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mypoisonedvine · 4 years

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Side Effects | Bruce Banner x reader

summary: you never know what might be in the beakers at another chemist's station. you never know which of your colleagues might come along just in the knick of time to become the only antidote to your affliction.

word count: 3.6k

warnings: smut! (dub con due to sex pollen), semi-public sex (because technically someone could have walked by but unlikely), guilt/hesitance, kinda pining??, fingering, creampie,

a/n: yes, this is an accurate depiction of emergency shower protocol in a chemical lab and yes it is every lab technician's worst nightmare. thankfully the other stuff is not an accurate depiction of any known chemical, lol.

You wiped your forehead with a tired sigh, staring down at the calculations in front of you before using your pen to scribble over them before tearing out the page and throwing it away.

“You still do that by hand?” Bruce interjected, making you look up at where he was leaning in the doorway to the lab, watching you work.

“Oh, Dr. Banner!” you greeted with a smile, wondering if it was too ecstatic. You weren’t so good at the ‘playing it cool’ thing like he seemed to be.

“We have all those fancy screens and digital whiteboards, you know,” he explained as he stepped in and looked around at your work. “Not to mention the computer can do that stuff for you.”

“I know,” you scoffed, “but I always feel better doing it myself, on real paper. Not that I’m having any luck at the moment…”

"Here, I'll give them a quick look while you take a break," he offered, glancing at the numbers from over your shoulder. "You just get up and stretch your legs for a minute, doc."

You always thought it was sort of silly for him to call you that when he was a doctor as well, but you didn't complain.

Regardless, you were about to tell him that it was fine and you didn't need a break, but he was leaning in closer to take your seat and the proximity was so intimidating that you hopped up and went along with it anyways. He sat down and pondered your calculations while you circled the lab, taking a moment to appreciate how nice it felt to stand up and move around after sitting for so long.

"Your handwriting is…" Bruce trailed off, adjusting his glasses.

"Feminine and graceful?" you finished sarcastically.

"Sure," he chuckled.

"Yeah, just like me—" you started to quip, but mid-sentence you (ironically) stumbled and tripped, using a nearby table to catch yourself— but you accidentally grabbed onto a beaker, which tipped over and smashed onto the ground. The liquid inside spilled onto the floor just before you did, and you winced as you fell into the puddle of the unknown substance.

“Shit!” you hissed as you scrambled to get up, looking down at your clothes and seeing they were covered in the fluid, which was beginning to evaporate, or steam, or something. Remembering lab safety protocols, you instantly began to strip, closing your eyes and wishing Bruce hadn’t come in just before this. As you shirked your lab coat, shirt, and skirt, you walked to the emergency shower, pulling the lever and gasping when the chilly stream of water poured down on you. Bruce looked at you with wide eyes before being kind enough to turn around as you shivered and removed your bra and underwear, now completely naked and weakly scrubbing yourself with your hands in hopes that none of the chemical had gotten onto your skin.

“What is it?” he asked nervously, turning his head back enough that you could hear him over the flow of water, but hopefully not so much that he could see anything important.

“I don’t know,” you answered, “it’s not mine. It’s something Dr. Sutherland was working on…”

“Is it… are you in pain at all?” he asked, even more concerned, and you tried to decide if you could feel any effects.

“N-no…” you answered hesitantly. You felt hot, and strange, and you were covered in rolling chills, but you figured that was just the situation you were in— naked in a tepid shower in front of your coworker who just so happened to be incredibly sexy.

“I should call poison control,” Bruce offered as he reached for his cell phone.

“No, I’m fine,” you denied as the water flow slowed down and you wiped your face, confident that you looked like a complete mess— but at least you saved yourself from whatever was in that beaker, right?

“Here,” Bruce offered an emergency blanket to you after pulling it off a nearby shelf, and it was not at all absorbent but it helped with the draft as you stepped away from the shower which was still leaking the last few drops of water onto the drain on the floor.

“Thank you,” you nodded nervously, shivering and dripping and looking back at him with no idea what to say at all.

“Do you feel alright? I should check you for burns,” he suggested. “I— I won’t look…”

“Please,” you sighed, pulling the blanket a bit to expose your chest and stomach. He brushed his hand over the skin there, making you instantly whine as heat burned just under your skin, clouding your mind and making you crave even more.

"Did that hurt?" he asked anxiously, pulling away, but you stepped closer.

"No it's… it's good, it's so good."

He furrowed his brow as he looked down at you, putting the back of his hand to your forehead. "You're burning up, doc, you must be running a fever of 105."

"Touch me more, please," you whimpered. It was like you were in a dream, everything foggy and distant, and the only time that anything made sense was when he touched you. Or maybe it was that his touch sent you further into delirium; you couldn't be sure.

He gasped when he looked at your quivering legs only to find slick arousal running down the inside of them, threatening to drip onto the floor.

"Oh," he sighed.

"Please," you begged mindlessly, "Dr. Banner, I n-need you…"

"No, you need medical attention."

You whined and grabbed as his shirt, humming at the feeling of his warm skin just beneath. If the forearms that he often left exposed in rolled-up sleeves were anything to go buy, his chest was probably toned and tanned, lightly dusted with dark hair… you were all but drooling at the thought. "Please, Bruce… just help me," you pleaded, looking up into his eyes which were swirling with conflict.

"I can't," he shook his head. "I'd be taking advantage."

He must have seen the heartbreak of rejection make you wince, because he tried to soothe you with his hands resting on your arms— even just that contact making you suppress a moan.

"I've wanted this for so long," he explained, "and you— you haven't. You're unwell, you need to go to a hospital."

You sobbed a little at the idea of being taken away from him and examined by strangers, when you knew the solution was right in front of you. "No, no Bruce they'll touch me! Nobody can touch me but you, I only want you."

He scoffed, but you heard the weakness in it and you needed him to give in soon before you melted from your own hear. "You're deranged— delirious," he reiterated.

"It'll feel so good, please Bruce, I'll be so good for you— anything you want, I'll do it, I'm yours."

"Stop talking like that," he winced. "I can't… I can't."

"I need to feel you inside me, Dr. Banner, I need it more than anything. It's just gonna get worse… please, help me. I want you. I trust you."

"You'll hate me in the morning," he asserted. "God, this is so wrong…"

But much to your relief, he reached down and hesitantly slid his thick middle finger through your folds, gasping gently as he felt how wet you were. "I should t-take you somewhere private."

"No, need you now— right here," you pleaded, trying to chase his touch with your hips.

"But if someone came by—" he began to fret, glancing at the door; but his attention was turned back to you by your hands weaving into his hair.

"Nobody else stays this late, god, Bruce please I just need you so bad—"

He cut you off with a sudden kiss, which was enough on its own to make warmth bloom in your gut, but then he started to move his finger again and you shuddered with a moan that was muffled by his lips.

"Maybe I can make you come like this," he offered as he pulled back just enough to whisper to you, "would that help you? It'll take the edge off."

You bucked and moaned against his fingers, just those subtle touches driving you wild. "N-no, it has to be inside! You have to fuck me, I need your cock."

He breathed through his teeth, like he was almost considering it, but then looked away. "I can't," he shook his head.

"Can't or won't?"

He frowned. "Won't. I'll get you off with my fingers, otherwise it would be… too selfish."

"Bruce, I'm literally begging you for it," you sighed, the irritated tone that you'd intended lost in the moans he elicited by rubbing your swollen clit.

"I know," he winced, "I know and it's killing me that I can't give you what you're asking for… I swear if it wasn't like this…" he trailed off as you looked up at him with your bottom lip between your teeth.

"What would it be like?" you asked lowly. "Tell me how you would fuck me."

For all his shyness before, there was a brief switch in his demeanor as he leaned in, breath hot against your neck as he whispered, two fingers sliding into your channel at the exact moment that he spoke.

"So fucking hard."

You whimpered, knees wobbling a bit as you tried to ride his fingers— but he wasn't pushing back, wasn't giving you enough force to balance against when you sought more friction. "P-please, Bruce— I know you want to, please, please baby I need it so bad…"

"I know," he breathed, free hand cradling your face as his thumb stroked your cheek, and it was so needlessly compassionate, so effortlessly soothing that your heart had no choice but to clench at his tenderness. Other parts of you clenched as well, in much more literal ways, but the heart thing was more important.

You gingerly reached forward and palmed his cock through his pants, moaning when you felt how hard it was. "You're desperate, too," you informed him with a little smile. "It hurts, doesn't it? It aches."

"Yes," he answered tensely.

"I'm hurting too. I'm aching, for you. Please, Bruce, help me."

As he pulled back and examined your face, he chewed his lip and contemplated. He couldn't stand to see you in pain, but he couldn't comprehend what he had to do to help you. Well, okay, that's not totally accurate because he had actually "comprehended" the idea of making love to you plenty of times. But that was just a fantasy, a very misguided one that he only indulged in in his weakest moments. And in those fantasies, shockingly enough, you were always completed lucid and of sound mind and body. He sadly could not say that for you at the moment, and of course he couldn't because of course when you were sober and healthy, you didn't see him that way.

Bruce prided himself on his logic, his integrity, his patience. Suddenly, those qualities were falling prey to a much deeper, carnal instinct that saw this not as a predicament but as an opportunity. Logic states, after all, that it would be wasteful to have everything he wanted thrown into his lap and to let it go to waste.

"Fuck," he groaned as he kissed you again, fucking you faster with his fingers. You moaned and went for his belt, barely managing to open it with your hands shaking so much; part of you had considered just trying to rip the leather off of him, and with the force of your need it seemed almost plausible.

Finally getting his trousers opened just enough to reach inside, you purred as you reached in and navigated past his boxers to wrap your fingers around his hard cock. It was so thick and smooth and hot and you almost wanted to drop to your knees and take it in your throat right then, but you had better plans.

He pulled his fingers out of you slowly, grinning against you at the way you whined, before wrapping his arms around you and quickly instructing you to jump.

It was infuriating, how easily he caught you when you wrapped your body around him. Infuriating and so painfully sexy.

He never broke the kiss as he walked the two of you to your lab table, sliding the papers aside and onto the floor to set you on it. You started on his aggravatingly-small shirt buttons while he pushed his trousers and boxers down the rest of the way, and god his cock was right there between your legs, so close but very much too far away for your liking.

You didn't have the time or energy to get his shirt off, settling for just running your hands over the exposed skin instead. He grinned and watched the path your hands made, hissing slightly when they wrapped around his shaft— for a second you swore you could feel it throb.

"Don't make me wait anymore," you whispered your plea, sighing a little when he nodded.

"Okay baby," he agreed.

"Been waiting so long," you whined.

"Me too," he nodded, and with a little push, his cock slid all the way into you and filles you to the brim. Even when you were completely drenched, the girth of him was so wide that it stung, that it tore you open, but you loved it. Your head fell back and just from him being inside you, you came. The substance had you so needy and sensitive that that was all it took. It wasn't enough yet, of course. You knew you needed more. But God, he felt so good you could hardly breathe.

"Baby," you heard Bruce gasp, his fingers digging into your hips. Your chest twisted when he laughed a little, breathless and just teetering on the line between complimentary and mocking. "Did you just come?"

You considered playing dumb, but nodded instead.

His smile was apparent when he pressed his lips just below your ear to suck on the delicate skin there, his teeth trailing up to nibble your earlobe lightly. You hoped he would leave a mark, you hoped he would leave lots of marks that you could remember this by for weeks to come.

"Couldn't help yourself, huh?" he asked breathlessly, whispering so quietly you could barely hear it over the beating of your own pulse which echoed in your ears.

"You feel so good," you justified, "so fucking good, Bruce."

"You too," he sighed as he finally pulled back and slid into you again, the friction making your back arch instantly. "Even better than I imagined."

You smiled and wrapped your legs around his hips, forcing him to push deeper with each thrust. When he pushed you to your limits it felt like you might just fall apart right there, but it was so worth it.

As if that wasn't enough, he reached down and circled a thumb over your overstimulated clit, grinning down at you at the sight of you writhing and bucking wildly in his arms.

"Fuck!" you cried as you tightened your hands on his shoulders into fists hard enough to risk tearing through his shirt.

"Too much?"

"More," you pleaded instead, crying out when he gave you exactly what you wanted with fast, rough thrusts into your drenched walls. "Yes," you sobbed, "yes, fuck— m'gonna come, Bruce, gonna come again."

"Go ahead," he encouraged, voice so much rougher than normal, "show me how good it feels, baby."

It felt like his words were the thin that pushed you over the edge, as if your body somehow both understood and obeyed his command. You could feel a renewed wave of slick leak out from you, enough that you could hear the wetness in each slap of his hips against yours. His name was somewhere in the litany of curses and praises that spilled from your lips, your mind too clouded with hazy pleasure to keep track of what you were actually saying.

"Just like that," he groaned, "doing so good, fuck, say my name just like that every time I make you come."

An easy enough stricture to follow, especially when it seemed like he was all you could think about. He looked so different with his clothes half-shorn and his eyes dark with lust. He hadn't taken his glasses or labcoat off and you weren't sure which of those you were happier about.

His lips and hands were all over you; you couldn't even keep track of everywhere he was touching you, that's how overwhelming it was. "God, you're so fucking perfect," he groaned against your skin, finding a hardened nipple as his tongue explored you and wrapping his lips around it. "You are so goddamn sexy, you know that? I love seeing you with your legs spread for me like a needy little whore. I love hearing you moan and knowing I'm the one making you feel this good."

He took a moment to look at you and soak in your shocked reaction to his words before leaning in to continue.

"I love feeling you come for me," he purred in your ear.

"Then you're gonna really like what I'm about to do," you shivered.

"Yeah? You can gimme another one already?" he smiled. "Such a good girl…"

You really couldn't help it, it felt like everything he did only enhanced your pleasure— his words, his hands all over you, not to even mention his cock inside you. As much as the hedonistic corner of your brain was happy to let this go on forever, the ramifications of constant orgasms were finally catching up with you as you wondered how much more of this you could take.

"F-fuck, are you close?" you asked weakly. "Want you to come for me, Bruce, please."

"I-I'll pull out," he suggested, although the way he looked down at his length sinking into you and pulling back out, covered in your abundant arousal, didn't exactly indicate that he was willing and able to actually make good on his offer.

"No!" you yelped, pulling him closer by his unbuttoned shirt. "It needs to be inside, Bruce, please come inside me."

"Fuck," he hissed through his teeth.

"Please, Bruce, please, promise you'll come inside."

"I will," he sighed, "fuck, I will baby, I promise I'm gonna fill you up so good, you're gonna have my come so fucking deep inside you…"

"Yes!" you moaned, completely unabashed as the unknown substance had apparently absolved you of any shame whatsoever. "Yes, I want it, Bruce, I want your come."

The moment you felt his seed start to paint your walls, you felt relief begin to wash over you. Your mind and body relaxed, the overwhelming heat under your skin subsiding into a comforting warmth, the desperation that had burned in your gut satiated at last.

And that left you staring up at him in realization of what you had done, just as he looked back at you with the same.

"God, I'm so sorry—" he shuddered, moving to pull away. Instinctively your legs wrapped around his hips again, holding him close.

"N-no, wait," you groaned, "it's okay. Don't go."

"You don't hate me," he said, the exhaustion in his tone making it hard to tell if it was a question or a statement.

"Never," you sighed with a weak smile, sitting up to clutch his face and kiss him again. "God, Bruce, now I'm just wondering what took us so long."

"Our lab safety is just too good, clearly," he smiled as he kissed you again, pulling back a little too soon to examine your face where he held it in his hands. "Are you okay? You should still probably go to a doctor…"

"I'm already with a doctor," you smirked, "and his treatment was very effective."

"Yeah, that was…" he trailed off, wide eyes as if he were reminiscing about what had only just transpired.

"Sorry for being so… desperate," you cringed. "I didn't mean to… um… impose…"

He just laughed and kissed your forehead, making you feel your cheeks warm a bit; ironic that with everything that had just happened, this was what made you blush. "A beautiful, amazing woman that I've been dreaming about for months begs me to take her in the laboratory… really inconvenient."

"I mean, cleaning up these papers and the broken glass is gonna be pretty tedious, along with the incident report," you frowned.

"I'll help you with it," he offered.

"Tomorrow," you decided. "Right now, I'm taking you to my place."

"Is that so?" he asked with a bemused smirk.

"Yep. We both are in serious need of a shower, and then I wanna go again," you grinned wickedly.

"I thought you said you weren't feeling the effects of the chemical anymore," he recalled, voice tinted with concern.

"I'm not," you reassured, "I'm just feeling the effects of you."

#bruce banner x reader #bruce banner x you #bruce banner smut #bruce banner x y/n

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wheredafandomat · 3 years

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Fear & Desire❤️‍🔥P31❤️‍🔥 Goodbye

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It was nighttime when Thor collected Loki to head off to Asgard. Most of the team were out and no one had heard from Bucky, clearly your threat had worked. You were planning on leaving earlier on but after your little rendezvous with Loki, you showered again and then helped him to pack a few things. Loki returned to his own room before Thor arrived and knocked your door to say goodbye as if you hadn’t spent the day together but you both thought it best if you kept your little arrangement a secret despite Bucky practically seeing you kissing earlier and Thor seeing your bra on the floor as Loki informed you. You assured there was no way Thor could have known it was yours but then Loki mentioned that Thor had seen the painting and you hoped Thor wasn’t smart enough to put two and two together, something Loki thought you were silly for thinking.

“So, this is bye” you said standing at your door as Loki stood outside with Thor.

“For now” he smiled.

“Goodbye Thor” you smiled looking at Thor who gave you a wink.

“Farewell lady y/n, I’ll be sure to bring my brother back in one piece for you” he said wriggling his eyebrows making you furrow your brows in fake confusion. Loki was right, you were silly for thinking Thor wouldn’t realise.

You watched the brothers both walk down the corridor, Loki on the left and Thor to his right. Your breath hitched when Loki reached into his left pocket revealing a bit of your underwear before stuffing it back in and patting his pocket. He knew you were watching him, meanwhile, Thor was none the wiser of the little exchange.

Walking back into your room, you picked up your phone seeing the reminder to go to the chemist. Images of you and Loki’s amorous adventure flashed in your mind causing you to break out into a wide grin. You wasn’t going to let what happened between you and Bucky get you down, not this time. Good riddance. Loki said you were perfect and he’s a god so it really does mean a lot coming from him you laughed to yourself.

You put a coat on along with some trainers to head down to the chemist. You were happy that you weren’t Tony Stark level famous so a simple hood in the night was enough to prevent you getting harassed and bombarded on the streets by people demanding photographs with you.

You decided on driving yourself as opposed to getting someone else to drive you or finding out where Tony was so he’d simply carry you to the chemist in his Iron Man suit. Flicking through your playlist, you grimaced hearing Mitskis nobody playing.

“Too sad. Next!”

Hearing Adele’s someone like you playing next, you huffed out an annoyed “NO” before playing the next track.

“Perfect” you cheered hearing I’m yer dad by GRLwood playing.

Shouting the lyrics, you drove to the chemist drumming your fingers on the steering wheel.

“SUCK MY DICK IN MY FAST CAR FUCK ME FAST IN MY FAST CAR”

Pulling up, you got out and took a deep breath before entering. You hated going to the chemist, especially for things like this. The lady would always give you a funny look or even worse, she’d not hear you so you’d have to basically shout at her alerting everyone in the shop what it was you were after. Last time, you needed cranberry tablets to clear up a UTI and she practically yelled that you were too sexually active even though it was simply caused by a kidney stone and lack of water during a busy week of missions. Psyching yourself up, you walked to the counter.

“Hi, can I get the morning after pill please” you uttered earning a confused look from the lady as she leant forwards.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

ARGH this deaf bitch always this same woman.

“Morning after pill” you whisper shouted through a false smile.

“But it’s the night” she joked before going to get it.

Once she was back, she took some details and you paid the total. As you turned to leave, she called you back.

“Y/N Y/L/N”

“Yesss” you said said reluctantly turning around.

“Your prescription says that you ran out of birth control pills just over a week ago, would you like a repeat prescription.”

Kill me now you thought walking back towards her and nodding trying to not lock eyes with any of the other people in the queue.

Finally finishing in the chemist, you left and headed back to your car. As you got to the car park, you heard shouting and saw someone being pushed around, perhaps this was a robbery. Instantly, you got into Avenger mode thanking the gods you were in trainers.

Running up to the group of men, you managed to twist one of the men’s arms whilst kicking him behind the knee causing him to fall to the ground. You elbowed one of them as he tried to run up to you. Looking at the man you held on the floor, you quickly found his fear and replayed it to him causing him to drag himself out of your grip and crawl away. The man you had elbowed was now coming at you with a knife. Dodging one of his attacks, you punched him in the jaw and then the abdomen making him yelp and fall to the ground. Smiling when you found it, you made the man think ducks were chasing him. Anatidaephobia was always the fear you found the most hilarious. The last man was confused by the strange actions of his counterparts but tried to intimidate you nonetheless, circling you as you simply smiled.

“Bring it on” you urged causing him to pounce. As he leant to hit you, you lifted your hand using your fingers to hit that perfect spot on his neck and just like that, he was unconscious.

Looking at the person who was originally being attacked, you sensed the familiar emptiness. Gasping, your eyes widened in alarm.

“Hello y/n” he waved slowly “these men were good men, doing a job but now” he said lifting the man on the floors arm up before letting it fall again “now I’m going to have to find new ones when I’m feeling to do a bit of drama.”

“Take her” he ordered.

Spinning on your heels, you came face to face with someone who was holding a syringe and approaching you. You had no time to act before you started feeling faint after the contents of the syringe were injected into your bloodstream. The last thing you heard was a snippet of the conversation between the two men.

“He’ll come”

A/N: Thor knows bro 😂

Tags:

@frostay

@newtomofgods

@geeky-politics-46

@virtualstrawberrydinosaur

@andrizzybvbyyyy

@purplekitten30

@lokiswildheartcantbebroken

@eyesbluelikethetitanic

#tom hiddelston loki #loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki x female reader #loki (marvel)#loki fanfiction #oc fiction #thor odinson

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bvccy · 3 years

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Friend, if you are still open for request, can you please do Heliotrope with the Winter Soldier? 🥺 please thank you 💛💛💛

My dear 😭 I am so so sorry for how long this took! I just hope you can enjoy the fic. It’s a little bit spooky at the beginning, but WS is soft and so is our reader. And they get their happy-ever-after 💗

Thank you very much for this prompt also! 🌺🌺🌺

— PAIRING: soft!Winter Soldier x female!Reader — PROMPT: Heliotrope - walking in the sun, and losing each other — LINKS: Masterlist • love stones prompt list — WORDCOUNT: 2.1k

They had been living in darkness for months, and the oppressive cold that battered against the walls with fierce winds all day, and hungry howls at night — not that one could tell night from day in the sunless vastness, except by the ticking of the clock.

Hydra had installed that arctic facility at the mouth of a crater, covered by ice over the ages to conceal its dubious treasure. It was clear to the Soldier that the treasure was not made up of precious things, but it was only when the crew finished digging all the way down that he understood why all the scientists were there...

It was difficult for him to tell who the shuttle belonged to. It might have been some advanced technology from America, but then how did it get so deep down, so quickly? Maybe it was an old German prototype from the war, but it didn't look like any he'd seen before. Or maybe Hydra was just recovering their old property from past attempts... It didn't matter, he was just there to guard the scientists while they did the work.

The other soldiers stationed with him stopped taking the job seriously after the first three months, but he kept watch, and paid attention, and didn't miss the odd slimes that seeped across the floor out of those metal shells, nor the odd crunch as the scientists cut into something that looked soft and milky, but held like bone. And the smells, the cold metallic smells like iron dipped in silver... It sometimes felt like home, but he knew better than to let that grip him. And he kept watch.

The one chemist that doubled as the chef didn't make particularly good meals, but they were hearty, and if he was being honest, he was eating better at this isolated station than he did at the Base — felt freer too, almost in charge of his destiny, if one didn't count the frozen wastes he'd have to survive if he ever wanted to run. But the Soldier couldn't imagine why he'd ever wish to run.

Especially when she was here.

Studying the files of all the scientists on the mission, her portrait stood out as particularly sad, morose, with a bit of a death glare toward the cameraman. But when he actually saw her, she seemed sweet like a spring day and even happy to be there. She looked up into his eyes as she walked into the protected area to study their find, blinking up from beneath a mess of furs and protective equipment, but there was a smile crinkling around her gaze. As the months drew on and everyone got more bored with staying there, and loose with themselves, they'd sometimes play some music in the lab, and the Soldier didn't know why he liked it so much or felt the need to dance with someone.

The military staff initially had their own mess hall, a small room with a kitchenette where they could eat together, but then one of the doctors needed it to test the effects of temperature changes on some of the samples, and the place was... contaminated every since. Now, they all ate together. The girl who'd caught his eye tended to eat with her own team, the Geologists, but he could feel her looking at him sometimes, he noticed her lingering when he was around even if she was about to leave, and a few times she even dared approach him — under the excuse of getting the jar of sugar that was on his other side rather than reaching for the one next to her, or leaning down to get some plate she didn't need from right by his knees. It wasn't until she tried to reach a glass above his head, beyond her grasp, that he gave in and acknowledged her.

"Thank you," she said as he handed her the cup — the first time she'd ever said anything to him. Her voice suited her, but beyond its soft tones the Soldier was struck by being thanked at all. When was the last time that happened? What did one say in response?

"You're welcome?"

And he seemed so unsure saying it that he made her giggle.

She was inevitable after that, not because she was trying to be found but because he allowed himself to be around her, to guard her door while she chipped at stones and studied them, to sit near her during lunch — not right beside her, the Soldier still had a lingering shyness about that, but at least on the table opposite, from which they could look at each other if they wanted.

The long night was almost over, four months into their stay at this forsaken place, and the pair had taken to something really dangerous: in the small barn attached to the base, where some dry supplies were kept along with canisters of fuel, they escaped together while everyone else slept. He had led her there first, asking timidly whether she'd...

"Want to see something new?"

"Always," the girl grinned.

And so they found themselves piled on top of one another like firewood, almost not feeling each other beneath the layers of fur that kept them warm, but just being in each other's presence was... something. It was quiet without being quiet, with another real soul there, thinking its own thoughts in harmony with you.

The Asset wouldn't allow himself to fall asleep, though he did close his eyes sometimes and let the girl relax against him, and doze off, and during those times he allowed his arm to come down from where it propped his head up and wrap itself around her, holding her still — as if she were in danger of falling off some imaginary bed.

Nobody ever seemed to wonder where they both disappeared to, nobody noticed, which was why he was all the more surprised to hear shouting on that day. The Soldier didn't move, just tightened his arm around his little partner more. But when a bloodcurdling cry echoed through the vastness, he shook her awake.

"Wha—"

"Get up. The base is under attack," he muttered, reaching for the rifle laid beside him.

"That's crazy, who would attack us all the way out here?"

He didn't want to tell her what he thought, but only made her hide out in the shed while he went out to scout the area. Turning his radio on, nothing came through. There were no helicopters around, no trucks, no marks in the snow that anyone had attacked — at least, not from the outside. On the horizon, just the rays of a reluctant dawn were shining.

There was silence for a while, and then another symphony of screams rang out, muffled by the walls and the desperate shots of whoever was left inside, glass and metal knocked over, broken, and silence once again. Stepping away slowly, then more hurriedly, the Soldier returned to where he'd left the girl and picked her up by the elbow.

"Come on, we're leaving."

"Leaving where?" she cried out, confused and even slightly angry. "What's going on?"

"We're under attack."

"But our research..."

The Soldier dragged her to where the trucks were parked, and after the first flush of confusion she went along quietly. He gave her the rifle to hold while he looked in the back, making sure they had enough supplies for whatever drive awaited them — gas was there, some blankets too, and more ammunition. It would have to do. And without sparing another moment, he got in beside her and drove off. Against the rumbling of the engine as it drifted on the ice, a shrill scream cut through the frozen air and reached them, not sounding human nor animal nor like anything in the world, except perhaps a demon. The girl didn't look back, she wouldn't dare, she just looked quietly at the Soldier as she slowly understood. They drove into the sunrise as its rays burned away everything behind, and the snowdrifts buried it.

They didn't stop until the sky was bright as a midday, many hours later.

"Are we slowing down?" the girl mumbled sleepily.

"We're nearing a town," he said, eyes on the GPS. "Need to check that the road is clear. And that we are, too."

She stretched the shivers from her bones, but deep down she trusted the Soldier to keep them safe.

Getting out in what-felt-like days, frozen stiff, muscles aching from the shot of fear that penetrated down to her bones, the girl got out and reached for the sky with all she had. The air felt freer and fresher than ever before, even though it still hurt her lungs when it reached to their very bottom, but she loved such a pain — it felt like life.

The Asset walked slowly to her, just watching silently and smiling a half-smile at the sight of her all ruffled and soft, and safe.

"What do you think happened to the base?"

"Guess it's a mess by now," he hummed, bringing one gloved hand to feel around her head, her shoulders, down her arms, but always gently.

"We woke that thing up, didn't we?"

"You're the smart one, you tell me."

Her lips pursed — she never liked it when he teased her, but she tried never to reproach him for it, loving this sign of his personality shining through. "Are we far enough away now?"

"I don't know," he sighed, finally looking back into her eyes. "Are we?"

"The sun would kill it."

"How do you know that?"

She didn't answer but wouldn't look away either, and her determined gaze was enough for him. She did know more than he did, she'd spent months studying whatever that was, and that was fine by him. So long as none of it had managed to sneak on board.

"Stay close to me."

They walked around the car together and he checked the back, the wheels, then climbed on top and checked there too. Through the clearness of the day, he could even see the edges of a road that must've lead to that town. The car seemed clean, but they were close enough to a rescue that he'd rather not take any risks, and so picking up just a few useful things and one backpack, they started walking.

The snow got less deep and crunched beneath their boots, the wind was gentler downhill and even moved through the tendrils loosened from their hoods, shaking off the frost. In the distance, one tree stood tall, thin and dark and barren but alive, and over all of them the sun kept shining.

"We're almost at the road," said the Soldier, spotting a black snaking line a few meters ahead. He turned his head when he didn't hear anything back, but there was only the glint of sunlight on the snow.

Amorphous fog covered the horizons, and hills and dales of white, and suddenly the light felt very hot and burned his body as he turned frantically around and called for her. With mad fear, he traced back their steps up the snowy hill, nearly swimming through it as he called for her, terrified of the unthinkable.

Then, as if from the sea, a lone hand reached up and waved at him. Within one breath, he'd reached her, sitting in the snow just a few feet away.

"I'm so tired..." she huffed, burrowing like a rabbit. "Can't we rest a while?"

"You didn't rest enough in the car? Get up," he grumbled, pulling her up to her feet. He regretted snapping as soon as he saw her sad little face, and sighed. "I'm sorry. I was worried."

"I'm sorry too, for being so weak..."

Before thinking, he pulled her in and kissed the snow off her mouth. "None of that," he smiled as their lips parted. "Come on, we're so close. I'll carry you a bit if you want."

The girl shook her head mutely, face already flushed from frost but now truly heated. To be cared for, and worried about, and searched like that, and kissed... It put the life right back into her.

He kept his word and carried her in his arms at one point, but they both walked in the town together. Nobody knew who they were or where they came from and some had a few murmured questions, but by the time Hydra sent an extraction team for them, it didn't matter — they were gone, lost in the wind like two rays of sunshine.

#wint3r-h3art #Bucky Barnes #James Buchanan Barnes #Winter Soldier #Sebastian Stan #marvel #mcu #Bucky Barnes imagine #Bucky Barnes fanfiction #Bucky Barnes x reader #Sebastian Stan fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #Winter Soldier fanfiction #Winter Soldier imagine #Winter Soldier x reader #bv;fanfiction #bv;oneshots #bv;answers

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sfb123 · 3 years

Text

The Confrontation - A Final Goodbye One Shot

Book: The Royal Romance, Book 2

Pairing: Liam x Riley

All characters belong to Pixelberry.

Description: In a slight canon divergence from book 2, Riley reaches her breaking point with the engagement tour and decides to restart her life when the court gets to NYC. Can the rest of the group clear her name, and convince her to come back before it’s too late?

The Final Goodbye Masterlist

Rating: PG-13 (Discussion of adult situations and some adult language)

Word Count: 924

A/N: I know, a one shot of a mini-series, I’m a psycho. Sorry guys. After last week’s chapter, I had a lot of people saying they wanted to see Liam confront Madeleine about making Riley pick up the wedding ring, so I decided to write it. It’s a quick one, and it takes place during the events of chapter 2, after Madeleine and Liam get into the elevator.

All the love and thank yous to my fandom soulmate, @jessiembruno for reading this and helping me get Liam just the right amount of angry.

Tags: Listed below. If you’d like to be added or removed, just let me know!

Liam and Madeleine walked down the hall arm in arm. As they reached the bay of elevators, one of the doors opened to reveal Maxwell. He paused when he exited, meeting Liam’s eyes as they exchanged sad looks. Maxwell continued on his way, and Liam and Madeleine entered the newly vacant elevator car. As soon as the doors closed, Liam distanced himself from Madeleine and selected the button to take them to the lobby.

“You know Liam, if you plan to continue this arrangement after the wedding, we are really going to need to come up with some ground rules, possibly a schedule.” Madeleine snickered breaking the silence. Liam’s jaw immediately tensed.

His body moved before his brain could process what was happening, his hand went back to the buttons on the wall, slamming his finger on the bright red button labeled ‘STOP’. His hand quickly formed into a fist and fell to his side as he turned to face Madeleine. “Enough.”

The sound of his booming voice in the small space startled Madeleine, who had been keeping her focus forward. She tried to keep her composure, smoothing her hands over the front of her dress before turning to address the king. “Liam, we’re going to be la...”

“Did you send Riley to pick up your wedding band yesterday?” Liam cut her off. He knew the answer, he just needed to hear her admit it.

“Yes, if she is going to remain at court, she needs to earn her keep, people need to see her value. She can’t just be your on-call plaything.”

“Her value is exponentially more than yours, and everyone in this damn court sees it.”

“If they see it, Liam, then why isn’t she the one on your arm, wearing your ring?” She paused, pretending to think of an answer she already had prepared. “Oh, that’s right, because her value plummeted the second those pictures were released.” She smirked at him, waiting for his response.

“Her value?” He scoffed. “Have you forgotten that this is your second engagement? Your second attempt at being queen? You can’t honestly believe that nobody is talking about how you were jilted by one crown prince and moved on to the other.”

“I’ve been preparing my whole life to become the queen. I will be remembered for the work I do to serve my country, not how many times I was engaged. Riley will always be known as common trash that tried to sleep her way through court to make something of herself.”

He opened his mouth, about to respond, but he stopped himself. Yes, they were close to clearing her name, which would make Madeleine’s argument null and void. But he couldn’t use that as a defense. He had to continue to keep the investigation to himself, everyone had worked too hard to start showing his hand now.

Madeleine continued to stare at him with an arched eyebrow, waiting for his response. He took a deep breath, calming himself before he said something he would regret. “Madeleine, a good ruler does not let personal feelings and vendettas get in the way of their decisions. They are unbiased and fair to everyone. As someone who openly brags about preparing their whole life to be queen, I would think you’d understand this concept.”

She flinched slightly at the passive aggressive dig, hoping he didn’t notice. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to her. “And a good member of the court does not let their personal feelings get in the way of the orders given to them by those above their station.” She folded her arms across her chest and stood a bit taller to show Liam he could not intimidate her. “Don’t forget, queen or not, I will always be above her. She will always have to yield to me.” Madeleine brushed past Liam, moving to the panel on the wall and restarting the carts decent to the lobby. She returned to her original spot and faced forward, Liam stood in silence, fuming at her words.

When the doors opened, Madeleine stepped forward to exit, but Liam grabbed her arm, pulling her close. When she felt his hand on her, she looked back, shocked by the unmistakable look of rage on the king’s face. He leaned in close to her, speaking soft enough for only her to hear, anger clear in his tone. “And don’t you forget that I am the king by blood, so I will always be above you, and you will always have to yield to me. Make no mistake I could end this, end you at any time. Come for Riley again, and I will take it as a personal attack. A good ruler may not let personal feelings and vendettas get in the way of their decisions, but a man in love has no control over his actions when he is defending the woman that holds his heart. Understood?” Madeleine recoiled at the intensity of Liam’s stare, unable to maintain eye contact. Liam spoke his next words very slowly and deliberately, “Do I make myself clear, Countess?”

Madeleine nodded slowly, still not making eye contact with him. Liam was not satisfied with her response. “Is that how a subject addresses their king?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Liam nodded, accepting his response. He took a deep breath and scrubbed his hand across his face. As his arm lowered to his side, his stoic expression returned as if nothing had happened. He offered Madeleine his arm. “Shall we, darling.”

Permatag:

@anjanettexcordonia @athena-penrose @chemist-ana @choicesficwriterscreations @choiceskatie @cordonia-gothqueen @cordoniaqueensworld @emkay512 @gabesmommie1130 @gkittylove99 @hopelessromanticmonie @iaminlovewithtrr @jessiembruno @kat-tia801 @khoicesbyk @kingliam2019 @lucy-268 @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @mile9213 @mom2000aggie @pixie88 @queenrileyrose @secretaryunpaid @sweatyrysconnoisseur @tessa-liam @theroyalheirshadowhunter @twinkleallnight @txemrn

One Shots:

@bebepac @darley1101

The Final Goodbye:

@ao719 @burnsoslow @busywoman @itsjustwinter @ladyangel70 @mainstreetreader @shanzay44

Liam x Riley:

@jared2612

Liam:

@amandablink

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alittlebitofinsanitea · 4 years

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Head-Cannons for Jealous Kageyama, Suga, Iwaizumi, & Bokuto

request: hi! May I request hc's of iwazumi, bokuto, mattsun, suga, and kageyama on how they act when they're jealous? I couldn't find a character limit in your rules so feel free to do however many you like :) Have a good one lovely human <3

✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰

Hi honey! So I didn’t write it but I'm going to be doing four per head-cannon! thank you for requesting! <3 These are gender neutral/no pronouns so I hope that’s ok, hope you enjoy! Also to everyone, requests are open!

✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰

~Kageyama~

✰ you’ve been in class all day and finally the bell rings and its lunch

✰ you and a friend are sitting, talking about homework, eating, as one does during lunch. You normally sit with him because kags always plays volleyball during break, surprised? no.

✰ all sweet Kags wanted to do this lunch was to sit with his baby!!!

✰ he sees you sitting real close to this other guy, and what does his awkward ass do? FUCKING STARES AT YOU, clown to clown communication going on right here

✰ anyone coming into the cafeteria just sees him blocking the path with the smoke whirling around his head

✰ you finally turn around after feeling two burning holes in the back of your head and see him glancing between you and your friend

✰ dummy realizes you noticed him and turns bright red in embarrassment after noticing he has been staring at you for at least half the lunch period and he sprints

✰ this man ZOOOOOMS out of that room

✰ you, being the caring s/o you are, run after him to the best of your abilities, all the way to the vending machine

✰ by the time you get there, he’s already sipping on two milks, pouting, and bright red, poor thing

✰ you make eye contact with him as you sit down, him turning away to face a wall instead

✰ you poke his stomach and sides to get his attention, fully aware of how ticklish he is there

✰ “Y/N PLEASE!” he grits out in between fits of laughter

✰ “Why did you run out then?” you say as you cease your attack, snaking your arms around his waist

✰ his body relaxes into yours and returns the hug, he buries his face into the top of your head as he mumbles

✰ “I know you know I can't hear you,”

✰ he grunts back in response and mumbles again, just loud enough that you can hear that one, specific, word

✰ “YOU WERE JEALOUS!!!!!!” you scream so loud he jumps back a little

✰ he burrows his head into your neck in an attempt to hide from you, not the best play he could have made, but there was an attempt, he tried

✰ you move one hand to pat his head and the other stays on his back, “Kags, I don’t know why you would be jealous, I’m just friends with (Friends/N), I don’t like him like that, ok?”

✰ he straightens up and looks at you dead in the eyes, to anyone else he looks normal, but there's a little smile on his face that looks a little less creepier than usual

✰ he grabs you tight and you can hear the bell in the background, but you both ignore it and stay like that for a little longer

~Suga~

✰ everyone pretends that this man is the chillest, sweetest, calmest character in this show

✰ hell no

✰ he has as much crackhead energy radiating through his body as is possible without being a crackhead

✰ the two of you are at one of karasuno's practice matches against nekoma, and they have been trying that play with nishinoya as setter, and a few other ideas the coach came up with

✰ during a break between on of the games (which to your displeasure, have gone on forever, but you love seeing Suga play so you don't really mind) you decide to pull out your chemistry homework

✰ “why, and who made chemistry,” you say to yourself “I just want to have a little talk.”

✰ “Well I wouldn’t say a specific person invented it, but Robert Boyle is considered the first modern chemist,” you look to your left and see a tall nekoma player with bed hair

✰ you arch a brow, and get back to ‘working’, if you could call it that

✰ he sits next to you and offers a smirk and says, “Im Kuroo Tetsuro, if you want I can help with your homework if you want,”

✰ your nose scrunches up and you turn away from him

✰ “Don’t be sodium chloride,” he says as he scoots a little closer, but as he does that, you can feel the other side of you warm a little

✰ in the corner of your eye before you look to see what sat next to you, you see Suga, his eyes glaring straight at the rooster boy

✰ he drapes his arms on your shoulders and sets his head on yours and looks directly as kuroo, cold as ice, he tells him “She is fine, I can help her,”

✰ the smile on his face does nothing to hide the fact that he’s not messing around

✰ you pull him off of you to face him, giving him a little shove before telling him off,

✰ “I had it covered, it’s not like I was going to say yes, even though I probably need the help…”

✰ he raises his eyebrows at you, “I can help you, no problem!” he says sweetly, as if you both aren’t getting the same grades

✰ the next game is starting, signaled by the freak already on the court in their positions and the whistle blowing you give Suga a kiss on the cheek and tell him to go

✰ he smirks at you, and from then on in the match, whenever he spiked a ball, set a good toss, or dug anything, he looked to kuroo and directly pointed to where you sat

~Hajime Iwaizumi, (27), Athletic trainer~

✰ I don't even know what to do for this dude, no wait haha jk

✰ Iwaizumi, Oikawa, and you have been best friends for forever

✰ you guys are so close, sleepovers since you were little, you even made them an entire meal and movie night on the day they lost, lots of wet tissues and tear soaked blankets

✰ when you and Iwaizumi finally got together after year of pining after each other, nobody was more excited than Oikawa, nobody

✰ now, you three are having a sleepover to celebrate being done with midterms and you made a big pillow fort to watch your favorite movie in, with popcorn and chocolate and all of that

✰ it's dark except for the light from computer screen, you can barely make out the faces to your right and left, and it's so late, you forgot who was on which side

✰ it's hard for you to fall asleep without Iwa anymore, so you grab the arm to your left and lift it up and snuggle into the warmth of who you thought was your boyfriend

✰ because you all are so close, Oikawa didn’t think twice about wrapping his arms around you, forgetting that Iwa was even there

✰ your boyfriend started to get red in the face, “Oikawa,” he warned, trying to make his best friend back off without making a scene

✰ Oikawa looks to him confused, “Chill out Iwa-chan! I know it's not godzilla but it's not that bad”

✰ Iwaizumi would have left it at that, but when you turned around and hooked your leg onto your current human pillow? Ohohoho, its over

✰ he grabs your waist and throws you over his shoulder, wrecking the little tent you made and leaving the third wheel of the trio in the rubble

✰ you cry out in protest, upset that your hours of work are now suffocating your other best friend

✰ you feel every step and he takes as he walks you both towards your room the air is tense, and you don’t know what to do

✰ you enter your bedroom, still being carried by him, and he drops you on the bed, and falls on top of you, letting out a noise of comfort as you squirm

✰ “Hajime please get of you’re squishing meee!” you wheeze out the last part

✰ he doesn’t verbally acknowledge you but he adjusts himself so you both are comfortable

✰ “Is this ok?” he asks quietly

✰ “yeah,” you reply, “It is.”

✰ Neither of you seem to notice oikawa taking photos, and the next day, oikawa shows iwa, but not without a volleyball to the head

✰ neither you nor oikawa know that's his screen on his phone

~Bokuto~

✰ When does this boy not get jealous, not because of you no! He trusts you with anything and everything, and he loves showing you off

✰ that is until all the attention goes to you and he thinks everyone is going to take you away, especially when he goes emo mode, he’s about ready to give you up to anyone :( but you never go obviously

✰ akaashi managed to convince you to become manager, he said that it would come in handy when he started to become self destructive

✰ and it worked! You were able to save a lot of games and akaashi’s mental health, for a while that is

✰ today was the first day of spring high finals, teams everywhere, balls flying, and Bokuto was anxious, and it was showing

✰ as the team walks to the court, you grab Bokuto's hand and you grab it tight letting him know you are there for him

✰ he began to feel less tense and calmed down once again

✰ the game started and it was going smoothly, the other team wasn't able to shut down any Fukurōdani’s attacks

✰ that is until, the other team's captain started flirting with you

✰ whenever he makes a point, he would say some gross ass pick up line, or wink at you, and even worse, he would make sure to meet eyes with Bokuto, every, single, time

✰ Bokuto’s shots have gotten worse, he's hitting into the blockers, the net, and even missing the ball completely

✰ it physically hurts you when this happens to your boyfriend, and at this point you are sick of it, and have started to grow annoyed at the creepily corny capitan

✰ you whisper to the coach to call Bokuto in who is currently hanging onto akaashi, asking him not to set to him anymore

✰ the coach calls a time out, and signals the rest of the team to stay on the court, Bokuto doesn’t even notice the rest of his teammates standing still around him

✰ when he reaches the bench you grab him by the shoulders and look him in the eyes and say “Baby, kick his ass.”

✰ you move your head to face the other captain and smile, then you grab Bokuto's face and kiss him, hard

✰ the time out ends and your team is flushed with embarrassment, but Bokuto was hyped up jumping all over the court, and ready to destroy the other team

✰ (they won the rest of the set no points lost)

#bokuto x reader #bokuto hcs #kageyama x reader #kageyama hcs #iwaizumi hcs #iwaizumi x reader #suga x reader #suga hcs #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #sugawara kōshi #sugawara x you #sugawara x reader

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neowinestainedress · 3 years

Text

DYNASTY / NCT

CHARACTHERS

TAEYONG LEE "I've been having a hard time adjusting. I had the shiniest wheels, now they're rusting"

The role of the leader passed at him naturally. When the fire changed their lives forever, none of the others hesitated for a moment to know that the future of the city had to be put in his hands. Yet, he didn't feel the same. He couldn't see how they had so much hope and trust in him to hold things together when he couldn't even hold himself, anymore. But he knew that they still saw in him the protective older brother that used to take care of everybody and tried to defend them from everything, unfortunately, he knew that child wasn't there anymore.

𝞦

THE PROTECTOR

In charge of protecting the city and looking after the citizens. He's helped by his team, divided between the protectors who stay at the door of the city to control who comes in and out, and a team inside of the city that mostly focuses on the citizens' needs and external relations.

JOHNNY SUH "Cause in the end the road is long, but only cause it makes strong. It's filled with twist and peaks and turn. Sometimes you have to learn to forget about it."

If there was something Johnny was good at, it was observing. He loved to see things from a different point of view and analyze them since he was a child, so it wasn't surprising when the role of the protector was given to him. He always believed that everything happens for a reason, and you can choose to make it kill you or make you stronger. He once went for the first one and lost a loved one, so he won't let that happen again.

𝞦

THE THINKERS

The unit in charge of the bureaucracy. They are the ones that take care of the plans for the city, helping Taeyong with their outstanding logical thoughts skills. They can always maintain calm, even in the worst situations, always trying to weigh the pros and cons of the situation.

TAEIL MOON "All the things that I've done and I've seen. Still I don't know, don't know what it means, to be human."

Taeil always felt a big weight on his chest for being the eldest of the group and not manacing to protect them all. He wasn't the one who started to see the red flags, he never stopped Taeyong and Anastasia and their reckless plan. Thoughts haunt him at night that he should've done better. As the oldest, he had seen the worst thing, but the more he tries to remember, the more he feels disconnected from reality.

DOYOUNG KIM "Tell me the truth, tell me, do you still remember feelin' young and strong enough to get it wrong in front of all these people?"

Doyoung has always been the most impassible one of all of them. Nothing could tarnish him. He strongly believed that behind everything there was a scientific and logical explanation. He had no time to let himself get caught in pointless things like emotions and hypotheses. But with that came a strong need of never failing, because he couldn't let people see him as weak, or wrong. He always had to get it right on the first try. Live, though, loved to prove him wrong. .

TEN LEE "'Cause I feel like I'm the worst, so I always act like I'm the best."

Ten intelligence has always been witty and sharp. With his way, he could manipulate anybody with a blink of an eye. He loved control and power, and the feeling they brought with them. He always had to be one step in front of the others and know exactly what to do, how and when. But behind all of this confidence, a fear of failing hid behind.

𝞦

THE FIGHTERS

The unit in charge of fighting. Their abilities are mostly physical and differentiated in different specialities. They have been training since they were children and all of them got better in a specific field but overall they developed ability in all the ??.

YUTA NAKAMOTO "My demons are begging me to open up my mouth. I need them mechanically make the words come out. They fight me, vigorous and angry, watch them pounce. Ignite me, licking up the flames they bring about."

Yuta had one thing in mind, revenge. He had to carry with him the name of the people that put them through the worst and he couldn't bear it anymore. He wanted to see them beg for forgiveness and then take everything from them just like they did.

JAEHYUN JEONG "My heart's gone bad, now it won't beat for you. You had your laugh, now I won't play the fool. I've lied for you, and I liked it too. But I'm black and blue, from bleedin' for you."

Jaehyun has always been quiet, always in a corner, respecting the rules and never talking back. At least in front of their parents and all the things he was afraid of. He was calm of nature, that's what they would say to him. But the more life marked him, the more he realized he had a fire inside, and they weren't ready to see the flames.

LIV HANSEN "I can feel the flames on my skin. Crimson red paint on my lips. If a man talks shit, then I owe him nothing. I don't regret it one bit, 'cause he had it coming."

Liv was just like her name, life. Her burning red hair was flames itself, just like her. Dangerously pretty, dangerously quiet. Nobody could shut her, always saying what she was thinking since she was a child. She never let anybody step on her or tell her no. She had always been a force of nature, protecting everyone around her like a summer breeze caressing skin at night, until she realised that in that world she had to be a hurricane to protect who she loved, and never fail again.

LUCAS WONG "I don't envy, I will survive. And I've been begging and begging myself, please don't close your eyes. I don't have tears, I cried it all."

Lucas has always been the positive one of the group, the one that managed to always bring happiness even in the worst situations. He wasn't a hopeless romantic, he simply had to try and find the good in everything to survive. He knew it couldn't rain forever.

𝞦

THE HEALERS

The unit of doctors. They mostly learned by themselves, studying hard as soon as they realized they needed to always have somebody who could heal their friends. And then have been trained professionally. They work downtown at the medicals studios but also operate in the palace.

KUN QIAN "Losing is easy, winning takes bravery. I am a tiger's fool Out in the open. No one to save me. The kindest of whispers are cruel."

Kun always liked taking care of the others, from the smallest things to the biggest. So it wasn't surprising for him to be a healer. But he also had another passion, magic. It had started when he was bored and had nothing to do, behind everybody's eyes. People were scared of the unknown, and he simply found it stupid, because, behind every magic trick, there was logic. Little did it know, what life had planned for them.

SICHENG DONG "I found what I'd been looking for in myself. Found a life worth living for someone else. Never thought that I could be happy. I believe in possibility. I believe someone's watching over me."

The bad things that happened in his life never made him lose hope. He believed in kindness. But most importantly, he believed in people and that everybody could have another chance in life. Helping others came naturally for him because nothing could come close to the feeling he got when he saw the person he helped have a smile on their faces.

𝞦

THE DREAM CHASER

The unit made of teenagers who are not children of The Rebels, except for Mark. Their team is wide and filled with other personalities that don't take place in the other units, except for a thinker, a healer and two fighters.

MARK LEE ⮚fighter

DEJUN XIAO ⮚pilot

HENDERY WONG ⮚ hacker

RENJUN HUANG ⮚thinker

JENO LEE ⮚ training fighter

DONGHYUCK LEE ⮚ hacker

JAEMIN NA ⮚ healer

YANGYANG LIU ⮚ racer

CHENLE ZHONG ⮚ chemist

JISUNG PARK ⮚ hacker

𝞦

JUNGWOO KIM "I live inside my own world of make-believe. Kids screaming in their cradles, profanities. I see the world through eyes covered in ink and bleach. Cross out the ones who heard my cries and watched me weep."

Being a functional human being felt impossible to him, by now. Anxiety trapped him in a cage and it felt worst than when that trap were burning flames. He couldn't let go of his past and the pain they inflected him, and he couldn't let any of his friends close to him again, terrified they would use him against them again.

ANASTASIA ARENAS "But I got smarter, I got harder in the nick of time. Honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time."

Anastasia has always been inconvenient, she never liked their little games, and she always made it clear. That's why they had to get rid of her. If only they knew she would've found a way back home, and this time ready to break the chain once for all.

ANIKA SINGH "I didn't have it in myself to go with grace, and so the battleships will sink beneath the waves. You had to kill me but it killed you just the same."

Is it possible to have a family, a house, and feel like you don't have a place where you belong? For her, it was. Anika spent her whole life being somebody her father wanted her to be. She was trapped between her duties and her dreams, always selfless, focused on taking care of her sisters. But what if the perfect daughter chooses herself for once?

SOOMIN WAN "Now I breathe flames each time I talk. My cannons all firin' at your yacht. They say 'move on' but you know I won't."

Soomin learned how to survive all by herself. She has no idea what a family is, and she's not even looking to find out. She's only looking for revenge. Because she used to have a family, before they took it away from her, right in front of her eyes. Nobody likes a mad woman, but He wanted her to be like that.

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apparitionism · 4 years

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Why

I want to wish a very happy Gift Exchange Day to @mysensitiveside ! This gift, a short and sweet AU, will keep on giving for a while, in that I wasn’t able to fling the whole thing across the finish line for you today. (No surprise, I’m sure, given my posting pace over the past... um... some time.) A second part will appear sooner rather than later, however, and I hope that the whole thing will be to your liking. Thanks of course go to @kla1991 for the organization of the whole @bering-and-wells-exchange extravaganza... and I do just want to say that, as for my own reasons (reasons as such being quite relevant to this story), I still love Myka and Helena, and everybody in this bar, very much.

Why

“Why are you here?” Myka Bering asked of the dog she discovered in the hallway, gazing up at her, when she opened the door of her apartment one Saturday morning.

The dog blinked.

“Aren’t you Sam’s dog?”

The dog blinked again.

Things happen for a reason.

Myka had always been sure of that. So much so that it had shaped her idea of heaven: surely, the experience of paradise was nothing more, less, or other than finally being in possession of all the reasons.

When she was small, her “WHY?” refrain hadn’t distinguished her from her peers, but while most other children eventually gave up the incessant repetitions of that question, she never did. She discovered early on, however, that knowing whom to ask made an enormous difference in the quality of the answers she received: her mother’s exasperated “Because” was endlessly frustrating, as was her father’s equally unsatisfying “It’s magic.”

Which was why she became a research chemist, her choice of career happening for just that reason: it was always going to be a science of some sort, for the “why” questions—which she tended to ask internally now—had answers, if she put enough effort into finding them.

So it struck her as strange, that morning, to find herself asking “why” of a neighbor’s dog, out loud. The quality of any answer she got wasn’t likely to be high.

She had never seen the dog this dirty before. He... was it a he? maybe? she thought she’d heard “boy” at some point... had always seemed a little disheveled, his coat fluffed but lopsided, like he always slept on it wrong and nobody bothered with a comb. But never like this. Never with actual dirt.

She picked up the dog—he weighed less than she expected; she hadn’t realized how much of him was fur—and with some trepidation went to knock on Sam’s door.

No answer.

Myka took the dog back to her apartment. “Are you hungry?” she asked him. He blinked.

She had no idea what dogs ate, other than dog food, and she had no dog food.

She discovered that dogs ate several slices of cheese, a ham sandwich, a peanut butter sandwich, and a corn tortilla. Then dogs took a nap, no doubt exhausted from all the eating.

After numerous fruitless attempts at Sam’s door throughout the day, Myka called Mr. Nielsen, the super. “Sam moved out,” she was told. “Couple weeks ago. No forwarding address.”

“But I have his dog.”

“That’s nice of you,” Mr. Nielsen said.

“You don’t understand. I didn’t intend to have his dog.”

“Then maybe it isn’t nice. It’s not my problem either way.” He hung up.

Myka hadn’t liked Sam. He had asked her out, and she had said no, because he made her nervous. Anyone asking her out made her nervous, but this felt... different. She sensed she’d been right to turn him down, for he got visibly offended, in a way that made her even more nervous, such that she avoided him as much as possible afterward. He didn’t seem like a good person. But to move away and leave his dog behind?

She considered taking the dog to the animal shelter. What was she going to do with a dog? “What am I going to do with a dog?” she asked the dog in question. He blinked.

“I guess it’s you and me, dog,” she said after that Saturday turned into a weekend, the weekend into a week, one week into two.

And he looked at her as if to ask not “why?” but “what took you so long?”

She bought a leash. A bed. Actual dog food. So many products. “I’ve never shopped this much for myself,” she told him. She couldn’t decipher his blink in response to that information. Was it “But of course you should buy more for me” or “You should buy more for yourself”?

As it happened, he was a responsibility in ways she had not expected to enjoy. She had to leave work at midday, every day, to go home and walk him. She had that thing to do, and she did it. Her lab neighbor Abigail teased her about the dog being just an excuse to escape the lab, an excuse who probably didn’t even exist. “He’s real,” Myka protested. “I even had to come up with a name for him.”

Abigail laughed. “Sure you did.”

“Leukotriene.”

Pause. “Okay, now I’m convinced. Mostly. But I still want photo evidence.”

It hadn’t occurred to Myka to take a picture of the newly named Leukotriene, but she did so that night. She included a ruler in the photo for scale, lest Abigail mistake him for a Pomeranian, which was the breed—as far as Myka could tell, given her limited dog knowledge—he most resembled. The next day, “That’s him,” she said.

“Your dog.”

“I guess so.”

“He’s really... pretty.”

At home that night, she told him, “Abigail thinks you’re pretty.” He did the blink. “Yes,” she affirmed, “I do too.”

She shortened his name to “Leuko.” He didn’t seem to hate it. Then again, he wasn’t very vocal, positively or negatively.

She took him on walks, increasingly long ones, on the winding trails of the city’s largest park. She had never been a walker, but Leuko was... well, no: he was a trotter. A delighted, peppy trotter. Myka tried to match his bright energy, but she didn’t ever feel the same shine. It made her unaccountably happy, though, to see him that happy.

When she bathed him, he suffered it (no bright energy there), but she had a sense that he knew how impressive he looked when he was clean. His fluffy tan coat expanded into even greater glossy magnificence, an invitation to sink fingers in, and it rewarded the venture.

The best part, though, was when she would sit on the sofa, reading a journal or, less frequently, a novel, and he would lie against her, sighing as she rested her hand against his soft, warm body.

It was easy to forget that Sam had ever existed. Easy to sink into the belief that she and Leuko had always been a team. That this new texture of her life—this sneaky, responsibility-laden velvet—was a reality that had simply been held in abeyance until the right time. And now was that time.

One Saturday, as they walked in a nearly empty park, enjoying an early cold snap, Myka heard from a great distance an exclamation: “Monty!” She wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but suddenly her leash hand was empty, and Leuko was tearing across an open field, toward a solitary female figure, barking, making noise like he’d finally learned, or just remembered, that he had a voice.

Myka took off after him, drawing near at the moment he leapt—yes, leapt—into the woman’s arms.

She was striking, with dark eyes that rhymed with Leuko’s... in fact, she rhymed entirely with him, with his beauty. She looked up from him to Myka, those dark eyes widening, seemingly shocked to find another person present. “This is my dog,” she said, a little halting, as if she were trying the words out. Or as if she were coaxing them back into her mouth from far away.

Myka’s breath seized. “No,” she said, forcing the word out. “He’s my dog.”

“He is not. He’s mine. You can see it.”

Myka could see it. It drove ice in her heart to see it, to see him so ecstatic to see someone else, but it was there to be seen. It was there to be heard, too: Myka would never, she was sure, forget that declarative bark.

“He was lost for so long. How did you come to have him?” the woman asked, and Myka, trying to hide that heart-ice, explained about Sam. The woman said, shortly and with pain, “So that’s what happened.” She didn’t offer anything more, and while Myka wasn’t the most sensitive of souls, she could tell that this was not the sort of thing a stranger could ask any question about, not why or wherefore or anything at all.

A stranger. She was a stranger to both of them now, this woman and her dog, a stranger in their way, on the path in front of them—on a path she never should have been on in the first place. And if there was one thing Myka knew how to do, it was get out of the way.

She tried, mightily, to tell herself that that was what she should do: just step away. Let them carry on down the path. You didn’t have a dog before, and you were fine.

Leuko—Monty—looked at her from his perch in the woman’s arms. He blinked.

In response to that, Myka found herself babbling, “Can I... I mean, would you maybe let me... walk him sometime? Because he and I. I mean, or maybe just me. I. I’ll miss... it all.”

“I’m disinclined to let him out of my sight,” the woman said, with seeming care.

Myka didn’t have to ask why. “I don’t mean alone,” she said. “Just to see him.”

The woman looked at the dog in her arms. Did he blink? Whatever he showed her, it was enough. “All right,” she said. “Next week?” At Myka’s nod, she continued, “I should introduce myself. I’m Helena Wells.”

Myka understood even that was a matter of trust. “I’m Myka Bering,” she said, “and let me give you my number so you—”

“I’d rather not,” Helena Wells said, with the same care.

Not overmuch trust. “I can bring you what I bought for him,” Myka said, and maybe it was a flail to show that Helena Wells did not need to doubt her intentions. “If you want.”

“Thank you, but I still have all his things. Always holding out hope.” She said that with a quirk of her lip that Myka envied. Hope—what was it?

But of course Helena Wells had held out hope. Even after Myka’s own short time with Leuko—Monty—she would have done the same thing. Had he suddenly been gone, had she not known why.

The next Saturday morning, Myka spent some time pondering a very strange question: what do you wear to walk your ex-dog with someone who probably wants to forget that you exist?

The relief Myka felt when Helena and Leuko—Monty—appeared... it nearly felled her. There he is, she thought, and he’s all right. Not that she had expected anything different, but it was a relief. After a week she had not understood as a ratcheting up of anxiety, she at last felt relief.

They walked, side by side, Leuko—no, Monty—leading the way, shining even more brightly than Myka had known he could. “I didn’t intend to have your dog,” Myka started. “I didn’t mean to keep him... I mean, to keep him from you. The super can testify to the timeline, and I—”

“It’s all right,” Helena said. “I see that.”

“But I’m trying to tell you why this happened.”

“It doesn’t matter why. He’s here, and I told you, it’s all right.”

��Of course it matters! You’d care if I did try to steal him.”

“But you didn’t,” Helena said, and her words were gentle. “You cared for him. You didn’t have to.”

That left Myka strangely perplexed, because now, in retrospect, what else could have happened? “Of course I did.”

And Leuko—no, Monty—looked up at her, and he did the blink, and Myka knew what it meant: “Of course you did.”

Meeting, walking. They fell into a regular Saturday-walk schedule. As the weeks progressed, Myka’s anxiety gave way to, made room for, anticipation. Leuko—Monty—never barked when he saw Myka, but he did pull on the leash as she approached and gave her a nuzzle when she knelt to greet him.

“Why did you name him Monty?” Myka asked, one Saturday.

That made Helena smile. “I didn’t. His breeder did.”

“His breeder?”

“He’s a Mittelspitz.”

“He’s... a medium? A medium spitz?” Well, that explained his looking like a Pomeranian.

“Precisely.”

Myka felt dim. “But what does that have to do with being called Monty?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. The breeder named his litter after the stars of A Place in the Sun; he’s Montgomery Clift. His sister is Shelley Winters, and his brother is Elizabeth Taylor.”

“His brother? Why?” Myka really did try to limit the asking of that question out loud, but this seemed extra-justified.

“He’s even more beautiful than Monty.”

Did Monty the Mittelspitz turn his head and harrumph at such blasphemy? Myka surely was imagining that. He must have just seen a squirrel. “Poor Shelley Winters, though,” Myka said.

Helena laughed... and Myka felt that she should name that laugh “Elizabeth Taylor” as well. Helena said, “No, no, she’s pretty too. A remarkably lovely litter, and in fact Shelley was the only one who was show quality. If beauty were all it took, Liz would have ruled the circuit.” Another harrumph. “Don’t pout, darling,” Helena said to the dog, then to Myka, “Why did you name him Leuko?”

“After a peptide,” Myka admitted. “Well, a group of peptides.”

“A peptide.”

That was an implicit “why,” and Myka was strangely comforted. “I’m a chemist,” she said.

“A chemist.” Helena furrowed her brow. “How funny that I didn’t know that. How have we not got around to professions?”

Myka wanted to say, “Because when we get close to anything about our real lives, one or both of us backs away.” They still had no contact outside the park, and even as they shared and deepened this strange long-walk familiarity, Myka did not know where the line was. Had it shifted? If not, would it ever? She tried, very cautiously, “I don’t know. Will you... will you tell me yours?”

“I teach writing.”

For some reason, Myka couldn’t hold back her next question, even though it was not justified: “Why?”

“I have knowledge and expertise to impart. Due to having studied writing. And having made a living in the past as a writer myself.”

“That’s a good reason,” Myka said, and she thought, That’s more than you’ve said about yourself in weeks of walks. Was something different about this day?

“Thank you. Though I may not need your imprimatur, I’m pleased to have it.”

Was she... teasing? “I like good reasons,” Myka tried to explain.

“Good reasons. Recognizing them is not inapplicable to the craft of writing.” Helena said this with a funny little bow of her head.

Myka’s facial capillaries flooded with blood.

She knew why, but she hid the answer in her heart, for she remembered all too well Helena’s desolate “So that’s what happened.”

On one of their earlier walks, they had run into Abigail. “How’s little Leukotriene?” she asked. “Or I guess he’s not so little. That’s weird; I thought he was a Pom.”

Myka resisted the impulse to remind her of the ruler in the photo.

The next day, “Who’s your girlfriend?” Abigail asked.

It was the first time Myka really registered that she had continued her habit of going home in the middle of the day. To no purpose at all, she went home, stood in her kitchen, ate a sandwich that no one else wanted any of, and then went back to the lab. It was not a responsibility anymore, and it did nothing for her. She resolved to stop.

“Not my girlfriend,” Myka said, but she was appalled at herself: for a rash moment, she had wanted to let Abigail believe otherwise.

“Walking your dog with her?”

“Not my dog.” On that point, of course, Myka wished she could let herself believe otherwise.

“Pretty sure the dog matched that picture you showed me.”

“He’s her dog.”

“You were trying to pass your girlfriend’s dog off as yours?”

“She’s not my girlfriend. And he was my dog... for a minute.”

Walking in the park every week was not a responsibility. It was a reward.

And as Myka enjoyed her reward, each week, she studied Helena’s face, listened to her words. She tried to tell herself she was merely continuing to assess Helena’s relationship with Leuko. No: Monty. And she was doing that... but she was doing so much more.

How much could Myka continue to hide in her heart? And for how long?

As if in answer, the Saturday following their “professions” discussion, Helena (and Leuko—no, Monty) failed to appear. Myka, desolate at the absence of them both, walked by herself. It was terrible.

The park was empty of them the following week as well. Still, Myka walked, taking the isolation as her punishment for having misunderstood lines and crossing them, for having been so foolish as to let any part of her secret heart show on her face.

The aftermath of that second lonely walk left Myka restless, anxious. Should she try to find Helena and ask her why she had so abruptly decided against... whatever they were doing? Could she then beg her to reconsider walking a dog together to no purpose? “I’ll stop wanting anything more than that,” Myka thought to tell her. “I promise.”

But of course trying to find her was out of the question; if Helena didn’t want even to walk with Myka, she surely didn’t want to be stalked by her.

So Myka did the only thing she could do: the next Saturday, she returned again to the park. And she hoped.

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Why #B&W Holiday Gift Exchange #bering and wells gift exchange #bering and wells exchange #mysensitiveside

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intimidating-fettuccine · 4 years

Text

For the Sake of Science

I hope you enjoy this, because I am incredibly proud of it and I think it’s my favorite work. Under the cut for length.

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My parents were very interesting people. They had odd quirks and a habit of avoiding social situations, as their beliefs had made them outcasts amongst their community. My parents both claimed to be pursuing science for the sake of advancing society, but that couldn't be further from the truth at the root of it. They just wanted to test the limits of their "science", and I happened to be the perfect guinea pig for them.

My father was a surgeon in his day to day life, and my mother had been a chemist before she was abruptly fired one day for making propositions to her coworkers that were most definitely not in the job description. She had proposed that they begin experimenting on humans with various chemical combinations to try and alter the human species to a more evolved state, a "perfect" state, as she called it. She had threatened them when they called her insane, and she was fired for misconduct. My father seemed to agree with her ideals, and soon they began trying for a child, a child that they would make the perfect human being, and that child was me.

I don't remember much from my early years. It wasn't until about the age of five that things began to take a turn for the worst in my miserable excuse for a life. I remember that I was constantly getting sick, and I didn't know why. My parents never took me to the doctor and tried to nurse me back to health at home, and it wasn't until I had overheard my parents speaking one night that I learned that they had been poisoning my food. When I stopped eating any food they would give me, they began to take different measures to run their tests.

When I was eight, they renovated the basement in our house. What was once an empty bland storage room was now a medical lab that would soon become a living hell for me for many years to come. One day my mother led me down into the basement, telling me she was going to give me a physical checkup, something she told me was normal for every child to go through. I very quickly learned this to be incorrect. Once I was in the basement, she led me over to a medical be and had me hop up onto it, and before I was aware of what was happening, she and my father had held me down and restrained me to the bed.

My mother then proceeded to pull out some chemical blend that she had filled a syringe with, and she injected me with it at small amounts at a time. She claimed she was giving me a medicine that would make me better, but in reality, she was drugging me, and she continued to do so for many years. She would restrain me and test out new concoctions, and if the results proved to be unproductive she would start back at square one and begin all over again, never asking me if I wanted it, or how I felt other than if it was making me feel stronger, or more attractive, or more intelligent, to which I always answered no.

I learned quickly to not cry out when I would protest, when I would cry, scream out for help, yank on my restraints or try to bite them. My mother had a temper, and my father seemed to have no emotional attachments to me, so he would let her do as he pleased. She would get angry with me because perfect people weren't supposed to cry and refuse treatment. She would often beat me when I wouldn't listen to her when she was feeling kind. If she wasn't she would inject particularly painful substances or make me swallow them. Other times she would tie me up and whip me until her arm was tired or she was bored.

I hated my mother, but I would take her chemical injections over my father's specialty any day. My father was a surgeon, studied long and hard for it, but he, like my mother, wanted to take his chosen study further than moral decisions would allow him. He often did vivisections of me, sometimes alone, sometimes with my mother. Maybe I wouldn't have minded him poking around in my body so much if it wasn't for the fact that I was awake and had no numbing agents used on me to prevent pain. I would just have to sit there and bear with it as he stabbed and sliced and poked around inside me while I tried not to cry out or squirm in discomfort.

Sometimes my mother enjoyed injecting her drugs directly into specific organs, which resulted in multiple organs failing in my body, and me growing even weaker and even sicker. Of course, once they crossed the threshold of human experimentation they had no issues dealing in the black market, and they were able to procure me new organs whenever I needed them. After all, they would spare no expense in their delirious pursuit of perfection. Thankfully my father stopped cutting me open eventually, although it was only due to the fact that my skin stopped healing back as fast. I was fragile, and my skin would just peel right off in some places. Whenever I showered, which I was made to do quite often, I could no longer use regular loofas or sponges because they would tear my skin right off. Such is the expected result of being drugged on a daily basis.

These issues caused my skin to not only be sensitive but look and smell bad. Nobody wished to be friends with someone so visibly dying. A few of my teachers were quite concerned and tried to get involved and help me, but they all of a sudden stopped, most likely to my parents stepping in. They would ignore me and pretend I wasn't there unless they were passing back a paper or something else of the sort. The other students I went to school with weren't as forgiving. They would pick on me, some teasing and some spitting out harsh and cruel words about my appearance, my scent, my demeanor.

I didn't complain when they mocked me and called me horrible things. I didn't complain when they swapped out my food for stale, gross replacements. I didn't complain when they soaked me in water, or when one boy decided to piss all over me while I used the bathroom because as he claimed, I already smelled like shit anyways. I didn't say anything when they'd hit me like my mother would because I was already used to the pain. Some of them got bored because I wouldn't react, and some of them continued because they used me as a way for them to vent out their stupid bullshit frustrations. One particularly nasty bitch ended up calling me "Freakshow" one day, and the name quickly spread and stuck. I would be known as Freakshow for the rest of my academic career, and I ended up keeping in the afterlife, because why the fuck not, ya know? Nobody gives a damn anyway.

My mother seemed to become more and more distressed at my horrific state of appearance. Perfect people weren't supposed to be rotting corpses, they were supposed to be angelic and beautiful. Well, let me tell you, I was not nor have I ever been angelic and beautiful, and her worried distress only caused me to go even further from that state as she would pump me full of even more chemicals to try and reverse the effects of her years of misdeeds. When she realized that wasn't working, she stopped. She quit her injections and studies and tests and I thought for once in my life maybe she'd come to her senses. What a horseshit dream that was. Turns out she was trying to have me go through a sort of rehab, to try and get my body back to what a normal human was supposed to look like. When my body got back to a semi-normal state, she plunged right back into her experiments.

Now, I never gave a rat's ass about anything in life. I had nothing to live for, nobody to care about, no interests of any kind. It wasn't until I met Jackson that I seemed to change that thought. You see, Jackson accepted me, made me feel loved, and never judged me for any of my weird qualities. He gave me something to live for, something to hope for, something to smile about. I began dating him in secret behind my parent's backs, and he did a whole lot to increase my mental state. He got me addicted, addicted to living that is. Trying new things, having a fun time, living life. Dopamine and serotonin are two pretty addictive drugs, let me tell ya, and once I was used to feeling them, I couldn't get enough of it. When I was with Jackson I wasn't Freakshow, I wasn't Dexter. I was Dex. I was alive. I was his.

When I was with Jackson, I thought that nothing could go wrong, that maybe I could escape my parent's grasp. I couldn't have been more wrong. My parents ended up somehow finding out about Jackson around the time I'd turned 19, and unbeknownst to me, they kidnapped him and tortured him for several hours when I was out of the house one day. When I returned home, my father who had been waiting for me quickly grabbed me and dragged me downstairs to the basement to show me their handiwork. Jackson was gagged, naked, tied up to the wall, and mutilated beyond repair. He was barely hanging on, and when he saw me he was choking out, trying to say my name, to say anything. Well, my mom ended up killing him right then and there, right before my eyes. She claimed it was for the sake of science, as she howled in laughter. Well, let me tell you I had never felt such emotions raging up inside me as I did at that moment.

I went absolutely batshit crazy, and it's not something I'm proud of. I went apeshit and lost it on them, screaming at the top of my lungs as I went through catharsis, releasing all my pent up emotions over the years. They tried to calm me down with my mother's bullshit excuse of a homemade anesthetic and ended up killing me. So what do they do? Maybe cry, feel bad, repent for their mistakes? Nope. They dump my ass in the backyard and act like nothing ever happened. Of course, by some ungodly happening, I ended up waking back up. Except, I didn't feel like me. I felt goddamn amazing. I couldn't feel absolutely anything. I felt free. Well, almost completely free.

I made my way up through the dirt in our backyard, and then inside the house where I found my parents discussing adoption, of all things, planning on taking in another child for this. Well, I strolled right up to them, and ya know what I did? I bashed them right over the head with the very shovel they buried me with. Let me tell ya, the most fun I've ever had in my life was drugging and torturing them the same way they had done to me. They were crying, weeping, begging me for forgiveness by the time they woke up. Asking me to forgive them, to let them make it up to me. When they realized I wouldn't change my mind they changed their tune, screaming out that I was a disgrace, a zombified monster, a disgusting creature that would never know love. I had lots of fun that night, and I did it all for the sake of science.

#creepypasta #creepypasta scenarios #creepypasta scenario #creepypasta original character #original character #creepypasta original story #dex martin #dex martin headcanons #dex martin headcanon #dex martin scenario

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nomimits7 · 4 years

Text

Cold Phoenix | 1

Title: Cold Phoenix

Pairing: FBI BTS x Gang/mafia member (named) reader

Genre: Mission au, FBI au, Gang au

Warnings: Angst, manipulation, riddles (sorry), betrayal

Summary: Being born as the Taboo child between the good and the bad of this world, Zebah grew up believing she was just another one of the stolen. But just like the moon that needs the sun to shine, seven FBI agents enter her life with the promise of freedom. Before long Zebah realizes she is just another pawn in the game of Mafia vs. FBI. Will Zebah ever learn to trust the seven men that betrayed her to get what they wanted? Will she ever believe the truth behind her own birth? Or will Zebah fall alongside her family that lied to her from the start?

A/N: This story is told in the third person. Try to guess who the narrator is! Also this is my first time writing in this style. Please do tell me what you think. Should I keep to it or not?? The bold words are flashbacks of past scenes. The normal words are what the narrator tells.

@kookmin9795land Hope you like it

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“It’s done. Mommy made the big bad mistake go away. Now, remember what mommy said. You made this mistake…” The woman with grey hair points to the new-born baby in her son's arms “and whatever mommy had to do in there is your fault. If she ever finds out about her true identity, mommy will have to ‘fix’ that to” The woman concluded as she exited the hallway, ordering some of the bystanders to clean up the mess. She was the wife of one of the most feared mafia bosses out there. Ruthless and heartless, even towards her own son's breaking heart. No amount of tears could break her, even if she silently felt joy seeing and holding her first grandchild.

“Don’t worry angel, even if you might never know the truth… Daddy will always love you and protect you from afar” He whispered close to his newly born daughters’ ears. Regret and sadness the only available emotions as he watches the others remove the love of his life’s lifeless body. A silent sacrifice to save her life. A sacrifice she would only come to hear about when it’s far too late. His mother has removed the sun in his dark life, fortunately, he had his daughter to fill the void, even if she, like the moon, would only reflect her mother's brightness.

Growing up in the mafia Zebah always thought she was one of the stolen. You see there were just too little children born into the mafia to maintain sufficient numbers, so some of the mafia leaders decided to steal what they needed. Reinforcements. At first, they stole teens, they were young and could learn fast, but they also had grown to the extent where they wouldn’t forget their past lives. They would rebel against the mafia, causing more problems than fixing them.

Soon the age decreased, toddlers were kept under lock and key and even baby cribs had alarms on them. People started living with the fear that their child would be next. Once Phoenix took them, they would never be seen again. The only time they would be found, is when they have already reached skeletonization.

Once the children were old enough to talk and walk properly, their training began. From handling knives to shooting with their eyes closed. They were trained to become the best of the best. The best at hiding, the best at stealing, the best at killing. Even though they knew children would sometimes make mistakes, they treated it as a game of baseball. Strike one was a warning, strike two a punishment, and strike three meant you were out. Out of the mafia and out of society. How they killed off these recruits depended on the day, but luckily Zebah never got to experience such an event. She barely had one strike to your name.

It’s been sixteen years since her training started and twenty-one years since she started breathing. Zebah was ruthless and feared amongst the mafia members. Even some of the rival mafias kept their distance from her. She was still young, but since her skills surpass most of her seniors, Zebah quickly became a favorite. Even her best friends and partners in crime envied her position. Alex and Ray barely left her side. Even with her skills, they knew Zebah was still just a young girl stuck in the mafia world. Physically feared but mentally broken. All of them were, their upbringing wasn’t exactly normal.

Most of the mission they were sent on went without fault, but they were still learning. This fact alone was why the big boss never sends them on ‘more important’ missions. The risk was just too high, the FBI and even some rival mafias would take any chance they got to take down Pheonix, even if they would have to deal with Z. Luckily they always failed, and as cocky as that sounds that may be exactly what lead to their success in the end. One thing nobody realized in the beginning was just how fragile the minds of the young ones are. Phoenix simply focussed on the hardcore stuff. They barely trained their minds to withstand temptation. This was one of the biggest mistakes Phoenix could ever have made.

So why this is important you ask? Well, you see every story has a start and the very birth of the taboo child leads to the downfall of Pheonix. She might have been born and raised in the mafia, but her heart was pure and believe me when I tell you she wanted out. None of her friends shared her desire and Zebah learned that the hard way. Now I won’t bore you with the boring stuff, so I’ll cut to the very boys who granted her, her freedom. I have to warn you though, this story doesn’t have the usual ‘enemies to lover’ enigma. This story includes heartbreak and betrayal with a dash of blood for taste.

You won’t believe me when I tell you that it was seven FBI agents. You heard me right, seven FBI boys. These seven were compiled of three hackers and four specialists. Now I know in the FBI all of the agents get trained in how to handle a gun and how to investigate and all that nitty-gritty shit. But here’s what sets these seven men apart. Their leader is a genius. Not in the sense of he can solve a crime within 5 seconds, no he’s extremely smart in the strategic sense. I think he mentioned once he had a degree in philosophy or something like that. The oldest hacker came from a criminal background. Both his parents were cyber thieves and they taught him everything he knows. One of the specialists was a chemist, the other two are experts in human behavior. The other two hackers just did it as a side job to get through college.

So in short, these individuals make up one heck of a team. Maybe that’s why their superiors gave them the mission to take Pheonix down. But the funny part of this whole story is that they never made a move. It was like they were the mafias and were waiting for their target to slip into their trap. At the time Pheonix didn’t even know they had a new target on their backs. Typical if you consider what idiot the leader was.

“Boss. We worked through the entire list of known mafia members and identified 3 candidates we can consider as possible insiders. All male, all young and naïve” Hoseok said as Namjoon walked into the office. This was not great news. Naïve-ness leads to failed missions and that’s one thing they could not afford. They had an image to maintain after all.

“You know that’s not a good start at all, right? We need insurance. Someone willing to take down the only family they know.” Yoongi casually stated as he cleaned his weapons. None of the profiles were stable enough to use. They all held the risk of failure. Some of them the members were too high up and other members were to low down to trust. It was nearly impossible for them to find an in.

“Maybe we’ll find something tonight. There’s a small gathering down at the docks and if my sources are correct, there will be a deal going down.” Seokjin said gaze still firmly attached to his screen.

“And how do we know your sources can be trusted Jin? People lie all the time to get what they want” Namjoon asked somewhat frustrated that his team’s not getting anywhere. It’s been a whole week since the big man told them to take Pheonix down and the man wants answers. Nothing made Namjoon more pissed off than someone nagging him for progress, especially in a high-profile case like this. Taking down Phoenix would be considered one of the most impossible tasks to ever cross an agent's desk. Many have tried in the past, and all have failed.

“Seriously Joon? I’m a hacker for goodness sake. I saw the text messages with my own eyes. Before you say anything I know it’s illegal that’s why I had Kookie send in an anonymous message leaving the tip for us to follow” Seokjin said as he finally made eye contact with a ‘shocked but not surprised’ Namjoon. He has done this before, once a criminal always a criminal. Seokjin, like the others, lived for the thrill.

If there is one thing you should know about this group of seven it’s this, they play by their own rules. I still believe that if it weren’t for their leader to keep them in check or his ability to legalize their actions, they would have been very cunning criminals.

Part 2

A/N: I know its short but there’s a reason...A good one. Let me know if you want to be added to a taglist! thank you for reading <3

#nomimits7 #bts #bts x reader #Zzzz #named oc #ot7 #ot7 x reader #namjoon #seokjin #yoongi #hoseok #jimin #taehyung #jungkook #zebah #mafia #gang #fbi #whatever other tags writers use

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samwrights · 4 years

Text

Elixir - Punk!AU mini-series

Hi guys! So I wanted to write something a little different. Not necessarily a “choose your own adventure” but something along those lines. This mini series will be a Punk!AU where the reader is in a band where your story depends on the person you choose! While no place is actually mentioned, I’m thinking Chicago (home sweet home) for setting. I’ve been working on this between requests and, while the requests keep coming, I’m trying to get the routes going. For now, I present to you the prologue.

Thank you quarantine, necessary drives to my Starbucks, Halestorm, Neck Deep, Pierce the Veil, and Paramore for inspiring these babies. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: there will be swearing, smoking of cigarettes and weed, consumption of edibles and alcohol, cheating and possibly be NSFW. I haven’t decided on the last one yet. Everyone will be of legal US age for consumption of nicotine, marijuana, and alcohol in the present day (18+ in some states for tobacco, 21+ in for everything else). However, there are mentions of underage consumption/distribution of alcohol. These are genuinely mature themes! If you are unable to understand that these themes are not encouraged to be re-enacted, specifically cheating and underage consumption/distribution of nicotine, alcohol, or marijuana, please do not read for your own safety.

A complementary playlist can be found » here

Photocredit by @scandeniall

Word Count: 3504

Prologue is below the cut!

You had been trying to ignore the gnawing thrum of discomfort that had worked its way into your intuition the last few weeks, but today the dull throb had transcended into an alarm blaring at the back of your consciousness. Like your body was trying to tell you something that should have been painstakingly obvious, yet when you attempted to pinpoint the cause, you fell short with an answer.

Period? Nah, too early for that.

Food poisoning? That wouldn’t last multiple weeks.

Pulled a muscle at the gym? That was a joke, considering you hadn’t gone to a gym since your senior year of college.

Anxiety? Well that was a given, considering you had a nasty gut feeling about something.

Stress? Stress was nothing new. In fact, stress was a very familiar friend to you.

What the fuck was it?

Even meditating on the thought for the last three hours, an answer had yet to come to you. Without ever finding one, you reluctantly pull the plush covers off of your queen sized bed and push yourself up to sit on the edge before checking your phone’s lock screen for the time. 1:23pm. You still had quite some time before you needed to leave for band practice, but you knew full well that laying in bed any further would encourage your current laziness. Making your way around the clothes that haphazardly littered your disheveled bedroom floor, you entered your bathroom to shower and get ready for the day.

The warmth of the water did little to quell the unsettling feeling that emanated from your gut. You even attempted to center your with old therapy tactics such as identifying all of your surroundings, such as which muscles of your body the shower was raining upon or the different notes in your voice that reverberated off the shower walls as you subconsciously sang. When that had failed, you allowed your mind to wander through the metaphorical meadow that resided in your brain.

At first, your mind focused on whatever lyrics fell from your lips, recognizing the prose as one of your band’s songs. Connecting the words that were committed to memory with people, your mind began to wander to your friends—the three boys you were thankful enough to call your best friends of a decade and members of your band, Elixir—Tetsurō Kuroo, Takahiro Hanamaki, and Yūji Terushima.

Kuroo, or Tetsu as you sometimes called him, was the guitarist of Elixir and the “mastermind” behind the name of your little group. Mastermind being a relatively loose term, as at the time, you all had felt indifferent to the name. But as nobody had come with any better alternatives, you all had stuck to it until it had grown on you. Kuroo was a year younger than you and, outside of the band, was a chemist for a small time company at the ripe age of twenty six. As you thought of him, you let out a soft snort that nobody but you could hear, thinking of his disheveled raven haired locks that framed his face; thinking of his earlobe holes that had been stretched out to nearly half an inch in diameter; thinking of the myriad of tattoos that littered his body from neck to toe. Sometimes, it did seem a little funny that this man had to wear a lab coat on the daily. You were so proud of him and of his accomplishments. He was ambitious and driven, focused on his goal of succeeding in both his field and with his band. Whether that meant recording an album and touring or just continuing to have fun was unknown, since really he would be fine with either or both.

Entertaining your analytical thoughts about Kuroo brought you to the bassist of your band, Takahiro Hanamaki, as you had met them both at your high school jobs in a local cafe. Makki, though he initially seemed profoundly reserved, had a relaxed sense of humor that typically came at the expense of others. At the time, he was a distinct contrast to Kuroo’s loud, antagonistic nature. Now, the two of them began to take bits and pieces of each other’s personalities. While Makki’s cool, composed self remained, he also was not one to avoid baiting someone just to crack a joke or tease them, an attribute he had adopted over the years of exposure to you and the guitarist. However, his laidback attitude was almost never immediately acknowledged by strangers, as his lanky build and harrowing, deep set eyes typically intimidate those who don’t know the light hearted bassist. And while he wasn’t the most “modified” member of the band, many saw the two eyebrow rings that rested above the right brow and, in conjunction with his natural features, immediately assumed the impression that Makki was unapproachable. You always had a soft spot for Makki and his slightly misunderstood ways.

Speaking of misunderstood brought your mind to the youngest member of your quartet—Yūji Terushima, or Teru as you affectionately called him. While he was only a year younger than the boys, two years in comparison to you, he was the life energy of the squad. When he had entered the cafe in which you, Kuroo, and Makki worked at for his first day, it felt that the final missing piece of the puzzle had been found, though you didn’t know it yet. It had been a year later, with you officially accepting the role of supervisor instead of trainer and Kuroo being your replacement. The two hit it off swimmingly and, while Makki didn’t necessarily match his energy, he compensated with humor. Terushima was, and still is, a wild thing. He breathes life into the rest of you by offering up crazy adventures that varied from a simple 2am Walmart trip to breaking into forest preserves at the dead of night to swim in a creek even though you had finals to attend to the following morning. In a sense, Terushima was the very reason Elixir had been born. After all, he was the one who encouraged each you to learn covers of songs until the interest had been sparked enough to learn how to properly play everyone’s respected instruments.

Backtracking your thoughts—finals. Finals meant university, and university was probably the most wild time of your life. As the friendship between the four of you continued to blossom with years passing, you all had made a pact to attend the same university. At one point, it had been tricky, trying to decide on where you were going to go and if you wanted to wait for Teru to catch up due to the age gap or if you, as the eldest, were going to pave the way for your juniors. It came as a surprise to the boys when you announced that you would wait, taking a two year gap in order to save money to lessen the blow of tuition in your bank account. Even more surprisingly, Kuroo and Makki had agreed with each other to do the same—what was the point in you staying behind and waiting for Yūji if they weren’t going to as well?

Waiting for Terushima turned out to be the absolute best idea ever. While you were initially hesitant to be rooming with three boys, friendship be damned, the four of you getting an apartment together for your university years was the best chaotic good moment you had ever been involved in. In a way, you all had gotten to celebrate many firsts together because of it. Did it bother you that you were a slightly older freshman? Sure, a little bit. Did it matter? Not at all, considering you were able to start buying liquor and beer as a sophomore in college and, as soon as your younger peers found out, you had turned it into a business to help pay rent for your shared apartment. Oddly enough, Terushima was the one who handled all of the expenses and calculated what you should be charging for your, ahem, “services”. Go figure, the youngest of you all was a math whiz. There was one unwritten rule for the apartment—no parties. Period. You could use your services to grab whatever supplies needed, whether it be alcohol, weed from a dispensary, or cigarettes, they were for your guys’ personal use only. Home was meant to home, and that was that.

Home; probably the single most important word in the entirety of your personal dictionary. While home was most often defined as a place in which a person or family resides, it meant something entirely different to you. Being home meant being with your best friends, your family. It meant being free to be yourself, unapologetically and unabashedly. And, maybe after rummaging through every single thought and analyzing each one through a metaphorical microscope, maybe that was where the disturbance in your intuition—that nasty gut feeling residing in the pit of your stomach—was coming from. There was something that you could not quite place that was disturbing your freedom, your home. Coming to the realization that your hot water had now gone cold, prompting you to shut it off and seek refuge and warmth in a fluffy towel and robe. Had it gone cold in that moment—the moment you realized why you had been on edge? Or had it been running cold out of irony that you had been in meditation for so long you hadn’t even realized it? You would never know the answer.

2:07pm. You still had plenty of time before band practice, considering both Makki and Tetsu would still be at work for another hour. To give them ample time to unwind from their work day, practice always started at five in the evening. In an attempt to kill time, you opted to make yourself a small lunch before sitting down to do your hair and makeup so as that you felt more comfortable being in public. Not that the boys cared—they lived with you for four years in university, they knew what you looked like at your absolute worst. Perhaps it became a habit to do so when you re-entered the working world as a full fledged adult three years ago.

2:29pm. After having your lunch, even taking the time to do all the dishes before moving into your next task—getting ready. While you didn’t feel the need to go overboard on your appearance, since it was just practice after all, you still had a solid hour and a half before Elixir was supposed to meet. Having plenty of time to kill allowed you to take your time to forego some self-care as well; maybe giving your locks a little extra tender love and care if you felt you needed it; plucking stray eyebrow hairs that had grown just a bit further outside of your desired shape. You checked the time on your phone again after you felt your look was complete, hair, makeup, and all. How the fuck had only an hour gone by? That was way more effort than you normally put in, or so you claim, yet time seemed to be mocking you.

3:36pm. If you could magically waste time picking out an outfit to wear to practice, you were doing so now. One part of you almost wanted to chuck on the leather pants you would potentially be sporting for tomorrow evening so as to give them a slight stretch and make them more comfortable while you performed. Another said to just keep it simple, and stick to leggings and a nice loose tee to keep you at ease. The last option that your mind entertained was wearing shorts and a tank because it always got so hot in Terushima’s basement during practice. You even went so far as to try on multiple shirts and tops that were essentially the same, swapping out different preferred accessories to see if you liked the look, if only to make the minutes tick by. Hell, you even tried multiple pairs of shoes, lacing each foot individually before the clock had passed four in the afternoon. Eventually, you tied on your typical, everyday combat boots despite the wasted minutes trying to do a wardrobe check. Now that there was only an hour left for Elixir to begin arriving the at the drummer’s family home, you decide to give yourself ample time to stop by and grab coffee for everyone.

4:13pm. You send a text message out to your mates, waiting for them to reply with what you knew would be their typical orders. Well, as typical as it could be considering Terushima was always trying out crazy concoctions. One by one they responded and of course, your assumptions were correct when Teru sent in his drink that took up four rows of text. “What in the actual fuck?” You grumbled out, squinting at your phone while simultaneously trying to enter your car. Following your typical routine of turning on whatever guilty pleasure playlist you were feeling in that moment and lighting a cigarette, you glanced at your friends order one more time before ultimately deciding to place the order online. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself ordering Yūji’s stupid drink. After placing the order, you made your way to a Starbucks closest to the aforementioned boy’s family home.

The drive to Terushima’s wasn’t a particularly long, even with the coffee run. Traveling between two suburban towns typically only took about twenty minutes regardless of the direction you were coming from, though you hadn’t taken into account the long line wrapping around the Starbucks Drive-thru. Not that it mattered—you were still on time for practice. Even if it seemed all of your friends were already here. Cautiously exiting your car with the tray of drinks in one hand while you let yourself into the Terushima residence.

His parents greeted you warmly as you always did before you made your way down to the basement. “Ayeeee, there’s momma.” Makki greets, taking the tray from your hands and distributing everyone’s respective drinks. Small talk place between band members, distracting you from the other three people in the basement—your bandmates’ girlfriends. When you did finally acknowledge their presence, you gave them a tight lipped smile, so as not to be rude, though they only gave a blank stare before bringing their attention back to the phones in their hands. You gave a roll of your eyes. It wasn’t that you didn’t like them, per se. It was more along the lines of you were the only female in the band and they automatically assumed that you were out to steal their mans. Not the case, especially considering you all formed the band before any of them were even in the picture, but go off.

Having already finished your beverage from earlier, you began plugging in the microphone into the amplifier and tuning the guitar you used for a small number of songs. Everyone else seemed to be ready to go except for you, who was strapping on the aforementioned guitar to prepare for the insanity of an opening that is Kuroo’s masterpiece. Besitos, he called it. Spanish for little kisses, you often wondered where the romantic title had come from considering the narrative was less than pleasant, even foreshadowing murder in the final verse. When you asked him about the inspiration for the lyrics and the title, Kuroo did nothing but laugh, adding in, “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

The second song was a project curated by your drummer, Terushima. Brick by Boring Brick was a song that he claimed was inspired by his girlfriend, which was an endearing gesture if that were the truth. But from what you and the rest of Elixir had known of his girlfriend, she didn’t come off as a person plagued with baggage. Not that you could base it solely off of appearance, but with her and Yūji’s short lived relationship, it was a bit unbelievable that he had unlocked her tragic backstory in a matter of three months. Then again, what did you know? You didn’t even remember her name.

The title of the third song, Growing Pains, always made you laugh at the irony considering that Makki’s tall ass wrote the song. While a romantic, upbeat love song from Teru didn’t strike you as a shock, it certainly did coming from the bassist. Emotions that danced in the “love” category didn’t really sway him often. Maybe his girlfriend was just that special to him? You weren’t sure, because once again, you knew none of their names. But you knew for a fact that the song seemed to call for something more stable, endearing growth together and support for each other, which had you questioning how long had you been apart from your friends.

After the third song, you were winded and uncomfortable and no amount of water you chugged was helping you with sweat and dehydration. “I’m gonna die tomorrow.” You joked after setting your water bottle down by your microphone stand.

“We’re only a third of the way through the set, headass.” Terushima joked, pulling down his lower left eyelid and sticking his tongue out to you.

“For real, it’s only been like twenty minutes since we started practice.” Kuroo chided.

“Yeah, but can we smoke instead? I think there were a few things we should tune up before moving onto the next third of the set.” You looked to your guitarist with pleading eyes, holding a cigarette and lighter between your fingers. Makki, without saying anything else, pulled out a small bowl and packed it. He knew that any form of pleading made Kuroo a weak man, which inevitably meant a smoke break was up next rather than continuing on with work.

“Fine.” Despite the mock defeat in his tone, Kuroo is already gliding up the stairs, taking two steps at a time with you in tow. More steps could be heard, but they were lighter than the boys you had come know so well, meaning the three stooges were most likely following suit, despite them not being smokers themselves.

You and Kuroo were currently seated on a stone barricade as you lit your cigarettes, the rest of the crew picking at sporadic seats along the wall. Teru and Makki were next to each other to share their bowl while their girlfriends sat on the outside of them, just to your right. Kuroo’s girlfriend had taken up occupying the space between you and your guitarist and, maybe for a moment, you were wondering they were deliberately arranged this way.

The worst part of the girlfriends accompanying practice, in your eyes, was not their presence, but rather the fact that you felt like you couldn’t even talk to your best friends, your bandmates at band practice, because they were too busy comforting them so that they “didn’t feel out of place”. Regardless, you respected your friends enough to not make the situation more difficult for them—if you needed to say something, you could say it in the basement where spectator talk was not welcome. Out of the corner of your eye while you were internally monologuing, you see the lanky arm of Makki offering you the bowl, a few cinders of his hot still lit. With poor timing, he grabbed your attention while you were exhaling the smoke in your lungs, unintentionally doing so onto his girlfriend. “Shit, I’m sorry.” She rolled her eyes, though you know you didn’t do it on purpose. Whatever, she had her truths. You held up your hand that squeezed the filter of your cigarette between your index and ring finger. “I’ll get it on the next turn,” making Makki shrug and pass the small glass bowl back to the drummer.

A couple more drags of your cigarette soothes your craving for nicotine and when the paper had finally burned all the way to the end of the filter, you tossed the butt into the dead fire pit that acted as the center for your gathering. Terushima stands up real quick to hand you the bowl that had been nearing its end—giving you the last couple hits before it was cashed. When it came to marijuana, you didn’t smoke very often, but today you were grateful for the offering. Maybe the high would take the edge off of your...anxiety? No, that wasn’t it. Irritation seemed to be a better fit.

The seven of you shuffle back into the basement, rearranging yourselves, and knocking back a beer. “Okay, so before we move on, is there any song that you guys think we should work on before moving to the next third of the set?” You asked, your back towards your audience while you looked at your bandmates in earnest. They looked at each other, before locking eyes with you.

“Is there anything you want to work on? You’re the one who’s switching around with instruments and you’re the one who runs around on stage so we’ll leave it up to you.” Kuroo says evenly. You pursed your lips in uncertainty, think back to how each song sounded.

“Ya know what, let’s work on...........”

[ Besitos ] » Kuroo’s Route

[ Brick By Boring Brick ] » Terushima’s Route

[ Growing Pains ] » Makki’s Route.

BONUS: Terushima’s Starbucks order.

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elsewhereuniversity · 5 years

Text

Blood Iron

Running the numbers, if you used your own blood, you could have a simple ring made from your own blood’s iron in about three donations over the course of one semester. Sooner if you only use one pint’s worth and dilute it with other iron.

Iron is well known to protect on its own, but iron that once flowed through your veins?

That must be a powerful thing to carry with you.

It must be a powerful thing to give your friend. Your sibling. Your beloved.

Mustn’t it…?

It started simply enough. She was a chemist, and (to some extent) so was he. She had a thing for biology, he had more interest in metalworks.

(Don’t ask their names. They are safe from Elsewhere as it stands, but they will not tell you.)

A colleague ran the numbers one day out of boredom, for how much iron was in a pint of donated blood. She asked what you would even do with it, but a moment later, reconsidered.

A gift made from your own blood. Chemically speaking, how romantic!

That set off the question… could you actually do it?

That was when they made their first collaboration. They used blood samples that were no longer needed for study to refine the process, until they could recover 96% or more iron from any given sample. Far more then they anticipated.

The ring idea came from that colleague, who wanted a gift for his wife. They chose gemstones with his help, she took the blood and extracted the iron, and he forged them together.

The wife, apparently, loved it.

Word got around. Several teenagers dressed in dark colors came in, thinking it was sick or some other slang term to wear your own blood. A few romantics, as well. She had to put herself down for more time at the centrifuge, and he spent more time in the forge, but it wasn’t a problem. They didn’t just use blood iron, of course- that would require multiple pints’ worth. They diluted it, and told their clients as much. They were still happy with it.

For two years, they continued their normal jobs, with these intermittent blood iron requests.

But then… one of those darkly-dressed teenagers came back.

He was in college now, he told them. Someplace called Elsewhere.

(This was the first time they had heard that name. It would not be their last.)

The client didn’t talk details. She honestly wondered if the young man had been taking hallucinogens, the way he shuddered and dodged questions. But one thing, the client was very clear about:

That ring had saved his life. If he hadn’t had it, he would not be here.

He owed them his life for making it.

The client was still wearing it now. The plain metal band, cast over in silver, had been worn smooth by fingers that traced its path a thousand times. The craftsman was glad his handiwork still looked so good after two years, but the client refused to take it off when he asked to see it.

The ring had been priced at cost, plus 50%. He gave them another hundred dollars, something about leaving no debt unpaid. He told them he wouldn’t forget them and departed.

That was when the work began in earnest. It had been mid-December, the time when students come home for winter.

And when they and their families began asking for rings.

He didn’t understand it. Neither did she, but they both ended up taking two weeks off at work to deal with all the orders.

They were just blood iron rings. A novelty, not a matter of life and death. But these people- they came with their families, siblings, lovers. They traded rings with each other, wondering if this was better than wearing one’s own blood iron.

“Powerful” is how they described it. “It must be powerful.”

None of these people went by normal names. Owl. Cherish. Lipstick. Hog. Eleven-And-A-Tenth. Apparently, this was normal where they were from. They joined in for the fun of it when they saw these students flinch at the sound of real names.

She called herself Hemoglobin, the compound that held the precious iron. They called her Hemo.

He called himself Ferrous, a word that signals iron content in a chemical.

The students stopped flinching when they led with these names, and their clients learned to ask for them.

And they all spoke of Elsewhere- those who would speak at all.

Slowly, but surely, bits of information slipped past. Elsewhere was not a normal place. All the hints and whispers, the reasons given for their actions, it all pointed to something very wrong with this Elsewhere University.

Finally, a student asked when she came to pick up her ring (blood iron from herself and her sister, mixed together and studded with agates).

“Well, you know how it is at Elsewhere U. You two both made it, didn’t you?”

And Ferrous answered with the truth.

They’d never heard of it before the blood iron rings.

Her face had gone pale. “You… didn’t know?”

She had insisted on getting her ring before saying another word. Once it was firmly on her finger, she began to speak.

So this was what Elsewhere University was.

Inhuman teachers.

Disappearances.

A being who traded beads for teeth.

The crows.

Gifts of milk and bread.

Salt lines on the floor of the dorm.

The Forbidden Major.

The theater. Oh, the stories she had about the theater.

She asked Hemo to help her lift her shirt off her back. She showed them the ropelike scars there, from a close call with one of the gentry.

One of the Fae.

One of THEM.

She had misspoken and, fortunately, lived to regret it instead of dying. Or vanishing.

Or worse.

This really was a matter of life or death.

They had both needed time after that one. So this was why they were so desperate for blood iron.

Hemo and Ferrous agreed later that day: they were taking the rest of winter break to help protect these kids.

Hemo carefully drew out tales from Elsewhere as she drew blood- about iron and salt and their uses, and the risks posed by donating blood on campus. How far you had to go to be safe from it. How to tell when you weren’t.

Ferrous learned how to decorate the rings. What symbols to use and avoid. Which jewels would draw their eyes and which could turn them away. That coatings of another metal don’t affect potency.

Come January, they both returned to their former workplaces, and life went on as normal.

Orders trickled in slowly, perhaps a half-dozen in the long stretch until March. Most of these were novelty customers. No Elsewhere University, no life-and-death stakes, just cute little gestures and a fun little trend.

But they had heard too much to truly feel secure.

Hemo rerouted her path to work to cross the brook.

Ferrous watched the blackbirds at the park with suspicion.

Both laid salt at the door. Both used their nicknames with anyone seeking a ring.

In February, Ferrous asked Hemo to draw his own blood. There was someone he wanted to protect, he said, and he would be making a second donation as soon as medically advisable. More blood iron in the mix must yield a stronger ring, right?

She did it without asking questions. She had drawn her own a week before for the same reason.

The two pored over Ferrous’ sketches and sample work from the days before blood iron together, identifying the features each liked and disliked, what gems they would use in their perfect ring, what metals the ring would be coated in to avoid rust.

She marked the features he seemed to like as closely as he marked the ones she did.

They worked hard through that spring break, as busy as they’d been over the winter. Hemo nearly forgot their second rounds of donation, but waited until the week had passed to remind Ferrous. They had work to do, after all.

That April, Hemo presented Ferrous with 60 miligrams of his own blood iron, and the 60 she had drawn from herself. She told him they’d received a new order and listed the ring features she knew he favored as the requested design.

In a few day’s time, both rings were ready.

And of course, each gave the other a ring forged from their own blood.

After all, iron from the blood of a colleague and friend with whom you’ve actively defied a force you have never seen and cannot comprehend?

That must be a powerful thing.

(Or so they hope…)

Based on https://elsewhereuniversity.tumblr.com/post/163841542201/sorry-if-this-is-a-weird-ask-but-im-a-little and https://elsewhereuniversity.tumblr.com/post/172050813485/given-the-natural-qualities-of-plain-iron

I know memories are supposed to fade for students who leave the campus for good, but as these two were never students and got told about it instead of experiencing it… Who knows? Or maybe reality is thinner where they live than they think…

-Nobody

#the aftermath #blood iron #stories #long post #i love this #the outside perspective is really refreshing and well done #and the concept is super neat!#i definitely read hemoglobin as hemogoblin at first though #blood #iron #jewelry #submission

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pinnithin-writes · 4 years

Text

Good Jokes

Chapter 15

Before they departed, Darnold was nice enough to let the team take a few things from his lab. At least, Tommy hoped it was out of wanting to be helpful rather than wanting them to leave faster. Gordon had shot Benrey point blank right in front of him, after all. Hilarious and relatively benign to the rest of them, but Tommy didn’t miss the flicker alarm in the chemist’s eyes.

The crates shoved in the corner were left behind when the cybernetics department folded, according to Darnold. While they pawed through the containers’ contents, they discussed the situation with him. He was aware of something wrong going on outside, but as soon as he’d gotten wind of an experiment gone awry, he’d done the smart thing and barricaded himself in his office. He’d even rigged the explosives up top, himself. Darnold had worked here long enough to know that when things went bad at Black Mesa, they went bad.

“If you come with us, you’re gonna have to kill like, twenty people. Probably more,” Gordon had reasoned, which made the chemist throw up a wall of sarcasm about two feet thick.

“Well, killing can’t be that hard, right?” he’d said, nervously, and that was when their hustle out the door began.

Bubby and Coomer both found new weapons within the crates. When Bubby experimentally pulled the trigger, Tommy felt the snap of his form leaving the plane like a rubber band breaking. As Tommy blinked, orienting himself to the space around him settling into the change, Bubby blinked right back in, snapping Tommy again. He winced. Maybe they shouldn’t use that gun too often.

Bubby agreed, looking a little shell-shocked from his journey. He stowed his weapon while Dr. Coomer extracted a firearm with a barrel as long as a man from the crate.

“Gordon I found it!” he shrilled excitedly. “The big one!”

Tommy didn’t know why Coomer needed such a gargantuan gun when he had two perfectly good ones attached to either shoulder. He himself was perfectly content with his rifle, surefire and reliable, and his eyes passed over the other weapons in the crate with disinterest. The soda cans were disappointingly void, as well. He was about to withdraw emptyhanded when a cheerful splash of color caught his eye. Tommy cleared away some of the junk to reveal the most wonderful hat he’d ever seen.

Holy shit, this was a stupidly good find. He straightened, cap in hand, and flicked the propellor. Delightful. What an ironic clash of themes. How would Tommy look, charging dirty and bloodied through Black Mesa, rifle in hand, with this thing on?

He guessed he was about to find out. He placed the cap on his head. God, it fit so well, too. Tommy fought his smile down as he loitered beside the container, watching Gordon conversing animatedly with Coomer.

The man looked the best Tommy had ever seen him. Excluding their first time meeting in the break room, a lifetime ago. He was clear-eyed and alert, his voice strong and full, gesturing with a renewed energy as he spoke. The gut-wrenching worry Tommy felt every time he laid eyes on Gordon had been replaced by a gentle warmth. He looked good. Tired, but healthy.

Gordon caught him staring, and a half second later he caught the hat on his head, too. Eyes alight, he joined him beside the crate, grinning and showing off those dimples Tommy was so fond of.

“That-” Gordon reached up to flick the propellor, sending it spinning crazily. “Nice,” he said.

Placing a splayed hand under his own chin, elongating his neck and tilting his head like a model, Tommy arched his eyebrows dramatically at Gordon. “Is it befitting?”

Gordon’s smile widened as he held in a laugh. “Yeah. I think it’s perfect, actually. I feel like you’ve been wearing that the whole time and I haven’t noticed.”

Tommy dropped his pose, smiling in return. Gordon still hadn’t moved away from him after messing with his cap, standing just a little too close to be professional. At this distance, Tommy could see a healthy pink in his cheeks, and a spray of freckles across his face he hadn’t noticed before. A stray curl fell into his eyes. Cute. His glasses were still fucking shattered, though, splitting his eyes into dozens of little panes as he peered out from behind them.

Gordon must’ve thought Tommy was waiting for him to say something. Tommy let him - he probably didn’t need to know how fixated he was on the way his face looked this close up. “That’s awesome, man,” he murmured, scratching the side of his jaw and taking a half step back.

Cute, Tommy thought again. Good to know he wasn’t the only one nervous about this little dance they were doing now. It was strange, like a detour around where they had previously been hurtling. Saving Gordon’s life had broken down any barriers between them, but now that he was back on his feet, the closeness would mean something different. Here I am, next to you. Not because I have to be, but because I want to.

Tommy didn’t know how deep Gordon’s wanting went, if it ran straight through his blood and seeped into his bones like Tommy’s did. He wondered if Gordon could see how badly Tommy ached when he looked at him. He felt transparent, like his desire was visible under his skin, like it would come pouring out if he opened his mouth. Tommy dropped his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable in his vulnerability.

As they geared up to leave, Gordon called across the room to their host. “You comin’ with, Darnold?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “This sounds like good fun with good buddies.”

Was he coming? He hadn’t armed himself. Tommy shot him a brows-raised look in question and Darnold gave a wary nod in response. He definitely didn’t strike him as a violent type, but maybe he thought riding the crazy train was the only way out of here. Sympathizing, Tommy rummaged in the nearby crate and handed Darnold a shotgun.

He bailed on them after the first hail of bullets. Nobody blamed him. After witnessing the deaths of three men in rapid succession, most sane people wouldn’t willingly choose to push on. Tommy raised a hand in a farewell wave to the chemist as he took the lift out of the lab. He could only hope the wake of destruction the science team left behind would ensure a safe exit.

“No, take me with you, bro,” Benrey called up the chute, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“You can’t go,” Gordon huffed, turning to leave. “You’re coming with us, because that’s what you’ve-”

“Hey, you're the one who keeps killing people,” Benrey snapped.

Gordon wheeled and fired the minigun at the entity with full force. “I wish I could kill you!” he bellowed.

Benrey’s face looked like it was shredded with buckshot by the time Gordon lowered his arm. Tommy ducked out of the lab before anyone could catch him laughing.

---

There was a new energy to the team as they left the bunker. With Gordon reclaiming his place at the front of the pack, the group took out both soldier and monster alike with a record-breaking swiftness. Gordon in particular was fed up, channeling his frustration into gunfire as he ripped holes through their adversaries. There was a violent fire in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and Tommy hoped that in his anger he didn’t forget that he was still mortal.

Everything about the way he carried himself suggested otherwise.

Up the ramp, around the bend, move, move, move. They kept pushing, crowding in between two buildings and drawing the eye of a sniper. As everyone scurried for cover, Bubby took advantage of his lab-grown reflexes and hucked a grenade into the loft. The party all flinched in the flashbang that followed.

“They’re trying to cut us off from our supply of Powerade, Mr. Freeman,” Tommy said, less to add anything useful to the situation and more to see if the guy’s hearing had been damaged.

If it was, Gordon didn’t show any sign of it as he fixed Tommy with a wide-eyed, adrenaline fueled look, just on the edge of wild. “That’s horrible,” he told him, “but we’re not gonna be here anymore because we’re gonna leave and we’re gonna kill all the aliens and we’re gonna go home .”

The quaver that shook his voice made Tommy’s heart ache. Gordon wanted to go home so badly. Underneath all the rage and spite that was forcing him onward, there was only raw desperation. Home. We’re gonna go home. Tommy locked eyes with him, nodding small and quiet as if he could guarantee the future.

Gordon let out a breath. “I hope,” he said.

They encounter a radio in the adjacent building, monitored by a few soldiers that were quickly dispatched. Tommy watched as the other scientists crowded around the device, arguing amongst themselves until Gordon took the lead with a loud, “Alright, here, I’m just gonna spew some bullshit, alright?”

His soldier impersonation was so bad Tommy had to leave the room with a hand over his mouth. He didn’t catch what was transmitted over the frequency, but he overheard Gordon, Bubby and Dr. Coomer discussing it later while they were upstairs. Tommy silently reloaded his weapons with slow, methodical hands as he listened.

“Now, if there’s anything I remember from my time studying military communication,” Coomer said thoughtfully, “I do believe this means they’re planning a full on assault. Bombs and everything. They’re going to wipe out the entire facility. Clean it up, so to speak.”

“Where does ‘bathroom’ fall into that?” Gordon asked, and a hollow point slipped out of Tommy’s fingers as a snicker shook through him. “What part of that - what part of the code is ‘bathroom?’”

“The bathroom,” Bubby said unhelpfully.

“There are many bathrooms at Black Mesa, Gordon,” Tommy spoke up, smirking until he realized the man’s first name had come rolling out instead of his last.

Gordon’s name tasted good in his mouth. He needed to be careful of how often he used it. Another bullet clattered to the floor and he swore softly.

Tommy fell into his thoughts as they scaled the buildings in the yard. If Black Mesa was getting shelled, that meant the powers that be were going to cover up everything that happened here. Destroy the evidence. Obliterate it entirely. How soon, though? Tommy could bend reality enough to get himself out of there, but his companions were a different story. Perhaps he could solicit help from his father, but he needed time for that, and that was a currency Tommy was running low on.

If they bombed the facility, that didn’t just mean the research would go away. His room back in the living quarters would be wiped out, too. It wasn’t the only place he had to live, sure, but it was a small home he had made for himself. Crafted with his own two hands out of the knick-knacks he’d collected and the posters he’d tacked up on the wall. With his luck, aliens had already wrecked the place and there was a peeper puppy snoozing on Sunkist’s bed in the corner this very moment.

He wondered how Sunkist was doing. Tommy hadn’t heard from him in a while. The dog was immortal – he wasn’t worried about his safety – but he was probably pretty confused about his routine getting thrown off. Once they fixed this Resonance Cascade disaster he’d have to go looking for him.

Standing there, baking in the sun and his thoughts on the hot rooftop, Tommy almost missed the fact that Gordon was speaking to him.

“You good, Tommy?” he asked. “Hangin’ in there?”

He lifted his head out of his preoccupation and met his eyes. Gordon was hanging back, giving Tommy a look of concern, while the rest of the group crossed the caved-in gap in the roof.

A sudden, unfamiliar feeling gave Tommy pause, and he had to take a moment to sort through what it meant. Yes, he could push past the discomfort and the heaviness in his limbs, shrugging into the fatigue like an old worn out coat, but he was… exhausted. Drained mentally and physically, wrung out by the week’s events and his own thoughts. Tommy hadn’t really given it much consideration before now, but apparently Gordon had noticed.

“Yeah,” he answered, haltingly. “I’m worried about…”

A lot. There was a lot to worry about right now. His brain kept getting snagged on the aerial assault Coomer had warned them about, and the people left inside the facility, dying with no one to help them. How many people worked at Black Mesa? How many called the place home? Gordon didn’t, Tommy was certain; he had just moved here. The box in his locker wasn’t even fully unpacked yet. Tommy knew because the man’s locker was located right next to his.

A small, childish part of him wanted to scream about how unfair this all was. He liked working at Black Mesa, he enjoyed his research. Was it sketchy at times? Sure, but it held his attention like no other, and it allowed him to test his own understanding of reality with an accessibility other scientists in the field would kill for.

It had been a little lonely for the most part, but the new guy’s locker had been put next to Tommy’s, and he had been looking forward to cultivating a slow… something with Gordon. Build the relationship piece by piece out of conversation between shifts and passing jokes in the break room and kissing him outside his apartment door. Now, well, it was going to be trickier to hold his hand when one of them was a gun.

Both of them had been cheated out of normalcy, and it was infuriatingly unfair. Tommy felt horrible that this was what he was focusing on instead of the catastrophe that was crushing reality in its fist, but the thoughts kept coming, wave after wave, and he was far too exhausted to fight them all down anymore.

Gordon’s eyes were still on him, careful and patient. Right, Tommy was telling him what he was worried about.

What was he worried about? How did he sum something like that up?

“The drinks,” he said, because they were the only words he could pull from the tangle in his head.

Gordon’s brows drew in, uncomprehending. “What, like, the drinks exploding?”

“Yeah,” Tommy went on, “What about all the bathrooms and the vending machines and the Powerade and the potions department?”

He knew his elaboration was far from illuminating, but it was the best he could do right now. Black Mesa was about to be a smoking crater in the desert landscape. He was worried about that, mixed feelings and all.

Gordon wasn’t following, but he tried, and for that Tommy was grateful. “Those things don’t hold an intrinsic value like life does,” he said. “Like, I think the value of life has been morally lost across,” he paused, glancing at where Benrey stood on the other side of the roof, “most of you.”

Tommy sighed heavily through his nose and didn’t respond. He was right. They needed to look after themselves, after each other, and make it out of here alive. Home. Home. We’re gonna go home.

And if there wasn’t a home to go back to, they’d just have to make one.

---

Tommy’s thoughts followed him through Black Mesa, while they downed a helicopter, while they slunk through air ducts, while they sheltered in a garage. He was zoned out, paying only enough attention to make sure nobody outright died, wondering what happened to people who were as desensitized to gunfire as he had become.

The grenade, however, caught his attention. It also caught his body with some shrapnel. Tommy’s reflexes were slow in his exhaustion, and he was a millisecond too late to deflect the high velocity cast iron embedding itself in his shoulder.

Ah, fuck. Ow.

Crowded like sardines as they were in this narrow pipe, Tommy could only crawl forward after Gordon, who charged ahead to take out the soldier responsible for the explosion. His HEV suit had absorbed the brunt of it, Tommy guessed, and Benrey had likely become incorporeal for a thin moment to allow the remaining shrapnel to pass through him. Which left Tommy to take a painful patterning of metal in his arm. Wincing, he reached the end of the pipe and began to clamber out.

Benrey slammed the hatch in his face, sending him reeling backward. He sucked in a breath through his teeth as his injury was jostled. Really? He sighed and tried again. The hatch nearly took off his fingers as Benrey smashed it shut once more.

Gordon’s words were muffled behind the steel panel, but he could still hear him yelling at Benrey. “Don’t put Tommy back in there! Stop. Stop. No. Let Tom - what are you doing to Tommy?”

The distress in his voice was touchingly genuine for something so minor. Tommy opened the hatch, shut it, and opened it again cheekily, deflating Benrey and reassuring Gordon all at once. The extra effort only aggravated the shrapnel in his shoulder a little, causing it to gush more blood down his arm. Worth it.

“Tommy, what are you doing?” Gordon asked, his eyes following him as he exited the tunnel. His gaze stuck on the metal embedded in him and his eyebrows shot up. “Are you okay?”

Tommy looked down at himself and grimaced. Yeah, that’ll leave a scar. He could heal it over relatively quickly, but the shrapnel was already in there and the damage had been done. Bubby, Benrey, and Dr. Coomer, distracted by a distant noise down the hall, moved on to investigate, feet pounding on the slatted steel.

Remaining stationary where he leaned against the wall, Tommy tried to give Gordon a comforting smile, but the pain made it tight-lipped and strained. “I’m not used to those kindsa doors,” he said.

Gordon was unconvinced. “Are - you are the most covered in blood I’ve ever seen you,” he murmured, passing him a once-over. “There was that time back when we were like, way back in like, Data Research.”

He was probably right, Tommy reasoned. His lab coat was permanently stained a rust color at this point, and he could feel a sheen of something wet across his face, taste the iron tang of blood on his mouth. He flicked his gaze down and noticed Gordon’s hand halfway raised, frozen in midair once Gordon realized it was his right hand. The-hand-that-wasn’t-a-hand. Tommy angled his chin away and wiped his face with the sleeve of his lab coat to spare him.

“You look horrible,” Gordon remarked awkwardly, dropping his arm back to his side.

“Ye - Powerade doesn’t get blood off your skin,” Tommy said to fill the silence. “It - it doesn’t bind with it.”

“That sucks,” Gordon responded. Tommy didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on his injured shoulder. “How - d - how does it work like that?” he intoned softly, talking to himself now as he stared at the spreading stain of red. “Hemeo… phobic.”

What? That wasn’t necessarily correct, but Gordon was looking a little too preoccupied for Tommy to warrant correcting him. Plus, it was nice. His concern for him was nice. It spread warmth through Tommy’s chest and distracted him from the pain in his arm. He nodded down the hall indicatively. They should get going.

Much to Gordon’s ire, there were more pipes to go through. His voice was uncharacteristically subdued as he participated in the conversation passing up and down the line. Was he still worried? Perhaps it was the claustrophobic closeness of the tunnel they were in. Tommy nudged him lightly in the small of his back.

“We’re like peach tea goin’ through a silly straw,” he commented, and some of the tension left Gordon as a laugh tumbled out of him.

The pipe emptied out into some kind of storage room, which didn’t seem to Tommy like a very practical place for a pipe to go, logistics wise. He proceeded to scan the shelves for anything useful while the others cleared the room of soldiers. These looked like miscellaneous supplies, a place to store things that nobody knew where to put. Dr. Coomer called from around the corner as Tommy began pawing through the cubbies.

“Look, Gordon, a medical kit! We can use this to restore lost HP.”

“Tommy, you need this,” Gordon said immediately, grabbing the sleeve of his lab coat and pulling him away from the supplies. “Don’t lie to me. I know you do.”

Before Tommy could open his mouth to respond, or even process the fact that Gordon was forcibly dragging him to a med station, Benrey shouldered past the both of them and emptied the contents of the kit onto the floor.

“Benrey!” Gordon growled in exasperation while the entity kicked a roll of once-sterile bandages across the floor. “Benrey, you can't die, what good do-”

“Look, Gordon, a medical station.” Coomer interrupted. “Unfortunately, it has been drained.”

While Gordon seethed and Benrey gloated, Tommy retreated from the alcove where the kit was located and leaned against the opposite wall to assess his wounds. Might as well take care of this while they were here. Gritting his teeth, he worked the larger pieces out of his flesh with his fingers, gradually relaxing as the wounds began healing over before his eyes. The smaller shards he’d have to leave in until he had a pair of tweezers. He tipped his head back against the wall and sighed heavily. He felt dead on his feet.

Benrey drifted in Tommy’s direction, leering over the embarrassment of a demigod taking damage. Tommy stared back at him, eyes half-lidded and weary. Sure, render the med kit unusable, you fucking child. Not like Tommy really needed it, anyway. The persistent pain was more of an inconvenience than anything. But Gordon - oh, Gordon was coming over here, stalking after Benrey with rage on his face.

Rage on his behalf. Tommy’s. Angry that he couldn’t find some relief from the med station he’d tugged him so gently toward. That unfamiliar feeling turned inside him again, soft and foreign.

He was being cared about. That was it. Gordon was caring about him - had been caring about him this whole time. Every stupid joke and reassuring touch and glance across the room. Even surrounded by monsters, facing down a slow death by infection. Since day one of this god-abandoned nightmare, and in this very moment as he chewed out their mutual enemy.

Tommy let out a soft exhale at how long it took him to realize. Even Benrey had noticed it before he had.

“Hey, man,” Gordon snarled at the entity. He cuffed him over the head with the minigun, sending him sprawling. “Fuck you.”

Benrey was hurled much further than any of them anticipated, skidding across the steel floor and splitting his palms open on impact. Tommy and Gordon exchanged an impressed glance.

“Damn, this thing really packs a wallop!” Gordon exclaimed excitedly while Benrey groaned and staggered to his feet. “Just blew you across the room! Hey, let’s try that again.”

Tommy laughed while Gordon began knocking Benrey back and forth against the storage shelves, which only made the remaining shrapnel in his shoulder leak out more blood. It hurt, but he didnt care. Even through the exhaustion, he felt indescribably lightweight, warmth and delight flooding his ribcage.

Benrey eventually found his footing and blasted Gordon with an ear-piercing wave of sound. Gordon stumbled back, clapping his good hand over one ear and burying the other against his shoulder. Tommy winced, too. An awful sound, more agitated than Tommy had heard out of the entity in years. He didn’t sympathize. Benrey had been poking the bear all week and this assault was warranted.

“I’m gonna stop, okay?” Gordon shouted as he cringed away from the sound. “I’m gonna stop. Just stop - stop with the balls, I hate it!”

Benrey rolled his shoulders and prowled away, leaving Gordon quaking against the wall as the thin sapphire lines of residual noise floated around him. Tommy offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet. His grip was warm and solid, a stark contrast to a day ago when the man was barely hanging on.

Here I am. Caring about you. Not because I have to, but because I want to. He was hesitant to let go of Gordon’s hand.

“Tommy what does it mean?” Gordon asked, dropping his hand to launch a glare at the entity. “He shot blue.”

“That’s a lotta blue,” Tommy remarked as he looked around, trying to hide his alarm.

Benrey’s little color code of emotions was something Tommy could interpret, but rarely addressed, choosing to translate through obnoxious, singsong rhymes when asked because he knew it pissed the entity off. He had only seen this much blue once before, the first time Benrey had killed him, eight years ago. The feeling of burning to death still lingered in his memory today. Tommy shuddered to think of what this creature had planned for Gordon.

From across the room, Benrey bared his razor teeth in a sharpened promise.

“It means I hate you.”

Chapter 14 <-----> Chapter 16

#ink #fanfiction #good jokes #part of my endeavor to relocate all my ao3 work #guns #violence #blood #hlvrai

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sunnytumbies · 5 years

Text

look at the stars (look how they shine for you)

So...what we have here is another plot fic, one that wound up having a relatively small stretch of kink. I planned to have more fiendish scenes, but it would’ve just been unnatural and forced, and this chapter is primarily meant to set up some background info about the subplots of this story and to reveal some stuff about Quincy/Cal’s past that will make writing kink drabbles and side fics a lot easier (aka I won’t have to cartwheel around stuff that hasn’t been revealed in plot yet!) That said, we’ve got a good 1044 words of fiendery!

Suffice to say, the next thing I post will be a fully-fiendish side fic, I promise. No hard feelings if you don’t read this due to the low kink to plot ratio, but I hope someone out there enjoys it!

Title comes from “Yellow” by Coldplay (I know, I know) Word count: 10,508

Warning! This fic includes violence, transphobia, graphic descriptions of wounds, depression, anxiety, and mentions of a suicide attempt (fleeting and not elaborated on). Please stay safe should you choose to read!

2005

Virginia Pembrook is damn good at her job, even when her hands shake. She’s seen people burned to death in fires, gunshot wounds to temples, seen bodies that were left for weeks before they were found, smeared Vicks VapoRub under her nose and carried on like nobody’s business. She is, objectively speaking, a badass.

Virginia is damn good at her job, but this is Mary Kline she’s looking at, and a month ago she was swapping pie recipes with Virginia, planning their group Thanksgiving. She’s having trouble looking down at her and not seeing that kid, too damn young to have lost his mother this way. Truth be told, there is upsettingly little left to identify. Fires are like that.

But she volunteered for this, because Henry Kline insisted on the autopsy (which, despite her pleas, Virginia was not permitted to perform, and God if the thought of someone cutting Mary open like she’s any other cadaver that comes through their lab doesn’t cause her pain, sharp and aching and difficult to describe), because he similarly insisted on the toxicology screen that has taken an agonizing month to come back, dragging out the funeral and putting that kid through hell, not giving him the damn closure he needs.

She exhales. She was not permitted to perform the original autopsy, but she can do this, at least. She can review the toxicology screen, can sign off on the report, can finally give Cal the closure he’s desperate for, why won’t Mommy come back, Ginny? Why is Daddy so sad?

She can do that, at least.

She’s been at it for an hour and a half when she sees them: two small, perfectly round marks just shy of what would have been Mary’s jugular. She grows cold, all of a sudden--they look like bullet holes, albeit of a particularly small caliber, or maybe some sort of puncture wound, nearly small enough to escape her notice. Nearly.

The thing is that Mary died in a fire.

That’s what it says on the report, at least, in Dr. Stephens’ unusually neat handwriting. There is no note of any puncture mark, of any wound other than post-mortem damage from the blaze. Virginia takes a deep, steadying breath. Dr. Stephens is not a careless man. Ballistics aren’t even Virginia’s area. Perhaps the marks are simply burn blisters, she reasons, but finds herself fighting prickles of unease, like part of her has registered something she hasn’t yet consciously realized.

She’s being ridiculous, she tells herself, trying to shake off her sense of foreboding; she’s simply overly-emotional because this case is far too close to her. She’ll check the toxicology report and go from there.

It isn’t until she reads over the report that Virginia’s hands begin to tremble.

It is, for the most part, unsurprising. No ethanol in Mary’s system, no amphetamines, no drugs; Virginia can’t help but feel a flicker of morbid amusement when she flips to the positive findings section, which lists nicotine and caffeine--of course those would be present in Mary’s system, Mary who could never take a damn break--and then Virginia is frowning in confusion as she reaches the last finding:

Compound: Uncategorized barbiturate Result: positive Units: mcg/mL Matrix source: 001 - Peripheral blood

Virginia has seen many toxicology screens in her day, far too many. She has never, ever seen an uncategorized result, and regardless, why would Mary test positive for anesthesia, particularly running through her veins? Mary died in a—

Mary died in a fire. Because she didn’t--couldn’t--get out of the house.

All at once, Virginia is hyper-aware of the sensation that she’s being watched, of the gruesome expression Mary’s face is pulled into underneath the sheet, of the flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of death permeating her nostrils. Suddenly and undeniably, she is terrified, and she drops her tape recorder with a clatter (she’d forgotten she was even holding it, what with how she has been taking dictations all evening), letting the toxicology report fall with it.

Tomorrow, she decides. She is clearly in no state to handle any of this now. Tomorrow she’ll come back and reevaluate, when she’s had enough sleep; maybe she’ll call the reporting chemist to inquire as to why he approved such a baffling report. Maybe it’s an error--she’s tired, that’s all. Overwrought. It’s a relief to sink into the comforting embrace of logic, of jargon. She’ll research. She’ll find an explanation that makes sense.

Still painfully aware of the feeling that she is not alone, Virginia opts to endure the inevitable flak she’ll receive for leaving the report and the tape recorder where they’ve fallen, rushing to gather her things and flick off the lights. She’s almost made it to her car when she’s stopped by a cold, hard hand gripping her wrist.

She has time to yelp in surprise before another cold hand clamps over her mouth like a vice, a cloying scent filling her nostrils. “Mary Kline died in a fire,” says a voice, low and furious and far too close to her ear, and her head is yanked to the side, to a pair of blood-red irises making intent, startling eye contact. She’s shaking, she thinks, and dimly she is registering terror, fight-or-flight, urgency, but she is transfixed by those eyes, dizzied by the scent filling her senses, cloying her lungs. She can’t scream, can’t think, but struggles to remember why that matters. “There is nothing strange on the tox screen,” she hears that voice say, feels her head nodding like a thing that doesn’t belong to her.

“Nothing strange,” she murmurs behind the hand, her tense muscles slackening as the fight drains out of her. Her mind is cloudy.

“That’s right. Mary Kline died in a fire. Say it back to me, would you, sweetheart?”

“Mary Kline died in a fire,” she parrots back obediently, confused. Why is she having to repeat a truth so obvious? “Nothing strange in the report.”

“Good.” The hand releases her wrist, pulls away from her mouth to let her breath fresh air. “That’s good, Dr. Pembrook.”

“Good,” Virginia murmurs absently, or someone else murmurs through her lips. She can’t be sure, but can’t find it within herself to care very much.

Later on, Virginia will find it strange that she can’t remember anything between leaving work and driving home, that there’s a chunk of missing time there, but she’ll put it off to exhaustion. She’ll think nothing of the strange, musky herbal smell that has been trailing her all day, putting it off to a mixture of her rosemary-scented shampoo and the grime of working a few days in a row. She’ll chastise herself for leaving a sloppy work station the night before, picking up her tape recorder with a frown--she didn’t notice it falling out of her lab coat pocket, but it wouldn’t be the first time it had happened. She casts a brief glance over the toxicology report, simply affirming that it’s signed--she’s surprised that her signature is so neat, given what a rush she was clearly in at the time--and finally, finally signs off on the death certificate with a morose shake of her head.

“It was smoke inhalation,” she’ll lie without knowing it to a still-grieving Henry Kline, a hand on his shoulder. “She wouldn’t have felt a thing. I’m so sorry, Henry.”

“It didn’t hurt?” Henry manages, lifting his head to meet Virginia’s sympathetic gaze with watery eyes.

“Not at all,” Virginia soothes. “It would have been like falling asleep.”

Now

Quincy is moving into the apartment anytime after 2 per Cal’s text message, but it is Tuesday, meaning that he is expected to make it to an 11am lunch with Graves. His alarm, as per usual, is scheduled to go off with enough time for him to spend an hour or so wallowing in bed before he really has to get up and get ready.

Quincy does not like mornings.

This is why he does a double take when he stretches and glances at his clock to see that it's only a few minutes after eight--a good hour before his alarm--and even more perplexingly, that he's looking forward to getting ready. He's standing in front of his full-length mirror deciding between two sweaters (one mustard yellow, one navy blue dotted with white stars) before he realizes that he's only considering the yellow one because Cal had so much trouble looking away from him the last time he wore yellow. He frowns and yanks on a collared denim button-down and then the navy blue sweater, rolling up his sleeves a bit more aggressively than is technically called for.

Cal is good, Quincy thinks. Cal is good and kind, and Quincy cannot do this, cannot even think about doing this.

He forces himself to shake it off, casting a cursory glance around his dark bedroom. It's filled almost to capacity with boxes, most of their contents new; others are filled with his clothes, the only material possessions he lets himself hold onto. The only well-used items in the room—his plain mattress, sagging on its pathetic box spring, and a CD player that wheezed its last wheeze weeks ago—will not be coming with him. Everything else he'll cram into his Mercedes.

He'll miss this place, he supposes, in a useless, nostalgic way with only tenuous ties to reality. He's not going to wax poetic on the perpetually damp air, the water stains on the popcorn ceiling, the busted window screens.

He guesses what he's really going to miss is solitude, because there is a certain sort of safety in lonesomeness that he has taken for granted over the years. Like the proverbial fool who doesn't know what he has until it's gone, Quincy knows that he is on the edge of something, here, and he is frightened.

(It’s just that Quincy is not allowed to be frightened. This has to be done, and Quincy is the one who has to do it, and that, like so much else in his life, is simply the way of things.)

He takes an unnecessary breath and calls Graves.

"Little bro! You're up before noon!"

Quincy rolls his eyes, because despite everything, he is still capable of being annoyed by Graves, an extraordinarily ridiculous man. They aren’t related, but they certainly aren’t merely friends--brother is much more accurate, and besides, Quincy enjoys the confused glances as people slowly process their extremely disparate skin tones.

"Don't get used to it," he says, reaching into his pocket. His keys are there, of course. They always are. He flicks open his knife with his thumbnail, the motion fluid, carried out with the ease of familiarity. It was a gift from Graves for his birthday last year, a short, cold-iron blade that looks like a key when he flicks it closed. "I was wondering if we could meet earlier than 11. I'm, uh, hungry."

Quincy has to pull the phone away from his ear to save himself from Graves’s top-volume belly laugh, no doubt in response to his obvious lie. "Eager, huh? Does Quincypoo have a cruuuuush?"

Quincy's brows furrow. He doesn't understand his brother, sometimes, the way he can live the way they live and still be downright goofy.

"I just want to get started, I guess. There's nothing left for me here.”

Graves goes a little somber, then, or at least as somber as he gets. "I get it. When can you be there?"

"How soon can you meet me?" Quincy counters, and presses the button on the key fob to unlock his car, but not before slipping on his rumpled jean jacket, stained and holey as it is. It's the only article of clothing he knows for a fact that Graves hates.

Quincy has mixed feelings about Noxboro, the little town just west of the university, with its clusters of locally-owned curiosity shops and its rainbow-painted crosswalks. It's less crowded than the area immediately around the university but just as congested, and everyone is so nice to him, chirruping cheerful good morning!s and how are you?s when he passes them on the sidewalk. He is inconspicuous in an unassuming, progressive Southeastern town sort of way, but he is also extremely conspicuous as someone walking alone in an unassuming, progressive Southeastern town, and thus an ideal candidate for being showered with the well-meaning friendliness of strangers. Quincy isn't antisocial, but he would still rather be left unbothered. He flips up his collar, pulls his jacket more tightly around himself.

Alice’s Diner was one of Graves’s finds, nestled in Nox Mill Mall. In World War II, Nox Mill was a munitions factory, and it was bought out after the war to become a woolen mill. It was briefly an underwear shipment facility—a fact that amuses Graves to no end—before being abandoned when the mills closed. They were going to demolish it, but the little Noxboro community petitioned to have it turned into Nox Mill Mall, a sturdy brick building with a couple of restaurants, a toy store, and a tea shop. Quincy tried to visit the tea shop once, and there was a guest speaker, a woman with grey hair in braids down to her waist talking about aliens walking among us. Quincy does not believe in aliens, but she looked at him like she knew, and well. Quincy doesn't like tea that much anyway.

Quincy likes Noxboro, is the thing. He likes buying fresh milk at the co-op grocery store, likes to listen to Alice herself talk about her mother’s recipes and peddle her cake mixes on Sundays (I'm gonna throw in something extra, honey, she always says, and Quincy invariably finds protective amulets and sachets tucked into his coat pockets, recipes passed down in Alice’s family as meticulously as the recipes she makes at her restaurant). He smiles at the middle schoolers in band t-shirts clustering to take pictures of themselves on the rainbow crosswalks. He likes that, to get himself out of an unfortunately awkward incident involving a very flirtatious waitress, he lied, haltingly, without looking Graves in the eye, uh, I—I have a boyfriend, and the waitress—Sammie, he later learned—said, Aw, Forrest, we're just playing here, that's all it is. My girlfriend and I could just eat you up. (He doesn't know why she called him Forrest. When he asked, she threw her head back and laughed.)

Quincy likes Noxboro. But between Nox Mill Mall and the co-op is a big-name corporate grocery store, and last time he bought some of Alice’s cake mix she was crying. Mama spent her whole life here, she said, voice trembling, did you know that? Started that restaurant with sixty-four dollars, no more and no less, $40 for food and $24 to make change. Used the money she made at breakfast to make lunch and the money she made at lunch to make dinner. No recipes, no nothing, just her eyes and her mouth. Quincy remembers nodding, squeezing one of her hands that she'd placed in both of his. She stayed here forever, spent her whole life building this community, and now I don't know if I'm gonna be able to afford to let her retire here.

Quincy loves Noxboro, and that is the problem. He is not supposed to get attached, not supposed to put down roots (is certainly not supposed to have rapport with locals, God, what is Quincy getting himself into, here?). He’s not supposed to know things like that Alice’s grandchildren run around outside without shoes on, half because they want to and half because they're the only shoes they'll get to have for the rest of the year and they want them to stay nice for church. It’s certainly not supposed to make Quincy's heart ache.

But he comes to Alice’s, every Tuesday. And he keeps buying cake mix.

Quincy pushes his way inside the diner, nods at the tired-looking hostess who recognizes him by now. He slides into the booth across from Graves, who already has food on the table, one plate on Quincy's side, one on his. Really, it's just Graves’s order twice.

"Howdy, Forrest," Sammie purrs, and Quincy looks up in surprise to see her sauntering over to the table. Eleanor—the girlfriend, Quincy learned some time ago, who does in fact look like she would eat him—trails after her with an amused expression. The restaurant is fairly empty, and he supposes they have nothing better to do. Eleanor semi-permanently has that look on her face, like everything Sammie does is funny in just the right ways. When Eleanor isn't looking, Sammie looks at her the same way. It's love, Quincy guesses. He's glad for them. "Anything I can get for you?"

“As usual, no,” Quincy says, perhaps more flatly than he entirely means to, because he is accustomed to Sammie’s antics. Still, he adds a perfunctory, "But thank you."

Sammie doesn't push, just clears Graves’s already-empty plate and snorts as Graves drags "Quincy's" plate toward himself. Quincy doesn't eat his—never does—but Sammie doesn't question it, not ever, and for that Quincy is unbelievably grateful. He doesn't think for a second that she doesn't notice, that she doesn't know, and that's the thing about Noxboro, really. This town, and these people—so many of them have a way of knowing, in the most italicized sense of the word, a deep and perceptive kind of knowing. They've grown up with the old magic of kudzu and jimson weed, of lightning bugs clasped in their palms, of preachers who believe the words in the Holy Book, believe fire and brimstone as feverishly as most people believe in the earth going around the sun. There's something about growing up surrounded by belief like that that breathes a different kind of understanding into them.

Quincy was afraid, at first, but now it's familiar. Comforting. The way Sammie looks at him when she thinks he isn't paying attention, like he's a puzzle she's trying to figure out, may as well be a mother's lullaby. It means Quincy is real. It means that he is not quite as far removed from reality as he thinks he is.

"I hate that damn coat," Graves says then, pulling Quincy from his mental abstraction. "I keep telling you you need to let me dress you once. Just once, and you'll see how much potential you have."

"I like my clothes," he says with the simplicity of someone who has had this fight many times. His nose wrinkles in disgust as he watches Graves shovel down his second helping of hashbrowns, licking crumbs off his lips. It wouldn't be so bad if Graves didn't insist on smearing them with strawberry jam. His exasperation at his own brother makes him think of Cal and his found family, of the brotherly disdain in his voice when he talked about Amy’s tarot and her well-meaning gestures centered on Cal’s health, and Quincy promptly shoves that thought back where it belongs.

"So what is he like?" Graves asks with his mouth full, so so much for that, Quincy guesses. "Did he suspect?"

"Suspect what?" Quincy says irritably, keeping his eyes on his hands. He'd usually tear up his napkin for something to do with them, but he's been toying with the rack of jam sitting on the table by the napkin dispenser. He picks up a container of strawberry to fight the urge to empty the rack and count them all. He looks at the light reflecting off its foil cover, tilts it so it alternates between reflecting and not reflecting. "He was...kind, and welcoming. He had no problem with me moving in so soon." Reflecting, not reflecting. Reflecting, not reflecting.

"Good. That's good." Graves takes a swig from his massive mug of hot chocolate, and when he comes up for air he has a whipped-cream mustache.

I feel strange about this, Graves, Quincy wants to say. I don't usually mind, but this one feels...different.

He's working himself up to maybe saying it out loud, but then Graves states, very decisively, “As much as I love these brunches of ours, Quincypoo, it is especially important today. We have a Dick problem."

Quincy wonders if this is a joke about Cal, and says flatly, "What."

“A Richard Brandt problem, to be precise,” Graves says, and slaps a newspaper down in front of Quincy.

BRANDT BREATHES NEW LIFE INTO NOXBORO, screams the headline, with a photo of the man himself grinning sleazily into the camera, posing in front of the new grocery store’s double doors. Quincy notices, not without bitterness, that they have cropped out the protesters who were posted just to the left of the entrance.

"Brandt is behind this? Why?"

"Not just the grocery store, bro. Read the article."

Quincy's eyes widen the more he reads. "What?"

"I know. If the hard-hitting journalism is to be believed, Richard Brandt Enterprises isn't stopping with the superstore. They want to completely overrun this place."

"They have no reason to lie to the people. What’s the point?" Quincy murmurs uselessly, his brow furrowing as he gets to the part of the article that details the corporation's plan to construct more mainstream stores as cheaply and quickly as possible: According to Richard Brandt, CEO and founder of Richard Brandt Enterprises, "People want brands they can recognize. It's all about brand recognition. By making Noxboro a hub for those kinds of stores, we're going to ultimately bring in more people than ever before." In response to the concerns raised by protesters concerning how this plan will impact local business, Brandt had this to say: "That's ludicrous. The more people we bring in with these big-name stores, the more people there are for those local businesses that Noxboro prides itself on." He went on to say, "At Richard Brandt Enterprises, it's all about the people.

"That's not how that works," Quincy says, looking up from the paper. "He's going to bankrupt these people. He's going to drive them from their own homes!" He thinks of Alice, his chest tightening. (He thinks of Cal, and hates how gently he pushes the thought away.)

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. Like I said. We have a Dick Problem."

Quincy is opening his mouth to object, but then Graves pauses mid-bite, eyes focused on a place somewhere behind Quincy's right shoulder.

"What is it?" Quincy murmurs, muscles tensing reflexively. His hands, still tilting the jam back in forth, clench into fists around it.

"At the co-op." Graves puts down his fork, and without moving his gaze puts a wad of cash on the table beside his plate. "We have a problem, little bro. Non-Dick-related."

"We always have a problem," Quincy says, very quietly, because in truth doing what they do is still better than doing nothing.

"Go out the back door and I'll meet you there, okay? Bring the car around."

"Okay," Quincy says, and Graves is gone. He can be fast and practical when he wants to be, which is rarely.

"Peeling out already, Forrest?" Sammie calls. So she was paying attention after all, not just making out with Eleanor in the kitchen.

"Why do you call me that?" Quincy asks, futilely. This, too, is a fight he's had many times.

Maybe he looks as wrung-out as he feels, because Sammie’s face softens marginally as she watches him stand up, push in his chair after himself.

"Dunno. Like the move? Forrest Gump?" she says, and shrugs. "You remind me of him. The kindness part, not the clueless part. I guess nicknames are my love language."

She gives him a wink, of course, because any interaction with Sammie would be incomplete without blurring the line between conversation and flirtation, and Quincy bites his cheek to keep from smiling. He needs to move.

He considers the wad of cash, then considers Sammie’s shirt, long-sleeved and wearing thin in places, completely inadequate for keeping her warm, considers how she, too, is probably suffering from how Noxboro is changing.

How she's going to keep suffering, if Richard Brandt goes through with his plans.

"Keep the change," he says quickly, and he's out the door and halfway to the Mercedes before he realizes he's still holding the little packet of jam. He slides it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

I guess nicknames are my love language, he hears Sammie saying in his head, feels the packet of jam jostling close to his heart. He thinks of Cal calling him Quince, how the nickname settled like a blanket on his shoulders, easy and familiar and right.

He cranks up the car and thumbs at his key-knife. He wonders if Cal ever goes to Alice’s, if he sits across the table from Amy or Zara or anyone and laughs open and red-faced at someone's joke, initiating conversation around bites of toast. He wonders if he spreads jam on it, if he prefers strawberry or orange marmalade.

It's probably been enough time, now. He cranks up the car and thinks maybe he'll leave the jam packet where it is, out of sight but noticeable against his chest. It reminds him that Cal is kind, that Cal is so, so fragile.

It reminds him that he's not allowed to have this.

When Quincy pulls the car around to the co-op, Graves is waiting at the curb. As he edges closer to the passenger door, Quincy sees him tuck his blade back into his sleeve, dripping with black blood. He's holding a paper grocery bag in one hand.

"How many?" Quincy murmurs.

"Three," Graves says, voice tired. In their line of work, it is not particularly uncommon to have to kill their own kind, but it always hits Graves particularly hard. "And they were all hunting the same girl. I was just in time."

"What?"

Daytime hunts are rare. Group hunts are even rarer. The odds of both happening at once are slim to none, and yet the black blood that's starting to seep through Graves’s shirtsleeve is as convincing evidence as any.

"I should clarify that it is not just any girl,” Graves intones, and Quincy goes very still. “It’s Amelia Fournier.”

“What are the odds of that?” Quincy asks rhetorically.

“They already think that Kline knows something. The fact that you’re getting so closely involved probably just confirmed it, and it’s not like the kid has blood family.”

“They didn’t waste any time,” Quincy murmurs. He feels sick, the knowledge of what could have happened had he not just happened to ask Graves to meet him earlier than usual heavy in his stomach.

“You can say that again. Fucking creeps.” Graves’s grip on the paper bag tightens, crinkling in his fist.

"Do you think there will be more?" (What he really wants to ask is, is Cal safe?, the question reverberating so loudly and urgently in his skull that he’s sure Graves can hear it.)

Graves meets Quincy's eyes. "I think we have some time, but...yeah. They were working for someone."

Quincy hisses out a curse, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. "Any idea who?"

"Someone big," Graves shrugs. "They wouldn't name them, and there are only a few people with that kind of intimidation factor."

"Fuck," Quincy says. He doesn't swear often, but there is little else to say in this particular situation. "We have to tell Alexandria."

"I imagine she'll want to call a meeting," Graves affirms, scratching at his forearm, where the blood is no doubt beginning to coagulate on his skin. "As if she didn’t already have a bug up her ass about the roommate thing. And I have to take care of this now." He gesticulates wildly with the paper sack. "Looks like you'll have to postpone move-in."

Cal wakes up early in that strange way that happens to him sometimes, groggy-calm, opening his eyes to stare up placidly at the ceiling. When they first moved in, he and Amy got wine drunk and stuck glow-in-the-dark stars up there. "I'm gonna give you the best constellations," Amy slurred, because she was, despite all her talk to the contrary, a lightweight, but as it turned out the only one either of them knew was the big dipper, so that's what they did, over and over and over. Big dipper after big dipper after big dipper.

Cal smiles at the memory and has approximately two more peaceful seconds before his brain explodes with Quincy, Quincy, Quincy, and he bolts upright with the sudden, crushing terror that he's slept too late, that he's missed it, but his clock reads 10am and he sags, relieved. It's Tuesday, so he doesn't have any classes, and this is probably the first Tuesday he's woken up before 2pm all semester. Weird.

He sits there for a second, a strange but familiar feeling welling in his gut that he recognizes as anxiety—not just anxiety, but nerves, about-to-go-onstage nerves, high-school-graduation-and-my-name-is-next nerves. He's not stupid. He knows there's a one-to-one correlation between this feeling and the fact that is he going to be seeing Quincy later today. He's just having trouble getting over how monumentally stupid that is.

As it stands, he can't think of a single problem he's ever had that's been made worse by showering, and his back aches from binding his chest, so basically he can't think of anything he wants more in this moment than water as hot as it will go, his bougie peppermint-scented shampoo, his bathrobe. He heaves himself off his bed, albeit reluctantly, and shuffles into the bathroom.

The thing about Cal, he thinks as he waits for the water to heat up, is that he doesn't hate his body the way he's supposed to, the way they tell you you're supposed to, because his body has never been the real problem. It's not his smooth, unstubbled face that he hates. It's not his soft body, his curves, the chest he binds every day; it's not even the hair he chopped off as soon as he told Henry, Dad, I'm not your daughter, I'm your son. Yeah, he feels more comfortable when he has his binder on, but he thinks that's mostly because the problem isn't his body, it's other people's assumptions about it. The problem isn't that his body isn't a boy's; the problem is that it is, but no one else saw it until he changed his name and cut his hair and started binding, and well.

Of course he gets dysphoria sometimes. He steps into the shower, and yeah, it's a day where he has trouble feeling at home in his skin, but.

The thing about Cal is that his body is not the problem.

By the time he gets out of the shower, it's only 11, and he's feeling restless and doesn't want food yet, so he sits on his bed, fidgeting restlessly, before he realizes who he wants to talk to about... this, this feeling in his belly like he swallowed a fish.

He decides to call Zara.

"So what I'm getting is that he's incredibly hot, incredibly intelligent, and you've dropped the dead dad bomb and the trans bomb."

"That...sums it up very concisely, yeah," Cal says, sighing and flopping back onto his bed. "But I've talked to him for a grand total of...I don't even know, an hour, maybe? So let's reign in the value judgments."

"Not only did you drop those bombs, but he just rolled with them."

"Yes, Zara."

"That's kind of perfect."

"I don't know. I'm not going to give him too many points for the trans thing. That's just him not being a shitty human. The dad thing, though."

“The dad thing though," Zara replies, emphatically, and Cal misses her so badly that his chest aches.

Zara Pembrook is the one person from high school that Cal didn't completely sever ties with. Her mother, Virginia, is the medical examiner over on the far side of the city, and her dad is the chief of police. It's not that Cal's parents were bad, exactly, it's just that they were often gone, Henry off guest lecturing and Mary busy first with going back to school for nursing, and later on, pulling graveyard shifts at the hospital, and later on, when Cal turned seven, she was just in the graveyard dead, and Henry kept guest-lecturing, kept staying absorbed in his now-all-important research. There was always a seat for Cal at Virginia and John’s table, he and Zara kicking each other's shins just out of Ellen's view. Before Cal was Cal , he and Zara braided each other's hair and let John teach them about cars in equal measure, Zara patiently letting Cal do her makeup sometimes (he never liked wearing it himself) in between their competitions to see who could shoot the most bottles off the old wood fence out back. Later on, they traded bottle-shooting for sneaking out to the only bar in town that didn't card, a seedy place with an arcade on the first floor, where Zara would bat her lashes and make bets with beer-drunk, middle-aged men, shattering high scores on all the games that used a gun (until, of course, the night Cal decided to try tequila, the night that he only remembers in flashes, vomiting on his shoes until his stomach cramped emptily, Zara’s tears, Virginia’s stormy face and her eyes full of concern, an IV in his arm and hair being smoothed back from his face, no, baby, we know you're sorry, we won't tell your daddy). And then when Cal became himself, traded short skirts for flannel and boot-cut jeans, it was Zara who cut his hair over the kitchen sink with a pair of rusty scissors (Virginia whose eyes grew big as saucers in abject horror, who took the scissors for herself and gave him something resembling a decent haircut).

So yeah, when Cal erased everyone else from his life before college, erased every trace that anyone other than Cal Kline, trans man ever existed, Zara stayed. Zara was always going to stay. Virginia wanted her to be a nurse, but to no one's surprise, Zara would have nothing to do with that. She's going to a two-year college to get her degree in mortuary science , which makes her infinitely more interesting then Cal will ever be, but also makes her kind of disgusting to talk to.

Exhibit A. "Ugh. You're getting to demystify uber-hot Sweater Guy. Meanwhile I'm pretty sure I've figured out where the smell is coming from, and the answer is all of the clothes I've worn to lab in the last week. The lab with dead people, Cal."

"Um."

"My clothes smell like dead people. Mom, my clothes smell like dead people. My mom just walked in, Cal. She says hi."

"Hi, Ms. Pembrook."

"Cal says hi, Ms. Pembrook. Cal, my mom says shut up, you haven't called her Ms. Pembrook since kindergarten, it's just Virginia or Ginny and you know it. " Cal hears the words twice—once from Virginia murmuring in the background and again from Zara’s spot-on impression—and he feels warm, feels something akin to homesickness.

"Anyway. Your boy," Zara says decisively before Cal can wallow too much.

"He is not my boy. I can't stress this enough. We basically stalked him for months, Zara, and he finally talked to me. He's intriguing. He talks like he's never really talked to people before, and I just...I don't know. I feel like there's more there. Intriguing. "

Zara gives an exasperated huff so familiar that Cal can see the face she's making, can practically feel the puff of breath on his cheek the way he used to when they'd lay on his bed at home, curled together like a couple of parentheses. “Counterargument: we basically stalked him for months, Cal.” She lowers her voice in a pretty decent imitation of his. “I’d say that makes him your something.”

“Fuck you,” Cal says, but he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep the smile out of his voice.

Zara, for all of her and Cal’s outlandish shenanigans, only got suspended once in high school, and it was for Cal.

It was in gym class--Cal swears to this day that gym class is an unjust institution designed to pit high schoolers against each other in some Hunger Games bullshit. Cal had just come out to his father a couple months before, and as such been on testosterone for a couple months. The transition from what he was before to Cal was hard at school, but if he wasn’t feeling brave, Cal just told people it was a nickname he preferred, and no one cared enough to press the issue. It wasn’t until he cut his hair and started binding his chest that certain problems arose.

Certain problems, of course, primarily referred to David, a greasy, weaselly guy that Cal had the pleasure of enduring from kindergarten until the day he graduated (and even then, Cal thinks now, bitterly. David got into the university on a full scholarship. He’s a business major, which came as a surprise to no one).

“You’re in the wrong locker room, Kline,” David hissed that day, far too close to Cal for his liking. He remembers squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of sour breath, reflexively pulling his crumpled t-shirt to his chest.

“I’m not,” Cal said, voice wavering, because it had taken several angry phone calls on Henry’s part and some tenuously legal under-the-table funding for the school library, but Cal was changing in the boys’ locker room with the law (and the principal) on his side.

“You won’t mind if I check to be sure,” David purred then, reaching around Cal to cup his chest in his binder, and before Cal could say anything, Benny--also a longtime classmate of Cal’s--put a hand on David’s shoulder.

“Dude,” he said, and Cal remembers opening his eyes, daring to hope. “Cut it out. Just let Cal be.”

David slunk away, but not before pinching Cal’s ass when Benny’s head was turned.

“Thanks,” he managed to squeak out to Benny, before throwing on his shirt and grabbing his sneakers, resolving to put them on on the bleachers.

Zara noticed immediately, of course.

“Cal? You look like you did that time you tried to out-hot-dog me.”

Cal hung his head, trembling a little, and he just about lost it when Zara’s voice softened.

“Dude, seriously, what’s up? Are you okay?”

Cal told her what happened in a voice barely louder than a whisper. Before he could do anything about it, Zara was up and off the bleachers. He barely had time to register who he was marching toward before she punched David in the face, hard enough for him to curse and clasp both hands to his face, blood spurting through his fingers.

“Welcome,” she said grandly, cutting Cal a vindictive grin he remembers clear as day, “to the 21st century, asshole. We respect people and we punch transphobes in the face.”

“Zara!” Cal cried in shock, but the gym coach was already running toward her. She didn’t fight when he told her on no uncertain terms to hoof it to the principal’s office.

“It didn’t even bother me that much,” Cal lied feebly, later on when they were sitting cross-legged on Virginia’s couch. (Virginia was angry for about a minute and a half, but when she heard what happened, she rerouted them to Dairy Queen. Anything you want, baby, she said, kissing Zara on the top of the head, and then Cal, too.)

“Maybe not,” Virginia had said, not calling him on his bluff, “but it bothered me.”

And it’s not like David stopped after that, but it was still incredibly badass, and Cal is remembering this and is swelling with love for Zara, is going to ask her if she remembers, when she says "Shit, Cal, I'm running later than I thought. I gotta go. Keep me updated on your love affair!"

"It's not a love affair, Jesus," Cal says, but she's already hung up the phone.

Cal is off the phone for about thirty seconds before it occurs to him that he hasn’t Facebook stalked Quincy yet, in this, the 21st century, asshole. He barely has time to process the thought before he pulls up the app on his phone.

It's not difficult to find. He pulls up the university Class of 2020 Facebook page and searches for "Quincy" in it, and it's not exactly a common name. The profile is almost entirely blank, and he only has fifty-two Facebook friends. Even Cal, after cutting off everyone he knew in high school, has a couple hundred.

Cal wonders if he's lonely. If that's why he was so quick to jump on the prospect of rooming with Amy and Cal—because he doesn't have anyone else. Maybe the way he's treating Cal is how he'd treat anyone, given enough time and attention.

Cal really doesn't want to be the kind of person that resents that.

There's only so much to be gleaned from a blank profile, and Cal flops back onto his bed. He doesn't have another shift at the hospital until Thursday, and with no classes to fill his time, he has nothing to do but agonize over this.

As though in direct response to his restlessness, his phone vibrates insistently. He tries not to hate himself for how quickly he snatches it up.

From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:34PM

Hello, Cal. I apologize, but I am afraid I must postpone my move-in until further notice. A pressing family matter has come up. However, I do not anticipate this delay taking more than a day or two. I will keep you abreast. Sincerely, Quincy Washington

Cal snorts reflexively—he hasn’t known Quincy for long, but him composing text messages that read like business memos feels very in character — but beneath the amusement is a creeping disappointment that he cuts off before he has to think about it further than that.

From: Cal Kline

To: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:36PM

heh heh. breast. =P

Quincy responds immediately, wow ur so mature, it's a good thing ur eyes are so pretty ;], and Cal just about chokes on his own lungs, but a second message appears almost as quickly as the first:

From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:38PM

I apologize. That was my brother, Graves. He can be...difficult.

From: Cal Kline

To: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:40PM

does he read tarot? and/or drink health shakes? I would kill for amy to do something natural like steal my phone once in a while

From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:42PM

I asked him, and now he is in tears from laughter. Apparently, you are hilarious.

Cal smiles at his phone and types out, I won't let it go to my head, lol, and then, after a moment of thought, see ya around, Quince. hope your family is okay.

From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:47PM

Thank you, Cal. I look forward to seeing you soon.

That last text message is almost but not quite enough to alleviate the heavy feeling in Cal's chest, and he tries to make himself focus on it, but instead his brain is shouting there's no urgent family matter, no one texts during something like that, he's just having second thoughts about moving in, and before he can stop it he's trapped himself in a tightening gyre of self-doubt, chest tight with anxiety.

Why do you care so goddamn much? He screams at his brain. The trouble is, he knows why. Quincy made him feel more understood in half an hour than anyone else has in years, and that matters to him. He thought maybe Quincy felt the same thing, based on all the smiling he did (and God, Cal thinks, what a smile he fucking has ), but maybe Cal was just projecting. Maybe he's gotten this all wrong. Maybe...

Like always when this happens, when Cal gets this clawing feeling behind his sternum, he thinks of his dad. Don't fucking psychoanalyze it, but he thinks of his dad.

Cal remembers a different Henry, before—the Henry who took him fishing that time, who told him bedtime stories whispered quiet and conspiratorial after his bedtime. When Mary died, she took some of Henry with him, and doesn't that just hit like a punch in the gut every time.

(Cal remembers Mary too, of course—you remember his thoughts on hospitals. Cal remembers soft nightgowns and grocery store pies because who has time to bake, a soft voice singing him back to sleep after nightmares, showing him how to tie his own tiny toddler shoes. Mary used to give Cal these elaborate hairdos when he was younger, and Cal grumbled about it until she said to him, eyes sparkling, you’re going to be such a beautiful bride one day, and yeah, okay, that's its own fucking can of worms, that his fucking mother Mommymommynoplease, Daddy why is Mommy gone died thinking that she had a daughter, Cal's not fucking talking about that right now.)

Before Mary died, Henry made pancakes on Sunday mornings. Chocolate chip, shaped like Mickey Mouse ears. Afterward, Cal was lucky to see him three times a week. It was Cal who packed his own lunches, Cal who puzzled through his own homework (Virginia who picked him up and drove him to her place, gave him a good hot meal and let him stay over more often than not).

Cal doesn't exist in a vacuum, okay? He knows that most people who knew Henry think that he had some kind of psychotic break, that it led to his death, somehow.

The thing is that Henry never acted quite the same after Mary died, threw himself into his research like never before—strange veins of his research, more precisely, that almost cost him his highly-anticipated tenure more than once.

Every country in the world has a vampire story, Cal, he told him once, eyes glinting feverishly across the table. Don't you think that's odd? I think I'm really on to something here, kiddo.

I guess so, Cal mumbled that way kids do when they're 15—because, like, come on Henry, Cal was fucking 15, he had a geometry test the next day, he didn't give a fuck about your latest goddamn research interest—and Henry had pushed the food around his plate a little longer before rabbiting off to his study again.

Because yeah, there's another reason Cal tries to avoid saying his full name within earshot of anyone who might know anything about Henry Kline: it means willfully associating himself with a professor of theology who plunged off the deep end headfirst. He used to be proud of it, is the thing, showed off his Dad and his research on every single Father's Day assignment in elementary school. Kids got less forgiving as time went on. Buffy, they used to call Cal behind his back in high school, hahahaha —Buffy as in the Vampire Slayer. As in crackpot Professor Kline's kid.

In college, of course, no one cares about that kind of bullshit. Never did. They whisper about Cal for different reasons: that's Cal, you know. That professor's kid—you know Dr. Kline? Yeah, the one who died, usually followed by something like oh my God yeah, my friend's sister's cousin took Religion 101 with him, that is so sad, et cetera, et cetera.

It's just that Cal wishes he would have listened more.

After Henry died, Cal was obsessed with listening to the last cassette he left in the truck--a mediocre Steppenwolf album, Cal remembers. He listened to it over and over and over, memorizing every word, trying to derive some meaning from it being the last one Henry ever played.

When Mary was alive, she used to give Henry feedback on the articles he submitted to scholarly journals, proofreading them and scrawling her own thoughts on whatever the subject was in the margins. The last thing Mary did before she died was give Henry feedback on one last journal article—coincidentally, which is code here for really fucking uncoincidentally, that article was on the topic of universal myths, the topic that Henry would later dedicate his life to. Universal myths, of course, are legends that crop up in one form or another in every area in the world. Like dragons, Henry posited in his article. Like vampires.

He doesn't think his dad was crazy. He thinks he was coping.

“You look like shit," Amy says as soon as she walks in. To be fair, Cal is a lump of junk food wrappers and blankets on the L-shaped couch, blanket-burritoed legs stretched in front of him, the blaring television (Food Network, Cal's first and only love) the only light source in the room, but still, Cal huffs indignantly.

"We can't all be hyper-productive all the time," he grumbles.

"Where's Quincy?" Amy hangs her keys up on the key hanger—Christ, when did they get a key hanger?—and Cal gets that tight feeling in his chest again.

"Oh, yeah," Cal says, going for casual. He makes eye contact with Gordon Ramsay on the television, who is currently yelling at a guy who dropped his freshly-plated shrimp alfredo, because at this particular moment he seems a lot less threatening than Amy and her soulful eyes or whatever the fuck. "He had to postpone. Something came up. He'll be moved in in a day or two."

"Rent's due in three days, Cal," Amy says, not unkindly, but Cal flinches anyway.

"I know, Ames," he murmurs, and he must sound as tired and beaten down as he feels, because Amy switches on the lamp and turns off the TV, sinking down beside Cal on the couch.

"You doing okay?" She says it so fucking softly, and shit, you know?

The worst part is that Cal still finds himself with a joke on the tip of his tongue, but it was Amy who the summer after first year had to bring clothes to Cal in the inpatient program he was in for a suicide attempt (a hard night, a handle of liquor, a bottle of pills). It was Amy who had to measure out Cal's antidepressants for him once he got out, Amy who suggested they live together for their senior year. That's the funny part, hahahaha, about the fact that Cal's even thinking about lying to her: Amy has already seen him at his worst.

Hahahaha.

Cal shakes it off, mumbles, "It was a depression day, but I'm fine," and Amy nods, because they've been doing this for a while now, and against all odds Cal has gotten pretty good at telling the difference between what he can and can't handle.

"Anything trigger it?"

Fuck. Amy knows him.

"Yeah," he says finally, and then against his better judgement, "I was kinda thinking about my dad."

Amy sighs, long and sad. This is a whole thing with them.

“Cal, I know you’re still struggling with this--”

“I’m not, okay?” Cal says, immediately and defensively, because he can’t help it. “I know he’s dead. It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?”

This is far from the first time they’ve had this conversation, but Amy looks no less earnest every time, like she genuinely wants to understand. Cal guesses that’s why he keeps trying.

“It’s just…” He lets his eyes slip closed, leaning his head back against the back of the couch. “I know you all think Dad was crazy. And I get it. I do. The dude clearly had some issues. But I just…”

“Just what, Cal?”

Nice try, Ames, Cal thinks, because he remembers their joint session with Dr. Moore, the one where they talked about active listening and good support systems, but he guesses it’s working because he still finds himself saying “Just everything, Amy, fucking everybody.”

Amy doesn’t say anything, so he forges on. “Just fucking...you all assume he was a crackpot, but aren’t even just a little bit curious about what had him so convinced? About why he got so hooked on that idea? It’s like no one even thinks about him as human, you know? He’s just crazy Dr. Kline, that professor who died tragically or whatever the fuck, and like...no one’s drinking beers, talking about his life. No one’s here to fucking miss him except me, because even Zara, Amy, even she, the closest thing besides you that I have to a sibling, moved on so fucking effectively, and I’m happy for her, but she didn’t know him before, before Mom. Back when he was just...Henry, father of one. Fuck. I don’t know.”

Amy’s quiet for a minute. “You feel...alone in this.”

“Yeah,” Cal sighs, rubbing his temples. He has a goddamn headache.

“Look, honey,” Amy starts, and Cal looks up. “I don’t harp on you moving on because I think he was crazy. I just…” She shrugs, and suddenly she’s the one looking exhausted. Cal is suddenly and acutely aware that this is, in effect, his baby sister sitting here. “I think your life would be better if you could. That’s all.”

Cal doesn’t drink anymore, but he really, really wants a beer. “Well, Amy,” he says, “we can at least agree on that.”

There is a moment of tense silence before Cal hears a little sniffle, and God if that doesn’t have his head snapping up in a second. Amy’s head is bowed, her shoulders shaking slightly.

“Amy? Ames? Oh my god!” Cal throws the blanket off his legs, immediately folding Amy into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. “Holy shit, babe, what’s wrong?” (He doesn’t flinch at the pet name. He doesn’t. Amy is safe. He can be real with her. She can know he loves her. She won’t hurt him.)

“I’m sorry,” Amy says, with this heartbreaking, wet little laugh. “I just--I just had kind of a bad day. Nothing exciting, just school stress. And I--” Her breath hitches, and Cal feels his heart break a little in his chest. “I don’t want you to feel bad for being down, too. That’s not what this is. But it really sucks that I c-can’t help you like Zara did, the way you need--”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Cal says, faux-sternly, making sure to gently pull Amy back so she can see his face, set in a soft little grin. “You do help me the way I need, sunshine. You are literally a bundle of joy--wait, that’s something you say about babies, isn’t it? Okay, you’re not a baby, but the point is that you’re amazing and warm and lovely, and you’ve supported me so much that I don’t know how I’d survive college without you. You’re my sister too, Ames, and I love the shit out of you.” He tucks a loose strand of red hair behind her ear, and she sniffles, a bit less despondently than before. “And if I was a chem major I would definitely be dead, so I don’t want to hear anything about how you’re not allowed to be stressed out too. The tragedy olympics is banned in this household.”

Amy leans into his hold, pillowing her head in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry. I know. I love you. Everything just happens so much sometimes, you know?”

Cal opens his mouth to respond--he does, in fact, know--but all at once he hears and feels a deep, irritated growl from Amy’s stomach.

“Amy,” he says when she immediately flushes, “When’s the last time you ate?”

“This...morning?” She says sheepishly, as though it’s a question, and Cal shakes his head in lighthearted disapproval.

“And you’re wondering why you’re crying! That’s it. Tonight’s a pizza night.”

“For real?” Amy says, grinning a little despite herself. Their pizza nights are sacred--pizza delivery and Lactaid are both expensive indulgences when you’re a college student, but like, come on, you expect Cal to hold out when Amy’s big brown eyes are still glistening with tears, when her nose and cheeks are still flushed with the exertion of crying (when her stomach is growling with increasing irritation, and Cal can practically feel the queasy ache of hunger pangs that she must be feeling?)

“For real,” Cal says decisively, and pulls her in for a tight hug, burying his nose in her hair.

“Oh my god,” Amy moans. “Oh...my god. Oh my god. I’m full as a tick.”

Cal bites his lip to hide his smile, continuing his gentle ministrations. Amy is splayed across the length of the couch, her head resting in Cal’s lap, her tummy a downright mound, churning laboriously around a truly alarming amount of pizza. Cal has one hand cradling her lower belly, providing much-needed support, his other hand stroking across the bulge beneath her ribs, working against the occasional cramps and twinges as they arise.

“You don’t feel sick, do you?” he asks, pausing to brush a few strands of hair from her eyes, feeling a flicker of concern.

“No, just--” She grabs his wrist, replacing his hand on her upper tummy, arching eagerly into the touch. “Don’t stop.” She flushes a little. “Please?”

Cal melts, obediently massaging at her bloated tummy, and Amy exhales in relief. She’s pulled her shirt up over her ribs--your hands are so warm! It feels nice, she’d defended herself indignantly--and Cal notices absently how tightly the skin is stretched over the bloat, extremely noticeable on her slight frame.

“I find that hard to believe,” Cal murmurs, as Amy’s tummy gives a laborious gurgle. She’d plowed through an entire margherita pizza single-handedly, and Cal was as delighted by her actually eating as he was alarmed by the determination with which she did so. “You’re just so small! And that was...so much pizza.”

“It was,” Amy mumbles, a little breathlessly. “But it doesn’t hurt! I’m just...very ful--oh--” Cal has kneaded against a particularly tight spot to alleviate the pressure, and she wheezes with the relief of it, looking a little dazed. “Oh my word, you’re good at this.”

“I guess I’ve had a lot of practice on myself,” Cal says, pleased and a little touched that he can help Amy for once.

“Are you doing okay, by the way?” Amy manages, cracking open one eye and resting a hand on Cal’s own belly. “How’s the Lactaid working?”

“Perfectly,” Cal soothes her, stroking her lower belly, receiving another grunt of contentment. “Besides, I ate, what, three slices? I wasn’t quite as ambitious as you.”

“That means leftovers,” Amy says gleefully, impossibly, shimmying a little, before groaning at the effects of the movement on her stomach contents. “For tomorrow. Oof.”

“You’re insane,” Cal says, bending down to kiss her affectionately on the forehead, rubbing careful, small circles into the bloat beneath her ribs. Somehow, Amy cuddles closer, shifting in Cal’s lap so that she’s pressed against his torso.

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbles sleepily, flushing when Cal’s ministrations coax up a tiny burp but looking exceedingly relieved. “Just...keep doing what you’re doing. Please.”

Cal is content and very, very warm, the unique pleasure of being helpful chasing away the gloominess from earlier. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”

Amy sighs happily, having moved from the precipice of too-full to the relief of being wonderfully, comfortably sated; Cal’s own stomach is pleasantly full, the comfort of it all dragging at his eyelids.

Right now, he can think of nowhere he’d rather be than this blanket nest, with his best friend--no, his sister.

Later that night, after walking a very sleepy Amy to her own bed, Cal can’t quite fall asleep. He rolls over, quietly pulls open his bedside drawer to keep it from squeaking (and fuck if he doesn’t smile a little to himself at the habit--what, he’s going to wake up Zara? That’s not exactly a concern anymore) and pushes aside the bed of crumpled tissues and used spiral bound notebooks until he feels smooth leather under his palm.

The book is objectively beautiful. Even Cal, self-proclaimed not-a-literature-guy, can admit that. The title is embossed on the dark brown cover in gold script: The Writings of Ebenezer Finch. Unlike most of Henry’s book collection, the pages are well-worn from use in addition to age. It feels good in Cal’s hands. Solid.

Cal was the first to brave Henry’s study after he died (who else was there, really?). A lot of things, he put into boxes to deal with emotionally later--photo albums, journals, and the like. He got through both of Henry’s desk drawers and dropped something--a stapler, he thinks it was--and frowned when it landed with a hollow thunk. After some finagling, he managed to find a latch underneath the lip of the desk, and when he pressed it, the false bottom of the drawer popped out.

His hands shook as he reached for it, expecting...he didn’t know what. And what he found was The Writings of Ebenezer Finch.

He didn’t know what to make of it at first. Didn’t touch it for months. By the time he finally cracked it open, he was almost disappointed to find that it was high-concept vampire fantasy--not surprised, given Henry’s line of research, but disappointed. Still, he felt compelled to keep the book a secret, reading it in snatches after Amy had gone to bed, the yellowed pages comforting and familiar beneath the buttery yellow of his bedside lamp.

It only took him a couple of weeks to get through it, that first time. Now, he goes back to it on nights like these, tries to curl up and hide in the words and understand why Henry cared about it so much.

Tonight, despite the comfort found with Amy earlier, his heart hurts with the weight of the day, so he starts on page one.

In the beginning, there were three.

The greeks called her, the first her, Empusa. They believed her to be the offspring of Hecate, and housewives whispered her cautionary tales to their husbands once their children went to sleep. For Empusa, they warned, was a seductress, and once even the most steadfast of men had fallen into her grip, they would not be free of it until she had consumed them entirely. The second being, they knew by his sons--the striges, the bird-creatures, sinister in intent and biding their time to snatch children from their beds. The third and final being, they knew as Lamia. A secret lover of Zeus, they said. When Hera discovered Zeus’s adultery, she slaughtered the children of Lamia, swiftly and without remorse. As retribution, Lamia, too, took to stealing children and drinking their blood to sustain herself. The blood of babies, according to Lamia, was the sweetest of all.

They were wrong, of course, if only in name, and in some of the details. These things do become muddy with the passage of time, and humans do prefer a story they can understand.

Here is the real story: the first she was called Lamashtu, the second being Gallu, and the third, Lilitu. Humans don’t know the truth of them and never have, but if you are holding this book, you are about to.

This story, like most good stories, begins with love.

#my writing #fic #stuffing #belly rubs #hurt/comfort #Quincy #Amy #Cal #im the ceo of namedropping 7 new characters and of 'the thing about ___'#im so nervous pls feel free to send me clarifying asks #or just asks in general!#im sorry it took so long and im scared it doesnt live up to that wait but #maybe i just need to relax

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hqcolem-archived · 5 years

Text

The one with the trip to the ER.

TAGGING: Cole and Lili @liliisms

LOCATION: Vancouver, Canada.

TIMEFRAME: August 31st, Early morning.

NOTES: A difficult few days lead to an early morning hospital trip.

Cole: The tea kettle whistled and Cole flipped it off as soon as it did so, hoping for the tiny chance that Lili had gone back to sleep in the short two minutes it'd take to make the ginger tea. He poured the water into the mug, letting it steep. When it was done, he drained the tea and put the bag into the bin, heading for the cupboard. A straw in a mug of tea was an unusual sight but Cole was about willing to do anything to help Lili feel better. Whether or not Lili would actually be able to stomach the tea was a whole other question altogether but Cole was just hoping that something would work. So far the sea band he'd brought from the chemist had done nothing and he was willing to try anything to help her feel better. Taking the warm mug, Cole made his way back into the bedroom "Hey, I made you some ginger tea. I put a straw in it, maybe if you took smaller sips it'd be easier to drink"

Lili had curled up on her side to face the wall. She wasn't sure how she had gone from feeling relatively okay to feeling like death warmed over in just a matter of days. Calling her doctor had proved to be fruitless, the obgyn reassuring her that nausea and fatigue were perfectly normal in this time of pregnancy and to just keep an eye on her symptoms. She hadn't had any energy to move apart from dashing to the bathroom and stayed either in the shower to wash off her sick or in the bed as she tried to distract herself from feeling horrible. Not even Friends on Netflix was cheering her up. Closing her eyes as she heard Cole come in, Lili bit back a groan. She knew the tea would just come back up but Cole was trying so hard and she knew she couldn't let herself get dehydrated. "Okay," she whispered and sat up as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Lili pressed her hand against her forehead and clutched the sheets to remain upright.

Cole: Cole felt awful as he watched Lili. He wished there was some magic remedy that would clear everything up for her. Knowing he couldn't doing anything wasn't a nice feeling and really he was just praying that once the first trimester finished that it would leave as it was meant to. "Just take a little sip, and see how you go" he spoke softly, putting the tea on the bedside table and moving gently to sit beside her, being careful not to jostle the bed too much. He put an arm around her to steady her and make sure she'd stay upright.

Lili swallowed past the nausea rising up her throat and took the tea to take small sips like Cole instructed her. Ginger wasn't her favorite and she'd kill for something sweeter but she was praying that it'd settle her down. She felt like she had been on a rollercoaster the past few days. "Thanks," she mumbled and turned her head to bury it in his shoulder. She was so tired and she just wanted to feel normal again. This was something she was supposed to be celebrating with Cole but all she had done lately was either throw up, cry or sleep. This wasn't turning out to be the way she imagined it in her head. She went to stand to try and wet her face but as she stood, little black spots appeared in her vision. "Cole," she murmured. "I think we need to go to the hospital." This couldn't be normal, she was seconds away from fainting if she wasn't careful. Nausea came over her suddenly and Lili turned to the side, groaning as she emptied the already barren contents of her stomach over the bed.

Cole: It was almost painful watching Lili attempt the simplest of tasks and not being able to complete them. She looked exhausted and so out of it. So far the only solution Cole could think of was for her to sleep but even that seemed impossible and still Cole was worried about her falling asleep on her back and then aspirating. He knew that 'morning sickness' which was the most inapt name for anything, was normal but he was beginning to wonder where to draw the line. Racking his brain, Cole was trying to think of the last time Lili had actually eaten or drank something that had stayed down. "When was the last time you had something that stayed-" Cole was about to finish his sentence when Lili was sick again and he knew that was his answer. "We're going, don't worry" Moving off the bed, Cole picked up Lili easily, setting her down in front of the toilet while he cleared away the bedroom. "Do you want to take a quick shower?" He asked her, coming back in with a set of clean comfortable clothes. She didn't really need them but all the same, he just wanted her to feel better.

Lili was used to hugging the toilet bowl now but she could never get comfortable. Her throat burned, her eyes watered and her head pounded with the exertion of how bad she was sick. "No," Lili shook her head. As long as she cleaned her mouth, she'd be okay. The thought of standing in the shower for even two minutes felt exhausting. She raised a shaky arm to rid herself of the clothes she had laid in all day and slipped on some pajama pants and an old tee shirt. "I'm sorry," she sniffled. She knew she had nothing to apologize for but it still felt humiliating to watch Cole move after her all day to clean up her sick.

Cole: Cole felt his heart clench at how miserable and down right exhausted Lili looked. He helped her slip out of her worn clothes and into some fresh ones, throwing the former into the wash basket when she was done. "Hey" he spoke gently, pulling her close "Don't cry baby, it's okay. You don't need to apologise. In sickness and in health right?" He wiped her cheeks softly with his thumb and kissed the top of her head. "Lets go to the hospital and see if they can help you" Cole told her, slipping an arm around her and carefully picking Lili up. He placed her down on the couch with a bucket, grabbing a couple last minute things including Lili's phone and a phone charger quickly before slipping a pair of shoes onto Lili's feet. "Good to go? Or should I wait a second before picking you up?"

Lili gave Cole a half hearted smile and nodded her head. She watched him move around to clean up and then tucked her head against his neck as he picked her up. She could probably try walking to the car but she was too damn exhausted for that. When she sat down, she clutched onto the bucket and just prayed she wouldn't be sick again. Her stomach wasn't rolling anymore but she still felt like if she closed her eyes, she'd be passed out to the world. She shook her head when he went to pick her up again, just wanting this to be over. "I'm okay," she told him. "Let's just go." It was a true mark to how awful Lili felt and how concerned she was because she tried to avoid the hospital at all costs.

Cole: "Alright, c'mon then" Cole picked her up again gently, scanning the apartment as they left, just to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything. It wasn't like they really needed anything anyways but still. All the pets seemed to be asleep given the time and Cole shut the door behind him and listened to the automated lock click before walking down the small hallway to the elevator. The wait for it to come to their floor felt like an enternity even though he was sure it was only a couple minutes. Lili wasn't heavy, in fact it was the exact opposite and this just made him even more concerned. She'd never been hard to carry around but she was so much lighter than usual. Walking through the parking garage was quick and Cole was grateful that it was so late it was morning. Being almost two am meant that their hotel of residence was extremely quiet and there was nobody around to watch or recognise them. He settled Lili into the passengers seat, buckling her in and pulling the blanket from the back for her and tucking her in before handing her the bucket again, hoping that she wouldn't need it. Cole got into the drivers seat, strapping himself in and then pulling out of the car port.

Lili almost felt as if she were dreaming or just going through the motions. She was even too tired to keep her head up to see what was going on. She just rested her head against Cole's neck and clung onto him. When she was in the seat, she leaned her head against the glass and pulled the blanket further up over her. All she wanted to do now was sleep but unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen. As soon as the car was in motion, Lili sat up quickly and relieved her nausea in the bucket that Cole provided her. Tears sprang to her eyes at the force and how miserable she was feeling. She had never wanted to be in the hands of a professional more, and just have somebody tell her what was wrong. She hadn't thought about it all day, not wanting to scare herself but she knew this couldn't be good for the baby.

Cole: Cole almost wished he'd been surprised at Lili being sick again but at this point it seemed anything and everything would turn her stomach "It's alright baby, we're nearly there" he promised Lili, taking one of her hands in his. Cole was grateful that they were nearly there, St Pauls hospital was a ten minute walk away and only a two minute drive, so a few seconds later, he was pulling into the emergency department and shutting off the car. He shoved his phone into his pocket, moving around the car to get Lili and the bucket out and then walking inside. "Hey, We need to see a doctor. My fiance`s pregnant and I think she's getting dehydrated" Cole tried to answer all the next questions that came his way as best he could. "Alright sir, just sit down for a moment and we'll get someone to see you shortly" The lady behind the desk spoke and Cole looked around at the waiting room, it was almost completely empty. "Can't you just see her now? She

Cole: 's really sick" "It's just hospital protocol sir" Cole was too worried to argue so he sat down in one of the chairs with Lili in his lap. It wasn't even a couple minutes later that they were being lead back to a room and Cole was gently trying to place Lili onto the bed there before pulling the chair closer to it and answering all the previous questions again.

Lili closed her eyes and kept them as she was brought inside. She was getting delirious, she could tell because she wasn't processing anything going on. She just clung onto Cole while they waited and when she was finally moved, /willed/ herself not to throw up as she was placed on the bed and miraculously kept everything down. A nurse introduced herself, explained that she was going to start hooking Lili up and Lili just nodded, too tired to really care that she was being poked and prodded. "Your blood pressure is low, Ms. Reinhart, have you eaten today?" Lili nodded again, too tired to tell her that she just puked it all back up and she closed her eyes, turning her head to the side.

Cole: Cole sat off to the side, holding one of Lili's hands in his own and trying not to get in the way of anything going on. Someone had started drawing blood and someone else was setting up an IV pole. He was glad that they were finally at the hospital but that didn't mean things were over just yet. "I don't think she's kept anything down in at least twenty four hours. She had some toast several hours ago and ginger tea maybe thirty minutes ago as well but they both came back up" He informed the nurse. A moment later another lady walked in and Cole introduced himself to Lili's obgyn as they'd only ever spoken on the phone. Once she'd asked all her inital questions, she sat down, pulling an ultrasound machine over to the bed "I'm just going to do an ultrasound quickly and then we can get everything sorted"

Lili was grateful that Cole was taking over and answering everything because she felt too disorientated to do that herself. She was even struggling to keep her eyes open as all of her vitals were taken. Sitting up a little when her primary doctor walked in, Lili nodded. "Okay," she answered hoarsely and watched as her hospital gown was lifted and gel was rubbed over her stomach. Lili still wasn't even really showing so it seemed bizarre to think there was a human growing inside of her. "Looks like baby is okay," she breathed a sigh of relief as this was spoken. She could see her fetus on the screen but she knew this was the first time Cole was actually seeing it in person and not through a copy of a scan. She turned to faced him, giving him a tired smile and a tight hand squeeze. "Look, it's nugget."

Cole: Cole was mostly in awe as he watched the ultrasound being performed, too astonished to really speak and happy to just take it all in. He'd been expecting to see it in a few weeks at the next appointment but not today. He was happy that he'd been able to see it but still wished it had been under different circumstances and not because he'd had to rush Lili to the hospital. "There's the heartbeat too" A steady rythmic sound began to fill the room and Cole looked over at Lili, a look of adoration on his face "You're amazing you know that?" He told her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. It was almost overwhelming how much love and amazement he felt for her and Cole would never take for granted how blessed he was to have her in his life. As much as he wished the ultrasound would last forever, it was turned off not long later and pushed over to the other side of the hospital room. "So Lili," Doctor Richards started and Cole turned to face her so he could take in everything she was going to say "You're showing all the signs of a pregnancy complication called Hyperemesis Gravidarum. Which is a condition that includes excessive nausea and vomiting, resulting in dehydration and weight loss. You've lost almost eighteen pounds since I saw you almost a week ago and I'd guess about fifteen of that was from the last couple days"

Lili couldn't help but start crying the minute she heard the heartbeat. A lot of women spoke about how this was the moment things became "real" and she could one hundred percent attest to that now. She had somebody growing inside of her, somebody who was going to be a person with hopes and dreams and fears and thoughts. It was insane and as much agony as this was giving her, she also knew she'd do everything she could to make sure her body was a safe place until it was time. Closing her eyes and smiling as she heard the absolute awe in Cole's voice, Lili let out a watery laugh as he complimented her. She didn't /feel/ amazing but she'd take it. She could have sat in that room and listened to the heartbeat, the most soothing noise she had ever heard, but it was time to get to business. She had never heard of HG, but it sounded..terrifying and her eyes widened at the fact that she had lost so much weight. "That can't be safe," she finally croaked, giving Cole a worried look. "The baby's not going to be hurt, right?"

Cole: "No. They will take whatever they need from you so it won't effect them too much at all. Babies with mothers who had Hyperemesis during pregnancy are generally smaller but usually born healthy and at full term. The only person we really need to worry about is you. I want to keep you in for observation for at least a full twenty four hours and get a few bags of fluids into you and then see if you can keep anything down" There was a lot of information being thrown out and Cole was trying to take it all in so he knew what to expect. "What is most likely to happen after that is you'll be discharged with a home health care plan. We'll have a nurse come out and set up an IV drip station at your home which you'll be hooked up to as often as possible. Cole, I'll show you how to do that so you can hook her up to it everyday" That was when Cole's heart sunk, it was awful to think about having to do that. "A nurse will come every three days for a visit and check on everything and we'll have to continue that treatment up until you give birth" It was all overwhelming and not at all what Cole was expecting would come out of this visit. He'd really been hoping she'd be given a tablet or prescription and they'd be on their way. No such luck and now it seemed they were in worse than they thought.

Lili nodded, feeling as dazed and confused as Cole looked right now. It seemed that in only a few days, their entire world had been flipped upside down. The only positive was that at least their baby would be fine but Lili was going to have to work extra hard to take care of herself. The thought of constantly being hooked up, constantly resting, not even getting to have fun cravings or really experience any positive benefits of this pregnancy..Her heart was broken, that was for sure. She wasn't looking forward to just always being stationary and always being careful. Cole and Lili lived for adventure, especially on their weekends, and this was going to be a huge adjustment. "Okay," she nodded. Unfortunately though, it had to be done and Lili was just going to have to accept it. She'd also need to look over all this information they were being given because none of it made sense to her. A nurse came over to start slipping in some meds to help with her nausea and Lili sighed, leaning her head back against the pillow. She was completely overwhelmed.

Cole: It was really hard for Cole to remain as excited as he had been knowing everything that was going to happen from now on. He wasn't an expert on pregnancy, but Cole was used to several of their friends recounting horrible cravings or funny hormonal crying fits over the simplest of things and even though they hadn't been planning for a baby, he'd been subconciously looking forward to all of it. Watching Lili become so nasueated that she'd lost weight and dehydrated herself wasn't something he'd been preparing for and now it seemed as though the whole time would be spent with needles and doctors visits. "Thank you" Cole told Doctor Richards and turned to face Lili again. "That was..a lot. But at least we know what's going on now"

Lili remained silent as the room was empty once more, just the two of them and she nodded. She couldn't help the hot tear that slid down. She felt like she was letting him down, letting her family down. Her body was betraying her and even though all seemed to be good on the baby front, it seemed like a lot had just been taken away from her. Maybe she was being dramatic, maybe it was just her exhaustion speaking but it truly felt like the end of something good for her. She raised a hand that had her IV in it up to wipe at her eyes and watched as the liquid dripped from the bag to it. She'd have to get used to being hooked up to one of these things because she wasn't going to be able to gain weight or get nutrients for her baby without it.

Cole: Cole's heart broke when he saw Lili start to cry and he began slipping off his shoes. He couldn't reassure her that everything was going to be alright, because he really didn't know that or anything else that was going to happen. Once Lili was discharged and asleep, he was going to have to research and bit and try and find out as much as he could to prepare himself and her for what was about to come. Being careful not to tangle himself up in any cords and make sure he got on at the side opposite to the IV, Cole got onto the bed with Lili, laying down next to her and pulling her close. "It's alright" He spoke softly.

Lili scooted over, not even caring if this was against hospital regulations. She needed to be held and she needed to be comforted, especially by Cole as he was the only one who understood how serious this was. She wrapped her arms around his waist and breathed him in, her nose nestled against his neck. His scent was so familiar and it reminded her of home that she could feel herself relaxing, even only slightly. "Can you lay with me here until I fall asleep?" She asked in a quiet voice, wanting to just pretend like they were at home and in bed together.

Cole: "Yeah of course. I'm not going anywhere" Cole promised her, looking over at the digital clock on the stand over. It was nearly four am now and Cole knew Lili had to have been exhausted. The past few days had felt like one thing after another and even though it now didn't seem as though anything was really going to slow soon, he was grateful they knew what was going on.

#p: the one with the trip to the er #really tugged the old heart strings this one

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