Really? I had no idea...how do you know that?” Between chomps of seaweed he recounts: “One time we went to a restaurant and my dad and mom ordered some drinks. My dad had a blue drink and it had smoke coming out of it and he drank it and it did not even burn his mouth.” “Wow,” I said, “that is really an unusual skill to have.” “No, it’s not a skill. It’s a superpower.”  

I am walking with a just turned 5 year old and asking about her brother who may be joining our classroom next year. “How is he doing?” I ask. “He is getting ready for the Sunflower Peacekeeper classroom. He is getting potty training, “ she states. “Oh what does that mean? What does potty training mean?” “Well,” she explains patiently, “we are training the potty to catch his pee and his poop. And every time it catches his pee, we both get one m and m, and every time it catches his poop, we get 2.”

“Good morning,” I say brightly as I unbuckle a very articulate and talkative 4 year old. “And how are you on this fine morning?” He looks me straight in the eye and says with great emphasis and conviction, “Ms Deepa, don’t EVER go near a skunk. Okay? Or a beaver.” And then in the same breath, as he hops out of the car, “Bye dad!”  

On the last  day of school, a 3 year old comes to me as he is leaving and gives me a hug. He softly says, “Thanks for a great year.“ I sit back on my knees, taken aback by this rather grown-up statement. Then he gives a little embarrassed laugh and says, “I don’t know what that means but my mom said to say that.” I give him a hug back and say, “Thank YOU for a great year. That means you made my school year a happy one and one I will not  forget.”  

[wildefiction]

Of Course...Mr. Collins

TWENTY-THREE

The rest of the week passed quickly as you finalized plans for the southern California convention taking place the first weekend of December. When you'd asked what would happen once the convention circuit finished for the year, Misha had reminded you that he was in the middle of filming season thirteen, and that it was likely the two of you would be spending a substantial part of the next several months in Vancouver. Although since he lived so close he often came home on the weekends, so he assured you would have some down time. Not that you minded, spending a bunch of time with your prohibitively sexy boss who you also happened to be sleeping with? It was a no-brainer.

Thursday morning dawned chilly, a cold wind and drizzling rain pelted the worn shingles of your roof. Drawing the Venetian blinds open filled the living room with a grey light and you smiled as your cats appointed themselves door guardians, keeping a wary eye on the crows who enjoyed taunting them from the deck.

Padding into the kitchen you set to work gathering the materials to make cheesecake. It was your favorite dessert, and you saved the lengthy process for the holidays. Reaching up to the top shelf of your cupboards required a step stool, as even on tiptoes the mixing bowls eluded you. Whoever had designed the kitchen failed to realize that putting cupboards above the dishwasher made them out of reach for all but the tallest people.

Straining for the stack of glass bowls occupied your attention. Just as you got a good grip on the lip of one your phone rang. Looking around you in search of the source quickly revealed that you'd left the device on the couch. By the sounds of the muffled tone, it had slid between the cushions. Setting the bowls on the counter you ran into the adjacent room, just catching the call before it went to voicemail.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Collins.” Groaning, Misha sighed on the other end of the call. “You're lucky I need you Ms. [Y/L/N], otherwise you'd be in serious need of an attitude adjustment.” 

The gravelly admonishment made you flush, a crimson heat pooling through your belly. Clearing his throat, your boss quickly changed the subject. 

“So, ahh, I hate to do this but..do you think you could come help us in the kitchen? I may have bitten off more than I could chew with this menu.” 

You were about to tell him you'd be happy to, but he continued, hastily adding that you could bring your sister if you wanted to and that he'd give you a bonus if you'd save his ass. Laughing through the line, you agreed - on the condition that you could bring dessert. “Thanks [Y/F/N], you really are a lifesaver.”

You weren't about to turn down more time with Misha, the salary boost was just an added bonus. He need never know that you had planned on spending the day stuffing your face with cheesecake; deciding to forego the big spread when you realized you'd be spending the holiday alone had saved you a lot of time and money.

Gathering all of the ingredients into a grocery tote along with several mixing bowls, your biggest springform pan and the fresh fruit used for garnish, you moved into your room to change. The bright blue fleece pajama pants littered with sheep that you currently wore didn't exactly feel right.

Not wanting to overdo things, you decided on a pair of soft, plum colored leggings and a form-fitting black tunic top, the hem falling just a few inches past the curve of your thighs. Pulling knee-high, oatmeal colored wool socks on before lacing up your pair of soft leather boots completed the outfit. Spreading a thick layer of dark eyeliner on to accompany the purple and black smokey-eye was just enough to tie everything together, your [Y/E/C] irises framed by the heavier makeup.

Pulling a brush through your long [Y/H/C] hair was enough, you knew if you were cooking that a fancier hairstyle wouldn't last long anyhow.

The highway held few cars, making the drive pass quickly. Pulling into Misha’s neighborhood, you were surprised by the number of cars parked both in his driveway and lining the street. Knocking on the heavy front door left you standing on the porch for a few minutes. After several tries,  you squeezed the handle, and finding it unlocked, let yourself in.

The maelstrom that greeted you was intense. West chased Tom and Shep through the house while JJ sat on the plush rug of the living room and stacked blocks with Maison. Gen and Daneel reclined together on the overstuffed sofa, glasses of red wine clutched in their hands, chatting as they kept a watchful eye on the girls. Rather than being overwhelmed, you felt like part of the family, a smile passing over your face as you took in your surroundings and made your way to the kitchen.

Vicki stood behind the cool marble covered island that dominated the center of the room. The sharp knife in her hand sliced through vegetables with ease. Seeing you walk in, she lowered the blade, and, wiping her hands on the half apron tied around her waist; enveloped you in a bone crushing hug. 

“[Y/F/N]! Thank you so much for coming to help with dinner...you know how Misha can be.” Thinking back to the first night you’d met the Collins’, you rolled your eyes and laughed. “So, what scheme has he thought of this time?” 

Lifting your bags up onto the counter, your [Y/E/C] eyes widened in shock at the thick piece of cardstock Vicki handed across her work station. 

“He..he actually made a menu?” “Where is our host anyhow?” Vicki snorted under her breath in mild amusement, motioning vaguely over her shoulder with the knife she’d taken up to finish her task.

Turning your attention to the set of double french doors behind her, you wandered across the cool wooden floor and looked through the glass. Misha, Jared and Jensen were all huddled around a large grill, where two twenty-pound turkeys were trussed and stuffed with herbs; slowly turning over the open flame. Jared noticed you first as you leaned against the oak door frame, impressed at their dedication. 

“Why am I not surprised that you are actually roasting turkeys over an open fire?” Jensen held up his hands and backed away from the heat, shaking his head while he tilted an amber bottle to his lips.

“Not me, Jared and I are giving him shit. There’s no way Misha can do this and have them finish before next year. We’re taking bets on how long it’ll take until we get to eat.” 

“Supervising, you might say..” Jared quipped as he moved to wrap his arms around you in greeting.

Misha’s attention finally rose from the spit and his eyes met [Y/F/N], a slow smile twisting over his face at the woman standing in his doorway. She looked amazing; a glass of wine in her hand as she smiled back at him, an amused expression on her face. 

“Well boys, have fun out here in the cold. I’m going back inside to surround myself with beautiful women...and cheesecake.” A torrent of wind off of the bay swirled around you as you stepped back into the warmth of the house.

There was a great deal of work to be done for the two desserts you had promised. Melting white chocolate over a double boiler while simultaneously reducing fresh raspberries into a puree forced you to abandon the glass of merlot Vicki had poured you. With those tasks complete you began assembling the base recipe for the cheesecakes themselves, the onyx monster of a stand mixer working overtime to whip the ingredients together. Crossing the kitchen to pour freshly ground coffee beans into the espresso machine for the tiramisu cheesecake took only a moment, the compelling smell warming you from the inside out.

Two hours later, you pulled the hot desserts from the double ovens set into the wall. Lowering the cakes to cooling racks well out of reach of small hands, you sighed; content. The smell of roasting turkey wafted through the open door when you poked your head outside to check how things were going. Rosemary, thyme and orange married together beautifully, a hint of sage rounding out the bouquet. The smug look on Misha’s face at his success caught your eye, his piercing blue eyes lit with satisfaction, that damning smile of his adding to the heat that burned through you.

Setting the expansive table distracted you well enough. A smaller, square oak table had been set aside just for the kids and you found your mind wandering to how it would feel to have your own child joining the others as they clambered up into their chairs. Shaking your head, you huffed at the thought. You didn’t like children. Mentally berating the biological clock that occasionally screamed at you to procreate, you shoved the idea away from your conscience. You could barely take care of yourself, adding a two-legged little gremlin to the mix wasn’t even a somewhat good idea. Pouring yourself a second glass of wine, you settled into one of the twelve heavy chairs that flocked the stretch of dark wood quickly filling with a myriad of dishes.

Dinner played out as if it were the scene in a hallmark movie. The  food was delicious, Misha spending twenty minutes carving up both turkeys before setting large, oval platters of meat at each end of the table. Tureens filled with mashed potatoes, both sweet and gold sat nestled amongst casseroles of stuffing, whole cranberries lending their beautiful color to the tablescape. Massive biscuits rested in napkin lined baskets; an old recipe handed down to Gen from her grandparents. Misha’s homemade wine flowing freely while the kids enjoyed fresh squeezed lemonade, West excitedly telling anyone who would listen that he’d help make it.

“[Y/F/N], where’s your sister? Did she not want to join us?” Jared’s hazel eyes were warm as they turned to you, his fingers laced with Gen’s. 

“She’s decided to stay in Hawaii for another week, actually.” Vicki’s eyes widened as she realized that you’d planned to be home alone today and she grimaced.

“If Misha hadn’t called you to help, what exactly would you be doing right now?” Shrugging, you swallowed another drink of the fruity liquid in your glass before answering. 

“Probably stuffing myself full of cheesecake and watching movies in my pajamas.” 

“What?! There are at least three food groups in cheesecake, it’s a nice, balanced meal.” 

“I’m not complaining though, this turkey is a-maaaazing Misha.”

After hours spent shopping, prepping and cooking the veritable feast laid out before you, everyone was overfull within thirty minutes. Jared and Jensen herded the children upstairs to change into pajamas and get cleaned up while Daneel, Gen and Vicki cleared the table. Back in the kitchen you pulled the fresh raspberry puree and heavy whipping cream from the refrigerator, spreading the fruit topping evenly across the surface of one of the cheesecakes. White chocolate curls and whole berries decorated the outer ring and sides of the confection. 

Adding the heavy cream to a stainless steel charger produced beautifully fresh cream for the tiramisu cake and, carrying them out to the table gleaned the interest of everyone in the house. A concerned look fell over Jensen’s face as he warred with the idea of whether or not he could fit additional food in his stomach. Laughing, you assured him there was plenty and that he could eat it later. With a curt nod of his head, he and Jared followed Misha back outside and you turned questioning glances to the women sitting around you. 

“It’s become a bit of a tradition when we’re all together to light up the fire pit and disconnect for awhile. C’mon [Y/F/N], you’ll see what we mean.” Vicki’s fingers stretched out to envelope your own as she moved to lift several large blankets from a basket by the door. Tilting her head in invitation, you followed her and the others outside where the boys already sat, the small children clambering up into their father’s laps. As you moved to sit in one of the adirondack chairs huddled near the iron pit of dancing flames, Vicki glared at you. 

“Don’t even think about running off by yourself, you come sit with us. You’re family now, whether you like it or not.”

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

TAGS: @jamielea81 @wings-of-a-raven

[sidespromptblog]

Bottles

Summary: One day when going to check up on Logan, Patton spies bottles lining the logical side's room. Bottles of all various colors and sizes, Logan assures him that they are nothing, but coupled with Logan's odd recent behavior, is everything as it seems? 

“Logan..what are these?”

It’s a calm Tuesday afternoon when Patton pops his head into Logan’s room, he had done so merely to ask the other if he wished to partake in a cute puzzle that Roman had just summoned for him. Truth be told, he had also come up here out of worry as well, the last thing that he wanted for Logan to be working himself to the bone, and the logical side hadn’t come out since breakfast.

However, upon looking inside he couldn’t help but to stop and look in awe, it is the first time that Patton has seen the inside of Logan’s room in some time, and yet despite the fact that it had been a really long while, the change of it still surprised him. Not everything looked different, the glow in the dark stars that Patton had given to Logan many Christmases ago was still stuck on the ceiling and walls. Logan still had his bookshelves put up full of all the books that both he and Thomas had read in the past, and even his Ravenclaw rug was there just as it had always been on the smooth wooden floors.

The only difference that really seemed to stick out was the bottles.

There were dozens of them, all dotting the shelves that Logan had up for years. Yellows, blues, reds, greens, and purples. Primary colors that Patton would have honestly never expected to see in Logan’s room, the logical side had a style, and when he liked his style Patton knew that he liked to stick to it. It was almost blasphemy for him to do anything but that, and yet there were the bottles that were up there as if they had always been up there. Several of them, now that he got a closer look at them had a fine layer of dust on them. They had been here for a while, so how hadn’t he noticed them?

Reaching forward Patton went to pick one of the dusty bottles up, it had a normal thick glass container only with a cork bottling in the strange substance inside.

“Don’t touch them!” Logan quickly snapped, his hand instantly wrapping around Patton’s wrist just as his fingers were about to graze the glass bottle, and the expression on Logan’s face held something that Patton hadn’t seen in...well ever.

Logan’s bottom lip was captured in between his teeth as the logical side chewed on it and his eyes stared back at Patton, just looking into them Patton say something in them, something that felt impossible to grasp as Logan’s eyes drifted away from the moral side’s face. Almost as if he felt ashamed by snapping at Patton in such a way, as he slowly unwrapped his fingers from around the moral side’s wrist leaving Patton to rub at where he had just been touched.

It was the oddest thing ever, but… Logan’s touch was icy cold.

“I apologize for my unwarranted suddenness, but these hold some of my experiments. They can become dangerous if tampered with, and I don’t wish for you to hurt yourself, Patton.” Logan explained, ignoring the way that the yellow bottle off to the side rocked faintly back and forth as he spoke. He was the only one, thankfully, who noticed it moving. “What was it that you interrupted my work for?”

It sounded a lot harsher when he said it like that, but it was too late now, and Logan didn’t give a single hint that his own words had bothered him.

Especially as Patton beamed at him, “You’re forgiven!” The moral side chirped at him the hand dropping from his wrist as he rocked back and forth on his heels like a child all hyped up on sugar. “Do you want to do a puzzle? Roman just summoned one that has a picture of puppies and kittens on it, you look like you could use a break after all.:”

Looking around himself, it suddenly seemed to have dawned on Logan that he was surrounded by his rough drafts of work that he had been working and working on throughout the day. Some even for things weeks in advance, even so though…

“I don’t think that I can pull myself away from my work now, perhaps at a later hour I may come down,” Logan suggested, ignoring the way that the indigo-colored bottle rocked on the shelf above his bed when Patton’s bright smile dimmed to a sad smile, not that Patton would ever admit that it was a sad smile at all. “How about...one more hour?” He instead offered, and in response to the beautiful and sublimely warm smile that was aimed at him and only him, the bright fluorescent pink bottle practically trembled on the shelf next to his collection of Doctor Who DVDs.

“That’s perfect!” Patton’s smile brightened at the promise, it was certainly more than he had expected to get from Logan, and an hour was nothing in compared to the hours he had figured he was going to have to wait. “I’ll make us some lunch while you’re working then.” And as if to tease Logan just a little bit more, Patton leaned in ruffling Logan’s neat slicked back hair. Releasing the curls that Logan so meticulously tried to constantly keep in place, but Patton liked it this way, it was adorable to see the curls flopping in Logan’s face. He wished that he could see Logan like this more often, but he knew that wishing for miracles when it came to Logan was like wishing for Roman to use a little less glitter when it came to anything. It wasn’t going to happen.

So ignoring the scoff from Logan as the logical side immediately went to straighten his hair, Patton turned darting from the room like the childish fifth grader who had just pulled the pigtails of the girl he liked. Slamming the door on his way out.

The bottle on the shelf closest to the door rocked almost mockingly in response to the sudden and rather violent action.

A bright yellow one, the same color as the sunflowers that Roman had once summoned on Patton’s birthday tipped, the curved bottom of the bottle no longer stable as it started to fall from the edge.

Panic and fear wasn’t normally something that Logan allowed himself to feel, but at that moment, with his messed up hair forgotten, caution was thrown to the wind. As he stumbled at first, jerking his body into action before he suddenly dove for the bottle watching it fall. As the seconds, at first, seemed all too slow before they suddenly sped up again, everything was happening way too fast now.

Especially as the bottle thumped against the end of his fingers propelling it away from his hand and into the wall, the moment it cracked Logan felt it rather than saw it. The moment it broke it felt like someone had shoved a javelin of feelings right into his chest, just to twist it around in order to make the experience as painful as he possibly could. His glasses fell off of his face when he landed although that was the last thing he cared around as he scrambled over, reaching for the bottle, even though he already knew what the end result was.

A long crack ran through the entirety of the bottle, and the bright color that was once been inside was now gone. To top it off, he ached, his chest ached like nothing he had ever felt before. The bottle tumbled from his numb hands and before Logan knew it, he was grasping at his chest, his mouth open as he gasped for air, only he couldn’t bring himself to make his lungs actually work. His mouth was open and when he opened his eyes again he saw the blurry surface of the floor as he stared blankly out, only it didn’t end there either. As his muscles twitched and spasmed, as if an electric shock had been forced through them at an impossibly high voltage.

It doesn’t hurt.

I don’t have feelings.

They didn’t hurt me.

I don’t feel lonesome for being left out.

Words are just words, so therefore what he said couldn’t hurt me.

I’m needed.

I’m wanted.

I’m necessary.

The one lie he hadn’t told himself was true, it hurt a hell of a lot more putting it all back in than it had putting those damned emotions and those lies in the bottles.

Tagged: 

@ doodlerodoodlez

@goofigami

@seas-space-and-stardust

@blue-wolfbane

@estraevelyn

@ l0lli

@moonstonefox12

[hourglassmermaid]

or read chapter 4 on ao3

Alec can’t sleep. He hoped that after running across half the city, his bones would grow as heavy as his heart and sleep would come easy, but nothing ever goes how Alec wants. He tosses and turns all night, forcing himself not to think about Jace or his parents or the look on Magnus’ face when he reached out to Alec and Alec let him go — like a coward. Every time he feels himself slipping into unconsciousness, his stamina rune pulses, and it’s like he just drank 50 espresso shots simultaneously, and the torturous cycle repeats.

When 5:00 AM rolls around, Alec’s alarm blares to awaken him from a sleep he never experienced. Alec whacks his fist down to silence it, already showered and dressed, before heading out the door. He’s about half a block away from Starbucks when he realizes his glamour rune is active, so the barista won’t be able to see him.

“Dammit,” he swears, and a jogger removes her headphones and looks around, startled.

He scrubs over his face with his palm and makes his way back to the Institute. Izzy’s going to be testy without her pumpkin spice latte, but there’s nothing Alec can do to quiet his runes. He’s tried every trick he knows with his stele already.

Well, there is something Alec can do, but he’s not going there.  

He makes a pot of coffee in the Institute kitchen, even though he knows it won’t be as good as the Americano he was craving. He decides to try bribing Izzy with a cheese danish, but when he goes to grab the box from the top shelf, he overshoots and bumps his head on the ceiling, feeling a burst of energy at his agility rune.

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath, but the pain fades a moment later as his iratze rune soothes the ache. Alec narrows his eyes. He’s getting tired of this.

As the day goes on, Alec grows more and more frustrated. He sweats bullets under the thick layers of clothing he wears to try and hide his golden runes, because apparently even the New York weather patterns are conspiring against him today. But he can’t shed a single layer, can’t risk someone seeing. They’ll know immediately, and Alec won’t survive the questions. He’ll drown.

His eyes glaze over as he tries to concentrate on the page in front of him. He’s been reading and rereading the same paragraph for the last fifteen minutes and absorbing nothing. It might as well be a report on Jace streaking through the ops centre for all Alec knows.

He sighs and pushes away from his desk. He can’t sleep. He can’t focus. He might as well train with all of this nervous energy.

He changes into a pair of thick joggers and throws a bulky hoodie on over his layers, careful to keep his runes hidden beneath the fabric. He steps into the training room and hesitates in the doorway as he spots a familiar mop of golden hair on the sparring mat.

Jace lands blow after blow on the punching bag at the center of the room. He practices his left hook, even though his form has always been flawless. Normally, training with Jace is the best part of Alec’s day, but today he’d rather walk across a minefield than face him.

His eyes dart from Jace to the hallway and back to Jace. He hasn’t spotted Alec yet. Alec can still escape, try and avoid Jace for the rest of his life. It’s a solid option. Except it isn’t. Jace has to know something’s wrong. Their parabatai rune has been fucked up for hours, and Jace may be dense sometimes, but he’s not oblivious. He knows.

Alec bites at his lower lip, sucks in a breath, and clings to his fleeting bravery as he steps into the center of the room.

Jace jolts backwards when he finally spots Alec. “By the Angel, you scared me. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Alec grips at the soundless rune on his wrist through the cotton fabric of his sweatshirt. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to.”

Jace studies Alec’s face, eyes tracing over him. Alec’s heart hammers in his chest as if he were on a hunt, and he might as well be, given the circumstances. Alec avoids his gaze, too overwhelmed at being caught in Jace’s scrutiny.

After the longest beat in recorded history, Jace asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Alec lies, still not making eye contact.

“Are you sure?” There’s a concerned — instead of accusatory — lilt to his voice, which is far better than Alec hoped for. “Things got… weird last night.”

“You mean besides you almost breaking the Accords?” Alec tries for banter, for normalcy. The longer he can pretend the better.

Jace rolls his eyes, and relief washes over Alec at being released from his gaze. “You ran out on us last night, and then we couldn’t track you. We were worried about you. Did you activate your deflect rune or something?”

Alec instinctively grabs at the prominent rune on his neck, the sleeve of his sweatshirt sliding down as he shifts. Jace spots the golden light pouring from his skin. He stumbles backwards, pointing at Alec with his mouth agape. As soon as Alec realizes his mistake, he slaps his wrist to close the pocket. He grips his wrist so hard it starts to ache. Doesn’t matter, though. His iratze will kick in, in 3… 2… 1… and a second too early.

He’s too late. Jace has already noticed, and he won’t let it go.

“I want an answer, goddammit!” he says. “What the hell happened last night?”

Alec sighs. There’s no point in hiding anymore. He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie.

“Fuck,” he hears Jace breathe.

Shimmering sunbeams stream from Alec’s runes, shooting out in all directions and colliding against the walls of the training room in a prism of light.

“I met my fated last night,” Alec says as if that weren’t obvious.

“I can see that,” Jace says. “Congrats, man. Who is sh— are they?” He’s quick to correct himself.

Alec rolls down his sleeves, smoothing out the fabric, and plops down on the floor. He’s not sure he can manage to say the words standing. “Magnus Bane.”

“Holy shit.” Jace runs his fingers through his hair and joins Alec on the floor. “Are you kidding me?”

“Do you honestly think I’d joke about something like this?”

When Alec was younger, his mom used to tell him and his siblings bedtime stories about how someday they’d meet their fated, the person handpicked for them by Raziel himself to be their perfect companion. Alec used to dream about meeting them — that perfect complement, his other half. He yearned for that partnership crafted from fate, balance, and a hint of magic.

All Alec’s ever wanted is for someone to love him as fiercely as he loves them.

As Alec grew older and started to have feelings, he started to doubt he even had a soulmate. Why would the Angel find someone for him when what he wanted deep in his heart was wrong?

He had all but given up hoping for a future that was never his, but then a boy waltzed into his life and helped with his archery and taught Alec to believe in himself. For a brief flicker, Alec entertained the idea that Jace might be his someone, but that light went out before it could consume.

Jace knows how important soulmates are to Alec. He’d never joke about this.

“I know,” Jace says. “But fuck, the High Warlock of Brooklyn? Nothing’s ever simple with you, man.”

Alec grimaces. That’s an understatement.

“What are you gonna do?” Jace asks, his voice softening to try and chisel away at Alec’s defenses.

“What can I do?”

Jace swallows hard, and Alec can hear his sharp intake of breath. “You know, you could go visit Magnus—”

Fiery anger twists in Alec’s gut like a vice grip. “How could you even suggest that? Do you have any idea what could happen to me if anyone found out? I could be deruned or—”

“So, what, you’re just gonna live like this forever? Hopped up on stamina and nourishment runes?” Jace gestures at Alec. “It’s almost 70 degrees out, and you look like you’re ready to go bobsledding.”

“It’s not my fault mundanes aren’t fixing global warming,” Alec grumbles. “And it’s not like I’m enjoying this. Every fucking second is like sensory overload, and I can’t make it stop.”  

Jace places a tentative hand on Alec’s shoulder, and Alec suppresses the urge to flinch away from his comfort. “But you can make it stop.”

“Are you not—”

Jace holds up a hand to silence Alec’s protests. “Just hear me out. You don’t need to marry the guy. Just slip over to his place, give him a quick kiss, and you’re free.” Alec opens his mouth to speak, but Jace plows on. “Just because you’re soulmates doesn’t mean you’re obligated to be together.”

Alec’s heard stories about people rejecting their soulmate. Finding them after all that searching only to turn them away like a spoiled child returning a Christmas gift.

Alec feels hollow. This is worse than not having a soulmate — knowing his fated lives and breathes and has a heart that beats in time with his but he can never have them.

He was right. The Angel is punishing him, but it’s so much worse than he imagined.  

“People fall in love with people other than their fated all the time,” Jace continues. “It can happen to you too. You don’t have to be with… Magnus.”

Alec doesn’t like the way Jace’s voice twists when he says Magnus’ name, like it’s a dirty word.

Alec chews on his lower lip, thinking, before he says, “I guess you’re right.”

Jace squeezes Alec’s shoulder. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, but you’ll find someone else. I’m sure of it.”

Alec doesn’t want to admit it, but he won’t, because he’s already found him, and he’s about to walk away.

Alec paces back in forth in front of Magnus’ apartment building. He digs his nails into his palms,  letting the subtle pain keep him from spinning completely out of control before his  rune soothes the ache. He sighs as he glances at his watch, plopping down onto the cool pavement below. He’s been waiting for over an hour, and the only thing he’s relieved is the cramp in his leg.

He gets up and buzzes Magnus’ apartment one last time before he decides that this was pointless and heads back to the Institute. Why he ever thought he could just show up at Magnus Bane’s doorstep unannounced is beyond him. He hears the screech of the ancient buzzer travel through the intercom system, but when he hasn’t been buzzed inside two minutes later, he finally accepts that Magnus isn’t home.

He picks his phone out of his pocket and starts texting Jace to let him know that this plan was a failure when he hears a harmony of laughter crescendo down the street. A woman’s voice blends with a man’s voice that forces Alec’s heart into a sprint. It’s the voice that has been playing in his head on repeat.

“I can’t believe you tipped the bartender $100 for two rounds of cocktails,” the female voice says, growing louder as they approach Magnus’ front steps.

Alec can see them now and panics. His eyes dart around his surroundings, seeking out hiding spaces, but then he remembers why he came and forces himself to project a courage he doesn’t feel an ounce of.

Magnus escorts a woman Alec doesn’t recognize down the street. He pats her arm gently. “She was a student. How else will she pay her rent?”

“You’re too much,” the woman says.

“Too much is my middle name,” Magnus responds with a wink then stops short. “Alexander.”  

Alec can’t breathe. He doesn’t know how Magnus knows his name, but he doesn’t care. He just knows that he never wants to stop hearing Magnus say it. Which is exactly why he has to end this before he makes a decision he can’t take back.

Alec swallows and tries to emulate all of the false confidence Jace is a master of parading around. “Magnus. Can we talk?”

Magnus and the woman he’s with exchange a look, and it appears as though they have a silent conversation. She raises her eyebrows and Magnus pulls a face. Alec gets the impression they’ve been friends for a long time.

“It’s getting late,” she says, “I better head home. Goodnight.”

Magnus says goodnight as she conjures a portal in the alley beside his building. The wind whips and cracks as it’s sucked into the swirling vortex until the portal closes with an abrupt snap, and Magnus and Alec are left in silence.

Alec captures Magnus’ gaze and stares into his brown eyes, but they’re not the same eyes he met at Pandemonium. They’re flatter somehow. No warmth. No depth. Synthetic almost. And Alec’s hit with the realization that they must be contacts, because Magnus is going through the exact same thing he is.

The thought comforts him. Magnus is probably just as eager to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.

Magnus ushers Alec inside his apartment. They climb up a few flights of stairs, taking two steps at a time before arriving in front of an ornate set of double doors. Magnus tries unlocking them with a spark of blue magic, but the blast deflects and shatters an ornate vase down the hall. Magnus pinches the bridge of his nose before fumbling around in his pockets for a key and opening the door the mundane way.

He steps inside, keeping his back to Alec, and immediately sets off towards a drink cart on the other side of the room. The apartment is decorated as lavishly as Alec imagined based on the decor at Pandemonium, but it’s not overly flashy. It’s cozy. Homey. Alec shakes his head. Not his home, but somebody else’s. They really need to get this over with.

“What’s your poison? Gin? Vodka? The blood of fallen demons?” Magnus calls from across the room.

Alec laughs nervously and grips at the back of his neck. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Whiskey on the rocks it is.” Magnus gets to work pouring liquor and clinking glasses. “Make yourself at home.”

Alec takes a seat on the edge of couch. He starts to tug his jacket off but thinks better of it, shrugging it back into place. He won’t be here long.

Magnus hands a drink to Alec. Alec takes a sip and feels a shudder rip through his spine. He coughs as the burn of the alcohol courses through his sinuses. “This is stronger than the stuff they serve at the Institute Christmas party.”

Magnus nods. “That’s what happens when you drink straight liquor, darling.”

Magnus takes a sip of his drink without flinching, but Alec notices now that he’s shaking and the memory of Magnus’ broken voice calling out to him flashes in his mind’s eye.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” Magnus asks.

Alec levels him with a look, and Magnus chuckles into his glass. “Fair enough.”

“I assume you’re having issues as well?”

“I almost charred a client this morning.”

“By accident?” Alec tries to be playful in his nervousness.

Magnus rolls his eyes. “By accident. I’d like to regain control of my magic before my practice’s reputation starts to suffer.”

“And I’d like to deactivate my runes before someone tells my mother, and she starts planning a wedding that won’t happen.”    

Alec winces, and he feels the room go both literally and figuratively colder. Magnus looks at him with a blank expression, considerably more steely than the easy banter they were falling into before Alec fucked it up, but it’s better this way. They can’t get attached.

“Right,” Magnus says, “let’s get this over with.”

Alec wipes his clammy hands on his jeans and tries to steady the drumming of his heart before it bursts from his chest. He crosses over to Magnus and hesitates. Magnus raises an eyebrow in challenge, and Alec takes the bait.

"This doesn't mean anything," Alec says before grabbing a fistful of Magnus' shirt and crashing their lips together.

A symphony of sensation explodes when their lips meet. The soft, addicting heat lights each of Alec's nerve endings on fire, simultaneously extinguishing each of his overactive runes in the sweetest mixture of relief and desire he’s ever felt.

Magnus’ lips are plush and warm and soft in all of the ways Alec imagined but also so much more. He melts into the kiss, losing himself in the feeling. Magnus tangles his fingers in Alec’s hair, urging them closer together and a shiver ripples down Alec’s spine. He parts his mouth, reveling in the wet, hot feeling of Magnus’ lips against his.

Magnus grazes his teeth against Alec’s lower lip, and Alec tries his best to suppress a groan from the back of his throat. Magnus’ body goes rigid, and he pushes Alec away suddenly.

Alec blinks back into reality and presses a finger to his lips when they part, the phantom touch of Magnus’ lips still igniting all of his senses.

“Get out,” Magnus says.

Alec yanks his hand down to his side. “What?”

Magnus snaps his fingers, and this time, his front door swings wide open. “My magic’s back to normal, and your runes have quieted down. You got what you came for, so get out.”

Alec nods before making his leave. He hovers in the doorway and takes a final glance at Magnus. He can’t suppress the feeling that he’s making a horrible mistake, but he still walks out the door.

[mariepothos13]

Samara & the Dragon

Your village has been throwing bones and other artifacts into a giant sinkhole as a means of appeasing whatever lies below. One day, you venture down into the abyss and find all of the bones and artifacts neatly arranged on shelves carved out of the walls.

Tag your responses with #wordsnstuff

“He’s where?”

“He’s in the sinkhole,” Ian sneered. Samara gaped at him. Silas was in the sinkhole?

Ian took her silence to continue, “I told him that there was gold at the bottom and that he could use it to pay off your family’s debts.” Samara reeled backward, feeling the an icy tendril of fear sneak down her spine. Silas had heard her and their mother discussing their debts a few nights ago. He had asked if there was anything he could do, but what could a 10 year old boy do? Samara clenched her jaw, she knew exactly what her brother would do.

“Hold this, give it to my mother,” she hurriedly told Mrs. Keppler, the shopkeeper and she pushed her way out the door. Samara began running through the streets of the market, ducking and dodging over people and the Saturday morning wares. She could hear people yelling after her, but she kept her focus on getting to the outskirts of town.

The sinkhole had always been by her village, for as long as Samara could remember. Most people believed that something lived in the depths of the hole, hiding in the shadows. Samara had rolled her eyes, thinking that if anything lived in the hole, it would have made an appearance once in her 18 years of life. No, Samara had always told herself, the sinkhole was just full of scary stories and legends used to scare children at night. Each month the entire village would appear at the edge of the sinkhole and each family would have to make a sacrifice. Throwing in bones, gold and silver pieces, gemstones and goblets, bread and meat, or whatever they could give. Many families suffered because of this ancient tradition, sometimes having to go without food or gold to pay their debts. Samara’s did.

More than once, Samara found her family scrounging to find something to throw into the hole. Anything of value was acceptable, and Samara remembered the day her mother had to throw in her wedding ring into the hole. That had been a horrible day.

Samara skidded to a halt at the top of the sinkhole, just beyond the platform. She dropped to her stomach, crawling to the edge. She took a breath and screamed into the void, “Silas!” She heard nothing but her own screams, terrified bouncing back at her.

She sat up nervously, chewing her lip. It was very likely that Ian was lying to her. He hated her and her family. She should go back into town and check at home for Silas. Samara stood up, dusting off her tunic and turned to head back to town.

But what if he’s down there, a voice whispered in her head. Samara groaned and glanced around. She ripped off a piece of her tunic and wrapped it around a branch lying on the ground. Striking her flint together, she caught the end of the stick on fire and turned back to the platform.

The platform had a set of rickety stairs on the left side, snaking their way around the edge of the sinkhole into the darkness below. Samara took a deep breath and started down the stairs, creaking and groaning underneath her. She hugged the smooth dirt wall, trying to stay as far away from the edge of the stairs as she could as she made her way down into the pit.

Samara descended down, further and further into the darkness, praying that Silas was not at the bottom and that all her efforts would be in vain. After five minutes of walking down the stairs, Samara made it to the second platform. This one was the same size, but attached was a wooden ladder that continued into the abyss below. Cupping one hand around her mouth, Samara shouted again, “Silas!”

She heard no reply.

Samara steeled herself and began climbing down the ladder. Her efforts were slowed by the torch she still held, casting her shadow on the walls. Several minutes later, Samara felt her feet touch the floor of the hole and she let go of the ladder. She held the flame aloft and saw that she was at the mouth of what appeared to be a large tunnel.

Samara squinted down the passage, seeing nothing in the inky blackness. She made her way over to the right side of the tunnel and noticed about halfway up the wall was a lantern. Samara took a step back and peered up at the lantern, which looked fairly dinged up and battered. I definitely can’t reach it, which isn’t great, Samara thought to herself. Looking up and down the tunnel, Samara noticed more lanterns, some of the same design and some completely different. A mismatched set, Samara thought distantly to herself.

But something deliberately hung them up there, a thought whispered in her mind. Samara froze. Those lanterns looked fairly new, possibly a few years old at the most. And something chose to hang them in the tunnel. Samara could feel her heartbeat quicken and her breaths become shallow. The legends were true, something lived down in the hole.

Samara stumbled back to the ladder and began scrambling back up, when she remembered, Silas. She stopped climbing and forced herself to calm down. Her little brother could be in this cavern. He could be past the tunnel. He could be stuck, hiding from the thing that lived here. Silas could be alone and scared and in the dark.

Samara rolled her shoulders and began climbing back down the ladder. Almost abandoning Silas, what were you thinking, she berated herself. Her feet touched the cool floor again and she took a breath, trying to calm her heart. Samara quickly walked over to the side of the tunnel again and began making her way to the other side.

Maybe it’s just a dead end, she hoped to herself. Maybe it’s just a dead end and Silas won’t be here and I’ll just have to turn around and leave. Samara hesitated as she approached the end of the tunnel. Should I put out the flame, she worried. No, if there’s anything down here, it would have already seen it. Plus, you’ll need it to find Silas. Decision made, Samara walked through the end of the tunnel and into a second, even larger cavern.

She held her flame higher and looked upward but she couldn’t see the ceiling. Samara glanced around the room and saw shelves, dug deeply into the walls of the cave, appearing to have been gouged out by something metal. Shapes crowded the shelves and as Samara walked closer, she realized with growing horror that she recognized the items on the shelves. Everything on the shelves had been thrown in by the village for their monthly sacrifices.

Samara saw the bones that the butcher had thrown in, gleaming and white. She saw the skulls of cattle and sheep that several of the farming families had tossed in. She whipped around and saw shelves of gold and silver pieces, all piled on top of each other in neat stacks. There were stacks of fabrics the seamstress, Anna, had given up and a golden cup that was once the pride of the Miller family. Everything was placed carefully, almost reverently, on the shelves.

Heart pounding, Samara backed into one of the shelves and heard the soft clinks of jewelry. She whirled around, braid thumping against her back as her eyes fell upon the shelf. There were rings, bracelets, and necklaces lining the shelf and then Samara saw it. Her mother’s wedding ring. She picked it up and held it closer to get a better look.

“Child,” a velvety voice came from behind her, “Put down my treasure.”

Samara shrieked and whipped around and came face to face with,

“A dragon!” She yelped.

Two giant yellow cat like eyes viewed her steadily, “Put down my treasure, human. I will not ask again,” the dragon said calmly.

“Stay back,” Samara yelled, holding her torch in front of her.

The dragon reared back, offended, “You dare to come into my cave, touch my treasure, and threaten me? I think not,” the dragon growled, tail slithering towards her.

“Don’t touch me,” Samara shrieked, waving her torch near the tail that was slowly slipping up her legs. Slowly encasing her legs and torso, squeezing her ribcage. “I’m,” she gasped for air, “just here for my brother.”

“Foolish,” the dragon snarled, as black crept into Samara’s vision. “You are the only human here.”

Samara awoke, blinking heavily, staring up at a rocky ceiling. There were mismatched lanterns surrounding the room casting light into this third cavern. Samara pushed herself up, feeling the aches of laying on a cave ground deep in her bones. The dragon was nowhere in sight, as Samara scanned the room. There were three tunnels leading from the cavern and Samara realized with dread that she did not know which one would lead back to the staircase.

“Are you awake, thief? ” came a voice from one of the tunnels. Samara scrambled to her feet, her head pounding. The dragon’s head came into view,

“Where’s Silas,” Samara demanded, “Where’s my brother?”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed, “You do not listen. You are the only human I have seen in my cave in years. Decades, even.”

Samara’s heart sank. Silas wasn’t here; he was never here. Ian had lied to her and now she was trapped in the cave with a dragon. A dragon who was now fully in the cavern with her and was watching her intently.

“I think,” the dragon rumbled, “We should make a deal, tiny thief.”

“A deal,” Samara repeated.

“Because you stole from me,” the dragon said, its mouth curling into what appeared to be a smile, “You will work for me and pay off your debt.”

“What debt,” Samara demanded hotly. “I didn’t steal anything because you caught me and you can’t steal something that belongs to you.”

The dragon blinked, “I could just, eat you, you know,” it said incredulously. “Choose your words carefully.” 

Samara faltered, but then took a breath and said, “What’s the deal?”

Grinning, a row of sharp, shiny, and rather large teeth, the dragon rumbled, “I need someone to help me. I would like to catalog my hoard, but writing is rather difficult with these,” the dragon gestured with its large talons. “Someone to cook, and to clean,” the dragon appeared to smirk, “a maid really.”

“A maid,” Samara said blankly.

“Would you prefer the term slave,” the dragon hissed.

Samara grimaced, “No, maid is fine,” she acquiesced.

“Excellent,” the dragon clicked its jaw shut and then began to turn around to head off down one of the corridors. “Come along, thief, I have much to show you.”

“I am not a thief,” Samara muttered, but took off after the dragon’s tail. ||| She followed the dragon down the large tunnel, watching the deep green tail sway in front of her.

“You will stay in the human chamber,” the dragon called back over its shoulder. “It hasn’t been used in decades so you may need to dust it.” When Samara didn’t answer, the dragon craned its head around to her, “Human,” the dragon paused. “Human, what do I call you,” the dragon inquired.

“Samara,” she muttered, looking at the floor. She heard the dragon’s tail slither, and suddenly felt her chin being lifted up. Samara found herself staring into large, yellow eyes.

“You will look at me when we speak,” the dragon stated. “It is polite and that is how we will hold all of our conversations.” Samara thinned her lips and nodded her agreement. The dragon inclined its head, “My name is Lyra.”

“So you’re a girl dragon,” Samara blurted. Dread washed down her spine, Lyra was sure to eat her now.

Lyra watched her and a grin seemed to spread across her face, “I am a girl. Very astute of you, Samara.” She turned back down the hallway and mentioned with her tail for Samara to follow her.

Samara released a breath of relief; Lyra hadn’t seemed to be offended. If anything more amused by her outburst. ||| The pair walked in silence for a few moments before it occurred to Samara that there was a human chamber in the cave. Clearly there had been humans before her, so where were they now?

“Um,” Samara said, “Lyra?”

“Yes?” the dragon replied over its shoulder.

“So, were there other humans before me?”

“Of course, but not for some time,” Lyra replied easily.

“Alright,” Samara said, “and, uh, where are they now?”

“I didn’t eat them, if that’s what you’re implying,” Lyra said haughtily. “I sent them away. It was quite some time ago and either way, I much prefer to be alone.”

“Why?” Lyra questioned, being alone in a dark cave sounded horrible with only yourself for company.

“I have my books,” Lyra reasoned, “and besides that, I am the smartest creature for miles. There is no one worthy of my intellectual debates.”

Samara rolled her eyes, of course she would get stuck with a pretentious dragon. This could not have been worse. The pair rounded another corner and the dragon led Samara into another large cavern. The smell of dried fruit and meat reached Samara’s nose and she looked up to see hundred of parcels of food hanging from clearly man-made rafters.

“Lyra, who made those?” Samara questioned looking up in wonder. The rafters were large enough for a person to walk across, making it easy for her to hoist up any food that she wanted with ease. A ladder ran up at the end of each rafter and Samara marveled at the genius of the system. It was clear that Lyra could easily reach up and eat whatever she wanted, the rafters were right at her head. But the consideration of humans was what stood out to Samara the most.

“It was a young man named,” Lyra paused, tilting her head in thought. “Thackery? I think his name was Thackery.” She stepped farther into the room, “He was with me for many years and was a carpenter I believe. Before him, the food just lay on the ground and a lot of it went bad before I could eat it.” Lyra gazed fondly at the rafters, “Thackery was a wonderful companion.”

Samara looked at Lyra, confused, “I don’t know of any Thackery who came by here recently. When was he here with you?”

“I’ll admit it was quite some time ago,” Lyra said slowly. “What year is it?” she inquired curiously.

“It’s the twentieth year of the third century,” Samara said.

“Ah, so Thackery was here about,” Lyra paused, seemingly counting the years in her head, “two hundred years ago.”

“Two hundred years ago?” squeaked Samara, “But that’s so long ago!”

Lyra smiled toothily, “Well, I am rather old.”

Samara winced, but Lyra didn’t seem to notice and continued her way down the large tunnel. “Wait, companion,” Samara realized, “You mean to tell me that he came here willingly? And you let him stay?”

“People use to travel for miles to work for a dragon. It proved that you were incredibly competent and it was excellent to have a dragon recommend you for a position,” Lyra explained over her shoulder. “And Thackery never stole from me,” she added, side-eying Samara.

“I didn’t steal from you,” Samara groaned exasperatedly. “I was trying to take back my mom’s wedding ring. She had to give it up a few months ago to appease you.”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed, “That was a choice she made, Samara. The ring is mine now and it stays down here.” The pair angrily glared at each other until Samara felt too uncomfortable to continue.

“Either way,” Samara said, swinging her eyes away, “I didn’t technically steal because you caught me.”

“Fine,” Lyra huffed, turning back to the doorway to continue down the hallway, “Come along then, attempted thief.” Samara grumbled, but followed the dragon down the hallway. “Your duties will include cataloging my hoard,” Lyra said over her shoulder. “I have trouble writing with these,” she explained, holding up a claw and clacking the long talons together. “So, you will write down everything I own and how many of each thing that I have.”

Samara’s forehead wrinkled in concern, the hoard had been huge. The shelves had lined the large cavern and in some places the shelves reached the ceiling. It would take her quite some time to catalogue everything.

“You will hang up and dry any food that is given to me,” Lyra was continuing, “And obviously, feel free to eat what you need.” Surprised, Samara started, she had assumed she would need to beg for food or even steal it, and live up to Lyra’s insistence that she was a thief. “However,” Lyra said, interjecting her thoughts, “if you get a vegetable, bring it to me immediately.”

“Uh, okay. Why?”

Lyra craned her elongated neck around to look Samara in the eyes. “I haven’t had a carrot for a very long time,” the dragon said solemnly. “They are my favorite thing to eat and I rarely receive them anymore.”

Samara stared at the dragon, looking for a sign that the creature was joking. “Are you serious?”

“Terribly,” Lyra said mournfully.

“Okay, because a rumor went around when I was a child that the creature in the pit didn’t want vegetables.”

Lyra’s head snapped back as if she had been struck. “But I love vegetables,” she cried.

Samara giggled helplessly, shrugging at Lyra, “Yeah, there were weeks when all I ate were vegetables because we had given you all of our fruits and meat and we couldn’t afford anything else.”

Lyra sat down with a heavy thump and appeared to be pouting, if Samara didn’t know any better. “I love vegetables,” Lyra said, clearly pouting.

“When I leave, I will let everyone know,” Samara promised, mentally rolling her eyes. There were days when she, Silas, and her mother didn’t eat because of the tribute rules and this dragon was pouting because she didn’t received her favorite food.  

Lyra seemed to consider this before swinging herself up and heading into the next room. “Yes, please do that,” she instructed, her head already in the other room. Samara jogged to catch up and walked into the room. This was clearly the human quarters, Samara assumed, looking at the bed and basin.   ||| There was a trunk at the foot of the bed where Samara assumed she would put her things. Then she remembered she hadn’t brought anything and sighed.

The dragon swiveled her head around the room, “This is where you will stay.” Lyra paused, narrowing her yellow eyes at the room, “It hasn’t been cleaned in awhile though. You may need to do that in your spare time.” 

Samara internally groaned as she gazed around the room. There did seem to be a layer of dust and grime coating everything, included the blankets on the bed. It would take her hours to clean everything off and she didn’t even have any cleaning supplies.

“Is there water down here,” she asked suddenly, turning to Lyra.

“Just around the corner there’s an underground pool with a tiny stream,” Lyra replied. “You can use it for bathing and drinking,” she paused, and wrinkled her snout, “but not at the same time because that would be gross.”

“Well, obviously,” Samara huffed at the dragon. Lyra blinked at her a few times and then swiveled her head around.

“Well, goodnight, attempted thief,” she called over her shoulder, as she made her way out of the room. “I am going to bed and I will see you in the morning. You can begin your work then after we eat.”

Samara grimaced at the dragon’s green tail as it followed her out of the room. She turned and looked around the small cavern. The bed didn’t seem too dusty, Samara thought as she approached it. She tugged on the corner of the blanket and a small cloud of dust rose up. Coughing, Samara turned her head and yanked the blanket off the bed. She dragged it into the hall and began shaking it.

Okay, Samara thought to herself, okay. You’re in a dragon’s lair. You can find the way out. You know she’s asleep, Samara paused, stilling the blanket. She listened intently down the hallway, trying to scope out if she could hear any movement around the bend. All was silent.

You think she’s asleep, Samara amended to herself, returning to shaking the blanket. So, think of a plan. Make a plan. Get back home and find Silas and tell everyone what’s really down here. Samara inspected the blanket; it looked clean enough. 

[panda-noosh]

Hi love, I found your blog absolutely amazing! I squealed at the L and the kitten story. If you're not too busy, could you write something fluffy and a little bit smutty for Mello and his shy female s/o? If you're ok with this that is.

Enjoy!

   It was exam seasonin Wammy's House, and tensions were high.

   Placing a pile ofchildren who each had an IQ above genius level in one house wasalready a risk in itself. Competition was everywhere. Nobody gotalong.

   Placing the verysame children in one house, and then ordering them to do vital examswas a whole other risk in itself. It was like the Hunger Games. Itwas like sending somebody off to their death.

   You were determinedfor that somebody to not be you, meaning you had locked yourself inthe orphanage library for the past two weeks, your head tucked awayin a textbook.

   You had always beengood at absorbing information, though you were more of a hacker thananything else. Still, you did well with maths, English and scienceand any other subjects Roger threw at you when he felt like youweren't doing enough. Yet you stayed firm to your roots – hackingwas your expertise, and everybody knew it.

   You workedalongside Mail Jeevas, mostly. You and him were a good team when youwanted to be, though you were still rivals. Rivals more than friends,anyway. You spent a good portion of your time trying to outdo him ineverything, and he did the same to you.

   It didn't stop youfrom being an unbeatable duo, though.

   You groan as thefifth hour of your study session rolls around, tugging the headphonesfrom your ear and running your hands through your hair. The mathsRoger had given to you was becoming too much, a series of formulaswhich were slowly moulding into nothingness the longer you tried tounderstand them. This seemed to be the hardest academic year yet, andyou hadn't understood a lot of what was given to you.

   “Somebody havingissues?” you hear somebody say to the left of you. Immediately yourface flushes, your mild social anxiety and PTSD flaring up at thelowness of the voice.

   Your head snaps tothe left, clicking with the leather-clad Mihael Keehl. Mello.

    “What are youdoing in the library?” you ask before you can tell yourself not to.

   “Icame to see you.” He smiles as he approached you, setting down abundle of books he had gathered in his arms. “Plus, I'm on shelfstacking duty.”

   “Thatlast one makes more sense,” you chuckle. He nods at your reply,sitting himself down on the edge of the desk you are busy working at.He takes one glance down at your textbook, wrinkles his nose up andshakes his head, clearly displeased with the amount of work you'vedone.

    “Fivehours and you've written down four formulas?”

   Youlook down at the sheet of paper sheepishly, unable to hide the blushforming on your cheeks. “Look, I don't understand it. Not all of uscan have expert level intelligence, okay? I have to work to stayhere.”

   “What?Roger threatened to kick you out?”

   “Roger'sbeen threatening to kick all of us out,” you grunt. “All of usexcept you and Near. If I don't pass these exams, he's hauling my assonto the street.”

   Mellofrowns. You and him had been in a relationship for only five months,and yet it felt like longer. It felt much longer. Not because it wasbad, or because time moved slowly – you were enjoying every minute,but you had grown up alongside Mello. You had watched him walk up thepath to Wammy's House, minutes after he had walked in on his parentsmutilated bodies. You had watched him have panic attacks in thelounge, watched him be pinned down as he swung his arms at any randomstaff member he could find.

    Youhad watched him become close to you and Matt, watched him becomerivals with Near, watched him build his way to the top – and thatwas where he had stayed. The top. So far up that kicking him out ofWammy's was seen as almost joke-worthy to Roger, who insisted thatneither him nor Near had to face the brutality of exam season.

    “Shit,”Mello grunts, folding his arms over his chest lazily. “I didn'tknow Roger thought so highly of me and Near.”

   Youroll your eyes, picking your pen back up which you had once desertedin the spine of your notebook. “I think it's more of the 'Being L'ssuccessor' thing than anything else.”

    “Lhad you down as one of his successors.”

   “Yeah,fourth in line,” you say. “Matt's third in line, and he's stillseen as scum to Roger. We can't win.”

   Mello'sfrown only deepens. “Don't talk about yourself like that.”

   “I'mnot saying anything that hasn't already been said,” you say,looking up at your boyfriend for a brief moment. He looked mildlyworried in this moment, dark eyes beaming into yours, never lettingyou look away. That was the risk with Mihael Keehl – once you gotsucked in, it was almost impossible to escape.

   “Ithink you're a genius.” His voice has lowered now, and you can seehim slowly sliding across the desk to get closer to you, but youcan't seem to be able to stop him. You don't want tostop him, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't.

   Youlook back at the pile of textbooks in front of you, knowing youshould continue studying but the warmth in the pit of your stomachseems to override every other emotion, and you're looking back up atMello in seconds.

   Assoon as your eyes meet his, his hand reaches out and rests on yourcheek, making you tilt your head up just that little bit further soyou're looking at him in all of his glory. He sits above you, lookingalmost god-like with his freshly washed golden hair, and his paleskin shining underneath the wonky light of the back of the library.

    “It'sbeen a good few hours, babe,” Mello whispers again. “I think it'stime you take a break, and you know I'm really good at helping yourelax.”

   Yougrit your teeth, trying to fight off the urges. You know you shouldput education before lust, but Mello makes it so damn difficult. Theway he smirks lopsidedly at you, the way his thumb gently brushesover the pad of your cheek, the way his tongue sticks out frombetween his teeth as if he's just trying tomake you lose your head.

    “Mihael,”you grumble, closing your eyes. “You know I can't. These tests-”

   “Fivehours,” Mello interrupts, making a bigger and more obvious movetowards you. “You can take twenty minutes off. Then I promise I'llleave you alone.”

   Youopen your eyes again, because his voice sounds so enchanting that youcrave to see the face put to it. You know it's a mistake as soon asyou do, because now he's leaned down and his face is inches away fromyours and you can smell the mint on his breath from him chewing atmint gum for the past hour and a half.

   Andyou lose yourself. You shake your head with a groan, tangle yourhands in the collar of his leather vest and you pull him into youbefore your head can tell you otherwise. His lips clash onto yoursroughly, making Mello gasp a little at the suddenty of it. His handsclash against the desk as he tries to keep himself upright, his ringsclicking against the wood as he does so.

   Inmoments, he's trying to stand upright, dragging you out of the chairwhilst trying his absolute hardest to keep his lips on yours in theprocess. His hands wing around your waist, hiking you up before hesits you down on the desk and props himself between your knees. Heruns his fingers along the back of your neck, sending tingles to rundown your spine at the coolness of his rings, or the way his nimblefingertips mess with the tiny hairs on the back of your neck, knowingjust the reaction you'll give him. The reaction you always give him.

    “Thisis so bad,” Mello whispers, a slight laugh to his voice as hebreaks the kiss for a heated moment. As soon as his lips are detachedfrom yours, you make at messing with his shirt, though his handsquickly fly up to your wrist, stopping your actions. “We're in alibrary.”

    “Isthe librarian not blind?”

   Mellochuckles, eyes widening. “My, my. I didn't know mathematicalformulae got you so turned on.”

   Youroll your eyes and tangle your hands back into his collar, pressingyour lips to his though it only lasts a few seconds before Mello istrailing his lips down your neck, making their way to your sensitivecollar bones which peak through the oversized business shirt you hadon that day for comfort purposes only. You hadn't expected this tohappen – you might have worn something a little easier to take offif you had.

   “Wecan't get stripped,” Mello mutters against your skin, causing histeeth to graze your neck. You groan, gritting your teeth to muffle itthough it still comes out as a desperate plea – one that has Melloshivering beneath your fingertips.

    “Shit,”you hiss, opting for burying your head in Mello's shoulder. “Can wenot go to your dorm?”

   Mellochuckles, his fingers digging into your jean-clad thigh at therequest. Your breath hitches in your throat and you buck forward,coming to the edge of the table. Your chest is nearly pressed intoMello's at this point, but his nimble fingers pressing into your legskeep you firm on the table.

   “Ireally like it when you're needy,” Mello whispers, and it is thenthat you feel his lips beginning to suck bruises on your collar bone.A yelp escapes your mouth, which makes Mello nearly burst intolaughter, muffled by your collar bone. Your eyes widen, dartingaround the library in search of anybody around, but Mello is quick tobring your attention back to the task at hand, using his free hand toturn your chin back to him.

   “Don'tlook away,” he orders, taking his lips off of your collar bone fora moment to blow on the sensitive skin he had just abused. You lookdown and bite your lip at the sight – a hickey, clearly indented inyour skin.

    “Youson of a bitch,” you whine. “When is it my turn?”

   Mellosmirks. “Only hickeys, baby. I'm not into public sex.”

    Itdoesn't take long. You don't need much convincing before you've slidoff of the desk and pushed Mello backwards into the chair you werepreviously sitting on. He grunts as his back hits off the wood of thedesk chair, and you quickly set yourself down in his lap, straddlinghis jumping legs. By the way he bounces his legs up and down, it'sclear he is getting impatient.

    Yousmirk, licking a stripe up the skin on his neck before latching yourlips onto him. Immediately, his hands snap away from the arm restsand are grabbing onto your waist, a moan escaping him – hickeyswere his weakness. His skin was sensitive to most things – any kindof touch had him wriggling, but whenever it was a touch that sent himpleasure, it sent him pleasure. Overthe edge kind of pleasure.

   “Y-Youknow,” Mello pants, closing his eyes tight and letting his headfall back against the back of the chair. “Maybe going to m-my dormisn't such a b-bad idea. Shit.”

   Youblow on the bruise which you had just caused to form on his neck, apolished smile appearing on your face as you pull away to show himyour face fully. His eyes meet yours, dark and filled with a lust youhad only ever seen a few times before.

   Youshake your head and get off of him, buttoning up the few buttons ittakes to hide the hickey he had given you.

   “AfraidI can't,” you tease, watching his face fall and his hands go whiteas he grips the arm rests. “I have studying to do.”

   “Youwouldn't just leave me like this.”

   “Ihave no choice.” You smile once more. “Education before lust.”