#i also have a broken wire on the bottom front that pokes me a little if i touch it while talking

[lecliss]

Oh my goddd I'm trying to write dialogue for a character with a lisp thats missing her front bottom teeth and I'm saying all her lines out loud to figure out how to write it accurately but the thing is cuz my bottom jaw is smaller I do talk differently so I have no idea how this would effect someone with a normal shaped jaw cuz I pretty much just avoid touching the bottom front row and I have my own lisp in relation to B and S so like. How the fuck do I figure this out????

[buckyownsmylife]

I’ve Told You Now - Bucky Barnes smut

The one where alpha!Bucky fucks you in front of the other avengers

Warnings: smut, a/b/o dynamics, public sex, oral (f), p in v, possessiveness

Word count: 2.3k

A/N: Thank you to my lovely @wakingbeauty​ for giving this a read for me! This is strictly the product of mine and @navybrat817​‘s belief that public sex should be more common in A/B/O dynamics, so there you have it 😊 Also, I used a prompt the sweet @jbreenr​ gave me ages ago for a headcanon and I asked to save it for this story since it made such perfect sense! Hope you guys like it! I might write more public sex A/B/O smut in the very near future!

Bucky’s P.O.V.

Everyday was the same. I’d wake up and join the rest of the team for breakfast to find out that despite the fact that someone had saved me a seat, that same someone had thought of a new joke to make at my expense.

If I thought Tony’s nicknames were bad, this was a whole new level. It’s like she wanted to find all the little ways to annoy me, while still remaining mindful of my recovery process and triggers.

I’d never met an omega like that before. Back in my time, omegas were mostly prim and proper, almost shy around alphas, even if they were starting to show a little more skin and entertain the possibility of staying closer to us for longer periods of time.

I wasn’t used to someone who felt so comfortable with my intimidating aura, and the alpha in me definitely couldn’t grow used to seeing so much of her skin all the time. By now, I was sure she was doing it on purpose.

She knew how it affected me, she could smell it - every omega was able to identify when a nearby alpha was aroused. And I knew it turned her on in return. I was also biologically wired to sense that.

It was basically a game of who would break first. And I knew she thought she would win, but my resolve still wasn’t broken.

“Ah… What a lovely day. So full of possibilities… if you’re not a hundred years old,” she quickly added, throwing me a glance that had me rolling my eyes. “What do you say, grandpa? Feel like going out for a run?”

Who knows what I would have answered if she hadn’t decided to pull her hair up right at the second Wanda opened the window to look out into the field? The smile that had been on my face quickly dropped when I was hit with a heavy wave of her scent and my knees buckled as I tried to hold myself back from just jumping on top of her.

Unfortunately, because awareness was not something she seemed capable of having, she did not realize my struggle. “What’s wrong, old man? Can’t even keep up anymore?” The growl that escaped my chest at her joke was all the warning she needed to finally understand what was going on.

“I’ll show you what I can keep up.” I was on her in a second, my consciousness of our surroundings reduced to absolutely nothing. It was only her and me, and the way our lips moved as I guided her back to the couch, until we both fell on top of it.

“Is this what you wanted, huh?” I asked as I tore her shirt with a simple flick of my wrist. “Is this how you wanted it to happen? For me to lose all control and just take you right here?” All that left her was a garbled sound, her hands clawing at my back as I easily got rid of her jeans until they were nothing but scraps on the floor and then exposed her pussy to the tower’s living room.

“Fuck yes,” I growled, immediately leaning down to get a taste of her. Sweet and wet and mine, all mine. I had no idea where that possessive instinct had come from, but I would be crazy to ignore it - especially since it felt like I’d kill and die for her at that very second.

Her hips jerked up, instinctively searching for my tongue, but a breeze of clarity seemed to brush over her and make her sit up on her elbows, looking down at me. I knew what was running through her mind before she said it, and I wasn’t having any of it.

“You better lay back down and let me savor my meal,” I warned, knowing the rest of the team had gathered around to watch the show. I didn’t have to take my eyes off her debauched state to know it, but her gaze was on them, even if the rest of her body was still spread open for anyone to see, uncaring of the fact that we were being watched.

“You poked the beast, now you’ll entertain it,” Steve warned, shaking his head as if to scold us, but when I met his eyes, I could see the glint of desire in them. He wanted to be in my position, he wanted to have his own tongue shoved deep inside my girl’s pussy, and it only made me eat her more hungrily.

“Eyes on me, ‘mega,” I called out to her once I saw her eyes linger on Steve. “Let them watch, that’ll keep them away from you.” She groaned at the possessiveness in my words, but it was the sounds of someone who was relishing in it. And I was relishing in her juices.

“Fuck!” She cursed when I buried my tongue as far as it could go in her, something deep inside of me desperate to be drowning in her scent. “Should have gotten you mad before.”

The thought was amusing to me. Did she really think this was only the result of pent-up anger, and not months of desire and lust that had finally spilled from my weakened resolve?

“Well…” I started, pushing two fingers inside of her to scissor her open for me, although my scent had already made her body as prepared for an Alpha an Omega could get.

I was a bit larger than usual Alphas, though - courtesy of the serum - so I wanted to make sure she wouldn’t go through any pain whatsoever. “You keep me mad all the fucking time, kitten.”

Y/N’s P.O.V.

“With desire or anger, it doesn’t really care,” he continued, like it was any ordinary day and we were chatting in the living room, our usual teasing banter taking over the conversation, instead of him eating me out on the couch in front of all of our teammates while I was spread out for their eyes to take in.

“You’re always a tease to me, in one way or another.” His huge hands massaged the inside of my thighs as he finally lowered himself to suck on my nub again, making me instinctively buck my hips up in search of his tongue.

“Stay…” he ordered in his Alpha tone, and the whine that broke free from my chest was more animal than human now. The way he used his mouth was nothing short of sinful, licking me from ass to clit with an eagerness I had never expected the former Winter Soldier to have.

But I guess today I was discovering all of my fantasies about Bucky had been a bit misplaced. For one, I never thought he’d be the type of Alpha to take me in such a public environment.

In every dirty dream I’d had, Bucky was far too possessive to allow anyone to explore what was his - even if it was only visually - but what I’d come to learn was that while he was definitely dominating, there was a hint of exhibitionism in his craving.

He liked to have people see him break me into a million pieces only to glue me back together with a lick of his tongue. He liked that they were seeing his talent - and I had to admit, by what I saw in his friend’s stare, that they were also admiring me too.

And he got off on that. I didn’t expect it would make me get off too.

“Delicious,” he hummed when he finally pulled away from my cunt, having brought me to my release and licked it off of me. Still, an overwhelming amount of wetness covered the lower part of his face, prompting me to raise myself to my elbows and lick my own juices off of his lips, the omega in me begging to scent him as mine.

“You’re a nasty little bitch, aren’t you?” He chuckled once the surprise faded away, easily manhandling me onto my stomach, the sound of a zipper being opened denouncing that he had undressed.

“Keep fucking me and you’ll find out.” I heard him spitting behind me, a shiver running up my spine as I realized he was playing with himself while looking at me presenting for him.

“Oh, I’ll do much better than that.” That was all the warning I got before I felt the head of his member poking my entrance, slowly but surely sliding in until he had bottomed out.

My whines became intensified when he pulled me up by my hair, his free hand covering my breast to rub my nipple as he whispered, “I’m gonna claim you, sweetheart. You think you’re ready for that? Think you’ll be able to take it?”

I was quickly realizing I had severely underestimated the man inside of me, even if not to the extent he thought I had. I was not ready for that. I don’t think I ever would be, but fuck if I wasn’t gonna take it anyway.

Because it was so much better than I ever imagined it to be.

“No more playing hard-to-get,” Bucky continued, finally starting to move and immediately settling on a punishing pace. “No more teasing me with your short skirts and tempting scent. You’ll be mine now, ‘mega. Forever. How does that sound?”

God, I wanted him to do it. I wanted him to keep exercising this complete control over my body that he had so easily managed to take. His cock was stretching me in ways I’d never been stretched before, his inflated knot slamming against my opening with each thrust.

“Always mocking me… Am I too old for you now?” I shivered as he licked a stripe up my neck. I knew he wouldn’t actually bite me in front of everyone - a claiming ritual was a sacred ritual, even the most feral of Alphas respected the intimacy of that. But the way he was taunting me was all too arousing, I couldn’t deny it. “Tell me.”

His hand squeezed my hip, looking for an answer. I tried to open my mouth, but nothing came out. His palm slipped further down, finding my clit, and as two fingers rubbed my own juices, around it, I screamed.

“N-No!” Bucky chuckled against my neck, body continuing his onslaught against mine as he nuzzled my scent gland. “Y-you’re not too old for me. Take me, take me please.” His coos were too provoking, making me cry out loud at the mocking sound.

“Aw, kitten…” His warm mouth breathed the next words against my ear, “I already did.” He turned my face towards his with his fingers tangled in my hair, engulfing my mouth with his.

“Alright.” A familiar voice spoke from not too far, startling me for a second as I once again was reminded that we were still very much surrounded by our team. “You two might just be the sexiest mates I’ve ever seen fuck.”

A growl escaped Bucky’s chest at hearing someone refer to us as mates for the first time, and I panted in need, desperate to cum, desperate for him. “Seen a lot of mates fuck, Romanoff?” He nibbled at my ear, hands roaming over my body as if to make it very clear to every person watching that they could look all they wanted, I was still his.

“You have no idea.” Looking over a bit to the side from where she was seated, there rested Sam’s almost limp body, a hand curled over his boner as his eyes never wavered from the place I was connected to the man behind me.

“Well, I know what I’m gonna think about tonight.” Something between a laugh and a moan escaped me, making Bucky growl again, hands pushing me back down onto the couch as his hips picked up the pace with which they’d ruin me.

To say I was soaked was the understatement of the century. I could feel it, running down my thighs, drenching the couch underneath me. I don’t know how we’d be able to use it again, but that was the least of my concerns in the moment.

“I am begging you to let me lick her pussy after you guys are done,” came Tony’s voice, and I knew Bucky would growl in his direction just from the way his fingers pressed tightly on the flesh of my hips. “Not that type of Alpha, sorry, I got it.”

I heard his footsteps retreating quickly, probably scared of what Bucky would do to him once we were done, but in the Alpha’s defense, Tony seemed to disappear from his mind the second he left the room, all of his senses directed to me and his goal of making me cum around his cock.

“C’mon, kitten,” he whispered, fingers easily locating my clit to play with me as he pulled me up to rest against his chest one more. “Come for me, milk me dry.” That was all I needed to give him what he wanted, and although I was anticipating to moan loudly as I creamed his knot, his mouth covered mine to swallow all of my sounds in a deep kiss, hands protectively covering me while pawing at my breasts at the same time.

“Steve,” Bucky called after he managed to catch his breath, having fallen on top of me on the couch once his knot popped open. “I won’t be able to work out with you today.”

I looked up as best as I could to find Steve already staring at us, although red from head to toe. “That’s understandable,” he spoke in a thick, rough voice that I barely recognized as his. “You seem to have worked out enough already.”

Bucky stopped running his nose against my cheek at his friend’s attempt at teasing, a slow smirk taking over his face as he joined me and stared at his friend. “Oh, I’m not nearly done,” he warned. “You’re more than welcome to join us for some cardio, if you want to.”

The soft smile Steve sent our way told us everything we needed to know about his plans for the evening.

[persephone-plasmids]

The Funhouse

Deacon and Sole Fanfic

[AO3]

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

The Funhouse

“I take it finding Danse and MacCready is now our second priority?” Deacon asked as he followed Sole from the junkyard outside of Nuka-World to the Kiddie Kingdom.”Because you know they’re investigating Dry Rock Gulch, right?”

“They’re big boys, they can take care of themselves,” Sole answered dismissively with a wave of her hand. “And I already told you, we’ve got more important things to do.”

“More important than finding the kidnapped Synth?” Deacon asked, a grin on his lips as he trotted to catch up with Sole.

Their hands brushed accidentally as he walked beside her and he quickly pulled away. Deacon was finally starting to learn to keep his physical distance from Sole. He needed as many safeguards from whatever spell she had over him as he could get. The sunglasses were a start, but avoiding their regular casual contact was starting to be a necessity.

Trying to ignore his attraction to Sole had become a losing battle, so Deacon was playing the defense game.

“Obviously nothing is more important than finding the kidnapped Synth,” Sole said. “But there’s no reason they might not be in the funhouse at Kiddie Kingdom.”

Deacon gave Sole a skeptical raise of his eyebrows. “I mean, while we’re at it, the kidnapped synth could very well be on the roller coaster in the Galactic Zone. We should probably check there too.”

“We probably should.” Sole nudged Deacon with her shoulder, giving him a cheeky smile.

He laughed nervously but took a tiny step away from Sole to discourage any further touching. It wasn’t because he didn’t want Sole to touch him. It was because he did.

“Listen, Charmer, I’m all for having a good time, but isn’t this place… kinda creepy?” Deacon asked, glancing at the derelict theme park over the top of his sunglasses.

Sole stopped in her tracks and turned on her heel to face him, the apples of her cheeks round with glee. “Are you scared?” She dragged out the last word in a taunting way, poking her finger into his chest as she said it.

Again with the touching.

He wished he didn’t love it so much.

“Obviously I’m a big strong man. I’m not scared of anything,” Deacon began. “I’m just worried about your poor feminine sensibilities. I’m not sure they can handle this place. Women’s brains just aren’t wired for this sort of thing.”

Sole narrowed her eyes at Deacon, sizing him up. She knew he was joking, but she still took the opportunity to take a step closer to him, her voice low. “I think we both know who the brave one is in this partnership.”

She was much too close to him. He swallowed hard and tried to play off his discomfort with a laugh, but it sounded wrong.

“If you’re so brave then why don’t you go into the funhouse first?” It was a lame dare, but he needed any excuse to get her away from him. All he wanted to do was crush his lips to hers.

“”Watch and learn, stealth boy,” she said, using her favorite nickname for him.

Sole walked confidently through the funhouse doors, swaying her hips as she did so. Deacon hated the way his eyes automatically roamed over her curves when she wasn’t looking, but he couldn’t deny that the view was impeccable.

“Are you coming?” Sole asked over her shoulder.

Deacon gave himself a little shake and ran into the funhouse after her. “You know, if you wanted to die, there are much quicker and less terrifying ways to do that.”

“But where would be the fun in that?” Sole asked, taking Deacon’s hand in hers and leading him through the first set of doors they found.

The two were immediately set off balance by a black and white room with a spinning floor. Sole collapsed into Deacon’s arms, knocking him against the wall as he held her up with his arms around her waist.

His plan to limit their physical contact wasn’t off to a great start.

Carnival music played in the spinning room and when Sole regained her footing, she didn’t pull away from Deacon like he thought she would. Instead, she leaned her weight against him, pushing his back more firmly against the wall.

“Thanks for the assist,” she said, wrinkling her nose up at him in a smile.

Why did she have to be so adorable?

“Any time, Charmer,” he answered, his voice as unsteady as he felt. “You need help getting back on your feet?”

He was trying to get her away from him again. But she didn’t move. Instead, she only leaned against him more firmly with a devilish grin on her angelic features. “I actually like where I am right now.”

Deacon tried as hard as he could to keep his cheeks from flushing. “I can’t say I blame you. I tend to have that effect on women.”

When in doubt, default to joking.

“I spend most of my life breaking hearts. It’s a gift and a curse.”

Sole bit her lip as she looked up at Deacon through her eyelashes. “More gift than curse I’d say.”

Deacon was incredibly grateful for the sunglasses that hid the fact that he was openly staring at Sole’s lips now. They had a cherry tint to them from the lipstick she’d been rationing since leaving the vault. And they looked even fuller when she took her bottom lip between her teeth.

It took Deacon a moment to regain his senses and when he did, he desperately thought of some way he could joke his way out of this. “Just imagine how hard it is for the people who don’t get to see this beauty up close? All they can do is fantasize. But you? You’ve got a front row seat to this walking piece of art.”

“A front row seat?” Sole said with a challenging raise of her eyebrows. “Is this an interactive show?”

The room was still spinning, though Deacon wasn’t sure how much of that was the actual funhouse anymore.

“It could be,” he said.

Why had he said that? He was trying to keep his distance.

Sole let a tiny grin tug at the corner of her mouth as she stared at Deacon in the spinning room. She almost looked like she might pull away from him and at the mere thought, panic rose in his chest.

He didn’t care how complicated it would make things. He didn’t care that he had sworn off personal relationships. He wanted to be close to her.

Without another thought, Deacon pulled Sole tightly against his chest and pressed his lips to hers. She instantly melted into the kiss, moving her lips over his softly at first. Her softness, however, was quickly replaced by more desperate kisses as she pressed herself against him. Sole took a handful of Deacon’s Cappy shirt to pull him closer, even though they were already incredibly close. She tangled her hands in his hair that he’d grown out and dyed dark, just because he knew Sole liked it that way.

She inhaled him as they both moved together, fitting like puzzle pieces. Deacon didn’t even care that the room was still spinning and that there were probably ferals nearby. All he cared about was this moment with Sole. This perfect moment where he was finally taking what he’d wanted for so long.

When Sole moaned into his mouth, he got chills all over his body. He’d thought making Sole laugh would always be his favorite accomplishment, but this sound he’d just elicited from her had just topped the list. It only encouraged him to deepen the kiss, hungrily moving his hands over her hips, across her waist, up her back, and into her hair.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe, but that was the last thing he cared about right at that moment. He’d happily die like this. Sole continued to kiss him like she’d wanted this as much as he did, even though he had a hard time believing that.

Deacon wasn’t sure they’d ever break apart, until a raspy voice rang out over a scratchy loudspeaker in the room, instantly causing Sole to jump away from him. “While I appreciate the show, I’m usually the one providing the entertainment here.”

Even though Sole had broken the kiss at the sound of the mysterious voice, she still held Deacon close, her arms around his waist.

“Who was that?” she asked in a panic.

He wasn’t sure if she was panicked because some mysterious person  was apparently also in the funhouse with them, or because they’d been caught in a compromising position.

“Just thought we’d be an opening act,” Deacon said to the otherwise empty room. He was trying to play it cool when he was internally losing his mind over the kiss he and Sole had just shared. “What can we expect from the main attraction?”

Deacon kept a protective arm around Sole in the spinning room, his eyes darting all over to try to find the source of the voice.

“I am Oswald the Outrageous, and you two are trespassing in my territory.”

Spotting the loud speaker overhead, Deacon took Sole’s hand in his and pulled her through a nearby red door that led to a hallway full of spinning tunnels. If he hadn’t been dizzy enough from the kiss, this room was sure to do him in.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Deacon began, making sure to speak loudly enough for Oswald to hear him over the hum of machinery in the funhouse. “We were just looking for a friend of ours. Goes by the name of H3-56.”

“You weren’t looking very hard, were you?” Oswald asked, his voice sly and suggestive.

Had Deacon not been worried about how much of a threat this stranger posed, he might have been embarrassed by the man’s words.

“H3-56 wandered into my territory, much like you two did.”

“And did you give him the same warm greeting?” Deacon asked.

“We need to find out where this person is,” Sole whispered to him, her eyes full of concern in the green glow of the hallway.

Deacon nodded in understanding but didn’t respond.

“Turns out H3-56 is a freak like me,” Oswald said. “He understood what it’s like to be cast out by the rest of society… so I let him go.”

Sole gave Deacon a surprised look. “Well, we appreciate your hospitality,” Deacon began. “I guess we don’t need to keep searching. Thanks for doing our job for us. We’ll just be going, but don’t worry, we’ll visit your gift shop on the way out; pick something up for Dez.”

Deacon began walking back towards the spinning room with Sole’s hand in his, but the door instantly slammed in front of them, barricading them in the hallway.

“Not so fast,” Oswald said, his voice full of menace. “I let H3-56 go out of the goodness of my heart because they were a kindred spirit. As far as I can tell, you humans don’t have to deal with the same hardships as Synths and Ghouls. So I think it’s time we have a little fun.”

Sole inhaled sharply at Oswald’s words. “Listen, we came here to rescue H3-56, not hurt him. We’re sympathetic to Synths and Ghouls alike. One of my best friends, the mayor of Goodneighbor, is a Ghoul.”

“Oh, I see,” Oswald said. “So because you have one Ghoul friend, you’re sympathetic to my kind?” His voice sounded incredulous now.

“I’m not trying to say--.”

“Tell me, Vault Dweller, do you kill Ghouls out in the wasteland with that fancy gun of yours?”

Sole looked down at her holstered gun with a furrowed brow. “Only when they’re feral and I don’t have a choice.”

Deacon could see the regret in her eyes as she spoke. He knew Sole didn’t particularly like killing, even when someone deserved it. It was something she’d held onto from her pre-war days. Maybe because she’d seen the effect it had had on her former husband when he was in the military. Maybe just because she was a compassionate person. But the fact that this stranger was accusing her of being a heartless killer when Deacon knew she was anything but, set his teeth on edge.

“Listen, drama queen, Sole doesn’t need to defend her actions to you. Now either you let us go, or you can step out from behind your wall of protection and we can handle this one on one.”

“I think you’re forgetting about the third option,” Oswald said, his voice now much happier than it had been only a moment before; almost manic. “The one where I show you that anyone is capable of being a monster. Even your sweetheart.”

Deacon didn’t have time to ask what Oswald meant before the hallway filled with green noxious fumes. He let go of Sole’s hand to cover his mouth. At first he worried that it might be aerosol radiation, but the sweet smell of the gas only gave him a headache.

“HalluciGen?” he asked, coughing slightly as the gas continued to fill the room.

Deacon looked over to Sole to make sure she was okay but the look he saw in her eyes terrified him. Her wide green eyes were darting around the room in pure abject horror.

“Sole?” Deacon asked, stepping closer to her. But the second he moved towards her, she lunged at him, her hands finding his throat and squeezing tight. “Sole!” Deacon choked out, trying to wedge his fingers under her surprisingly strong, nimble grip.

“Amazing, isn’t it? What the HalluciGen gas can do to ‘good’ people.”

“Sole,” Deacon choked again, trying desperately to pry her fingers away from his throat.

Her eyes were crazed and watery and she tightened her grip on him. And while he had been reveling in their close contact only a moment before, this wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind.

“Sole, you have to let go,” he choked. “I’m on your side… always have been.”

At the familiar words he’d said to Sole a million times before, her grip loosened ever so slightly. Her brows were still knitted together in confusion and terror, but the moment of clarity was enough for Deacon to forcefully pull her hands away from his throat and pin them to her sides.

Sole almost immediately began fighting back against him again, trying to break free from his grasp. Deacon wrapped his arms around her middle, sure to keep her arms pinned in place as he lifted her off the ground and unceremoniously carried her to the opposite end of the hallway, where a door stood open, leading back out to the lobby.

Once they were away from the green HalluciGen gas, Sole’s fighting grew weaker. She still struggled against Deacon’s grip, but her heart wasn’t in it. Instead he held her tightly while she whimpered, her eyes opening and closing rapidly as she came back to herself.

“You back with me, Charmer?” Deacon asked. “Or are you still going to try to pop my head off with those tiny little hands of yours?”

Sole’s eyes met Deacon’s behind his sunglasses as she blinked a few more times. “Deacon?”

“There she is,” he said, his smile returning. “You must really be into some weird stuff in the bedroom,” Deacon joked.

“Deacon,” she warned, her voice low.

“No, I mean it. I enjoyed our kiss too, but that escalated quickly.” He puckered his lips at her as he smiled.

“It’s not funny,” she said. “I… I couldn’t tell it was you. I couldn’t even tell what I was doing. I just knew I was trapped and needed to get away.”

Deacon’s face fell at her words. Maybe joking wasn’t always the best default. “You’re safe now,” he said.

“Is she, though?” Oswald asked, though now his voice sounded clear; unchanged by the static of a loudspeaker.

Sole and Deacon turned to find the Ghoul standing near the entrance to the funhouse in all his dramatic glory.

His scarred skin glowed green between the cracks, only making his suit and top hot that much more impressive.

“Pleased to meet you both,” the Ghoul said with a deep bow and a grin.

Deacon didn’t know whether he should be furious at the Ghoul or impressed by his showmanship.

“Dude, I appreciate a dramatic entrance as much as the next egotistical narcissist, but you could have really caused some damage in there,” Deacon said. “Also, I totally love your hat and want to know where I can get one as soon as we sort all this out.”

Sole hit Deacon on the arm, but he simply looked over at her and shrugged.

“It’s a killer hat,” he said.

“I feel like my reception of you was more than fair, given that you trespassed in my territory in order to hurt a Synth,” Oswald said, his voice much more impressive in person.

It had a dramatic quality that reminded Deacon of the old Silver Shroud radio show.

“I already told you, we were trying to save the Synth,” Sole said, her voice heavy with annoyance. “We thought he’d been kidnapped.”

Oswald regarded them for a long moment, his green glowing eyes moving between the two. “I don’t suppose…” his words trailed off as he screwed his face up in concentration. “Do you have a geiger counter?”

At his words, Sole’s face lit up. “Mine’s in the shop,” she responded.

The instant those two sentences were spoken, the tension in the room seemed to melt away.

“H3-56 told me to use that phrase if someone came looking for him,” Oswald said. “He told me it would help me know who was a friend and who was an enemy.”

“He was right,” Deacon said. “Although I wish you would have used the phrase before you tried to poison us with your Hallucigen gas.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Oswald said. “It wouldn’t poison you. It would just make you two kill each other.”

Oswald waved his hand as if this were an important distinction.

“Why didn’t it make Deacon go crazy?” Sole asked, looking over at the spy in confusion.

“Extensive Railroad training,” Deacon said. And when Sole gave him a look like he was joking around with her again he pressed on. “I’m actually serious this time. After Dez and I found the HalluciGen Inc. lab, we knew this stuff would be dangerous if it got into the wrong hands.” Deacon gave Oswald an accusatory look as he said this.

The Ghoul just shrugged in an unconcerned way.

“Dez had the field agents work to build up an immunity to it,” Deacon went on. “It’s not easy to do, but it’s not impossible.”

Sole gave Deacon a guilty look at his words. “So you were totally lucid while I tried to kill you?”

“Like I said, if that’s the kind of thing you’re into, I’m not going to shame you. I’m an open-minded guy.” He gave Sole a grin that made her cheeks turn a dark shade of red.

He loved that he could make her blush.

“Okay, well this mission has been sufficiently awkward,” Sole said, tucking her hair behind her ear as she looked over at Oswald. “Thank you for… not killing us… I guess.”

“My pleasure,” Oswald said with another deep bow.

“And thanks for the intel on the Synth. I’m happy he was able to get out of the Commonwealth safely.” Sole gave Oswald a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Deacon? You ready to go find Danse and MacCready?”

“Sure thing, boss” Deacon said, giving Oswald a nod.

Sole began walking towards the exit of the funhouse, careful to avoid Oswald’s eyes as she walked. When Deacon followed her, he stopped just short of the door and turned to the Ghoul with a grin.

“Okay, but seriously, where did you get that hat?”

[Part 5]

[bracefacefreak]

So I just finished the first fic I have written in AGES and the first thing I’ve ever written for TMA, so I thought I’d post it here. 

It’s an alternate take on S3 from about MAG 98 in which Nikola kidnaps Martin, not Jon. Basically very angsty with some realisation of feelings and implied canon-typical violence because I like to make my boys suffer apparently. May write more if I feel like it but for now this is just a peek at my idea. 

CW: implied violence, knife violence, strongly implied graphic violence, implied blood, implied skinning, captivity and kidnapping, restraints, stalking. 

I cut you a piece of me 

also available on ao3 

“Martin? Tim?”

Jon pokes his head out of his office, tired eyes squinting through murky lenses to try and make out anything moving amongst the shelves and teetering boxes. A chill creeps up his spine, the sensation akin to the slow tickle of spider’s legs over his skin. It makes his stomach turn; the sour taste of bile rises at the back of his throat. A light flickers somewhere on the other side of the archives. It is brief, likely nothing more than some dodgy wiring - or a plastic body passing in front of a bulb. Jon bites down, catching his tongue between his teeth.

His fingers twist in the wool of the cardigan he wears, tugging at the well-worn fibres as if they are some sort of lifeline. The garment is too big on him, the fabric spilling over his shoulders and bunching in thick folds around his wrists. He had found it shoved under a shelving unit in document storage, the crumpled, butter-yellow lump too inviting to ignore. It has quickly become a comfort for him during long nights in his office poring over statements, something soft and warm to counteract the increasingly dark world he finds himself inhabiting. He pulls it tight around him, but finds today it offers little more than a thin veneer of safety.

CLUNK.

He starts.

His eyes flick towards the stacks to his left, scouring the shadows that rest heavily between the shelves. The noise comes again, more drawn out this time and followed by a series of metallic taps. It doesn’t take much imagination to hear the snap of huge, mechanical jaws in the rhythmic sound.

Jon swallows thickly.

“Martin? I-is that you?”

The hollow clang comes again; this time Jon is able to trace it to somewhere above. Lifting his eyes, he half-expects to see a grinning plastic face staring down at him from the highest shelves. Instead, he is met by the sight of decrepit pipes, quivering slightly as the ancient heating system struggles against the pervasive chill. His shoulders droop as the pipes rattle in reassurance.

Slowly, he turns back to the original source of his suspicion, staring down the narrow walkway that leads to the assistant’s office and break-room.

Beneath the occasional clang of the heating, the archive is silent, still.

But he could have sworn he’d heard footsteps earlier: the soft shuffle of shoes over carpet and the squeak of the bottom stair that no-one seems bothered enough to fix, despite the numerous emails Jon has sent to maintenance. He had been recording a statement, one from the early 2000s about disappearances from a travelling funhouse, when he had heard it. He was certain. But then again…He takes a shaking breath; could this just be his rearing its ugly head?

No.

NO.

He was over that.

He knew what he had heard. Jon squares his shoulders, knowing that his small stature and bright yellow cardigan will hardly strike fear into the heart of any evil creature that has managed to get into the Institute. He pulls the pen out of his hair anyway. It will not be much use if it comes to a struggle, but it is better than nothing.

Measured steps lead Jon across the archive floor.

He calls out in a tight voice, rising to shrill at the end.

“Melanie?”

His pulse thuds in his ears.

“Tim? Basira?"

Sweat coats his palms and pools in the well of his clavicle, turning cold and tacky.

“Martin?”

He rounds a corner and is greeted by three empty desks.

Since arriving, Melanie has settled at Sasha’s old desk; it no longer bears its previous look of organised chaos but is strewn with shredded paper, a few crumpled fast-food wrappers, and pages covered in black scribbles that are indecipherable to Jon. It sends a pang of grief through him that echoes around the empty space where Sasha’s memory should be.

Tim’s desk is clear, no work having been done there in months.

And Martin’s is….

Jon frowns.

Next to an empty mug and a collection of pastel fine-liners Martin sometimes uses to make notes, is a cassette tape. It is unmarked, the brand different from any he has seen before in the archive. Jon reaches for it, hesitates, and then snatches it up. He turns it over in his hands, the shape and weight familiar. Something is building beneath his skin, fizzing, crackling, a flurry of static that rises and rises the longer he holds the tape. It calls to him. The white noise is a siren song drawing him in until he is moving towards his office and the tape recorder he keeps on his desk. His hands shake as he pushes the tape into place and snaps the recorder shut. For a moment the world narrows down to the feeling of the play button beneath his finger, its weight as he presses down, the soft whir-like a sigh-as the tape begins to play.

“Hello, my dear archivist.”

The saccharine voice that spews from the tape washes away the frantic desperation that had sent him scurrying to his office like a starving dog. He shivers, the memory of hard plastic hands around his throat making it hard to breathe.

The Eye drinks in this flash of terror, consuming it with abandon.

“It’s so luvely to be able to talk again. I was hoping to see you in person but ….I’m sure we’ll get to that later.”

There’s a tinkling laugh; the sound of fairground chimes, or blood dripping on porcelain.

“I thought now would be a good time to check in about that old skin you’re supposed to be getting for us. Not that I really need to. I am having you followed. It’s not because I don’t trust you but…well, I don’t trust you and I want to be sure that when you find it you don’t do anything silly. It is very powerful after all. I have to say, little archivist, I’m mighty….disappointed….by your lack of progress. It’s been a week now and nothing and I am on a bit of a deadline, you know. The world won’t dance itself new on its own.”

Nikola stops with a breathy gasp.

Jon waits, fingers clenched in the sleeves of his too-big cardigan.

He can make out the creak of plastic, followed by what sounds like a heavy door being opened. He leans in, straining to hear the dull thud of feet on stone. The jaunty melody of carousel music lingers in the background, ever-present and just flat enough to set his teeth on edge.

“Unfortunately for you, that means I need to up the stakes a little. We can’t have you getting complacent, that just won’t do.”

Another grating sound, metal against concrete and then a jumble of muffled grunts, almost as if someone is trying to speak against restraints.

“Do try and keep him quiet.”

Nikola hisses to someone whose response Jon cannot hear.

Something coils in his gut, cold and heavy.

“He spotted one of us outside the Institute one evening, tried to follow us. A rather stupid move if you ask me. You may want to rethink your hiring strategy.”

The mumbling intensifies.

Jon feels sick. His stomach churns, a deep sense that something is very wrong knotting up his insides.

“He seems awfully fond of you, I must say, putting himself in all that danger to try and keep you safe. What on earth did you ever do to deserve such devotion, little archivist?”

He shakes his head, trying to speak around the hard lump in his throat even though he knows Nikola can not hear him.

“P-pl…”

“Would you like to say hello?”

There is a painful ripping sound, then a scraping and a few ragged breaths.

The cold dread in Jon’s gut begins to unfurl, spreading out, freezing him to his chair.

“Jon?”

His heart stutters.

“Jon, p-please….please…d-don’t…”

Martin’s familiar voice, shaking and edged with panic, erupts from the speaker like a scream.

The copper tang of blood spills over his tongue. He looks down, realising he’s been biting his knuckle so hard his skin has split. Even as he watches the blood pool and trickle down his fingers, he feels no pain.

Nikola laughs again, something knife-sharp behind the sweetness.

Jon is cold, so cold, even beneath his tea-scented cardigan. His hands are like ice as he claws at the tape recorder, smearing blood over the plastic casing. He is not sure what he’s trying to do, his thoughts too muddled. He thinks he may be trying to reach through to wherever they are, to wherever Martin is.

“You see archivist, now we have some collateral. So, if you don’t manage to find that ancient relic, well….shall we have a demonstration?”

A strangled whimper is all Jon can manage as he listens to the squeak of plastic fingers, the tearing of fabric, the clear zhing of a blade. His eyes lock onto the tape recorder, transfixed with horror as he hears Martin grunt and then…..

Jon has never heard screaming like that before.

It cuts through him, reverberating down to his bones and settling in his marrow, so deep he will never be rid of it.

At the same time, it drowns him. Each new cry washes over him, relentless, never giving him time to breathe. He is suffocating beneath the sound, helpless and guilt-ridden, hands twitching as if trying to pull himself up for air. He can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe – chest too tight, pulse racing. His vision swims, blackness creeping in from the edges as Martin screams and screams and screams.

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, cold tears spilling down his cheeks. He presses his hands over his ears, but no matter how hard he tries he cannot escape it.

It feels like a lifetime before the screaming begins to quiet and an eternity until Nikola speaks again, high and airy.

“Impressive. That was even through a gag. What fun we’re going to have!”

A sob fills the silence, faint and broken. Jon matches it with his own.

Somewhere the Eye swells and glows in gluttonous satisfaction. Jon can feel it preening, brimming over with stolen terror. He shoves it away in disgust.

“Lucky for us there’s plenty of him to use.”

Something slaps wetly. There’s a squelch, like fingers being shoved into dough.

Jon retches.

“This will make a luvely pair of gloves, don’t you think?”

He doubles over, heaving dryly into his wastepaper bin, for once glad he didn’t have lunch. Sweat beads at his hairline, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he gasps around the convulsions of his nauseated body.

“Now now archivist, no point getting upset. The sooner you find us the gorilla skin the more of your assistant there will be left. I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you. Goodbye.”

The voice fades, leaving only panting breaths and pained groans before the recording ends with an abrupt click.

Jon lets it run on while he struggles to find a rhythm to his breathing. The background whir is a comfort, something to dampen the horrific shrieking that still rings in his ears.

Guilt sits heavy on his shoulders, a deadweight. First Sasha and now Martin. How many more people will he fail before the end? Who else will have to suffer because of him? He curls himself up in his chair and tries to consider what he should do, but his thoughts either will not come or fly past too fast to crystalise into an actual plan. Eventually, he gives in to the lingering heaviness of his limbs and the hollowness in his chest and he cries.

---

He isn’t sure how long he sits there.

The tape finally finishes and cuts off with a burst of static and the pop of the play button.

He is sat in silence when Basira finds him, folded up and trying to ignore the screams in his head. Her firm footsteps alert Jon to her presence as he can barely see out of his tear-swollen eyes. Her breathing pauses as she takes a moment to assess the situation.

Jon can picture the scene clearly: he sits, knees to his chest, hands tangled in his greying hair. The tape recorder perches haphazardly on the edge of his desk, smeared with blood that has dried a rich, rust colour. There are gouges in the surface of his desk and matching splinters beneath his fingernails.

“Jon?”

He thrusts out an arm, knocking Basira’s hand out of the way. The tape recorder falls to the floor with a crack, the cassette flies out, magnetic tape spooling on the floor. He stares at it for a moment. At least now she cannot….will not….and he does not have to either.

“Jon!?”

Her voice is clipped, hard. There is no room for argument or bullshit, no hint of concern. He would expect nothing less of Basira, and he has always respected her bluntness and the ability to bury her emotions so she can get the job done. As much as he would like to believe he can do the same, he knows it is a lie. Today has just proven that.

“Jon!?”

He opens his mouth to answer but only manages a strangled whine, which devolves into a sob. He takes a shuddering breath before trying again.

“M-“

It hurts. His throat is raw, almost as if he has been the one screaming. He is not entirely sure he hasn’t been. No one would have heard him all the way down here. He thinks Elias meant for it to be that way.

“Ma-“

The name sticks in his throat, coats his tongue with a sour taste, and lodges itself behind his teeth. He can not say it….does not deserve to say it…Nikola’s words repeat in his head, over and over.

What on earth did you ever do to deserve such devotion?

Jon thinks of all the times he has berated Martin, the mornings he has purposefully left his tea undrunk just to spite him, the cold manner he has used to decline every offer of help or comfort. And still, Martin had smiled, had rinsed out his mug and stubbornly left another on his desk made to his exact taste, had even pushed himself to research the Vittery case, almost risking his life just to try and get a good word out of his boss.

Martin, who writes poetry that overflows with tender melancholy. Martin, who had stayed up into the early hours with Jon while he had been staying in the archives, somehow aware that Jon was alone and afraid. Martin, who had persuaded the ECDC to hand over a jar of Prentiss’ ashes so he would feel safe. Martin, who had made it his mission to ensure Jon got at least one hot meal a day. Martin, who had lied on his CV to help his ailing mum. Martin, with his mop of curls and goofy smile and stupid hipster glasses and…oh…Martin....

Jon buries his nose into the yellow wool at his shoulder, inhaling the faded scent of Early Grey and spearmint toothpaste and lavender laundry detergent. It only leaves him feeling emptier.

Nothing, he wants to shout in reply to Nikola’s question, less than nothing!

“JON! What's going on?”

He sniffs, lifting his eyes to stare blankly down at the ruined tape recorder.

Basira’s gaze flicks to the device, before landing back on Jon.

He shivers, licking his parched lips and forcing the words out, voice cracked and tight.

“M-Martin….I-I need to f-find Martin.”

[ssfghfrrggf]

Heavy is the Head Chapter 8 Going Down

Ao3 link

“Excuse me, chief, do you have a minute?” Gallo asks, knocking on the door to Casey’s office. He can’t believe he’s actually taking Ritter’s advise and apologizing for what he said the last shift. He meant it, and he knows he lucky Casey didn’t fire him on the spot. Boden probably would’ve, but then again, Boden probably would’ve listened to him.

“Yes, I’m glad you came in here actually,” Casey says, inviting him into the room. Severide is standing in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest. They were probably talking wedding stuff.

“Before you say anything, Chief, I’d like to apologize for what I said and how I acted last shift,” Gallo says, forcing himself to sound sincere. He hopes Ritter is right about this. “There’s no excuse for how I acted.”

“I agree, there’s not,” Casey says stiffly but digresses as Severide clears his throat. “But I’m going to let you look into your hunch.”

“Sir I-” Gallo starts to argue, but then registers what Casey said. “wait, you’re letting me? Really?”

Casey nods. “But I’m letting Severide take point on it. I don’t want you running all over creation with this. And if he thinks you need to take it back a notch and you don’t listen to him, then I’m going to hear about it. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Gallo says, nodding his head and glancing over at the squad lieutenant. “You won’t regret this.”

“I better not.”

Gallo’s grateful for this chance to pursue these fires, but he can’t help but feel like Casey still isn’t taking it seriously and that he’s just dumped all the responsibility off onto Severide.

“So what are you thinking the connection between these two cases is?” Severide asks, as Gallo follows him back to his office. “I looked through the files and nothing stood out to me. I also know the investigator who did all three cases, he’s a solid dude.”

“Honestly, I’m not really sure,” Gallo admits. “They just struck me as odd, you know?”

Severide nods thoughtfully. “I know the feeling. Sadly fire chiefs and juries need more than hunches. Especially when there’s reasonable explanations for everything.”

“I was kind of hoping we could go look at the scene or something,” Gallo suggests hopefully.

Severide sighs. “I can give Phil a call and see if he’ll hold the scene and let us have a look at the last fire, but the other two scenes were cleared a long time ago.”

“Thank you lieutenant,” Gallo says, he can’t put into words how happy he is that he’s being allowed to work on this.

“Yeah, and here are your copies of the files,” Severide says, handing him a stack of files.

“I get files?” Gallo asks, trying not to sound too shocked.

Severide looks amused and conceals a chuckle. “Yes, you get files. You gotta figure out this hunch of yours.”

“Oh- oh.” Gallo’s really not sure what he was expecting from this, but this isn’t really it. He figured Severide would take the case and he’d have to wait around for the lieutenant to figure it out and then bring him into the loop. But now he gets to be part of the loop. He gets to take a more active role than annoying his superior officers until they do what he wants and take him seriously. The situation is quite literally in his hands.

“I’m going to give the files my own look over, but this is your thing.”

“Thank you,” Gallo breathes, and he means it. From the bottom of his heart he means it. Someone is finally taking this seriously.

***

“I still can’t believe he proposed to you in a freezing pool after you pulled him out a window,” Mackey muses, as she, Brett, and Foster are sit around admiring the ring Severide got Stella, like they’ve never seen an engagement ring before.

“It doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Stella says, keeping her hand held out in front of her. It’s been quite a few years since she had a ring on that finger, and it’s a little strange, but it feels right. Right like nothing else has felt right before. “I think it was cute.”

“Only you would call that whole situation that,” Foster laughs. “Almost dying in a fire and then getting soaked in a freezing pool? No thanks.”

“I’m just glad that pool was there, because let me tell you, a hospital proposal would’ve been awful,” Stella jokes. It seems like her and Kelly have spent so much time in the hospital, she doesn’t need a proposal there. As little memories associated with that place as possible, the better.

“You didn’t know the pool was there?” Brett asks, looking at her in shock. “You neglected to mention that all the times you’ve told the story.”

“No, the only thing I was worried about was not getting burned alive,” Stella laughs.

“But she’s got good extinct,” Kelly says, coming up behind her and rubbing her shoulders and leaning his head over her to pant a kiss on the top of her head. “Saved my ass more times than I count.”

“I don’t know how you survived before I came along,” Stella teases and reaches up to pat his cheek.

“Oh it was rocky,” Casey joins in the converversation as he makes an appearance to get a refill on his coffee. “There’s nothing to explain how he managed it. Broken neck and blown up with a grenade, what a year apart?”

Severide ducks his head nervously and shrugs off the jab. The grenade incident has been briefly discussed before, but Kelly stands by the firm assertion that he doesn’t remember any of it. Which very well may be true, but Brett remembers it vividly and hates talking about it. The only reason he didn’t die on that hospital floor was because Mills had found him and stopped Dr. Halstead from black tagging him.

“Like I said,” Stella says with a playful smirk. “It’s a miracle you made it to adulthood.”

“Really, that goes for any man, I think,” Foster says, leaning back and propping her feet up on the table. “We’re the reason any of them make it past adolescents. The only ones who don’t need us are the ones who are smart like Ritter.”

“Please don’t bring me into this,” Ritter says, poking his head from his book.

“Well, Severide gets some credit, even if he did propose to you in a swimming pool in the middle of January, because he did it,” Sylvie points out. He blew their plan, but he asked and now him and Stella are going to get married.

***

“You look busy,” Ritter comments, dragging Gallo’s attention away from his files for the first time since Severide handed them to him.

“Yeah, I finally got a hold of the files from those fires,” Gallo says diverting his attention only for a couple seconds to look at his friend before digging back into the files. He has yet to find anything linking them together other than his gut feeling, but he’s going to dig until he finds answers.

“So apologizing worked?” Ritter says and sits down on the bed next to him.

“Shut up. He was going to let me do it even before I apologized,” Gallo says. He’s never going to admit out loud that it probably did help his chances.

“Mhmm,” Ritter says and flips open one of the files. “So what exactly are you looking for here?”

“I don’t know, that’s half the problem,” Gallo says with a sigh. He’s been looking at the files for what feels like ages but he can’t seem to find anything tying the cases together.

“Hey, kid. You up to take a ride?” Severide asks, approaching them. “My buddy in arson said we can go poke around the scene..”

“Yes!” Gallo says and hops off the bed, trying to keep his excitement at bay. “Oh I gotta check with Lieutenant-”

“I already did. She practically begged me to take you off her hands for a couple hours. Go grab your gear and get in the Squad,” Severide says jerking his head toward the door. He looks amused by Gallo’s excitement, but keeps any comments about it to himself.

“Thank you lieutenant,” Gallo says as he walks past the squad firefighter to get to the bay. For some reason he really wasn’t expecting things to go like this, he half expected Severide to give him the run around and not take his crazy theory seriously, the same way Casey had.

“Yeah,” Severide shrugs and turns to follow him.

***

“Hey, lieutenant,” Gallo calls from down the hallway in the dark gloomy house. The kid sounds concerned and like he’s just found.

“What’d you find?” Kelly asks, shining his flashlight in the direction of the kid. He conceals a shiver as a drop of water falls from the sealing and goes down the back of his shirt sending a tickle down his back.

“This door right here,” Gallo says and points to the door leading out onto the back porch of the house. “There’s scratches in the wood around the lock and bolt.”

Severide frowns at it, the wood is splintered away and chipped like the door was pried open with a crowbar or some other tool like it. 

“It wasn’t in the report,” Gallo adds, and he’s right. There hadn’t been anything in the arson report about the apparent forced entry marks that they’re looking at now.

“I know,” Severide says and pulls out his phone to take a picture of it. Phil has always been meticulous with his investigations, and has some of the cleanest neatest reports in the department. “I’ll call Phil when we get back to the house, but we’ll keep poking around here to see what else we can find.”

He hadn’t been convinced by Gallo’s theory, especially after reading the reports. They were all so different. The christmas tree fire that had happened on Roosevelt was because of a frayed wire on the christmas lights, the fire before that on Loomis had been caused by lint in the dryer, and the one from the previous shift, the one they’re at now, was caused by a gas stove malfunction. There’s essentially nothing connecting them, but just because there’s nothing connecting them doesn’t mean this one isn’t arson, and two parents died leaving their kids orphans so he owes it to them to pursue this, especially with the possible new evidence of foul play.

“Hey, lieutenant, we got a call,” Tony says, poking his head around a corner down the hallway from them. 

Severide sighs and looks at Gallo. “We’ll come back later.”

***

“Hey lieutenant, you wanna go have another look around that house? See if we can find anything else that points to fowl play?” Gallo asks, poking his head into the lieutenant's office. They’ve been back from the squad rescue for about an hour now, he wanted to give Severide time to fill out his paperwork for the run before pestering him to go back and have another look at the house.

He’s not surprised to see that Stella is in his office with him, sitting on his bed. She has some kind of magazine that looks like it’s for wedding stuff, and the paperwork sitting on Severide’s desk is only half filled out.

“I don’t think we’re going to find much,” Severide replies, clicking his pen and leaning back in his chair. “I called Phil. He said those marks were from crews making entry, and that the paper work for it got mixed into the wrong file.”

“But what if there’s something else in that house that points to fowl play?” Gallo argues.

“Look, I’ve got paperwork I need to finish up. We can maybe go back after shift.”

Gallo swallows back an angry remark and settles for a curt “Okay” to dismiss himself from Severide’s office instead.

***

“Hey, lieutenant, do you want to take another look at that house?” Gallo asks, jogging to catch up with Severide and Stella as they leave shift. 

Severide sighs and turns away from Stella to face him. “I’ve got some stuff I need to do. I’ll give you a call if I have time later, but I really don’t think we’re going to find anything else at that house.

“You know, for a second there I thought you’d take this seriously,” Gallo spits angrily. He can feel Ritter next him, willing him to rein it in, but he’s too angry and too worked up. He’d thought- or hoped really, that the lieutenant would take him seriously and put actual work into this case, but he’s blowing it off.

“Gallo-” Severide starts to speak, indignation smeared all across his face.

“You’re going to regret blowing this off when someone else dies!” Gallo shouts, unable to stop himself. “There’s an arsonist out there targeting families and you’re letting them get away with it because you think your stupid wedding planning is more important!”

The shock on Severide’s face switches to anger, and there’s a second where Blake thinks the man might actually deck him, but he doesn’t care.

“Watch it.”

“No, you’re blowing me off just like Casey is. You don’t care. People are going to die- have died, and you don’t care,” Gallo snaps, and turns on his heals and leaves before the lieutenant can respond. He doesn’t care if he gets fired for all the yelling at superior officers he’s been doing lately. People are dying and he’s the only one who seems to be noticing it, and if he has to get fired to make people see it, than so be it.

“Gallo,” Ritter breathes, following him toward his car.

“I’m done being blown off,” Blake interrupts him. “If they don’t believe me or care, fine. I’ll solve the case myself, because I’m right.”

***

“Hey, Kelly, you ready to come to bed?” Stella says in her best seductive voice as she stands in the doorway of their bedroom trying to get Severide’s attention. 

“No,” he mumbles, barely even looking up at her. He hasn’t looked away from the fire files for more than a minute since they got home. Stella sighs and walks over to the couch, giving up on her attempt to get a couple minutes with him.

“You’re really torn up about this, aren’t you?” she says quietly plopping herself down on the couch next to him, and picking up one of the files to flip through it.

“He was right,” Kelly replies under his breath. “I didn’t mean to be blowing him off, but I was. I didn’t take it seriously or as seriously as I should’ve. If he’s right this could be huge.”

“Well, you are now,” she points out and runs her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. “Hang on…” she trails off as her gaze settles on one of the pictures from the fire on Roosevelt where the christmas tree had burned the house down.

“What?” Severide asks, looking at her.

“It’s not the focus of the picture, but that back window is broken,” she says pointing to the picture.

“Yeah, report says it was from ventilation,” Severide says, losing interest and turning his attention to a different file.

Stella frowns and shakes her head. “We never vented the back windows.”

This stops Severide and gets his attention. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure we didn’t break that window. We didn’t touch the back side of the house, and engine hit it from the front.”

“There’s no chance you’re remembering wrong?”

“Kelly, I’ve been a lieutenant for what? A couple months? I haven’t been point on a lot fires, but I remember the ones I did like the back of my hand,” Stella promises, looking him in the eyes.

Kelly’s frown deepens and he hands her another file. “Did you make entry through the back on this one?”

It’s the fire that lead to Severide proposing to her, but it’s hard to have fond memories of it. Gallo and Ritter barely made it out alive, let alone her and Kelly. 

“We didn’t touch the back door,” Stella says looking at the pictures her fiance has just put in front of her. “And look there’s charing on these scratches.”

“Which means they were made before the smoke got bad, I know,” Kelly finishes for her. “And I assume you guys didn’t touch the basement door on that fire on Loomis.”

“No,” Stella says, shaking her head. She’s not sure exactly what the two of them just stumbled on, but she does know whatever it is, Gallo was right.

“Gallo was right,” Kelly says leaning back on the couch and letting out a deep sigh.

“Are you going to call Phil and have him reopen the cases?” Stella asks.

“Not yet,” he replies without looking at her. She can tell he’s planning something- has some idea running through his mind.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, studying him closely, hoping he’ll actually let her in on whatever crazy idea is running through his head.

“We need to go look at those scenes,” he says looking over at her, and she can tell there’s something else on his mind.

“Kelly, they’ve already started renovations on two of them. Now tell me what you’re really thinking,” Stella says and rubs the back of his neck. She can feel his tension. There’s definitely something going on with these cases but they can’t run into it willy nilly.

“All three of these were Phil’s cases,” Severide says slowly, flipping the file in his lap closed.

“And you think he’s covering something up?” Stella asks. That’s a big accusation, and if that’s the case, they definitely need to come at this carefully and thoroughly. You can’t come at an arson investigator with that accusation without evidence that is rock solid.

“I don’t know Stella. It doesn’t make sense. I know him. He wouldn’t cover something up, but he’s also not sloppy,” Kelly says, getting flustered. “But one case is a fluke, two is a coincidence…”

“And three is a pattern,” Stella finishes for him.

“Three is a pattern,” he repeats hesitantly and looks away from her. “I don’t get it Stella…”

“Kelly-”

He shakes his head and stands up. “I need to call Boden.”

“Kelly, please don’t shut me out on this,” Stella says, standing up too, and grabbing his hand. 

“There’s a couple other cases I want to look into,” Severide replies after a moment of hesitation. “I think it’s possible that they’re connected to these, but I need to talk to Boden first.”

“What cases?” Stella asks, looking him in the eyes.

***

“What if we asked Boden for help?” Ritter suggests. He’s been helping Gallo sort through the arson files since they got of shift the day before last, and it’s been grooling. Blake is relentless in getting to the bottom of this, but the best thing they’ve found is a couple inconsistencies between how Gallo remembers things going down on the fire scene and how things were listed in the arson reports. Ritter isn’t really sure which is more stressful, watching Gallo run himself ragged trying to solve this thing or the fact that there’s probably an arsonist out there burning families up and there’s very little they can to do to stop them until the hit a real break in the case.

“He’s retired,” Gallo says flatley and throws his bag of personal belongings over his shoulder before slamming his car door.

“But he has friends who aren’t,” Ritter points out. “He probably knows someone who could get us a meeting with those first two families.”

“You think they’d talk to us?” Gallo asks, looking up from the file that currently has his attention.

“Yeah, I mean if it were my house that burnt down, I’d want to help figure it out,” Ritter says. “Or you could ask Casey since he probably has some good connections and could move faster on it.”

This makes Gallo snort.

“What?”

“Casey thinks this whole thing is a load of crap. Hell maybe he’s right and I am crazy,” Gallo scoffs, shaking his head. “Regardless, he won’t help.”

“Gallo, what made you think the cases are connected?” Ritter finally asks. He thinks it’s quite possible his friend is onto something, but he wants to know what it was that made him see a connection, what clicked.

“The families,” Gallo replies after a moment of thoughtful silence. “They reminded me of my family, and I always kind of wondered. They said the fire was started by a gas stove…”

“But you feel like there was more,” Ritter says, finishing for him. “And when the report came back on that 3rd house being a stove fire-”

“Yeah,” Gallo interrupts him. “But there’s something else about them, the fire spread and how quickly they reached flashover there was just something so similar about them, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

***

“Gallo, we need to talk.” Severide is waiting for him on the app floor when he and Ritter get to work. Stella is waiting with him. Both of them have grim expressions on their faces like whatever they’re about to tell him is serious. They’ve probably decided to reprimand him for the way he lit into Severide coming off the last shift, which he’d probably deserve. He’s been testing a lot of people’s authority and pushing a lot of respect boundaries lately.

“You’re not in trouble,” Stella adds, glancing over at her fiance.

“We found something.”

“What?” Gallo breathes, he’d thought for sure that after their fight last shift, Severide wouldn’t want anything to do with the case.

“We’ll talk in my office,” Severide replies, nodding his head toward the door to inside, but before they can make it more than two steps the tones sound.

“Engine 51, Truck 81, Ambulance 61, Squad 3, Battalion 25, multi story residential structure fire.”

“We’ll talk when we get back,” Severide promises as he heads to the squad truck.

***

It’s a three story building, and dispatch radios in as they roll onto scene that it’s a duplex with multiple residents. A block away Stella knew it’d be a big one, but arriving on scene it’s worse than she thought. All three floors are burning, and there’s heavy smoke. 

“What’s our plan, chief?” Stella asks as they unload off the truck.

“Fire’s in the roof structure, so I don’t want crews up there, so truck and squad do a quick primary search. Then get out. This place is going up fast.”

“You got it chief,” Stella says, already masking up. “Mouch and Gallo, take the ladder up to the third floor. Nathan you’re with me, we’ll take the second floor.”

“Capp and Tony you two are together, Cruz your with me. We’ll clear the first floor and move up to help out,” Severide orders masking up with his firefighters.

“Be Careful in there,” Stella calls over her shoulder as she and Nathan head inside. Black smoke is already pouring out of the open door.

The first floor seems to mostly just filling up with smoke, it’s not even thick enough that they have to crawl in order to see. Stella can hear Squad making entry behind them as she and Nathan head up the stairs to the second floor. The second story is worse. The smoke gets thick and black before they reach the top of the stairs, to thick to see much of anything.

“Alright get down, Nathan,” Stella orders, dropping down onto her hands and knees. “Keep one hand on my ankle, if I stop feeling you touching me, I’m going to stop, got it?”

“Yeah!” Nathan replies, she can hear the excitement in his voice. Since joining 51 he’s gotten more than his fair share of hairy situations, and remains unphased by them. “Let’s do this!”

Stella shakes her head, amused with the kid’s energy, before pressing on deeper into the black smoke.

***

“Chief, we got two victims on the second floor and need assistance,” Stella’s voice comes over the radio.

“Cruz and I are clear on the first floor and can go assist,” Severide reports, glancing at Cruz who nods that he’s ready for more action.

“Copy that, go assist them, Severide,” Casey replies.

“Alright, lets go,” Severide says to Cruz and jerks his head toward the stairs.

“Kidd, what’s your location?” Severide asks as he and Cruz start their trek up the stairs into the thicker smoke.

“Second door on the left,” Stella replies.

The hallway at the top of the stairs is dark from the thick smoke, and they have to get down on their hands and knees just to see. Cruz keeps one hand on Severide’s ankle as they grope their way through the deepening darkness, letting him know he’s still right there with him. There’s next to zero visibility now, so Severide has to run his hand along the left side of the wall to feel for doorways. His hand slides off into nothing but empty space and he almost tips over. 

“That’s the first door,” He calls over his shoulder to Cruz who gives his ankle a little squeeze in acknowledgement. Kelly presses on, finding the wall again, and it’s not long before he finds the next door, but this time it’s closed. 

“Stella! We’re out here!” he shouts and bangs his fist against the door signaling to his fiance that he’s outside the door and that he and Joe are ready to come in.

The door opens just long enough for him and Cruz to pile inside and then it’s slammed closed behind them. The room is significantly less smokey than the hallway outside, it’s clear enough so that he can see both Nathan and Stella clearly along with the two unconscious victims lying on the floor. 

“Mouch and Gallo, clear on the top floor. Heading back out now.” Gallo’s voice crackles over the radio as Severide makes his way over to the first victim. He catches the look of relief that crosses Stella’s face upon hearing that the other two members of her crew are safe.

“Me and Stella will get him, Nathan and Cruz, you two get the woman,” Severide orders, and everyone in the room shifts to do as they’re told. “We’re going to have to move fast. It’s pretty rough out there.

***

“Please, my neighbor Jerry is still inside!” An old woman says pleadingly and tugs on Severide’s sleeve, stopping him as he and Stella exit through the front door of the duplex. Tony and Capp had met them at the door and taken their victim off to the waiting ambulances. “Please, he lives on the third floor!”

Severide hesitates and glances up at the top floor of the duplex, there’s black smoke pouring out of almost all the windows, and there’s tongues of fire beginning to mix in. Upstairs is getting close to flashing over.

“I’m up for one more grab, if you are,” Stella says, glancing up at it too, probably making the same calculations in her head as he is. The chances of getting back out aren’t great with how hot the fire’s burning on the top floor is, and the chances of making a successful grab are even more slim.

“Chief, we got a confirmed rescue on the top floor, Gallo and Mouch must have missed them. Me and Kidd have enough air left to make the grab,” Severide says into his radio, letting it answer Stella’s question.

“I don’t like the smoke I’m seeing Severide. That top floor could flash over, and the chances of the vic even being alive-”

“There’s a chance chief,” Severide interrupts him. Two of the windows on the top floor aren’t belching black smoke which means there’s a good chance whatever room that is, is clear enough for someone to still be alive in there. 

“You’re sure there’s a rescue?”

“Yes chief, we’re sure.” The old lady is still holding onto Severide’s hand and she’s crying now.

“You have two minutes. Not a second longer,” Casey replies after a second of hesitation.

“You got chief,” Severide replies and goes to get his mask back on. He glances at Stella who already has her mask back on. 

“You ready?” she asks, bumping his arm with her fist as he finishes tightening the straps on his mask. He gives her a quick thumbs up, and she opens the door and disappears into the smoke; He follows her into the blackness.

Kelly keeps one hand on Stella’s back as they work their way up the stairs that start near the front door. The smoke gets thicker and thicker the farther up they go, until he can no longer make out yellow reflective strips on Stella’s gear; his only assurance that she’s still in front of him is that he still has his hand on her and the heavy thunk of her halligan hitting each each step as she sounds to make sure it won’t give out.

*** 

“Keep me posted on conditions in there,” Casey radios to his two lieutenants as he keeps a close eye on the smoke pouring out every possible opening on the top floor. It's already turned dark and deadly, and the smoke coming from the floor below it isn’t much better. He already regrets his decision to let them go back in. “If anything starts feeling off, I want you guys to bale out right away.”

“You don’t have to micromanage, chief,” Severide radios back, sounding more annoyed than concerned or worried about the amount of smoke he and Stella are undoubtedly trying to make their way through.

“It’s my job to micromanage,” Casey replies. “You guys just hurry, okay?”

“You got it chief.”

“Truck and Squad, I want you guys to get as many ladders on as many of those windows as you can in case Kidd and Severide have to bail out,” Casey directs to the groups of firefighters standing behind him. Most of them look like they’re ready to hop up and get back inside at a moments notice.

“They went back in?” Gallo questions, standing up from where he was sitting on the back bumper of 81. It sounds like a challenge, full of judgement and indignation.

“Yes, there’s another confirmed rescue on the third floor,” Casey replies impatiently. Gallo has been trying his patience since the house fire a couple shifts ago where he ended up sending the kid home, and it’s getting old fast.

“No, me and Mouch cleared that floor,” Gallo argues, he looks scared. “There’s no one up there.”

“You may have missed them,” Casey replies.

“Chief-”

“Go help put ladders on the windows,” Casey interrupts. He’s not in the mood for arguing with Gallo anymore.

“But-”

“Mayday, mayday, mayday! Firefighter down!” the whole fire ground freezes as Stella’s panicked voice crackles over the radio, her words barely descernable through the static, and Casey's heart drops into his stomach. Dread washing over him like a wave as fire starts rolling out the windows swirling with smoke, the top two floors are about to flash over. “Third floor, delta side, Severide’s down….it’s-  Flashover!”

“Let’s go get them!” Cruz shouts and takes off toward the door.

“No one goes inside!” Casey shouts, before he even realizes the words are coming out of his mouth, but he finds he means them. He’s already sent two firefighters to their deaths, he’s not about to damn anyone else. Every instinct as a friend and a firefighter is screaming at him to send RIT to go get them, to go save his friends, but his years of experience tell him there will be no rescue, only a suicide mission.

“Chief!” Cruz protests as Casey pushes him back away from the building. He’s been a chief less than a year and he’s failed at the most fundamental part of his job, keeping his people safe. He’s not killing anyone else. It’s the worst decision he’s ever made, but he’s not caving.

“Kidd, can you get to a window and bail out?” Casey says, returning his attention to his radio. 

“Negative… found a hole in the floor… going down…”

“Chief! You have to let us go get them!” Cruz shouts, and pushes against him. “They’re going to die! You have to let us save them!”

“No one  else is going inside!” Casey yells and pushes the squad firefighter back. “I’m not letting anyone else die!”

He’s barely finished spitting the words out when balls of fire explode out of every window on not just the third floor, but the second too. He loses his grip on Cruz’s coat as a wave of shock hits him, but the other firefighter doesn’t move. Matt’s knees hit the hard concrete ground before he even realizes he’s falling; he can feel the waves of heat coming off the building as black smoke and evil red flames pour out the windows. He knows he should be giving orders, ordering 51 to hit the fire with everything they got, telling everyone else to do something- anything, but he can’t move. He can’t think. Stella and Kelly are dead. Even if she had managed to get her and Severide through the hole she found in the floor, the only thing it did was drop them right into another flashover. He can hear shouting, but none of the words register with him. He can feel tears stinging his eyes. They’re dead. They’re dead because he sent them back in. They’re dead and he’s the one who killed them.

[crispychrissy]

Wildfire (6/?)

Summary: Wanda and Y/N discover something unsettling in her memories, and it reveals more about what Y/N went through. Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 3015 Warnings: Language, angst, violence, more sciencey stuff, a surprise A/N: I am so happy I was able to break through my writers block and write this for you guys. Wildfire is a personal favorite story of mine, and I love how the story is being weaved together and built. Please let me know if you are enjoying this, feedback gives me the fuel to keep going. :) Below gif is made by me, and this was beta’d by the ever so lovely @saxxxology.

Part 1—Marvel Masterlist

The memory overtook Y/N’s mind, sending her into almost a dreamlike state of consciousness. The room around her melted into the floor, replaced by concrete, glass, and a dusty dirt floor. The acrid smell of blood, sweat, and soot had bile rising in the back of her throat, but she continued to remind herself it wasn’t real, trying to stay grounded and not losing herself to the illusion. Y/N was a spectator now, watching from the sidelines as her memory played out.

“Again!” an accented voice boomed, and even though it was only in Y/N’s mind, she flinched. “Get up!”

“Where are we?” Wanda asked, appearing as a somewhat ghostly apparition to her right.

“This was about a year after I was enhanced, in the training and testing wing of the facility I was held at,” Y/N whispered, wincing in sympathy for her former self when she was punched in the face by the uniformed man towering over her. “That,” she pointed to the man, “is Eli Porter. He supervised most of my training.”

Wanda sniffed in distaste. “He seems like an asshole.”

Y/N smiled. “He was.”

Wanda raised a questioning brow, but Y/N only continued to stare at what was unfolding. There were six men in protective suits in the room aside from Eli, all in various stages of injury, leaving Y/N severely outmatched. Y/N’s memory self dragged herself from the floor, wiping the blood dripping from a gash on her nose with the back of her hand.

“I can’t do it,” memory Y/N growled, clenching her hands into fists.

“And I said I don’t give a fuck,” Eli sneered back. “Do what you're told or I’ll strap you down and let my men do whatever they want to make you compliant.”

“This is when I realized he made a mistake,” Y/N said, watching as her memory self’s eyes widened, realizing Eli had not worn his protective fire-proof suit into the training area like he should have.

In a blur of movement, memory Y/N darted forward and jumped so she could put her hands on either side of Eli’s head. Fire surged in her veins and out of her hands, and Eli screamed when his skin began to blister and sizzle. Flames consumed the man’s head, spreading down his neck and shoulders, igniting the expensive wool suit he was wearing. Y/N released him and stepped back, but by the time the other men in the room realized what had happened, Eli’s head was engulfed in flames, and he took several shuffled steps backward before collapsing.

“Well, then,” Wanda mumbled. “Brutal, but it appears he deserved what he got. This doesn’t seem like—”

“Keep watching,” Y/N breathed out, closing her eyes as the memory shifted.

In a montage of memories, Y/N watched with tear blurry eyes as her memory counterpart was beaten, tortured, starved, and worked within an inch of her life every single day. The punishment she endured for killing Eli lasted over two months, and every day began fresh due to her accelerated healing. The men would take bets on how many broken bones they could give before she’d pass out, or how long it would take her to lose consciousness if her throat was slit.

When they broke her body, they tried to break her mind. The knowledge she would heal allowed her to ignore the pain for the most part, and it frustrated her captors to no end. The scene flashed and changed, showing Y/N’s memory self strapped into a medical chair, wires attached to electrodes stuck all over her head. Her body looked so damaged and frail, and when a man in a lab coat flipped a switch and turned on a strange machine, electricity surged into her head. Her back arched and she opened her mouth to scream, but a mixture of dehydration and scar tissue around repeated cuts on her throat resulted in no sound. Tears flowed from her eyes as the machine powered down, and one of the men walked up, leaning forward to speak to her.

“You belong here,” he told her, “we’re trying to help you. Stop fighting us.”

With a quiet sob, memory Y/N lethargically nodded her head, finally giving in.

It was a weakness she promised herself she would never feel again.

“Y/N,” Wanda said calmly, making Y/N turn away from the horror playing out in front of her to look at the redhead. “You need to relax, okay?”

Y/N looked at her, confused, before she realized her fists were clenched tightly, and there were small flickers of orange flames dancing across her hands. A soft gasp left her lips as she relaxed her hands, snuffing out the flames. “Sorry. I just… watching from the sidelines is different. I still can’t believe I listened to them.”

“They tortured you, not even the strongest mind could withstand that.” Wanda’s attention shifted back to the memory playing out, and a deep frown eclipsed her face. “What are they doing?”

Y/N looked back, watching as one of the white coated men tinkered with a vial of some kind of opaque substance. The memory was fuzzy, like it was being seen through a camera that couldn’t focus, and both she and Wanda leaned forward to try and decipher the writing on the label.

“I was really out of it at this point, don’t remember ever seeing what it was they injected me with.” Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. “Can’t see something in the playback I didn’t see at the time.”

“Maybe not, but I can try to clear it up a little,” Wanda glanced at Y/N, “if you’ll allow me. The eyes register a lot more than the brain can process. All you need is to find the right set of… magical glasses, if you will.”

“If you think it’ll help, please, knock yourself out.” Y/N chuckled, then winced, rubbing her temples again. “Not literally. Please don’t knock yourself out.”

Wanda’s eyes glowed a deep crimson, and she smiled as she began to send wisps of red into the air from her hands. They danced around like sentient tendrils of light, poking and prodding various spots in her memory. When one wisp got close to the area where the doctor was working with the mysterious vial, an inky black puff of smoke appeared and seemed to snap at it, making the tendril retreat.

“Oh, that’s very strange,” Wanda hummed to herself, “whatever is in that vial seems to be pushing back against my magic. Which should be impossible since we’re only in an illusionary representation of your memory.”

A sharp pain stabbed at the back of Y/N’s head, making her squeeze her eyes shut. “Wanda…”

“One second. I’m trying to coax it out.” Wanda continued to focus on the mysterious billow of black smoke that had coiled itself around the doctor holding the vial like a snake ready to strike. 

The longer Wanda interacted with the entity, the more intense Y/N’s pain became. When the witch was finally able to touch it with her magic, Y/N screamed and dropped to her knees, clutching her head. It felt like her brain was being burned from the inside, and she began to claw at her hair, digging her nails into her scalp to somehow make the pain stop.

“Y/N!” Wanda shouted, ceasing the use of her magic and rushing to Y/N’s side. Wanda couldn’t see anything actively attacking her, and she tried to stop Y/N’s frantic scratching. “Hey, can you hear me?”

Y/N slumped back, trembling, with tears streaming down her face as Wanda tried to calm her, and neither of them noticed the black smoke slithering its way toward them. The hair on the back of Wanda’s neck stood up and she pivoted on her heel, raising her hands to defend herself against an attack.

“No one escapes the abyss,” the smoky entity hissed, it’s voice gravelly and eerily echoey. 

Wanda set her jaw and narrowed her eyes. “Watch me.”

The area was engulfed with a bright red light, and Wanda held onto Y/N as she forced herself and her magic away from the memory. Normally she would gradually remove herself, allowing reality to trickle back in, but there was no choice in this situation. Leaving a memory like this was unpleasant, and she could feel a trickle of blood fall from her nose at the intense amount of mental strain it caused her. As dark splotches began to flood Wanda’s vision, she made sure all of her magic was untainted and free of whatever that entity was before she allowed herself to succumb to the darkness.

Wanda jolted back to reality when she felt something touching her face, and instinct took over as she regained consciousness. She lifted her hand and sent out a burst of magic, forcing whatever was touching her away, fearing it was something malicious from the memory. When she opened her eyes, she realized the something touching her face was actually someone, and watched as a dazed Steve was helped up from the floor by Bucky.

“Wanda?” Steve questioned, rushing back to her side as Bucky went to Y/N.

“There’s… something inside her mind. The… abyss.” Wanda’s eyes rolled back into her head and she went limp in Steve’s arms.

“Shit,” Steve hissed, waving the nurses in before glancing over to his best friend. “Buck? Y/N?”

Bucky’s hands were running along Y/N’s arms, legs, and head, checking for any open wounds or broken bones with military precision. “There’s blood coming from her ears, but she looks uninjured. Well, no physical injuries, at least.” The nurses took over, also looking for injuries, and Bucky slid backward to allow them to work.

“What did Wanda say to you, Cap?” Bruce asked quietly, kneeling down next to Wanda and helping Steve shift her onto one of the collapsable stretchers he removed from his medical kit. 

Steve let out a long breath of air, slumping back onto his bottom. “She said there’s something in Y/N’s mind.” Steve glanced behind him at Bucky helping the nurses shift Y/N onto the stretcher, and lowered his voice. “The abyss?”

“Doesn’t ring any bells.” Bruce shrugged, hooking up a small portable set of vital monitoring machines to Wanda. “Wanda’s stable, just unconscious. If I had to guess, she overexerted herself.” He looked over his shoulder at Y/N and the nurses lifting her onto a similar stretcher as Wanda’s. “Marlene, make sure you take her for a brain scan right away. I may not be a medical doctor, but even I know blood dripping from someone’s ears is never a good thing.”

Marlene nodded and with help from the other nurse, they lifted Y/N up and carried her quickly from the room.

Bucky studied Y/N’s bloody ears as the nurses walked past him, and he shivered as he was assaulted with a flash of his own memory. Zola’s face studying him, injecting him with things, and electrodes being placed on his head before a mind numbing amount of pain shot through him. He remembered looking at his reflection in the mirror once they got back to the Army base camp in Italy, noticing the dried blood that had come from his ears.

“Yeah, never a good thing,” Bucky muttered, and when Steve looked over at him with deep concern on his face, Bucky managed to give him a soft reassuring smile. “Just remembering what happened in Kreischberg,” Bucky tapped his ear with his finger, “I’m good.” Steve’s frown remained, and Bucky rolled his eyes. “Really, pal, I’m fine. I’ve remembered that one before.”

“Cap, a hand?” Bruce asked, crouching at the front of the stretcher.

Steve leaned forward and took a hold of the bottom of the stretcher, lifting Wanda once Bruce counted to three. Bucky led the way as they carried her out of the room and down the hallway. Once they reached the medical wing, Tony and Natasha, who were standing outside the MRI room, joined the group.

“What the hell happened?” Tony asked, frowning at Wanda’s unconscious form as they continued down the hallway and into an empty room.

“Wanda was trying to help Y/N remember more of her captivity and figure out why she can’t get a read on her mind, so she did the mind meld thing she did with Bucky when he first got here.” Steve ran a hand through his hair. “Before she passed out, Wanda said there’s something in Y/N’s mind. Called it the abyss.”

“Hmm,” Tony tapped the side of his glasses, “FRIDAY, run a search on the abyss in relation to Hydra. Any files come up?”

“No, boss,” the AI replied, “the only results I found are excerpts from private journals of Hydra officers. They are all personal reflections about their plans to ‘send SHIELD into the abyss’.”

“That’s because she’s not searching for the correct term,” Bucky chimed in with a shaky voice, moving toward Tony. “It’s not spelled a-b-y-s-s like the word, it’s an acronym. A-B-I-S.”

“FRIDAY?” Tony prompted again.

“Found it,” FRIDAY announced. “ABIS: Autonomic Brain Infiltration Substance. Records are limited, but it appears it was created under the scientific human experimentation umbrella of the Winter Soldier Project.” 

All eyes snapped to Bucky, and Steve took a hesitant step forward, waiting for him to explain.

“It, uhhh, it didn’t work on me, which is why they went with the brainwashing.” Bucky’s metal arm whirred as his hand closed into a fist. “I don’t know what it was made of, but it was designed to strip you of your free will. The doctors kinda explained some of how it worked when they didn’t think I was listening. Not only does it block you from making your own decisions, but it also blocks anything external that tries to affect you and if someone tries to remove it, it fights back.”  

“Which is why Wanda couldn’t see inside Y/N’s mind,” Steve realized, looking over at Bruce. “Did any of her tests show this thing inside her head?”

Bruce looked up from the monitor he was studying, shifting uncomfortably at how close Natasha was leaning over his shoulder. “I’m looking back through her scans right now. Everything looks completely normal. So either it doesn’t block medical equipment, or protected itself from discovery by projecting a fake result of the scan.”

“Can it do that?” Natasha asked, looking between Bucky and the scans up on the screen.

“I don’t know.” Bucky had more of his own questions than answers for everyone else, but he knew the amount of pain he was in for weeks after they injected it into him. “It never worked on me, and I don’t know why. Maybe it can only latch onto enhanced people?”

“We’re both enhanced, Bucky,” Steve reminded him.

“Yeah, but by chemicals. I’m talking about inhumans, the ones with dormant abilities that are activated.” Bucky turned toward Bruce, and gestured to the doctor. “You said it yourself, Banner, she has mutated DNA, just like the inhumans that began to pop up everywhere a few years back. What if they used the Power Stone to trigger her mutation?”

Natasha’s eyes widened, even though they were full of sadness and sympathy. “And when she resisted, they used this ABIS thing to try and control her.”

“They did say it was going to be more effective and faster than brainwashing,” Bucky growled, “and I bet she didn’t even know it was inside her.”

“She didn’t.”

Wanda was sitting up in the hospital bed, her eyes unfocused as she slowly blinked at the small group standing in her hospital room. Everyone, aside from Bruce, rushed toward her when they saw she was awake. Wanda’s hand was shaking as she gripped the rail of the bed and lifted herself up into a sitting position.

“Easy there, witchy woman,” Tony gently urged her to lay back down, “you need to rest.”

Wanda slumped back, breathing heavily at how fast the small amount of exertion exhausted her. “Y/N?” 

“Unconscious, but aside from some bloody ears, appears unharmed. We’re giving her an MRI right now.” Steve sat down in one of the comfy plush chairs next to her bed. “What happened, Wanda?”

Wanda took a deep breath and closed her eyes, retelling her experience with Y/N in her memory. Everyone showed some form of anger or outrage when Wanda explained the amount of torture Y/N endured after she killed Eli, and when she began to explain the strange black substance in a vial, Bucky cut her off.

“That’s it, that’s what the ABIS looked like.”

“It talked to me,” Wanda whispered. “Told me ‘no one can escape the abyss’ before I forced myself from her memory and mind.”

“Ouch,” Bucky winced in sympathy, having seen the toll it took on her when she’d had to do a quick mental extraction like that before. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” Wanda smiled. “Just need some rest. But what do you mean ‘that’s what it looked like’? Have you seen it before?”

“ABIS is an acronym, A-B-I-S. It stands for Autonomic Brain Infiltration Substance. They tried to use it to control me when I was the Winter Soldier. It didn’t work, and they resorted to brainwashing.” Bucky shook his head. “Apparently they kept what was left, or still had the recipe somewhere to recreate it.”

“I’m sorry, guys, I’m not strong enough to poke around and get you more answers,” Wanda rasped, eagerly taking the bottle of water Tony offered, chugging half of it in seconds. After she recapped the bottle, she sent Tony a sympathetic look. “But I do know who is.”

“Aw, hell,” Tony sighed, throwing his arms up in the air in exasperation. “Here we go.”

Steve grinned and looked toward the ceiling. “Heimdall! Can you please let Thor know we are requesting his presence?” Steve sighed. “His and Loki’s.”

***

Marvel Forevers [3 SPOTS OPEN]: @princessmisery666 @tardis-auto-pilot @feelmyroarrrr @idalinette @kassablanca13 @superlockedtimelord @voltage-my2dlove @agentstarkid @amandatar-06 @mizzezm @holyfuckloueh @spn--imagines @fanfictionjunkie1112 @wish-i-had-something-better @kittenofdoomage @growningupgeek @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ @cake-writes​ @captain-kelli​ @zoerayne2426​ @sadwaywardkid​ @sunlightdances​ @buckyland​ @kentuckybarnes​ @justagirlinafandomworld​ @cosicas-cuquis​ @cravingmarvel​ @straightforwardly​ @beccaanne814​ @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall​ @walkingchemicalfire​ @rhymesmenagerie​ @hina-chans-stuff​ @supernaturaldean67​ @idjitmonkey​ @crushedbyhyperbole​ @xxloki81xx​ @blue-like-barnes​ @rainbowkisses31​ @learning-howto-be-myselfx3​ @flyingcannoli​ @reapersan​ @previouslyforgotten​ @thefridgeismybestie​ @hawksmagnolia​ @zpandaqueen

Wildfire Tags: @eliza5616​ @bitchwhytho​ @waywardsistersandpie​ @tofeartheunknown​ @ayannaboo1111​ @nerdwholikesword​ @nerdgirljen​ @eileenalone​ @awaywithtime​ @winchester-wifey​ @fuckinherondale​

[trashyswitch]

The Strangely Modified Robot

Remus and Virgil (mostly Remus) come across Logan who looks like he'd been quite busy with making a robot of some kind. Remus and Virgil follow Logan to his room to find out what it is.

This prompt was suggested by that EEF anon that has written to me a few times! HI EEF! I hope you enjoy the fanfic! And I also hope this still counts as a machine!

Virgil groaned as he was pulled all the way to Logan’s room by Remus’s strong grip. He was too tired to deal with this today. But, he made the mistake of letting Remus into his room and now; he’s gotta suffer through hours of gorey, stressful ‘playtime’ with Remus. Maybe Remus could compromise by giving him a dozen bat-spider sidekicks?

But everything screeched to a halt as Remus’s eyes fell on a nerd in his usual black shirt carrying tools, broken wires and a tire. Virgil’s body and face hit Remus’s back, halting Virgil upon impact.

“Hiiiii Logan! What are you up to?” Remus asked. He walked closer and pointed at one of the items. “And what’s with the tire?”

Logan smiled and started walking past them. “I’m making a robot. Would you like to see?” Logan told him.

Remus gasped and clapped his hands. “Would I?!” He replied excitedly, following Logan. Virgil groaned, but smiled and started to walk away.

“COME ON VIRGIL!” Remus grabbed his arm and pulled the emo along with him. Virgil yelped in surprise as he was literally dragged along for the ride. Logan had walked back into his room and placed his tools in a storage cabinet hidden in his closet. While Logan was doing that, Remus let Virgil lay onto the bed and sat down in the blue comfy chair in the corner of the room. “So: a robot?” Remus teased. “What kiiiind of robot?” Remus asked, leaning his chin on his palm.

Logan looked at Remus with a somewhat forced smile and grabbed the robot. “A car.”

Remus tilted his head as he looked at it. It...looked like a typical remote control truck. To be specific, it looked like a Monster Truck the size of a forearm with overly large wheels attached to it. It was...different.

Remus didn’t strike Logan as the monster truck type. He could imagine Logan with a James Bond kind of car, or maybe a police car.

But a monster truck? That was completely out of Logan’s comfort zone!

Remus carefully poked the monster truck with his finger. “Where did you buy this?” Remus asked.

“Best Buy.” Logan replied.

“Okay.” Remus picked it up and looked at the bottom of it. “Why a monster truck? You don’t look like a monster truck kind of person.” Remus admitted.

Logan chuckled. “I’m not. But, a monster truck was preferred for this specific type of machine.” Logan told him.

The nerd pulled out the remote control that was connected to it through bluetooth, and started clicking buttons. Suddenly, the wheels started spinning and turning! Remus quickly put it down, and watched as the truck drove around. “I’d like you to lay down and sit still, please.” Logan told Remus.

Remus tilted his head, but quickly laid himself down.

Using its wheels, the monster truck climbed itself up Remus’s belly and drove up the chest.

“Hehehehey! Ihihit tihihicklehes ahaha lihihihittle!” Remus giggled.

Logan couldn’t stop himself from smiling at that reaction. He brought the monster truck up the middle of Remus’s chest, and stopped it.

“What-” Remus lifted his head up, accidentally triggering a ‘scanning mode’. Remus widened his eyes and watched as the truck grew a helicopter propeller and lit up Remus’s face and chest with a darker blue light shining from its front headlamps. The truck flew backwards and scanned Remus’s body from head to toe with the dark blue light.

“Oooooh! Is it scanning me?” Remus asked.

Logan nodded. “Mhm! It is.” he replied.

Logan clicked one last button and watched as the helicopter lowered itself and landed on the ground. Then, Logan smiled and watched as the body scan revealed some sort of image on the roof of the truck. It was a reference image of a body from skull to the bottoms of the feet, and different colors had started highlighting the different spots on the body image.

Logan smiled at this. “Well, would you look at that:” Logan clicked the button to open its propellers and let it fly up and above Remus again. “You seem to be very sensitive.” Logan reacted.

The monster truck flew itself a little lower and started growing up to 10 separate thin arms with joints. Remus widened his eyes and let out an “Oooooh!” sound in curiosity. The 10 arms started lowering down to Remus’s body and focused on places like his sides, his armpits, his belly, his hips, and his abs.

“What are these supposed- GAHAA!” Remus threw his head back and guffawed in surprise as a two-second shocking, vibrating feeling from two of the arms, started zapping his sides. Logan walked up to Remus, put the remote control down beside him and pinned Remus’s arms above his head. “Wait, WHAT?! LOGAN! LET-!” Remus squealed and immediately started tugging as the ten separate arms zapped and prodded his ticklish spots. Virgil sat up and looked to where the danger was. But he quickly dropped his jaw as he stared at the confusing, yet somewhat amusing scene happening right beside him in the very same bedroom.

“Whahahahat IHIHIHIS thihihihihis?!” Remus asked.

“This is a Tickling Truck. It’s a monster truck modified with stimulating modules meant to stun and/or tickle you depending on your preference choice.” Logan told him, looking at the switch that had 3 settings it could switch to: Tickle, Stun, and Energize.

Virgil looked at the weird helicopter truck with thin arms poking and tickling different spots.

“The Tickle Truck is capable of scanning people’s sensitive areas, climbing around with its wheels and arms, and is capable of tickling people no matter the position the ticklee is in.” Logan further explained. “For example:”

Logan let go of Remus’s arms, picked up the truck’s controller and started clicking a couple buttons. Quickly, the arms stopped zapping and folded themselves into the shape of spider legs. The helicopter propeller shut off and went back inside the truck roof, and the truck started crawling like a spider towards the bed.

Virgil widened his eyes and yelped in horror. It was heading right towards him! But part of him wondered if the spider legs were even sturdy enough to climb the bed. But Logan smiled and watched in humble confidence as the arms grew claws at the ends and crawled all the way up Logan’s galaxy comforter.

“UH- LOGAN! I DON’T KNOW IF THIS IS-” Virgil warned, growing terrified. But once the truck was stable on the bed, the legs returned inside the truck and started driving towards Virgil. The emo tensed up at first, but still allowed himself to look at the truck.

...The truck’s windshield lit up and showed Virgil a white smiley face.

Virgil’s fear slightly lessened at that. But...why was it smiling at him?

Virgil watched nervously as the truck’s windshield displayed a message:

[Hi!]

Virgil stared at the message before looking at Logan. Logan was smiling and had a little pull-out keyboard attached to the remote control. Logan typed some more to the message:

[Are you scared?]

Virgil read the message and bit his lip. He nodded his head at Logan. Logan nodded and typed another message for the truck.

[I don’t have to tickle you]

Virgil read it and softened his expression. The words erased and new words showed up:

[-If you don’t want it.]

Virgil looked at Logan and slowly started to smile. Logan smiled as well and typed one last question:

[Do you want to be tickled?]

Virgil looked at Logan with more and nodded.

Logan beamed with excitement at seeing Virgil consent so quickly. He typed one last thing:

[I’ll start off light! :) ]

Virgil giggled and watched with wonder as the Tickle Truck drove up and rested its front wheels on his feet. The truck’s propeller was removed from the truck again and started spinning and raising the truck up. The truck’s dark blue headlamps started lighting up, and the truck started processing all the data it was presented.

It didn’t take long for the truck to scan everything. The body image relit up with new ticklish spots highlighted for the robot to follow as a reference.

Suddenly, the truck’s arms started removing themselves out of the truck. But this time, only 4 arms removed themself to start! The arms moved closer and closer to his belly and his ribs. Virgil couldn’t help the giggles that poured out of his mouth from anticipation. Here it was! It was finally happening! Aaaaand-

Virgil jumped and giggled a little hysterically from the first two zaps. “Thihihihis ihihihis soho weheheihihiHIHIRD!” Virgil giggled. The closer the arms got to his belly, the more hysterical his laughter became.

The zaps didn’t even feel like the type of tickles you’d get from the usual tickle tools! Not even a massager was capable of replicating this kind of zapping feeling! It was like a spark was touching you, and leaving you stunned. But because it was zapping your ticklish spots, it tickled you even more than you’d ever expect from a zap! It was almost like a robot was making your tickle spots more ticklish through every zap that hit him! The more times a specific ticklish spot was zapped, the longer your giggle fits lasted!

“Hahahahahahahehehehehehe! LOHOhohohohogahahahahahan! Cohohohome ohohohohohon!” Virgil laughed and begged.

Logan widened his eyes and quickly stopped. He was so scared he may have overdid it and broken his original promise of a light start! But Virgil seemed to enjoy being put into a giggly mess. Logan smiled as he noticed the light blush on Virgil’s face. His thoughts about the blush quickly reminded him of something else he added to the car!

“Do you want me to show you something?” Logan asked.

Virgil and Remus both looked at Logan and nodded. “Okay.” they both said.

Logan clicked a button and watched more arms rise out from inside the truck. Logan clicked a button on the top of the controller with his index finger. Suddenly, the ends of the arms sprouted little feathers and makeup brush heads of different shapes!

“Ohoho NOHO!” Virgil yelled, covering his eyes and shaking his head in fear and embarrassment. He even installed TINY BRUSHES AND FEATHERS?!

Remus bursted out laughing upon seeing such small tickle tools. “How in the hell are you gonna tickle ANYONE with those?!” Remus asked.

Logan looked over with a smirk. “Do you want me to demonstrate?” He asked.

Remus guffawed. “Just try me, nerd!” Remus replied confidently.

Logan smiled contently and started controlling the joysticks. “Okay.”

The truck drove itself right off the bed, and landed perfectly on the hardwood floor with a break-resistant thud. Then, the truck drove up to Remus and pulled the tools back inside the robot’s thin arms. The truck’s transporting strategy changed from driving to spider crawling in mere seconds, terrifying the mustache man. And before Remus could even attempt to flee, the Tickle Truck had reached his feet and brought out its helicopter propellers. With the push of a few buttons, the truck flew itself up, got the tickle tools to sprout from the arms and started zapping and tickling his feet with the tools and stimulators.

Remus shrieked and shouted in surprise at just how much it tickled! “WHYHYHYHY?! AAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Remus laughed hysterically.

Logan clicked his tongue a few times. “You shouldn’t have questioned my tickling abilities~” Logan warned Remus in a teasy tone.

Remus tried dragging himself away from the devilish Tickle Truck. But the arms just reached out further to continue their tickle attack! Remus quickly just gave up, and started pounding his fists into the hardwood floor. The mix of soft brushes and stimulating zapping, as it turned out, was so much more ticklish than he ever imagined!

And Remus: Well...he was absolutely losing his mind!

“LOHOHOHOHOHO! STAHAHAHAHAP IHIHIHIHIT!” Remus begged helplessly.

Virgil was just smiling as he watched. “Funny...you’re capable of going really light and soft with your truck invention. And yet, you’re also able to completely destroy confident people like the creative twins.” Virgil elaborated.

“Indeed I am.” Logan told him, before showing him the controller. He pointed to the sliding switch. “This switch tells the Tickle Truck just how intense to make the tickles.” Logan explained. “With you, I kept the tickles a lot more low.” Logan pointed to the near-bottom of the sliding switch to show where he had it at the time. “And now:” Logan brought his finger up to where the switch knob was sitting now: near the top.

Virgil laughed. “It’s not even completely at the top!” Virgil reacted.

Logan giggled with him. “I know.”

While Remus was laughing up a storm, Logan decided to add one more thing to he mix:

“These claws aren’t just meant for climbing things…” Logan admitted.

Logan clicked the top left button and allowed the ends of a few of the arms, to switch from the brushes to the claws. Then, Logan used the claws to pull the toes back and used the brushes to tickle under and between Remus’s toes.

Remus SCREAMED super loudly and pounded the ground like a maniac! He let his head finally hit the floor and allowed his laughter to fall completely silent.

Logan widened his eyes and looked at Virgil with surprise. “Wow!”

“I think someone’s toes are speechlessly ticklish.” Virgil joked.

Logan’s face fell a little at that joke, but still had a smile on his face. “Not bad...for improve, anyway.”

Logan clicked the buttons for putting the arms and propeller away. With the propeller back inside, the truck quickly fell to the ground and bounced on its rubber wheels. Then, Logan turned it off. The truck powered down and sunk down slightly.

WIth the truck turned off, Logan picked up the Tickle Truck and put it onto a shelf for personal admiration and storage all in one. “There. Perfect for future surprise attacks.” Logan declared.

Virgil smiled and stood beside Logan. “It really is.” Virgil added.

Logan crossed his arms and stared at the truck and at the controller that came with it. “And of course, I could use it like a regular remote control car with extra little features.” Logan added.

Virgil giggled at that. “Mhm. You can.” Virgil replied.

Logan admired his work for a good while. He felt accomplished that it worked so well. He felt happy that nothing malfunctioned while it was in the testing phase. And lastly: he felt honored that Virgil and Remus wanted to ask about his robot and be the guinea pigs.

“aaAAAH!” Logan jumped, dropping the remote control.

Virgil bursted out laughing and patted his shoulder. “I’m just playing!”

Logan grumbled in slight annoyance as he picked up his controller. Evil emo...he poked him while he was focusing on his invention.

Virgil giggled and continued to poke him just to annoy him. By the time Virgil had successfully started up a revenge attack on him, Logan was doubling over and trying to keep his giggles from coming out…

Remus was now laying on his back, enjoying the view with a bag of conjured-up popcorn in his hands. In his view was an evil Virgil tickling and teasing Logan from behind, while Logan laughed and squirmed in the emo’s grip.

To make things even better, Remus put his popcorn down, got himself up and grabbed the remote control truck and remote. Much to Remus’s convenience: the buttons all had 1-word labels taped onto them to show what button did what action. So it didn’t take long for Remus to get the truck going again and for Logan’s laughter to get even louder.

Aren’t tickle fights fun?

[tellyouwhatilike]

WILDFLOWER PART 1 - CALUM HOOD

So this is what I’ve been working on! I’m finishing part 2 as I post this. I really hope y’all like this, it’s been super fun to write and I haven’t posted any new writing in a loooooooong time- so please let me know what you think! <3 

Part one does not contain any smut, part 2 will 100% be smut lol. 

WARNING: This contains mature language and subject matters, 18+ please!!

__________________________________________

                               PART ONE

 “Cal!” An excited voice called from across the large patio.

Calum’s head whipped around while his eyes searched the scantily-clad crowd at one of this month’s industry networking events the label requested he attend. He had to admit, this was one of the more amusing ones, a themed pool party with a barbeque style spread. With that signature phony, ostentatious LA touch to it, of course. This is the kind of thing Calum typically steered clear of in the past; less so since officially uprooting his life to Los Angeles and being conditioned by his band’s record label to make appearances at gatherings like this on a regular basis. His eyes finally landed on his target and his lips curled up instantly—the melodic voice that had called out his name over the masses of valleyspeak blending together in the background, and subsequently, the only true reason he’d agreed to represent the band tonight at this function.

“My, my, my; look what we have here” he said with cheeky implication as he took a moment to slowly look her up and down with a shit-eating grin spread across his face, leaving his eyes squinted and cheeks rounded. She looked even better than he remembered, her long tousled hair neatly spilling over her shoulder just how he’d always liked it. It had been months since he’d seen her in the flesh and the sight of her was enough to make him feel giddy to his core.

“I’m so glad you could make it” she replied with a breathy laugh, cheeks slightly flushed as her arms wrapped around his neck for a quick squeeze ‘hello.’ In that moment, she was very pleased with her decision to wear her sleek black one-piece suit under her cutoff shorts with a red lip—a combination that always delivered. His palm lingered across the span of her waist around her back, squeezing gently, letting it run down to her hip before letting go. When they parted from their embrace and their eyes met, Calum’s cheeky confidence quickly turned shy and boyish, as it typically does.

“Yeah, me too. This is—this is quite the soiree.” He motioned to the mingling bodies around them. “Um, so how have you been, how was Morocco?” He looked down awkwardly at his shoes for a brief moment, cursing himself and nature for not being smoother. Trying not to come off too eager although he’d been thinking about this interaction daily for nearly a year now, whether they had been speaking or not.

They had been engaging in a modest flirtation for months and months now, they had tried going on a handful of dates right around the time the band came back to LA from touring to focus on writing the following album, ‘Calm.’ The term ‘dates,’ however, should be used loosely; Calum’s record label doesn’t approve of the guys getting snapped by paps casually dating around. Rules have certainly been broken in the past— but he figured, since they’d only just met, it wasn’t worth the headaches that these things cause on the harsh world that is the internet. People always talk and it tends to confuse the masses. So, they opted for more intimate yet appropriate venues for their rendezvous like dinner at Calum’s outdoor living space, tight knit shin-digs at his bandmate Michael’s house, or lengthy facetime calls from their respective home couches.

Calum was absolutely smitten- a feeling so new to him, he couldn’t even remember if he’d ever felt it with anyone else before. He was also terrified things would fall apart just like they always had in the past, she ran free and untamed, never staying in one place long enough to make lasting connections, making Calum wary of her potentially leaving and breaking his heart. He could always see it in her face, there was a wild side to her that she couldn’t explain. Things quickly began to prove too consuming for him as he tried to juggle really getting to know her, despite his reservations, and focusing on pouring his heart into the upcoming record. He’s the type to completely immerse himself in whatever it is that’s important to him, so he felt it wasn’t fair to them or his art if they continued building on the relationship. The pair chalked it up to poor timing and decided to give each other space while he worked with his band tirelessly on their music for a number of months. Forever the wandering bohemian, she jetted off to spend some time living with friends in Amsterdam and then frolicking about in Morocco for the summer.

Once the record was released, promotion was finished and the tour was completed; he and his band mates arrived back to LA for some much-needed R & R before eventually returning to the writing process to start it all over again. She returned back to her home base, for the time being, sun-kissed and thrilled to be back in the states for one major reason. Calum had spent nearly the whole first month home catching up on sleep, ordering sushi on grubhub and lounging around in boxers doing next to nothing; standard procedure. But now he was fully rested, extremely rejuvenated, and he was eager to get up to no good.

“I’ve been good, yeah, Morocco was gorgeous and…mind-altering…” She trailed off, losing her train of thought while taking in his face, she shook her head slightly. “Wow, it is so nice to see you again.” She reveled, her green eyes catching light of the twinkling strings adorning the canopy above where they stood. “It’s been a while, huh?” Her cheeks swelled up as she flashed him a smile and attempted to calculate quite how long it had been in her head, remembering some of the last times they hung out vividly. Thoughts shifting to his scent, how he looked different but it was somehow even better than before, the way he had to look down to meet her gaze, the hand he had pressed against her waist when he greeted her earlier, how she felt at ease and wired at the same time to be in his presence.

“Way too long” He said through a toothy smile, already having to remind himself of how they vowed to take things slowly over the text messages leading up to tonight, and simultaneously imagining leaving cherry red marks down the length of her neck. He couldn’t stop sneaking glimpses of her exposed skin and imagining her dark hair splayed across his crisp white sheets or holding her tightly while she wore one of his old t shirts, he desperately hoped that’s where this night was headed. His tongue slipped out and ran its way over his bottom lip when the thin black strap of her bathing suit slipped down her shoulder, his hand moving before the rational side of his brain had any time to talk him out of it. He gently brushed her hair back to expose her bare shoulder and slid the strap back up into place for her, their eyes meeting as his hand lingered there for a moment too long. His jaw tensed as he pulled his hand away, looking down briefly, she swallowed and made herself busy with her champagne flute. He swore he could feel little tiny electric sparks flying each time his skin met hers. “Sorry” He muttered, ever apologetic.

“Don’t be” She said softly and gave him ‘the eyes,’ the eyes that Calum still thought about before he fell asleep some nights. A face that looked like it came straight out of his dreams, innocent yet sinister all rolled into one, making him shiver. A face he couldn’t help but imagine staring up at him while she takes him into her mouth slowly, then all at once. Quite a regular fantasy he’d been having these days, this face felt like she was giving an open invitation to daydream of her. They’d been calling or texting almost daily for around two weeks since she arrived back home, anticipation rising with each passing day.

“So,” He cleared his throat some, “What are you doing after this?” He asked, meaning for it to come off more charming than it did. “I mean, would you want to go hang out somewhere… else? Or something.” He suddenly regretted going in for the kill so soon, he couldn’t read her expression, though he thought if he stared at her pouty pink lips and long dark lashes for long enough, he might. She smirked to herself and let out a chuckle, using her index finger to poke him in the chest. He, rather dramatically, twisted his face up and rubbed the spot vigorously with his palm.

“Owww!” He whined, wide eyed and feigning disdain. “What did you do that for?” He carried on while she rolled her eyes playfully. Tired of the party’s cold chickpea ‘cheeseburger’ sliders and shallow conversation, she decided to speed this process along. She was no fool, they’d both been waiting for this very moment as an excuse to hang out alone again.  

“Let’s get out of here.” She leaned in to put her lips up close to his ear, brushing her palm up against his bicep lightly. She pulled back to look him in the eyes, a little smile taking over her plush lips his eyes kept finding their way back to. “I wanna come to your house” She stated, stepping forward slightly to close the space between them, her scent creeping up into his nasal passages and making his mouth go dry imagining how sweet she’d taste.

“Yeah,” He cleared his throat, his eyes widening. “Sure… I mean, yeah, sounds good. I’ll grab the car.” He said, trying (and failing) to sound as cool as possible, turning abruptly and b-lining for the gate, lightning suddenly coursing through his veins at the thought of what was to come. Once to the car, he used the mirror to check his hair as he pulled around to the front drive of the house, moving it around and smoothing it down, not making much of a difference with his recently-buzzed ‘do. Now, he knew exactly where the night was going.  

(To be continued...)

[susiequaz12]

Carrot Top- 14: Afraid

Woooh! Another update! I didn’t expect this one to come so soon, but it did, so here yah go. Time to also meet some new people!

CW: Medical whump, restraints, blood/knives/torture mention, non con (nonsexual) touch mention, possessive/creepy whumper.

Tag list: @imagination1reality0, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @thehopelessopus

Masterlist here.

The small girl burst into the Doctor’s office, dragging a boy behind her by the hand. 

“Dr. Tusik!” She called. “Tusik!” She threw out her arms, releasing the boy’s hand as the Doctor turned around from his stack of papers he was investigation. “It’s been far too long! We definitely have to do something.”

The doctor set a paper down and looked at the girl, speaking in a slow voice, with an accent long faded of his home country. “Slow down vnuchka, is this about what I think it is?”

“Andrew!” She cried. The doctor nodded. The boy standing in the doorway dropped into a seat behind them in the small office. 

“This is not like him.” She continued. “I mean, sometimes he’ll hold a grudge- and, and we’ve all argued before, but usually you just, give him a day, you give him some space and he’ll be fine. Dr.- It’s been five days.”

“Slow down now child, just breathe. We’ve sure to find an explanation.” The old man pushed his glasses up his nose. He adjusted the papers on his desk and took the stethoscope off from around his neck, placing it on the messy pile of paperwork and writings.

“An explanation for why Andrew’s been mia for almost a week?” The boy asked. “I’m sorry Dr Tusik, but what kind of good explanation could there possibly be for something like that?”

The girl spoke again. “Justin’s right, where could he have gone? He lives with us for goodness sake, he hasn’t answered his phone, his mom’s is too far away and he doesn’t have a car, there’s- I don’t know where else he could be! There isn’t anywhere else he could be!” 

“Ali, calm down, pozhaluysta, please.” Dr. Tusik stated gently. “It’d do good to remember you’re not the only ones with concerns for the boy.”

At the shouting and the noise, a figure had stood in the doorway behind the two. They turned around to find a young girl. Younger than Ali by a few years, but much taller and ganglier. She had beautiful curly auburn hair that tangled itself up no matter what you did, and freckles across her nose. You couldn’t mistake who she was related to- it was obvious. 

Andrew’s sister. 

Her eyes were red and she held a crumpled tissue in her fist. She sniffled and wiped her eyes, and then smiled. 

“Hey guys.” She stepped into the small office. 

“Mickie- hey.” Ali stated. She approached the younger girl and wrapped her arms around her in a hug.

They all sat down in chairs around the small office while Tusik explained.

“Mickie came in a few minutes earlier with the same concerns. She’s visited a few times now, and we’ve previously discussed some things. Possible explanations, and solutions.”

“I just can’t get it out of my head that he’s really mad at us.” Justin stated. “I mean, I feel like I kinda pushed him over the edge a little that night- it’s understandable if he’d want to ignore us.”

Mickie shook her head. “Andrew doesn’t ignore people. He’s too kind for that.” She sniffled. “We’ve literally gotten into some of the worst arguments you could imagine growing up. I mean, he shoved me in a suitcase once that ‘accidentally’ fell down the stairs, all because I’d broken his Star Wars Lego set. We didn’t talk for the rest of the day but after that we were fine.” She turned to Justin. “He doesn’t hold grudges. Andrew’s not mad at you, so don’t blame yourselves.”

Ali kept a hand on the girl’s shoulder. She changed the subject. “So have you heard from him? When was the last time you guys talked?” 

She shrugged her shoulders and got quiet, wringing the bottom of her t-shirt in between her hands. “Just that night. We were texting and I could tell he was getting frustrated with you guys-”

Justin interrupted. “I knew it, I knew he was mad at me, I should have given him that ride home, I shouldn’t have-”

“Justin shut up.” Mickie stated. Justin stopped abruptly. She brought a hand to her face. “Sorry, I- he wasn’t mad at you okay? Just frustrated- trust me.” She sighed and fiddled with the crumpled tissue in her hands. “He talked to me more than anyone. Sure, he lives with you guys, but put yourselves in his shoes. You have each other to hang out with. When you’re spending all your time making him feel like the third wheel it’s understandable for him to get a little frustrated. He wasn’t mad, I promise. Just tired. He was saying how he needed to clear his head, just walk, spend a bit by himself.”

Dr. Tusik began to speak, breaking the silence that had begun to fill the room. “Mickie and I have previously discussed where he could be- potential theories and such, as well as our ideas as to how to solve the problem.”

“Oh?” Ali asked.

“Andrew and I talked almost constantly. I mean he’s not just my big brother, but he- he’s my best friend. He’s not- he’s not ignoring anyone, he couldn’t be, so- he... he-” Mickie’s voice began to break. Ali rubbed her back as she began to cry.

Tusik finished for her. “He was taken.”

Mickie regained her composure quickly, dabbing at her eyes with the torn up tissue. “There’s no other explanation. Why else would he ignore us all for so long? He probably- he probably feels just as bad about it as we do.”

“But who? Who possibly could have taken him?” As Justin asked the question, silence filled the room once more. They all knew the answer immediately after the idea had been posed. The man had been looking for them for a while now, ever since they all discovered their abilities. 

No one wanted to admit that that was where he was right now. 

- - - 

Andrew twisted his own fingers in his hands as he sat. He twisted the bottom hem of his shirt up, wrinkling it between his fingers.

His ears popped as a yawn got trapped in his mouth. It was late at night, after dinner. He knew because he hadn’t been fed- his stomach growled ever so slightly. He had been left alone all day, and had fallen asleep only to be awoken roughly to be dragged down to another one of these rooms.

There were often times he’d be dragged down here, and spend all day in an endless misery. 

Those days were the worst.

They were the days he was taken in to be tested- to be poked, prodded, examined. Rough hands grabbing at him, stabbing him with things, treating him like a lab rat incapable of cohesive thought.

One day he was forced to run on a treadmill until he passed out or threw up. They were testing his heart rate apparently.

Another day they cut into his muscles. Poking at them to “see how they worked”. Other times they just sat and stared. 

So when Splice said that the doctors had a new drug they wanted to try, anything could have been possible.

He was placed in the medical chair as Splice sat on a stool next to him, waiting for the “Doctors” to come in. They were called Doctors, but for all intents and purposes, they were just people curious about how peculiari worked- hired to treat them like lab rats using whatever unconventional methods they saw fit. 

When they came into the room a wave of cold chills instantly ran over Andrew’s body. There were three people- all wearing medical masks in white coats and gloves. They didn’t acknowledge Andrew as they walked in and set a massive amount of supplies down on the counters. 

Splice stood up from his stool while one of the doctors spoke to him in regards as to what could be expected from this procedure. Andrew tried to pay attention, but it was difficult when the other two doctors were surrounding him where he sat. 

His wrists were grabbed and strapped down to the armrests of the chair- his ankles restrained in a similar fashion. He felt the mechanical humming of the chair through his muscles as it was lowered until Anrew was laying nearly flat on his back. Then a thick strap came to wrap across his forehead as well, keeping his head in place.

He tried to remember to breathe as he began lose track of what was happening around him. 

He felt something tight around his bicep, cutting off circulation, and then something cold and wet wiped across the crook of his arm. This was followed by the sharp sting of a needle before an iv was slid into his vein. 

The cuts on his other arm were quickly cleaned and bandaged without a second glance. 

He flinched, as cold gloved hands reached under his shirt, placing several small patches onto his chest. They connected to wires that stuck out of his shirt and tangled around him, leading to machines that surrounded the chair he was strapped to.

The third doctor quickly finished explaining things to Splice, and the man sat back on the stool, content with whatever was about to happen to the boy in front of him. 

A cart was rolled over with a massive amount of different knives, tools, vials, and bottles. Andrew shivered- thankful at least for the small protection of his shirt.

The actual administration of the drug went quickly. It was slid into the iv and Splice and the doctors sat with clipboards, simply waiting.

At first Andrew didn’t feel anything. 

And then all of a sudden everything was closing in on him. The world started spinning around his head- he felt cold chills up and down his spine and sweat started dripping down his face. His eyes couldn’t focus on any specific thing as shapes distorted, growing larger and smaller, spinning around and flying through the air. Any slight movement around the room seemed to fly at his head, causing him to flinch and recoil back at the foreign objects.

He thought he heard voices but they were muffled. Just sounds that echoed in his ears and throughout his brain. Undecipherable, but loud and invasive.

And then out of nowhere, his heart seemed to betray him.

Without a second warning, his heart sped up, pumping as fast as it could. He heard harsh, shrill beepings around him as it felt like his heart would explode out of his chest. His breathing got heavier and he felt a weight on his chest. Like all 350 pounds were suddenly on top of him again and he couldn’t breathe. 

And then he had a singular, prominent thought. It spoke so loudly, and so clearly in his mind.

I’m going to die.

The fear of that thought struck into him and he suddenly had the image of Splice coming towards him, knife in one hand, whip in the other. Then the man was on top of him, and his hands marked ownership- gripping at the collar, grabbing at his hair and face. He saw the whip crashing down over his body, the knife tearing through his skin. His limbs began to feel warm and sticky as he felt his blood pooling over his sides, washing down him in rivers, splashing onto his face as Splice began to beat him senseless.

And Andrew screamed.

Though he was muzzled, you could still hear his terrified cries as he truly believed that his tormentor was carving him open and beating him to death at that moment.

Though at that moment- Splice was still sitting on the stool next to the Doctors, watching Andrew thrash about on the bed. He smirked as the screams tore at Andrew’s throat, coming up empty behind the muzzle surrounding his face. 

“That’s genius.” The man stated. “You said it mimics fear?”

The doctor closest to Splice nodded. “The drug triggers the body’s natural responses to fear, making them actually think they’re in danger. We’re hoping with some alterations it will cause more extreme hallucinations and paranoia. Of course this is just a test run.”

“It’s brilliant.” Splice stated.

Andrew’s eyes were clenched shut tightly as tears and sweat poured down his blood-stained face. His body shook, knuckles white as he mumbled incoherently through the muzzle. 

He suddenly arched back as if in recoil from pain, his chest heaving in the air, legs scrambling to try and curl into himself. 

And he screamed once more. 

It was harsh, and loud, and guttural, and brutal. He choked on his own spit before bursting back into a series of sobs. The whole time his body continued to shake and thrash about, eyes occasionally shooting open, only to be clenched tightly once more.

They waited maybe an hour or two to try and see the full effects of the drug from beginning to end. Andrew didn’t know how long it had been, and Splice didn’t care to know himself. The boy had periods where he would flare up with terror, the shock and phantom pains taking over his face and body. And then for long stretches of time he would lie there, quietly sobbing to himself as tears streamed from his eyes. 

Sweat dripped from his forehead and chills wracked his body as his temperature spiked. His wrists and ankles were raw and red from where he’d struggled against the restraints.

His reactions were getting slower as the drug began to wear off.

They watched the boy suffer for a few more minutes before one of the doctors inserted new fluids into his iv. The fluids ran through and within a couple more minutes the drug had been completely flushed out of his system.

Andrew lay in a broken mess where he was restrained in the chair. The doctors pulled off his restraints, and Splice chuckled as the boy flinched at every hand that came near his face, and every jostled movement of his body.

After a couple more minutes, the iv was removed, the machines turned off, and Andrew was being pulled to his feet. Splice stood in front of him, hands bracing his shoulders to keep the boy from toppling over. 

Andrew fell forward, his head lolling into the man’s chest. Splice rested a hand on the back of his head, gently carding through the pale locks of hair. 

“I want full updates on the progress of this drug. I expect an updated version within the week.” Splice stated. He tilted the boy’s head up by the chin to look him in the eyes. They looked blurry and unfocused.

“How nice it will be to be able to hurt you without getting my hands dirty.”

He let Andrew’s head fall back to his chest.

Splice began to guide the boy towards the door when a guard burst into the room. The man look disheveled, clearly in pain, and a little confused.

“Sir!” He cried.

“What is it- what’s happened?” Splice asked.

“There’s been a break in. We have intruders in the building.”

A look of shock washed over Splice’s face, followed by a small smile. The man gripped Andrew by the shoulders and looked down at the boy. “Well, let’s go meet our guests, shall we?”

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 10 paragraph xvi

Gyuri left us out in the Sixties, not far at all from the Barbours’. “This is the place?” I said, shaking the rain off Hobie’s umbrella. We were out in front of one of the big limestone townhouses off Fifth—black iron doors, massive lion’s-head knockers. “Yes—it’s his father’s place—his other family are trying to get him out legally but good luck with that, hah.” We were buzzed in, took a cage elevator up to the second floor. I could smell incense, weed, spaghetti sauce cooking. A lanky blonde woman—shortcropped hair and a serene small-eyed face like a camel’s—opened the door. She was dressed like a sort of old-fashioned street urchin or newsboy: houndstooth trousers, ankle boots, dirty thermal shirt, suspenders. Perched on the tip of her nose were a pair of wire-rimmed Ben Franklin glasses. Without saying a word she opened the door to us and walked off, leaving us alone in a dim, grimy, ballroom-sized salon which was like a derelict version of some high-society set from a Fred Astaire movie: high ceilings; crumbling plaster; grand piano; darkened chandelier with half the crystals broken or gone; sweeping Hollywood staircase littered with cigarette butts. Sufi chants droned low in the background: Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq. Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq. Someone had drawn on the wall, in charcoal, a series of life-sized nudes ascending the stairs like frames in a film; and there was very little furniture apart from a ratty futon and some chairs and tables that looked scavenged from the street. Empty picture frames on the wall, a ram’s skull. On the television, an animated film flickered and sputtered with epileptic vim, windmilling geometrics intercut with letters and live-action racecar images. Apart from that, and the door where the blonde had disappeared, the only light came from a lamp which threw a sharp white circle on melted candles, computer cables, empty beer bottles and butane cans, oil pastels boxed and loose, many catalogues raisonnés, books in German and English including Nabokov’s Despair and Heidegger’s Being and Time with the cover torn off, sketch books, art books, ashtrays and burnt tinfoil, and a grubby-looking pillow where drowsed a gray tabby cat. Over the door, like a trophy from some Schwarzwald hunting lodge, a rack of antlers cast distorted shadows that spread and branched across the ceiling with a Nordic, wicked, fairy-tale feel. Conversation in the next room. The windows were shrouded with tacked-up bedsheets just thin enough to let in a diffuse violet glow from the street. As I looked around, forms emerged from the dark and transformed with a dream strangeness: for one thing, the makeshift room divider—consisting of a carpet sagging tenement-style from the ceiling on fishing line—was on closer look a tapestry and a good one too, eighteenth century or older, the near twin of an Amiens I’d seen at auction with an estimate of forty thousand pounds. And not all the frames on the wall were empty. Some had paintings in them, and one of them—even in the poor light—looked like a Corot.

I was just about to step over for a look when a man who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty appeared in the door: worn-looking, rangy, with straight sandy hair combed back from his face, in black punk jeans out at the knee and a grungy British commando sweater with an ill-fitting suit jacket over it. “Hello,” he said to me, quiet British voice with a faint German bite, “you must be Potter,” and then, to Boris: “Glad you turned up. You two should stay and hang out. Candy and Niall are making dinner with Ulrika.” Movement behind the tapestry, at my feet, that made me step back quickly: swaddled shapes on the floor, sleeping bags, a homeless smell. “Thanks, we can’t stay,” said Boris, who had picked up the cat and was scratching it behind the ears. “Have some of that wine though, thanks.” Without a word Horst passed his own glass over to Boris and then called into the next room in German. To me, he said: “You’re a dealer, right?” In the glow of the television his pale pinned gull’s eye shone hard and unblinking. “Right,” I said uneasily; and then: “Uh, thanks.” Another woman—bobhaired and brunette, high black boots, skirt just short enough to show the black cat tattooed on one milky thigh—had appeared with a bottle and two glasses: one for Horst, one for me. “Danke darling,” said Horst. To Boris he said: “You gentlemen want to do up?” “Not right now,” said Boris, who had leaned forward to steal a kiss from the dark-haired woman as she was leaving. “Was wondering though. What do you hear from Sascha?” “Sascha—” Horst sank down on the futon and lit a cigarette. With his ripped jeans and combat boots he was like a scuffed-up version of some below-the-title Hollywood character actor from the 1940s, some minor mitteleuropäischer known for playing tragic violinists and weary, cultivated refugees. “Ireland is where it seems to lead. Good news if you ask me.” “That doesn’t sound right.” “Nor to me, but I’ve talked to people and so far it checks out.” He spoke with all a junkie’s arrhythmic quiet, off-beat, but without the slur. “So—soon we should know more, I hope.” “Friends of Niall’s?” “No. Niall says he never heard of them. But it’s a start.”

The wine was bad: supermarket Syrah. Because I did not want to be anywhere near the bodies on the floor I drifted over to inspect a group of artists’ casts on a beat-up table: a male torso; a draped Venus leaning against a rock; a sandaled foot. In the poor light they looked like the ordinary plaster casts for sale at Pearl Paint—studio pieces for students to sketch from—but when I drew my finger across the top of the foot I felt the suppleness of marble, silky and grainless. “Why would they go to Ireland with it?” Boris was saying restlessly. “What kind of collectors’ market? I thought everyone tries to get pieces out of there, not in.” “Yes, but Sascha thinks he used the picture to clear a debt.” “So the guy has ties there?” “Evidently.” “I find this difficult to believe.” “What, about the ties?” “No, about the debt. This guy—he looks like he was stealing hubcaps off the street six months ago. “ Horst shrugged, faintly: sleepy eyes, seamed forehead. “Who knows. Not sure that’s correct but certainly I’m not willing to trust to luck. Would I let my hand be cut off for it?” he said, lazily tapping an ash on the floor. “No.” Boris frowned into his wine glass. “He was amateur. Believe me. If you saw him yourself you would know.” “Yes but he likes to gamble, Sascha says.” “You don’t think Sascha maybe knows more?” “I think not.” There was a remoteness in his manner, as if he was talking half to himself. “ ‘Wait and see.’ This is what I hear. An unsatisfactory answer. Stinking from the top if you ask me. But as I say, we are not to the bottom of this yet.” “And when does Sascha get back to the city?” The half-light in the room sent me straight back to childhood, Vegas, like the obscure mood of a dream lingering after sleep: haze of cigarette smoke, dirty clothes on the floor, Boris’s face white then blue in the flicker of the screen. “Next week. I’ll give you a ring. You can talk to him yourself then.” “Yes. But I think we should talk to him together.” “Yes. I think so too. We’ll both be smarter, in future… this need not have happened… but in any case,” said Horst, who was scratching his neck slowly, absent-mindedly, “you understand I’m wary of pushing him too hard.” “That is very convenient for Sascha.” “You have suspicions. Tell me.” “I think—” Boris cut his eyes at the doorway. “Yes?” “I think—” Boris lowered his voice—“you are being too easy on him. Yes yes—” putting up his hands—“I know. But—all very convenient for his guy to vanish, not a clue, he knows nothing!” “Well, maybe,” Horst said. He seemed disconnected and partly elsewhere, like an adult in the room with small children. “This is pressing on me—on all of us. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you. Though for all we know his guy was a cop.” “No,” said Boris resolutely. “He was not. He was not. I know it.” “Well—to be quite frank with you, I do not think so either, there is more to this than we yet know. Still, I’m hopeful.” He’d taken a wooden box from the drafting table and was poking around in it. “Sure you gentlemen wouldn’t like to get into a little something?” I looked away. I would have liked nothing better. I would also have liked to see the Corot except I didn’t want to walk around the bodies on the floor to do it. Across the room, I’d noticed several other paintings propped on the wainscoting: a still life, a couple of small landscapes. “Go look, if you want.” It was Horst. “The Lépine is fake. But the Claesz and the Berchem are for sale if you’re interested.” Boris laughed and reached for one of Horst’s cigarettes. “He’s not in the market.” “No?” said Horst genially. “I can give him a good price on the pair. The seller needs to get rid of them.”

I stepped in to look: still life, candle and half-empty wineglass. “Claesz-Heda?” “No—Pieter. Although—” Horst put the box aside, then stood beside me and lifted the desk lamp on the cord, washing both paintings in a harsh, formal glare—“this bit—” traced mid-air with the curve of a finger—“the reflection of the flame here? and the edge of the table, the drapery? Could almost be Heda on a bad day.” “Beautiful piece.” “Yes. Beautiful of its type.” Up close he smelled unwashed and raunchy, with a strong, dusty import-shop odor like the inside of a Chinese box. “A bit prosaic to the modern taste. The classicizing manner. Much too staged. Still, the Berchem is very good.” “Lot of fake Berchems out there,” I said neutrally. “Yes—” the light from the upheld lamp on the landscape painting was bluish, eerie—“but this is lovely… Italy, 1655‥… the ochres beautiful, no? The Claesz not so good I think, very early, though the provenance is impeccable on both. Would be nice to keep them together… they have never been apart, these two. Father and son. Came down together in an old Dutch family, ended up in Austria after the war. Pieter Claesz…” Horst held the light higher. “Claesz was so uneven, honestly. Wonderful technique, wonderful surface, but something a bit off with this one, don’t you agree? The composition doesn’t hold together. Incoherent somehow. Also—” indicating with the flat of his thumb the too-bright shine coming off the canvas: overly varnished. “I agree. And here—” tracing midair the ugly arc where an over-eager cleaning had scrubbed the paint down to the scumbling. “Yes.” His answering look was amiable and drowsy. “Quite correct. Acetone. Whoever did that should be shot. And yet a mid-level painting like this, in poor condition—even an anonymous work—is worth more than a masterpiece, that’s the irony of it, worth more to me, anyway. Landscapes particularly. Very very easy to sell. Not too much attention from the authorities… difficult to recognize from a description… and still worth maybe a couple hundred thousand. Now, the Fabritius—” long, relaxed pause—“a different calibre altogether. The most remarkable work that’s ever passed through my hands, and I can say that without question.” “Yes, and that is why we would like so much to get it back,” grumbled Boris from the shadows. “Completely extraordinary,” continued Horst serenely. “A still life like this one—” he indicated the Claesz, with a slow wave (black-rimmed fingernails, scarred venous network on the back of his hand)—“well, so insistently a trompe l’oeil. Great technical skill, but overly refined. Obsessive exactitude. There’s a deathlike quality. A very good reason they are called natures mortes, yes? But the Fabritius…”—loose-kneed back-step—“I know the theory of The Goldfinch, I’m well familiar with it, people call it trompe l’oeil and indeed it can strike the eye that way from afar. But I don’t care what the art historians say. True: there are passages worked like a trompe l’oeil… the wall and the perch, gleam of light on brass, and then… the feathered breast, most creaturely. Fluff and down. Soft, soft. Claesz would carry that finish and exactitude down to the death—a painter like van Hoogstraten would carry it even farther, to the last nail of the coffin. But Fabritius… he’s making a pun on the genre… a masterly riposte to the whole idea of trompe l’oeil… because in other passages of the work—the head? the wing?—not creaturely or literal in the slightest, he takes the image apart very deliberately to show us how he painted it. Daubs and patches, very shaped and hand-worked, the neckline especially, a solid piece of paint, very abstract. Which is what makes him a genius less of his time than our own. There’s a doubleness. You see the mark, you see the paint for the paint, and also the living bird.”

“Yes, well,” growled Boris, in the dark beyond the spotlight, snapping his cigarette lighter shut, “if no paint, would be nothing to see.” “Precisely.” Horst turned, his face cut by shadow. “It’s a joke, the Fabritius. It has a joke at its heart. And that’s what all the very greatest masters do. Rembrandt. Velázquez. Late Titian. They make jokes. They amuse themselves. They build up the illusion, the trick—but, step closer? it falls apart into brushstrokes. Abstract, unearthly. A different and much deeper sort of beauty altogether. The thing and yet not the thing. I should say that that one tiny painting puts Fabritius in the rank of the greatest painters who ever lived. And with The Goldfinch? He performs his miracle in such a bijou space. Although I admit, I was surprised—” turning to look at me—“when I held it in my hands the first time? The weight of it?” “Yes—” I couldn’t help feeling gratified, obscurely, that he’d noted this detail, oddly important to me, with its own network of childhood dreams and associations, an emotional chord—“the board is thicker than you’d think. There’s a heft to it.” “Heft. Quite. The very word. And the background—much less yellow than when I saw it as a boy. The painting underwent a cleaning—early nineties I believe. Post-conservation, there’s more light.” “Hard to say. I’ve got nothing to compare it to.” “Well,” said Horst. The smoke from Boris’s cigarette, threading in from the dark where he sat, gave the floodlit circle where we stood the midnight feel of a cabaret stage. “I may be wrong. I was a boy of twelve or so when I saw it for the first time.” “Yes, I was about that age when I first saw it too.” “Well,” said Horst, with resignation, scratching an eyebrow—dime-sized bruises on the backs of his hands—“that was the only time my father ever took me with him on a business trip, that time at The Hague. Ice cold boardrooms. Not a leaf stirring. On our afternoon I wanted to go to Drievliet, the fun park, but he took me to the Mauritshuis instead. And—great museum, many great paintings, but the only painting I remember seeing is your finch. A painting that appeals to a child, yes? Der Distelfink. That is how I knew it first, by its German name.”

“Yah, yah, yah,” said Boris from the darkness, in a bored voice. “This is like the education channel on the television.” “Do you deal any modern art at all?” I said, in the silence that followed. “Well—” Horst fixed me with his drained, wintry eye; deal wasn’t quite the correct verb, he seemed amused at my choice of words—“sometimes. Had a Kurt Schwitters not long ago—Stanton Macdonald-Wright—do you know him? Lovely painter. It depends a lot what comes my way. Quite honestly— do you ever deal in paintings at all?” “Very seldom. The art dealers get there before I do.” “That is unfortunate. Portable is what matters in my business. There are a lot of mid-level pieces I could sell on the clean if I had paper that looked good.” Spit of garlic; pans clashing in the kitchen; faint Moroccan-souk drift of urine and incense. On and on flatlining, the Sufi drone, wafting and spiraling around us in the dark, ceaseless chants to the Divine. “Or this Lépine. Quite a good forgery. There’s this fellow—Canadian, quite amusing, you’d like him—does them to order. Pollocks, Modiglianis— happy to introduce you, if you’d like. Not much money in them for me, although there’s a fortune to be made if one of them turned up in just the right estate.” Then, smoothly, in the silence that followed: “Of older works I see a lot of Italian, but my preferences—they incline to the North as you can see. Now—this Berchem is a very fine example for what it is but of course these Italianate landscapes with the broken columns and the simple milkmaids don’t so much suit the modern taste, do they? I much prefer the van Goyen there. Sadly not for sale.” “Van Goyen? I would have sworn that was a Corot.” “From here, yes, you might.” He was pleased at the comparison. “Very similar painters—Vincent himself remarked it—you know that letter? ‘The Corot of the Dutch’? Same tenderness of mist, that openness in fog, do you know what I mean?” “Where—” I’d been about to ask the typical dealer’s question, where did you get it, before catching myself. “Marvelous painter. Very prolific. And this is a particularly beautiful example,” he said, with all a collector’s pride. “Many amusing details up close—tiny hunter, barking dog. Also—quite typical—signed on the stern of the boat. Quite charming. If you don’t mind—” indicating, with a nod, the bodies behind the tapestry. “Go over. You won’t disturb them.” “No, but—” “No—” holding up a hand—“I understand perfectly. Shall I bring it to you?” “Yes, I’d love to see it.”

“I must say, I’ve grown so fond of it, I’ll hate to see it go. He dealt paintings himself, van Goyen. A lot of the Dutch masters did. Jan Steen. Vermeer. Rembrandt. But Jan van Goyen—” he smiled—“was like our friend Boris here. A hand in everything. Paintings, real estate, tulip futures.” Boris, in the dark, made a disgruntled noise at this and seemed about to say something when all of a sudden a scrawny wild-haired boy of maybe twenty-two, with an old fashioned mercury thermometer sticking out of his mouth, came lurching out of the kitchen, shielding his eyes with his hand against the upheld lamp. He was wearing a weird, womanish, chunky knit cardigan that came almost to his knees like a bathrobe; he looked ill and disoriented, his sleeve was up, he was rubbing the inside of his forearm with two fingers and then the next thing I knew his knees went sideways and he’d hit the floor, the thermometer skittering out with a glassy noise on the parquet, unbroken. “What…?” said Boris, stabbing out his cigarette, standing up, the cat darting from his lap into the shadows. Horst—frowning—set the lamp on the floor, light swinging crazily on walls and ceiling. “Ach,” he said fretfully, brushing the hair from his eyes, dropping to his knees to look the young man over. “Get back,” he said in an annoyed voice to the women who had appeared in the door, along with a cold, dark-haired, attentive-looking bruiser and a couple of glassy prep-school boys, no more than sixteen—and then, when they all still stood staring—flicked out a hand. “In the kitchen with you! Ulrika,” he said to the blonde, “halt sie zurück.” The tapestry was stirring; behind it, blanket-wrapped huddles, sleepy voices: eh? was ist los? “Ruhe, schlaft weiter,” called the blonde, before turning to Horst and beginning to speak urgently in rapid-fire German. Yawns; groans; farther back, a bundle sitting up, groggy American whine: “Huh? Klaus? What’d she say?” “Shut up baby and go back schlafen.” Boris had picked up his coat and was shouldering it on. “Potter,” he said and then again, when I did not answer, staring horrified at the floor, where the boy was breathing in gurgles: “Potter.” Catching my arm. “Come on, let’s go.” “Yes, sorry. We’ll have to talk later. Schiesse,” said Horst regretfully, shaking the boy’s limp shoulder, with the tone of a parent making a not-particularly-convincing show of scolding a child. “Dummer Wichser! Dummkopf! How much did he take, Niall?” he said to the bruiser who had reappeared in the door and was looking on with a critical eye. “Fuck if I know,” said the Irishman, with an ominous sideways pop of his head. “Come on, Potter,” said Boris, catching my arm. Horst had his ear to the boy’s chest and the blonde, who had returned, had dropped to her knees beside him and was checking his airway.

As they consulted urgently in German, more noise and movement behind the Amiens, which billowed out suddenly: faded blossoms, a fête champêtre, prodigal nymphs disporting themselves amidst fountain and vine. I was staring at a satyr peeping at them slyly from behind a tree when, unexpectedly —something against my leg—I started back violently as a hand swiped from underneath and clutched my trouser cuff. From the floor, one of the dirty bundles—swollen red face just visible from under the tapestry—inquired of me in a sleepy gallant voice: “He’s a margrave, my dear, did you know that?” I pulled my trouser leg free and stepped back. The boy on the floor was rolling his head a bit and making sounds like he was drowning. “Potter.” Boris had gathered up my coat and was practically stuffing it in my face. “Come on! Let’s go! Ciao,” he called into the kitchen with a lift of his chin (pretty dark head appearing in the doorway, a fluttering hand: bye, Boris! Bye!) as he pushed me ahead of him and ducked behind me out the door. “Ciao, Horst!” he said, making a call me later gesture, hand to ear. “Tschau Boris! Sorry about this! We’ll talk soon! Up,” said Horst, as the Irishman came up and grabbed the boy’s other arm from underneath; together they hoisted him up, feet limp and toes dragging and—amidst hurried activity in the doorway, the two young teenagers scrambling back in alarm—hauled him into the lighted doorway of the next room, where Boris’s brunette was drawing up a syringe of something from a tiny glass bottle.

[shawnsorangeglasses]

The Opposition - Part 3.1

3.1k words

Shawn is a tightly wound, Type A law student in college. For the most part, he has his life figured out and planned to the minute. Then comes Caroline, a charming Type B and his unlikely equal.

thank you all for being so patient. ...

It's Wednesday. Shawn fears the closer he gets to Friday, the less motivated he is to crash the frat party. This morning, Caroline sent him a text riddled with lowercase letters and several typos to discuss the plan. He's meeting her in front of the library a few hours after his first class. On Mondays and Wednesdays, it's ethics and his third criminal law course in the afternoon. Tuesdays and Thursdays is legal writing and criminal behavior. He loves the work, but it’s nice to do something else, even if it is scheming.

He walks by a group of senior women on the way. They smile and wave flirtatiously, but he keeps his eyes low and walks faster. They laugh.

Caroline is waiting for Shawn on the back of the library's lion statue, conducting her hands to music only she can hear through her earbuds. Of course that's where she is, Shawn thinks to himself. Her sweater, the one from last night, is tied around her waist. She doesn't notice him at first because the song is up at full volume. Bright yellow socks are the only vibrant color she's chosen to wear today in an otherwise plain ensemble.

"You're not supposed to sit on those," he tells her.

Her head snaps around, "Oh, it's just you. Where's Harry?"

"Theater club until 6 PM."

Caroline grunts and groans, rolling rather ungracefully off the metal beast. "How the hell am I supposed to sit through this without him?"

"I'm sure you'll manage." Shawn leads towards the double doors, but a tiny hand latches onto his elbow, stopping him short.

"Can't you just tell me right here in the sun? It's freezing inside."

Shawn taps his heel on the pavement impatiently. "I suppose we can go to the old greenhouse out back."

Caroline cocks an eyebrow. "Oh, he's taking me out back. How scandalous."

"Relax, it's not in use anymore and half the windows are smashed. It's the furthest thing from romantic.

"She circles him, "Uh huh, sure it is."

"It is."

Shawn takes her down a path that’s gone undisturbed for a long time. The greenhouse is obscured by a wall of untamed trees and shrubbery. The only entrance is a gate overrun by vines and ivies. Shawn unlatches the lock and its rusty chain falls limp with a clang.

"After you," he says, permitting Caroline to enter first.

"Are we allowed back here, Mr. Rulebook?"

"This is the only rule you'll ever find me breaking."

Caroline gazes up at the quaint structure in all its decay and ruin. Branches extend in and out of broken windows. She can just make out a misty rainbow in the fog at the very top of the roof. Ironically, it’s probably the prettiest part of the campus she’s seen so far.

"How'd you find this place?"

"Ms. Attie brought me here my first semester. It used to be kind of panic room for me, but I haven't needed it lately."

She takes two steps forward. "Is it safe?"

"There's broken glass and exposed wires everywhere, but you're smart enough. I think you'll live."

“Aw, you think I’m smart?”

He has to smile at his slip up. “I think you’re adept. Don’t get a big head.”

Shawn pats her shoulder and moves ahead. Caroline jogs after him, trying to keep up with his long strides in the tall grass.Inside are only vague reminders of what the greenhouse may have looked like before the wilderness reclaimed it. All kinds of weeds have pushed through the ground floor. Unchecked foliage has made the once spacious house small and humid inside. Caroline picks up one of the few plants that are still in a solid pot, then sets it back in its dust ring.Shawn stops at the iron staircase leading to a platform above.

"This way. Attie said the steps are too corroded to be safe, so we have to use the ladder."

The ladder leans against the second floor ledge with cinder blocks at its feet to keep it in place. It goes straight up into a sunnier ledge, closest to the ceiling. It's the only part of the greenhouse with all the windows still intact. Caroline again goes ahead of him, but loses her footing on a loose rung. Shawn's quick to catch her, grabbing onto her hip. He doesn't let go until she's regained her balance, and even so his fingertips linger on her midriff.

"Any other surprises," she huffs.

"I don't know, maybe? It's been a while."

She smirks down at him, then continues to climb. Each step, she tests the rungs with a few taps before proceeding. Shawn is trying to keep from looking, but she's right there above his head, in shorts. He concentrates on his own steps.

Caroline's feet patter around the platform. "Hmm, I don't know Mendes. This looks pretty romantic to me."He's about to protest again until he makes the top of the ladder. A picnic is set up on one of the metal tables, but clearly abandoned. Shawn sighs.

"Harry must have been here recently with some guy or girl, most likely showing off." He can feel Caroline's eyes on him. "Which is not why we're here, for the last time."

"Alright. Did he leave any non-perishables?"

Shawn sifts through the picnic basket's contents. Every single bag is torn to shreds. "No, looks like the raccoons came through— oh wait, there's a jar of raw honey."

"I call dibs."

"You can have it," Shawn chuckles. "Harrison keeps our kitchen stocked with the stuff."

She takes the jar, holding it up to the sun. "Why did we come here, again?"

"Going over the plan."

"Oh yeah."

Caroline hops up onto a shelf in between two flower bushes, securing her jar of honey at the bottom of her bag. Sun spills shafts of light on her hair, making them a rich brown around the edges.

"The party's on Friday and I know I'm your plus one. We definitely shouldn't stay too long though. What's our out going to be?"

"I could get 'sick' or 'too drunk' and you have to take me home."

"That could work. I say we try to avoid attention altogether though. Kate knows I don't do parties and I won't know how to explain myself."

Caroline pokes a fern and its leaves retract. "Just say you're doing research on college party scenes and how they affect academic accomplishment or something."

"That's...actually a good idea."

She flips her hair and shrugs. "I know."

"Okay, don't get cocky." Shawn nibbles on his thumb. "I guess we're ready?"Caroline tilts her head at him. "You don't sound ready."

"I am very nervous, yes."

"Well don't worry. Just think of it as extreme eavesdropping."

"There's still so many margins of error," he mutters to himself. "Argh, this is why I hate parties. I have no way of actually preparing for this. What if something stupid happens? What if the cops show up? Cops always show up in the movies. Listen to me, comparing real life to the movies-”

"Hey," she slides down from the shelf and puts two hands on his shoulders. Her inky brown eyes penetrate his own. "Don’t spiral. That's why I'm coming with you. We can always improvise. It's gonna be fine. In the name of love, right?"

Shawn takes a deep, shaky breath. She'd been saying this to him since Monday. In the name of love. But Shawn isn't even positive he loves Kate, whatever that means. She just makes him tingly all over. All girls make him a little nervous once they show an interest in him. It isn't even all about love at this point. He just wants everything to go back to normal.

"Right," he says anyway. "In the name of love."

"Okay then," she gives him shake and lets go. "How much time do you have?"

Shawn checks his watch. "About two hours."

"Wanna go eat?" …

The dining hall is flowing with students coming and going. All the major groups have found their respective tables for the hour. Caroline seems to know at least a few people in every clan they pass by on the way to the kitchen, and every person is happy to see her or has some inside joke to share.

"Uh Caroline," Shawn taps her shoulder, "What exactly is your major?"

"I don’t know yet. I really like everything. Why?""

You just seem to know...well, everyone."

"Oh, I had psychology last year. Between surveys and case studies, you kind of meet people. And I made mine so they could be interesting and fun, so they’d come back."

Shawn gazes at a few of the people they passed. Music majors, science majors, even the business majors knew Caroline. A few are looking in his direction. Most people know Shawn from the mock trials because they get published in the school newspaper. His serious reputation has preceded him for quite some time. So naturally, they'd be curious as to why he's suddenly at breakfast with Caroline.

"Everybody's staring," he tells her in a hushed voice.

"Well yeah, it's me standing next to you," she said much louder, already having read the room.

Shawn has noticed the physical contrast of him Caroline before. His lean and broad figure just barely towering over her stocky, compact build is something to behold. They couldn't be more different.

"They might also be staring because of your face," she says as she makes a beeline for the pasta trays.

"What's wrong with my face?"

"Literally nothing. That's why they're staring, genius."

Shawn squints at her. "You have very interesting way of paying me compliments."

She gives him a tender pat on the shoulder. "What are friends for?"

He has to admit to himself, she is entertaining without trying. The honesty that comes with Caroline's words is refreshing. The few girls he's come across in the past hardly ever say what they mean or feel. Kate was one of them.

"Let's sit over there," Caroline nods at a small corner table well lit by a wall of windows. Empty booths are scarce in the cafe. A few feet away from that spot is Jared Price with a handful of law majors. Shawn grabs Caroline’s arm and pulls her behind a wall next to the vending machines. Without meaning to, he’s pinned her into a corner.

“What the hell’s your problem,” she snaps. “I almost dropped my pasta.”

“Shush,�� he hisses.

It’s only been a few times that a guy has had Caroline on the wall in this fashion. Shawn’s approach is, of course, in no way romantic and definitely clumsy to say the least. Though she knows it’s probably not intentional, she can’t help but feel the tiniest impulse to misbehave right now.

Shawn’s still tensed up and peering around the corner. She takes a peek. There’s plenty of people to look at and her heart was kind of hoping to see Kate floating in between some of the tables. No one seems to fit the description Shawn’s given her in recent conversations. In fact, his panicked eyes are completed transfixed on a table surrounded by what look like carbon copies of him.

“Must be a law thing to dress like the dean,” she says. “Don’t you want to talk to your kin?”

“Not necessarily,” Shawn says with a shake of his head.

"Well, do you mind," she says looking him up and down. "I'm kind of stuck between a vending machine and a... well, a hard place."

A harsh blush seeps into Shawn's face and neck as he realizes the position he's put them in. Caroline holds her takeout box of food close to her chest in one hand and pushing back on his abs with the other. A wry, all-knowing smile pushes her dimple deeper into her cheek. Shawn bolts backwards.

"S-Sorry, I wasn't trying to-,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping his thoughts would gather up easier that way. “I'm not- I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry."

"No worries Mendes," Caroline pats his chest. "If I have to pinned against a wall by anyone, I'm fine with it being you."

Shawn shields his face with his hand, which is already starting to get clammy and prickly. "Why do you have to make everything so weird?"

"It’s only weird in your head, Shawn. Come on.” She nods in the direction of the other exit, away from the law school table and the rest of the cafe. “We can go eat on the lawn.”

She trots over to the double doors. Her thick messy curls bounce on her shoulders in a manner that's almost teasing. With one backwards shove, she pushes the door open, making room for Shawn to follow after her. He unbuttons his collar, then trudges through the uncomfortable air he’s made for himself. It amazes him how nothing else in the room changes after an encounter so awkward.

The outdoors presents a hot and dry midday heat. As nice as it would be to sit in the air conditioning and eat, Shawn would rather sweat than be stuck arguing about the ethics of this assigned case with Jared Fucking Price.

“Right over here,” Caroline says.

She’s pointing towards one of the few crepe myrtles on campus in the middle of a green lawn. The tree is still young, so it’s shade is small and requires them to sit close if they want to cool off. She’s already made herself at home on the petals scattered at its roots. In any other setting, this whole picture would seem staged, but Caroline looks like she belongs there more than anyone. Shawn takes this brief moment waiting for her to sit down to observe again. Another nuisance of a sensation settles in his gut. He dismisses it as a hunger pain.

He crouches down at her side stiffly. Even in such limited space, he maintains the usual respectful distance. The shaded parts of the grass are soft and cool beneath his palms. Shawn expected to just eat in silence since that’s usually what happens when he’s out with someone other than Harrison. Every time he’s met with Caroline in the past few days, she’s allowed the silence to happen. Now, she’s practically itching to talk.

“So,” she sighs, “are we gonna talk about what that was?”

“I already said I was sorry. Please drop it.”

“Not that,” she sighs. “You totally ghosted your friends the law majors’ table. Why?”

It almost slips out, how much he hates Jared and his elitist herd of followers. Caroline has this way of talking that makes you forget you have secrets. It’s for this reason that he bites his lower lip and chooses his next words carefully. The law department is already a tough enough crowd without them knowing he doesn’t enjoy their miserable company.

“I didn’t ghost anybody worth calling a friend.”

“Oh,” she says, light and flippant in her tone.

“Oh what?”

“It’s just a little cold,” her eyes skirt around his face. “Even for you.”

“You don’t know them, Caroline.”

She throws her hands up. “Hey, I get it. That law department is quite the dickhead factory.”

He shakes his head, well aware that she was throwing him into that lot. “Touchè,” he mutters.

“You always this distant with peers?”

“Do we have to talk about it?”

“No. We don’t have to talk about it,” she eventually says, and she almost sounds sad when she does. “But Shawn, we’ve had these meetings for a few days now. I get that you don’t talk much, but it’s kind of weird not knowing you at all by now.”

"Funny. I believe I've said more about myself in the last four hours than I've told anyone in the last year."

It’s one of those jokes that Shawn thinks is funny at first until no one laughs. It’s even worse in a conversation with only one other person.

“How generous of you,” she deadpans. For the first time since they’ve met, she sounds genuinely irritated with him.

He looks around the environment as if he’ll find something to talk about there. Nothing appears of course and Caroline is still quietly pulling weeds from the grass. Quiet was the intention, but not if it meant her shutting down. He leans back on his hands in the mulch and dirt to stretch his legs out into the sun.

“I wanted to be a musician, you know.”

Caroline’s ears perk up. “That’s...random.”

“Guitar and piano was as far as I got. Long time ago.”

“Were you any good?”

“I was told I was good. I always thought I could’ve been better.”

She snorts, “Yeah sounds about right.”

“Obviously, I changed my mind. Got into debate and ethics in high school.”

“Is that what changed?”

He nods. “So many times the system gets it wrong and sends innocent people to prison. It’s insane, I mean, the amount of laws we have overlapping and changing everyday would surprise you. No scenario is ever so thought out. Not to mention ethics aren’t always in black and white. I could talk for hours about the-”

Shawn grinds to a halt when he finally notices the smile slowly breaking his face. Caroline’s given him her full attention. Somehow, he’s leaned in closer to her, like he does every time he goes on a tangent.

I’m getting carried away,” he sighs.

“No, it’s wonderful,” Caroline cooed. “I’ve never seen you so happy.”

He cocks his head to one side. “Nobody likes a rambler.”

“Guess that makes me the biggest nobody of all.”

She shoulders his arm, rocking him slightly. Shawn’s ears start to burn. He looks down. Caroline’s sweater sleeve has ended up in the mulch somehow. He carefully picks it up, pulling the wood chips gently from the threads before setting neatly onto her thigh. She doesn’t say a word while this is all happening. In fact, she watches his movements intently. He’s going to ask and she wants to be ready.

“I have a question,” he says. “The other night, when you came back to my room for your sweater, why were you— well I thought you were, I don’t know. Maybe I was seeing things-”

“Bawling my eyes out?”

A faint grimace flashes across Shawn’s face.

“I’m not touchy about it,” she assures him. “Short answer is that it belonged to my mom. Then Dad gave it to me when I graduated high school.”

Shawn steals a look at her and she’s smiling softly. “Can I have the long answer?”

Caroline leans back. “It’s a real sob story,” she says loftily. “I’d hate for you start feeling sorry for me.”

“Please, ‘sorry’ is the last thing I’ll ever feel for you, Caroline,” Shawn quips

“Shawn,” says a familiar voice. “Shawn Mendes?”

Shawn looks up and to his disappointment finds Jared Price standing over them casting a condescending shadow at their feet. The other law majors aren’t far behind, coming closer to their spot under the tree. ...

taglist:

@tnhmblive @rulerofnocountry @matchamendes @damselindistressanu @gxccicoffee @yoelleex @5-seconds-of-mendes @darling-shawn @imaginesofdreams @nervousaroundmendes @hiyabich @sinplisticshawn @peterbrokenparker @sauveteen @allaboutthatdrummer @particularnarry @shawnwyr @1am9root

[thedistantstorm]

Day 15: “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Fandom: Destiny

Pairing: Amanda Holliday/Sloane

Warnings: None (Clumsy Shipwrights & Amused Deputy-Commanders, Amanda’s drawlin’ and ridiculous names for things/people)

-/

"There's gotta be somethin' useful in here," The Shipwright says to herself, rubbing the back of her hand over her brow. The sound of scrap clanking against the damp deckplates and the tinkling of bits and bolts at the bottom of the supply crate drown out the sound of rain for once.

Sloane enters the long-abandoned storeroom to a comical sight: Amanda, rear in the air, on her tiptoes, bent over a railing, digging through a crate, things being tossed over her shoulder haphazardly. There were apparently piles based on… something, the Deputy Commander was sure, because one hunk of metal went left, and then something that looked like a beacon went straight back, rolling across the metallic floor to collide harmlessly with her boot.

She crosses her arms. Amanda carries on grumbling and grouching about Golden Age garbage, using her arms and completely abandoning her feet to lean over to the next crate in the stack. 

When it goes on for another few minutes, Sloane intervenes, not having the Commander's infinite patience.

"Holliday?" She ventures.

Clearly the other woman didn't know she was there, because something falls in what is not the direction of one of the Shipwright's messy piles, and Amanda goes flailing over the railing and into the crate, unleashing a plume of dust, bolts, and assorted circuitry flying out around the edges of the now overfilled container.

Amanda sighs. It's muffled, considering she did land on her head, but her exasperation is evident. Considering she'd taken off her jacket, and she could feel the sting of copper wires poking her arm, she'll probably be asking for a tetanus shot from triage later.

Some very displeased rustling later, Amanda hollers sharply, "Deputy Commander, ain't nobody ever tell you not to sneak up on a girl when she's tinkerin'?"

More articles go bouncing out of the crate as Amanda tries to swing herself out of it. What manages to happen is that she tips it - and herself - backwards onto the floor with a great clattering thud.

Rushing to vault over the railing, a very concerned Sloane is looming over her in seconds. "Are you-"

Green eyes look up at her, irritated, a pink flush stretched across the freckled expanse of her nose and cheeks. "Yeah," She grumbles. "Help me up, wouldya?"

Sloane offers her a hand, and Amanda extends hers. There's a cord wrapped around it that's somehow also tangled in her hair, little bits of wire sticking up and tangled in blonde. She closes her mouth and purses her lips, but a sputtering sound comes out.

"Aww, c'mon, it can't be that bad-"

Amanda reaches for her head to remove the offending wire and three bolts find their way out of the bandana tied around her arm, one of which bounces off her cheek before rolling off into the abyss.

Sloane giggles, not girlishly, but just as unbidden, unburdened for just a moment of their current state. It's like something sweet, like milk chocolate or hot fudge. Something thick and beautiful. Amanda watches her mouth, for what feels like just a moment.

Apparently it isn't, because Sloane's concerned look is back, and the bulkier woman crouches in front of her, untangling some of the materials clinging to the rest of her. "Did you hit your head?"

"Nah," Amanda says. She did, but not hard enough to do damage. Too many wires and what not in the way. "Jus' thinkin' about your laugh," She admits, unashamedly honest.

Sloane's eyebrows furrow, pulling together, but her gaze is bright, crisp and sparkling, "Oh?" She asks, not sure how to feel.

Amanda nods twice. "Yeah," And then tilts her head to the side. She'd like to get her ailing tuchus off these cold deckplates before they have what is a heart-to-heart they're not going to be able to finish. Zavala hasn't heard from them in at least thirty. He'll be clomping through halls in a tizzy if both of them don't check in soon. "It's cute," She finishes, with a cheeky smile.

Sensing the shift to something safer, Sloane shakes her head ruefully. Flirtation is safe. It doesn't scream 'confession time because this might be the end of us,' like a heartfelt conversation would. There'll be time for that. They have to believe it. They have to hope.

"That's not something you hear everyday."

"What?"

"Cute." The Deputy Commander gestures down to herself. "What part of this screams cute?"

Amanda reaches up and Sloane's hand shoots out, larger palm swallowing Amanda's and yet thick, strong fingers still wrap around her wrist. She barely comes up to the Titan's nose, her eyes level with Sloane's lips. Even so, she lifts a hand up to the other woman's cheek, patting the wind-weathered skin there and letting her thumb graze the corner of her mouth.

“Your laugh.” She smirks. “Makes me think of flyin’ and sundaes an’-”

“Flyin’?” Sloane slurs back, confused.

“Bein’ happy.” Amanda shrugs, lessening it (but not really, considering how pensive Sloane’s become) by dusting off her shoulders and letting more bits and baubles of ages past bounce away. “But it’s cute. Y’look cute doin’ it.”

“That’s not a word…” She trails off, looking strangely conflicted. “People don’t use that word to describe me.”

“I’m not ‘people,’” Amanda reminds her, with a curl of dexterous fingers. “I’m just… I dunno, me?”

“Yeah.” There’s something breathless to the way Sloane says it, like as if she’s trying to see herself in reverse, however Amanda sees her and it’s just struck her harder than a thundering fist ever could. She recovers from her stupor quickly. “Damn straight you are,” She says, every bit the in-control second-in-command she’s supposed to be. Amanda grins back. 

Their moment’s broken just in time, when both their radios go off in a tinny, synced echo. “Sloane. Holliday. Report.”

“All clear, Sir,” Amanda drawls in that way of hers. The way that’s all child telling their parent to calm down, not to make a mountain of a molehill, everything is just fine. At this point, Zavala would burst if she said as much, but the tone seems to soothe. There’s comfort in old and familiar, in these trying times. Sloane busies herself with something, looking down at the pile of junk just out of Amanda’s reach and picking up things she doesn’t understand before setting them aside. It’s a focus tactic of her own. Zavala will likely want to talk to her next. “Jus’ lost track of time looking for the- hey, wait.”

There’s a sharp inhale from Zavala, cross-comms, but Amanda bowls right over whatever he’s about to bark about a suspected threat. He thinks everything is a threat these days - and it is, but Amanda’s got bigger fish to fry at this very second.

“Sloane, you magnificent monolith, gimme that thing in your hand.” There’s a pause as she hands it over. “Been lookin’ for this thing for hours. Those dang Golden Age techies are as bad as maintainin’ inventory as we are. That was not the right bin according to their records, by a long shot.”

“You got into their encryption?” Zavala asks, impressed.

“A’course, I did, Zavala,” Amanda rolls her eyes, and she’s certain he can see it, in his mind’s eye for her tone. “Deputy Commander, gimme my jacket.”

Zavala clears his throat.

“Don’t gimme that, Sir, I ain’t one’a your military folk, an’ you ain’t gonna get me talkin’ like one now.” Sloane hands her the beaten bomber, hands gentle on the well-worn canvas.

The Shipwright pulls out a software chip of some kind from a breast pocket, drops onto a crate, and begins to fiddle with it. The sound of errant clicking and murmurs - Amanda has a knack for talking to her work, as if encouragement will coax it into functionality - and suddenly there’s a little beep, and a resounding echo down the hall.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” She whoops, hopping to her feet. “Zavala, me ‘n yer Deputy will see you in five.” Rambling as much to herself as to the rest of them, she continues, “This baby’s gonna help me get at least some’a these systems back online.”

“What is it?” Zavala queries through static. 

Sloane leans over Amanda’s shoulder, her hand warm on the Shipwright’s arm. Amanda looks up into that dark gaze and grins. “It’s an inventory scanner. Guessin’ most of ‘em dropped into the sea during the collapse. But this baby seems to know where everything is, an’ I bet there’s some mapping software I can get from it. At least we’ll know where to try for supplies rather than runnin’ all over through baddies.”

“Excellent work, Holliday,” The Commander intones, sounding a bit happier than when they’d left on this impromptu equipment expedition. “Make your way back.”

“Roger that,” Sloane chirps, looking down at Amanda all sorts of impressed. “You’re gonna win this thing for us, Holliday.”

“Damn sure gonna try,” She quips back, lifting up on her tiptoes-

“Amanda-”

-to peck Sloane on the lips. “Good find, cutie.”

The eyeroll Amanda gets in response is extraordinary. “Alright, that’s where I draw the line,” Sloane says evenly, even though she’s licking her lips like she’s savoring the taste. “I liked ‘magnificent monolith.’”

“Thought you might,” Amanda supposes, eyes sparking, playfully. “Got one better for ya: How about ‘kiss me again?’”

Sloane wraps her arms around her. “I think that’s the best one yet.”

[fogboundsurvivor]

No Mither

No Mither

NSFW Fanfic by D. Johansson

David worked at the generator tirelessly, fumbling with the wires inside. He was so dead tired of running. His friends had already fallen and for whatever reason the escape shoot had not appeared for him. It was as if the Entity wanted to be an extra bitch on this cold night in Haddonfield. He tapped the wires together, hoping to make a spark, which he did, but only made the generator jump and let out a loud noise. It sputters and dies. He curses inwardly.

Ghostface stalked David from the shadows, crouched down and in Night Shroud. He could tell this particular iteration of David was different from the last. This one had a beard and he definitely didn't seem to know his way around the generator. He had already had his way taking down all of the other 3 survivors in the trial but was surprised to see that this David didn't even seem to know that. This sent an excited chill down Ghostface's spine, he was going to enjoy this. He would go about scrapping a knife against the wall, making a noise loud enough for David to hear but not know the source of.

David gulps...and moves toward an open window, but the window’s paneling comes undone and he falls backwards with a grunt. He looks up at the window and sees that it’s been blocked off by the entity. He was confused, but he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise when he heard the sound of a knife dragging against a wall. He made a move for another window, only for the entity to block it off to. He turns to the doorway..

To find that there was nothing there.

There was a moment of pure silence before suddenly David was grabbed from behind, a knife's point immediately being pressed against his neck.

"Gotta be quicker than that, Davey boy! The Entity doesn't like any slow poke survivors."

The Ghostface's voice was giddy, like he had caught a mouse in a trap that wasn't dead quite yet. Oh he couldn't wait to do all the things he wanted to do to this David

“Wait...Wait...please don’t.” David pleads, eyes darting for anything he could use. His own heart was in his throat. He could just faintly smell the vaguely minty breath of his captor. And also some rather fragrant cologne. Guess the killer wanted David to know he was there. David tried to get out of his grip.

“Oh I'm not going to kill you just yet. I've been a good little boy so the Entity said you're free for me to do what I want before I send you back to another campfire."

When he noticed the struggling, he would go forward with making a slight cut on the neck that wasn't fatal but also sent the point across that if he struggled it would only make things worse.

“Maybe if you're a good sport, I'll let you escape. Just got to play along and don't be a brat."

David grits his teeth and slowly puts his hands up* “What do you want with me...?” *David asks quietly, he was afraid to make another move, he could feel blood trickling down his neck, staining his black undershirt.

“You Davids have been running me rabid all damn day. With your altruism, getting in the way of hits and always being there to help your survivor friends on the hook."

The hand that was previously twisting one of David's arms in an uncomfortable position moved away to grab the man's ass.

“You help me vent my frustration and the hatch is all yours."

David’s eyes widened at the grab..and he shuddered. Partly due to fear...and partly due to the first stirrings of arousal. He shook the later thought away. Nobody’s touched him in god knows how long.....

”No.” He told himself. This was a killer. Who just murdered his friends. That took away the arousal and he heard Ghostface click his tongue

“I’m...sorry.” David said...trying to keep him talking.

"Oh, David. You have no idea how excited that makes me. An unwilling participant this late into the game is so much fun."

Ghostface sounded disappointed in the beginning of that but it turned into excitement very late into it.

“Thank you for this opportunity."

With that, Ghostface would move the hand off of his ass and onto his shoulder. With his far superior strength granted by the Entity, Ghostface basically sprinted forward with David coming along for the ride. It would go on for a moment before Ghostface came to a stop, only he let David go. He let David go right into a freefall down the staircase to the basement, Ghostface finding a sick thrill out of watching David ragdoll down to the landing in the stairs.

David groans and yelps when he hits the bottom. He could tell that his ankle was definitely broken. He turns and crawls for the front door, before being blocked by the body of Dwight. His shirt and pants had been sliced open and his face had a used condom thrown ontop of it. Along with a Polaroid photo of...Ghost face facefucking him. David, grabbing the wall, pushed himself to his feet and he stepped over the violated body of Dwight and limped into the street. He made it to the cop car and went around it, sliding to the floor and looking over the hood. He could see Ghostface walking out of the house. A predator in its element. He was definitely doubting his chances of the hatch at this point. He looked to his already bruising ankle and let out a quiet moan of pain. Trying to stifle the sound by breathing through his nose.

“Bastard...” David whispers to himself. He looks back at his ankle then back towards the Myer’s House. Ghostface was gone and David felt himself turn pale. Panicked now, he limped into a side yard.. a hedge park by the looks of it. several rows of park benches lied within. He sat himself down slowly by a hedge and took off his jacket and shredded it. Trying to make some bindings for his ankle. What he didn’t hear was the click of a camera just out of the way..

There was Ghostface, looking at the slowly developing polaroid in his hand. He seemed to be enjoying himself, chasing after the injured David.

“Wow, David. Getting too excited and ruining all the fun for me? I wanted to tear up the jacket myself."

He would walk over and kick the man over, getting him down onto his back before he would go to step down firmly on David's crotch, hard enough to cause some mild pain but not too hard just yet.

"You like what happened to Dwight? Little nerd did better than I thought. Better than Jeff and Jake, that's for sure."

David groaned as his head hit the grass, he felt Ghostface pressing a boot into his crotch and let out a whimper. He looked up at him, trying not to let his fear express onto his face.

“You..did that to all of them?” David asks.

"Well, why not look for yourself?"

He tossed down two polaroids for David to look at.

One was of Jake, he had been caught just as he finished sabotaging a hook and Ghostface had kicked him down right as the hook fell down, right on Jake' poor leg. The picture had Jake with his eyes rolled back as he was taking Ghostface from behind.

Next was two for Jeff who was currently suffering a similar fate. He was mid chase when he accidentally leaped a window right as Ghostface did. Thanks to Ghostface running Bamboozle, Jeff was effectively stuck in the window. The first polaroid was of Jeff's backside, flooding after a few uses and the other polaroid was his front side, his hair being the only visible identifier as his face was completely coated.

“They're nice photos. I took them myself."

David’s eyes widened and his chest heaved. He tried to move backwards, pushing with his good leg, but Ghostface’s boot on his crotch kept him in place. The pictures of his friend’s stretched open holes and the subsequent demises fresh in his head. He turned to look away, before laying flat on the ground.

“When they entity took me in, they told me I could have anything I desire as long as I killed you fools for it."

There was an unzip before Ghostface would move his foot away, leaning over to grab a handful of David's hair before sitting him up. He would sit him up so David could be meet face to face with Ghostface's massive cock.

“I told it I wanted this. I get to have my fun and the entity gets it's sacrifices. Quite the equivalent exchange."

David felt it against his face and he blushed a little. The man’s cock was massive...much, much bigger than he’s ever seen. He felt a little emasculated by the size of it. He looked up pitifully at Ghostface.

“You’re huge..” David said quietly...feeding Ghostface’s ego.

“How about we strike up that deal now? You take this to the hilt from both ends, and the hatch is all yours. If you reject it now, I'll do it anyways before I shove you on that hook."

He would cock slap David. Seeing the normally confidant David suddenly made into a whimpering bitch felt amazing. He loved it so much and couldn't wait to feel this again with other Davids later on.

David always thought he was straight...until he was pulled into the realm of the entity that drunken night. He spends what felt like eternity of lonely escapes before he ended up surviving with Jeff one trial. The two met back at the camp fire and Jeff asked David if he wanted to talk about the trial..David reluctantly agreed. It ended with Jeff going for the first kiss... then introducing David to the first pierced cock he’d ever seen, licked, sucked and taken.

David closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, before nodding. He looked up at him and opened his mouth wide, licking the tip of his captor’s cock.

A flash would appear in David's face, Ghostface taking a picture for memories sake. He had to show the other killers he never messed around after all.

“Got it for publicities sake, anyways go faster." Ghostface demanded, and its all David would get before Ghostface would move forward and part of his cock was shoved into David's mouth.

David took it a step further, taking as much of the cock he could down his throat. Tears running down his face and he bobbed his head onto it, one hand going up to fondle the large set of balls underneath the monster cock as well. He gagged and saliva ran down his chin and as worked the cock as aggressively as he could. Trying to get the ordeal over with. Hoping if he came...maybe he wouldn’t violate him further.

Ghostface would grab his head to make him stop, in order make him look up at him.

“Remember our deal, the whole thing has to go in that mouth David."

He would let go in order to let him proceed.

David tries his best, struggling to get down to the hilt of his cock. He gets onto his knees and feels a mix of salvia and pre cum fall out of his mouth. He gets frustrated and grunts, trying to take it further. He ends up choking and letting the cock slide out of his throat as he gags on air and sputters. His vision swimming from the coughing fit.

“Got 10 seconds. Start now! 1..2...3.."

Ghostface gave David 10 seconds to get a nice breath before he gets back to work on his cock. He had plans later, like gloating to Joe's smug mask about how much better of a killer Ghostface was.

David goes in for it again, only gagging immediately. He whines in defeat before looking up at Ghostface pleadingly.

“Please..I can’t do it...” David admits..face red from both embarrassment and effort. He lays on his back and spreads his big thighs apart “Please...just fuck me...use me...just don’t kill me like the others..” He whined.

“I’ll be good...so good...please.” David begs, tears running down his face.

Ghostface would go around back to his mouth.

“Oh don't be a fucking bitch David! You're going do it whether you like it or not!"

He would grab his head and in one quick motion, shove his cock in and jam the entire thing down his throat. He knew the Entity would make it to where David would only dry heave and he knew the Entity was above allowing asphyxiation being a cause of death here. He would hold him for a few seconds before letting go of David.

David sputters and chokes on air...feeling his throat get throughly resized. After realizing he couldn’t choke to death, he grabs Ghostface’s cock and shoved it down his throat pushing Ghostface’s hips towards his face as if to say “Use my mouth.”

As sick as it was David was kind of turned on by being used like a slut by someone stronger than him...perhaps that’s why he enjoyed fighting and violence. The pain always was his drive...

He felt drool slides down the sides of his mouth as the spit and throat slicked cock pumped in and out his mouth. His lips were bruised and cracking at the strain.

"I was planning on sending you back to the campfire with a souvenir. My cum all over and inside your pathetic body."

It was rare that Ghostface broke someone and it was extremely rare that it was a David. This was getting far more interesting. He was going to make sure everyone at that camp fire knew exactly what happened here.

David could feel Ghostface’s balls rest on his face. He pulled off the monster cock and sucked and licked on them, stroking the massive cock above him...he even got bolder and went to give Ghostface’s hole a sloppy lick. He was lost...hopeless and wanting to please the man that held his current fate in his hands... He tongued his hole and then went back to furiously and sloppily sucking on his monster cock. His ankle throbbed and he was getting covered in various viscous layers of saliva. David’s rebellious attitude was lost..only a cock hungry slut remained. He wanted to please his captor so bad...he felt the tears still running down his face but he didn’t care anymore. He just wanted to live and pleasing this monster was his only way out. That did not fly so well with Ghostface. He would force David off his cock and would pick him up and slam him down bent over a picnic table.

“That wasn't in our little deal, Davey.... I guess you can't teach a dog to listen. The hatch never opened, Davey. Your chance of escape was done the moment you fell down those stairs. Might as well enjoy what happens next before you go back to the campfire." Ghostface taunted.

He would line up with David's hole and without even giving him a moment to brace himself before just shoving inside of David. He had some mercy before but this was nothing held back. If only David had listened.

He could feel Ghostface trying to penetrate him through his sweatpants and he let out a startled chuckle. “Think I may need to lose the pants before ya do that..” David taunts. Since his fate was sealed, he felt adrenaline pump through his veins.

There a moment before a knife came down directly down on David's back, narrowly missing his spine or anythint vital, before it would go back to cut open his pants and boxers.

“You want to be a little shit huh? I'll show you want little shits like you deserve."

With that, the hilt of the blade would go up David's ass without any sort of grace or theateric Ghostface was known for.

David howled at the sudden penetration. He could feel it go about four inches inside before being stopped by the guard of the blade. He let out a groan, leaning into the table. He could feel the cold air around his as his muscular ass, balls and limp cock were exposed to the air.

“Motherfucker...ahh...shit...” David spat out.

“I was going to make it quick but bitch decided he wanted to do slowly."

He was not happy, he'd reach in his coat to pull out another knife. He'd pin David's head down before he would very roughly cut away at his beard, with sense of caution or percision when it came to it.

David watched his facial hair hit the table sadly. He was really enjoying his beard...he felt humiliated as he could feel his hole tighten around the hilt of the blade. He shifted his position slightly and moaned quietly as the hilt rubbed against that spot inside him. His face and ass both felt raw now. “Fuck....I’ve...been bad.” David groans into the table.

He would grab his hair and pull his head up, getting semi close face to face.

“You're damn right." Ghostface whispered huskily into his ear.

The knife would come down to pin David's right hand to the table before Ghostface went to the back, removing the knife before lining up with his cock instead. With the same amount of mercilessness, he would shove his cock inside of David.

David lets out a bloodcurdling scream as he feels his hand get pinned to the table. Before he has time to process that, he feels all 13 inches of Ghostface’s thick cock tear open his abused hole. He lets out a painful yelp and groan before feeling his legs turn to jelly. Ghostface would thrust with wreckless abandon as he mostly did it for the sake of punishing David at this point. Even though every wound on David was going to disappear after the trial was over, he wanted to make sure David was going to remember the pain for a very long time. David looked down and he could swear he could see Ghostface’s cock rearrange his guts through his stomach. He swore he could see it poke the flesh of his belly from within. He felt sick...but he felt the thick member continue to hit places inside David he didn’t know he had. He cried out again...his eyes wet and swollen as he felt his own cock swell with arousal...all this pain was beginning to feel way too good to him. “You’re going into shock.” He tried to remind himself to no avail.

“Fuckme....fuck...me....please...god hurt me...” He moans out.

"I'm going to ruin you, David. I want to make sure that nobody is going to make your ass feel as stretched as I make it tonight. Everytime your whore ass tries to take someone smaller, you'll remember me."

He had no doubt in his mind that nobody else the Entity had in their grasp came close to his size. This was going to be David's torture, the constanty longing for Ghostface's cock that he'll never feel again. It was going to be so sweet. “God...I can...feel you so deep...!” David says, and pushes back into Ghostface’s cock and arches his back. Taking the punishment with vigor now. He could feel his hard cock rubbing against the rough wood of the bench now. He was lost in lust now. He knew Ghostface was ruining his hole, and he loved every second of it...maybe after this he would get the guys to run a train on his so he could try to feel this kind of deep, unrelenting pain again.

Ghostface would go for what felt like forever, using whatever ungodly stamina the Entity had given him. Ghostface has already had a plan for after the trial. It took thousands of perfect trials, gritting his teeth through Mettle of Man, Borrowed Time, and Adrenaline on survivors or purple rarity flashlights to get 4 Kills for it.

He begged the Entity and he got it. The survivors of this trial were being sent to a different campfire, one where Ghostface or any killer he allows can enter, and use the four broken mindless slut survivors.

David was half collapsed onto the table, broken and a groaning mess. He had already cum twice onto the bench seat and his balls were swollen beyond belief. He was just waiting for the sweet release of death and Ghostface at this point. He could barely feel his hole anymore, only the massive sex organ rearranging his guts inside. He wondered how much energy Ghostface had left at this point..

Ghostface would slam to hilt inside of David before he came deep into the quote unquote survivor. It was massive and it felt so nice to get another load off for the end of the trial for Ghostface. He'd pull out and let it flood out, similar to the backside of Jeff polaroid.

“Well thanks for playing this game, David."

Finally, Ghostface would pull out his knife from David's hand.

David whimpered at the knife being pulled out and sunk into the table, he could feel the cum pushing its way out of his abused hole.

“Do it....finish me off...” David says quietly, pressing his forehead into the table.

“Gladly." The Killer says,

With a flash of his blade, he would raise it up and then....

David would open his eyes to find himself back at the campfire.

“Holy shit...” David says, feeling his face to find his beard miraculously still there. He looked around to see Jake, Jeff and Dwight all sitting there quietly staring at him.

“What?” He asks, before he feels a gallon of cum slide down his leg. “Oh fuck...that was..”

“Real?” Jeff finishes.

David lets out a soft whimper as he strips out of the pants and cleans himself off. He throws the remains in the fire and watches it burn. He pulls on some track pants and shudders.

He silently wonders what the hell did it mean.

[youreallyshouldtalkmore]

Carnival Games_Part 1

Another installment in the Lion and His Lamb series. This story is a direct sequel to 50 Ways to Stress.

Tags: @chaneajoyyy

Part 1

Erik glared at you with a twitch.

You just stared at him, unimpressed.

It had been two weeks since Shuri’s lab accident that resulted in Erik becoming a five year old, along with 50 copies of himself running around. Since the time that Shuri managed to fix it, you had to be admitted into the infirmary. You weren’t exactly sure what they gave you but you had slept the following three days away. On the fourth you had become coherent again and T’Challa especially was thankful for that.

However, concerned about your health, T’Challa had all but banned his own cousin from seeing his own wife. His argument was that Erik needed to let you rest. How Erik actually obeyed was beyond you but you did not see him for a week following the incident.

However, the current reason for your showdown did not come until towards the end of the second week when Erik all of a sudden was feeling frisky. Trying to start something you shut him down really quick. You both were in your bedroom currently facing each other.

Erik tried to reason with you, “Y/N, you can't hold what happened to me against me.”

You only gave a sigh, I’m not holding it against you but I’m not in the mood.”

“Fine, I can respect that.” Erik with a roll of his shoulders.

You forked an eyebrow, “Then why are you upset?”

Erik gave you the stink eye, “Because strangely enough, I remember your comment about the carnival being closed. I hope you ain't shutting me down cause of that.”

A sly smile grew onto your face, “What? Are you scared? Can’t last that long?”

Erik growled, “Woman, I have self control.”

You gave a bark of laughter, “N’Jadaka, you have many things. Self control in this area is not one of them.”

Both of Erik’s eyebrows shot up, “Are you saying that I can’t last?”

You nodded slowly, pityingly, “That’s exactly what I’m saying, my love. Apparently it only took you two weeks to break.”

Erik growled, “Oh no, we gonna handle dis. As for now, we are on clock. I can go the distance.”

“Really?” you were truly skeptic.

“Really!” Erik busted out, “In fact, let’s see who breaks first. The first one to beg for it loses. The one that loses has to do something the winner says afterwards.”

You were highly amused, “That eager for punishment I see."

Erik snapped his fingers once, “Check it!”

“Fine. Don’t whine when I win then.” you flipped.

The first week of abstinence went very well. You were perfectly fine and Erik seemed like he was in control as well. By the 2nd week, you were still fine. You could tell that Erik twitched a time or two. So you decided to start teasing him. It was simple things really that you knew would set him off. But he endured it without breaking much of a sweat.

By the third week….ahh, now we were getting somewhere. You were fine, however you noticed that Erik had begun to go out of his way to stay out of your reach. The small touches that were common place stopped. There were times you turned around and he would be staring at you before he quickly snapped back to himself. You asked him, if he was alright and he swore, everything was fine in the world and that you were going to lose. How that was possible was beyond you?

You so knew he would break first that you weren't even worried about it. One thing was that once Erik married you, he knew that he didn't have to control his appetite around you. Without restrictions and with your permission of course, he always had his hands on you. That just the way he was. So willingly staying away from you for a long time?

Naaah......the brotha would break sooner or later.

By a month later, Erik was now starting to becoming visibly upset. It started small, snapping here and there and people. No one really thought much of it. It was Erik after all. He was prone to temper tantrums smalls or big.

But it wasn't until a little over a month, when he started becoming a bit much for those around him. Shuri had asked him what was wrong and Erik practically bit her head off before marching away. And he might have "accidently" broken something in her lab resulting in a stony wall of silence between the two of them. Erik would swear it's an accident and Shuri would swear it wasn't.

It also seemed like any little thing that T'Challa did, got on Erik's nerves now so much, that Erik could be found snapping at T'Challa far more than usual. You still couldn't get a straight story but from your understanding something T'Challa said or did made Erik seem to revert all the way back to when he first came to Wakanda. Yes, he brought up that pain again.

It wasn't long afterwards that this found you walking into the private room followed by T'Challa.

Once the door was firmly shut behind both of you, T'Challa turned to you. You waited for the King of Wakanda to speak however it was odd that the T'Challa kept shuffling, something that you'd never seen him do.

In fact he seemed....embarrassed?

You weren't sure.  

Finally he gave a deep sigh and looked you in the eye. Speaking gravely he started, “Cousin Y/N…..”

“Yes?”

T'Challa couldn't seem to hold your gaze so he dropped it before shifting on one foot, “I can't help but notice that N’Jadaka seems….stressed.”

“Hm...” you hummed.

He glanced at you quickly before continuing, “I don’t mean to pry but, he’s becoming a bit...” he trailed off.

“Harder to handle than normal?” you asked.

T'Challa bobbed his head once, “I was going to say testy but yes.”

You nodded slowly. You were unsure why T'Challa was telling you this. Contrary to popular opinion you didn't have complete control over your husband.

T'Challa saw that he would have to be far more direct. You looked at him blankly clearly not seeing where he was driving too. He cleared his throat and spoke quickly, “It has come to my attention through something that Erik said that seemed to indict that he was on “lockdown.""

It was strange to see the King of Wakanda use quoted fingers. So much so it took a moment to realize what T'Challa was alluding to.

It was your turn to drop your gaze, “Uh....what.....?" You weren't even sure what to say.

“Forgive me for bringing it up but believe me I don’t want to have this conversation but an angry N’Jadaka is not something we wish to deal with. Already he and Shuri are at odds. He has even taken to digging up old wounds. I know they are still there and always will be but he hasn't mentioned it to this degree. Also, he seems to hate me more than usual and that is saying something."

You tried to wave it away, "I'm sure it's just all talk......you know how he is....."

T'Challa gave you a meaningful look, "It's N'Jadaka. Do we wish to take a chance?"

You shook your head. You obviously weren't here when Erik took over Wakanda but from the little you do know, you know it left scars.

Scars better left alone.

T'Challa breathed, "Everyone has already tense from the duplication incident. I had thought that maybe his wires were still crossed...however....."  

Here he shuffled on his feet again, looking away from you briefly.

"However?" you prompted.

T’Challa was silent.

“My King?” you pressed.

“Do you all have to play this game?” he asked finally.

You cocked your head, "Game?"

T'Challa didn't look at you, “Ordinarily I would not be in this but N’Jadaka is starting to grip and complain directly to me. Things I don’t want to know about. I would hope that you can have mercy on me, my Princess.”

You narrowed your eyes. You wanted to be clear on what he was saying, "Meaning...?"

T'Challa looked at you sheepishly, “Well, I am a little more….how do you say ‘hip’ to the lingo than I used to be so I actually understand more what he’s saying. I wished I didn’t this time though. But he has alluded to that fact that...he hasn't as he say "had none" in awhile and that it was because "on a clock"....I'm still not sure what that means and I don't want to."

You fought everything in you not to sinking to the ground and hold your knees. You snatched your gaze from T'Challa who only looked away from you.

"I'm gonna kill him...." you finally hissed.

“Perhaps when you decided to play this game, I should have added no discussing it with other people." you snapped.

“I am not discussing it with other people. Cuz wanted to be all up in my business. What’s wrong? Are you okay? What’s the matter? So I told him what's the matter to get him off my back. He can’t be mad at me for that. He needs to learn to mind his dang business in the first place.” Erik griped crossing his arms.

In your opinion he looked like a petulant child as he sat sulking on the edge of the bed in your bedroom. You were standing in front of him with your hands on your hips.  

With a sigh, you folded your arms and stood on the back of one leg, “My love, you need to calm down. It’s only been about two months now, if you add in all the time before we agreed to this.”

Erik's bottom lip poked out, “I don’t remember agreeing. I just remember you forcing me.”

Your right eye twitched, “Hey, don’t blame me. You were so certain, you’d last. All this to prove something...."

Your voice went sweet as you locked your hands behind your back, "It’s very simple, my love. Just conceded defeat.....”

Erik shot to his feet and glared down at you fiercely, “I ain't gonna concede nothing….”

You batted your eyelashes as your words were laced with innuendo, “Seem to me this is a battle you’d want to lose.....”

Erik was not going to admit that you were right so he just crossed his arms, “You’d thought wrong.”

You sighed. You guess you were going to have to use your last resort that you had planned awhile ago. You’d have to force his surrender. You had three back up plans. You'd wonder how far you'd have to go.

[maevefiction]

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 46

A little over an hour later, pleased I’d remembered that Tom and I needed to remove our rings before opening the room door, I was being escorted to the Hokulea Suite by Simon the Loud and Annoying, my hair still dripping wet, dressed in cut off sweat-shorts and my X-files T-shirt. He was gifting me the details of all the fun he’d had last night with Anne, gushing over her wit and demanding that we all head to New Orleans for Mardi Gras 2017 because he needed her to show him her favorite haunts IN PERSON or he’d never forgive himself or me until my stomach rumbled and I felt a rush of saliva in my mouth, wrinkling my nose at the queasiness that followed.

“We need to detour, dude. Bridezilla requires nourishment prior to prettification.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Really? Really? It’s already after one, and…”

I crossed my arms. “And…what? And you want me to dry heave my way through the vows?”

“Ewwww…Maude. So gross.”

“Whatever. Stress plus hunger is not a good combo for me, apparently. Not going to make the same mistake as yesterday. We’ll still have three hours or something, and if that’s not enough, you can just find me a veil somewhere and I’ll wear it all evening long. Problem solved, am I right?”

“Well, since I am, frankly, rather fearful of what will become of me if I dissent, oh yes, right you are.”

“Mmm hmm. And about that whole Mardi Gras business…have you forgotten that you’ll have two screaming, squalling, pooping machines in your midst by then? Sounds like a less than Ideal experience to me, especially the trans-Atlantic flight part.”

His hands flew up to cover his mouth briefly, then extended open, palms out, to either side of his face. “OH MY GOD YOU’RE RIGHT BABIIIEEEESSSSSS…” He inhaled, then exhaled deeply. “So you really don’t think we can just, you know, bring them with us?”

Shrugging, I took him by the arm and began walking toward the lounge. “Truthfully, I have no fucking idea, and though you obviously have vastly more experience in this department than I do, I’m reasonably sure that’s listed under ‘Super Mega Dumbass Scenarios’ in the parenting handbook.”

He stopped short, and when I turned to him the expression on his face was a mixture of jubilation and pure terror. “When Roland was a baby, I was working so much that Lisa handled…well, everything, essentially. Now I’m going to, like, BE LISA, and the question is, CAN I be Lisa? And with double the poop machines?”

I wrapped my arms around him, kissing each cheek in turn. “You don’t need to be anyone but you, Simon. Because you’re amazing, and you know what? If anyone can pull off bringing two infants across the ocean to do Mardi Gras with Anne Rice, it’s you.”

He squeezed me tightly. “Thank you, Nice Maude.”

“You’re welcome. But if we do end up going, you should know that I am absolutely, positively taking a different flight.”

Snorting, he let go of me and took two steps backward, waving. “Au revoir, Nice Maude.”

I was still snickering as we entered the lounge, wherein I voraciously inhaled two waffles laden with raspberry syrup and whipped cream, two scrambled eggs, four pieces of bacon, a toasted everything bagel with butter, half a melon, a tall glass of orange juice and two cups of Kona coffee, which, after trying it the very first time, I knew I never wanted to live without. A giant blech escaped me as I rose from the table, which struck Simon as so hilariously funny that I wound up sitting back down to wait for him to get a grip, and just as he was able to quasi-communicate it happened again, and then we both completely lost our shit. Those moments are some of life’s best, when the most ordinary thing suddenly becomes a source of incapacitating amusement, and when it turns infectious…even better.

It was going on two-thirty when we finally arrived at the Hokulea Suite, and I could hear the faint thumping bass of what I immediately recognized as Lady Gaga’s ‘Born This Way’ through the door. Veronica was a huge fan, attending every show she could manage, occasionally discussing her dream to somehow find herself as the Lady’s stylist, even if only for a single day. And in this particular instance, ‘occasionally’ meant every time one of Gaga’s songs came on. I couldn’t see Veronica when we first entered, but I could hear her singing, so as Simon headed one way toward his dressing area I followed the sonic trail and discovered her behind one of the far screens working on Anne’s makeup. The sight of Anne high up in the director’s chair, hair hidden beneath a shower cap, body wrapped in a black plastic cape and her bare feet tapping on the tiny rest made me smile widely. She’d been through so much in her own life, yet here she was, still going, still enjoying, still loving, still…living. I felt a pang of regret that I’d shut her out for so long…despite all our differences and disagreements, she was the closest thing to an actual mother I’d ever had. If it weren’t for her encouragement and support, I might have never started my own business, and if that hadn’t happened, my path and Tom’s might never have crossed. I blinked, noticing that both Anne and Veronica were staring at me. Anne reached out to pat my upper arm.

“Love ya, kiddo. Thanks for letting me be a part of all this…I always prayed you’d find someone who’d lift you up and…”

I interrupted her sentence with an embrace so strong I was afraid I might crush her. “Thank you for that. I did. He does. I love you too.”

She chuckled, and as I pulled back the smirk on her face alerted me to what was coming next. “Maude Gallagher, has my sense of hearing failed me or did you just thank me for praying?’

I pointed my index finger first at her, then at Veronica. “Never speak of this again, either of you.” I paused for dramatic effect. “So, anyway…where would you have me go, fine friend and Chief Beautification Enforcer?”

Veronica snorted. “To your designated private but not really private at all temporary staging area. I’ll be done with this one’s makeup in a few minutes, then I’ll come get to work on you. Everyone else is done…well, not me, but that won’t take long.”

“Because you’re naturally gorgeous.”

She smiled. “Born This Way.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’d quote a meaningful Gaga lyric back at you but the only thing that comes to mind right now is p-p-p-p poker face and that always makes me think of poke HER face and…yeah. I’m gonna walk away now. Bye.”

The director’s chair taunted me, all tall and spindly, begging me to climb in so it could tip itself over and dump my ass out onto the ground. If I were a director, I’d demand something leather and cushy with wheels so my personal assistant could push me around the set. Sighing, I checked the mechanisms responsible for holding it open, making sure they were on the up-and-up before I slipped off my Birkis and clambered aboard. It wasn’t as bad as I expected, though I forced myself to remain as still as possible, just in case. A few minutes later Veronica arrived, Telephone now cranking at an unreasonable volume. I removed my T-shirt so she could cape-drape me, and while she worked on my eyelids I nodded off for a few seconds. The short spell was broken by her sternly warning me that if she had to start the process all over again because I’d been up late doing god knows what she’d make me look like one of the Kardashian sisters and that was the end of Maude’s Naptime Session. After makeup came hair, which was going to be all drawn up in a large bun that rested just above the nape of my neck, enclosed in a silver wire cage that was fastened in place with six large silver bobby pins. I couldn’t actually see anything other than the components as they came together, though, because Veronica insisted that I wait until I was fully dressed before looking at myself in the mirror. I managed to remove myself from the chair without incident after Veronica took off my cape, and then followed her instructions to strip down the rest of the way. We’d discussed underwear previously, deciding that a thong would be best, so I’d put a white silk one on this morning, not giving a single thought to the fact that my ass might bear bruises that were unmistakably the marks left by grabbing hands. I let my shorts fall to the floor, hoping there was nothing to see, but her snort as she looked my way after hanging the cape on its hook caused me to instantaneously abandon said hope.

“Well, well, well…you WERE up late doing god knows what, weren’t you?” She drew closer for a better look, emitted a low whistle, and I could feel my cheeks flush. “Honey, your man has some huge hands on him. Oy, I feel like I should cross myself or something for where my mind went next. Anyway. Let’s hope they don’t show through the fabric.”

“Oh my GOD do you really think…” I craned my neck in order to see her face, saw a wide smirk upon it, and realized that she was totally fucking with me. “Dude. Not cool. NOT. COOL.”

She grinned. “I know. I also know I should be sorry, but I’m not. Take that bra off while I get your gown out of its bag, please and thank you.”

My phone chirped, and I bent down to fish it out of the left front pocket of my shorts. It chirped three more times before I stood up and unlocked it, and for a moment my heart fluttered, wondering if another bout of ugliness awaited me. Thankfully, what I found were four messages from Melanie.

The Big Day is finally here! – Melanie

Everything is in place and just as it should be. Two videos to follow. See you soon! – Melanie

The first was of the ceremony site, white chairs on either side of the purple carpet facing the ocean and the arbor. We didn’t want an arch so we’d chosen a more minimalist, almost Oriental-style construct. It was rectangular, four thick, squared poles forming the bottom, connected at the top by two flush pieces at the sides, two extended beams across the front and the back. All had been painted white, the front and back beams wrapped with alternating purple and green fabric that draped down the sides. Large square glass containers had been fastened to the front poles using three strips of burnished silver sheet metal and filled with purple orchids, lady’s mantle, and flowering comfrey. More purple carpet lined the bottom of the structure, and she’d started filming at the far end and walked up the aisle and, of course, waterworks once again loomed. I closed my eyes, breathed in, then out, then again and again until I calmed down because, makeup. The second video was of the Paddle Room, and it was…perfect. Exactly as I’d specified, right down to the books specifically chosen for each table. Another message came through, and I exited the file to view it.

PS - don’t be concerned if you notice the cake isn’t included. That needs to be a surprise. – Melanie

I typed out a reply, my shaky hands making it extra challenging.

It’s all perfect. Totally perfect. Thank you so much for doing this. Amazing. Surreal. Everything. – Maude

Another chirp.

You are very, very welcome. So happy you’re happy! – Melanie

I put my phone away, bra still in place when Veronica returned. She rolled her eyes at me, and I undid the hooks and tossed it onto the chair. The mini-dress came first, followed by the silver gladiator sandals, then the maxi-skirt. Veronica sighed heavily, smiling.

“Maude, you are…breathtaking.”

My left eyebrow rose. “In a good way, or in a Seinfeld you’ve-got-to-see-the-baaaaaaaby way?”

“Come see for yourself, why don’t you?” She held out her left hand. “You have to close your eyes until we’re there so you get the full effect. I’ll lead you.”

“M’kay.” I reached for her, closing my eyes once I’d established a firm grip, silently hoping that this was indeed a simple walk to the mirror and not an instance of ‘surprise the bride’ because I was in no condition to handle that sort of fuckery.

After navigating what I assumed was the center area of the room Veronica stopped me, let go of my hand and turned me around, speaking only a single word.

“Open.”

I tilted my head downward and let my eyelids slowly lift until I was staring down into my own cleavage. Exhaling, I began to raise my head, higher and higher, and then…there I was. Maude Gallagher on her wedding day in her wedding dress ready for her wedding ceremony and wedding reception. She was me, but…not me. The woman in the mirror appeared to have just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine spread, and I found myself reaching out to touch her because that woman couldn’t be me, wearer of ancient T-shirts who sniffed items of clothing found on the floor to judge by scent if they were acceptable to wear just one more time before washing them. My fingers connected with the surface of the mirror and I gasped.

“It IS me. Holy. Fucking. Shit.” I heard laughter, but I was too busy studying my reflection to acknowledge it. Veronica had dressed me for my dinner at Daniel with Tom, and there had been some serious wow factor then for sure but this…she’d coordinated my eye shadow with the bridesmaid dresses, a gradient from purple to green starting at eyebrow level with a faint overlay of silver. The liner was black, and my lashes were darkened with black mascara, impossibly long and thick, yet somehow still appearing natural. On my lips was a shade of deep maroon-purple, again matching a component of the bridesmaid dresses, thinly lined with a dark green which should have looked awful but…didn’t. It worked, and worked well. Paired with the style dress I’d chosen and the silver-crowned bun, the overall effect made me feel like I could absolutely, positively land a role in the next Star Wars film as Leia’s progeny and that was right off the fucking charts, man. Right. Off. I turned to the woman with limitless talent next to me, shaking my head back and forth slowly.

“Veronica. VERONICA. VER. ON. ICA. You’re like…you’re a fucking SORCERESS. For real. Really. I can’t…I just…thank you. Thank you.”

She grinned, pointing her index finger at me. “You’re very welcome, dear darling Maude. Now don’t fuck it up before we go out there, okay?”

I snorted. “Listen, I’ll do my best, but you know the face probably won’t last through the ceremony and the dress is doomed to be destroyed at cake time, if not before. Better get some pics for your portfolio while you can, my friend.”

“I will. But first I have to make myself presentable.” She turned to Emma, Sarah, Trudy and Anne, all of whom had gathered behind me. “Ladies, please keep the bride out of trouble while I’m gone.” They laughed, nodding, and Veronica disappeared behind one of the screens just as Simon emerged from behind his own. He screeched at the sight of me, hands raised to shoulder height, palms facing me, fingers spread widely.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! OH MY GOD LOOK AT YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU! MAAAUUUUUUUUUUUDEEEEEEE! SPACE PRINCESSSSSSSSSSS!”

I screeched in return. “I KNOOWWWWWWWWWW! AND LOOK AT YOUUUUUUUU!”

He smirked as he spun in a circle. “I. AM. FABULOUS.”

“YOU ARE! SHOULD WE STOP SHOUTING?”

“PROBABLY!”

He air-kissed my cheek. “Poor Tom. I don’t think he’s prepared for this level of gorgeousis spectacularity.”

The thought that I’d soon be walking down the aisle with Simon at my side, seeing for myself just how prepared Tom was, took its place front and center in my mind, and as I assessed whether or not I’d be able to cope with such a thing, the realization that my father was absent in all of this slammed into me, and hard. My gaze turned toward the floor, and I closed my eyes tightly to shut out everything around me. He’d been gone for so long, and while I thought of him often, it was always briefly, the moment tinged with fondness for a memory, a touch of sadness, and a wish that he’d found peace. This time, it was fury, and a longing so intense it was physically painful. He’d left me alone in this world with a mother who had no love for me whatsoever, and he’d never know me as I was now, the woman I’d become, the things I’d accomplished, and on this day when I was celebrating the love I’d found, he was a corpse in a crypt in New Orleans when he should have been here, giving me away, sharing a father-daughter dance. He’d never know Tom, never know our children…and they’d never know him. I understood the why of what he’d done, but the fact that it, to me, his child, his ONLY child, felt like such a wasteful, selfish act was inescapable. He’d chosen himself over all else, including me, and here I was on my wedding day, with his death on my mind and threatening to override my happiness. Which I was NOT going to permit…too many moments had been stolen from me already. This was MY time now. And my life. And my god, what an amazing, beautiful life it had become. I swallowed, inhaled, exhaled, and then swallowed again, beating the sorrow and rage into submission. I felt hands grasp my forearms and I opened my eyes to find Simon staring at me, his own eyes full of worry, and when I smiled his face changed and he breathed a sigh of relief, his voice soft and low as he spoke.

“Want to talk about it?”

My head shook back and forth slowly. “Ghosts. I’m over it. Thank you.” I twisted my wrists so my hands could clutch his forearms, linking us like a snake eating its own tail. “Thank you for being willing to walk me down the aisle, Simon. It means so much to me, more than words can say. I love you. Like, a whole lot.”

He nodded, acknowledging that he understood, knowing me so well that what I’d been thinking about was perfectly clear to him. “You’re very welcome. I love you too. And bitch, if I cry and get droplet marks all over this very fine suit and ruin your wedding photos, that’s all on YOU.”

We both giggled, and just as I opened my mouth to explain to the women standing around me Melanie walked through the door and announced that we were fifteen minutes from go time.

****************************************

A row of white screens had been set up to one side of the ceremony site in order to block any possible viewing of me prior to my grand entrance. No one had seen the bridesmaid dresses yet either, but apparently no one was concerned about ruining that surprise because they were all allowed to peek around the barrier and comment on how incredibly handsome Tom looked, and also how he was fidgeting more than a kindergartener who needed to use the bathroom but didn’t want to miss story time. As part of his sound system, Sammy had set up a microphone at the far end of the site and outdoor speakers throughout, and I could hear strains of native Hawaiian music, though it was muted by the pounding of my own heart in my ears. Instead of using the traditional walk-in song, I’d decided to go with a version of Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ that I’d seen on YouTube…any version moved me to tears, but this one made me sob like a baby. Which, in hindsight, might not have been the wisest choice…but it was so beautiful, and the timing was perfect. It was an orchestral performance in a town square, starting with one lone bass player, with additional groupings being added as the piece progressed. The faces of the crowd were full of enchantment and wonder in the video, experiencing the sound of notes put together by someone long ago in the present and amongst other humans, all feeling…well, just FEELING. That was the point. In the moment, in harmony, so ALIVE. As Melanie signaled for everyone to line up, the Hawaiian music stopped, and in the silence that followed I tried to imprint the moment, the quiet, the before…and then the sound of the bass began to resonate, and it was really, truly go time. The wedding party would have the duration of the instrumental portion to reach their places, and Simon and I would start our walk when the soft chorus began, hopefully reaching Tom and Luke, whom we’d decided should remain at Tom’s side since Simon would be with me, just in time for the pause point before the escalating chorus and finale began. Ken and Anne were first, followed by Ben and Veronica, Chris and Trudy, Guillermo and Sarah, then Hugh and Emma. Simon proffered his right arm for me to hold, and I shifted the bouquet of purple orchids and lady’s mantle to my right hand in order to take his arm with my left. We rounded the corner just as the singing began, and all of our guests rose from their seats as I took my first step forward, then froze in place as I witnessed Tom’s knees buckle at the sight of me, Luke grabbing him by the elbow in an attempt to steady him. Simon tilted his head sideways in order to whisper in my ear.

“Don’t freak out, honey. You can do this. Keep. Moving.”

And I did. I don’t know HOW, but I did. Everything and everyone other than Tom was a blur, our guests, the wedding party lined up, Tom’s chosen people on the left, mine on the right, the judge, all of it…except for my husband, who was already my husband, but not yet my husband as far as anyone else was concerned. There he was, in his black suit and white dress shirt with a purple waistcoat I knew I’d see more of later when he ditched the jacket to dance, his silver pocket square jutting out in a perfect triangular point, black patent shoes practically glowing in the sun. I watched him shake his head and mouth the words ‘oh my god’ over and over before he smiled at me, the tears in his eyes threatening to spill over, followed by a hand across his mouth, then a silent ‘I love you’ and a grin that grew ever wider as I drew nearer. And then there I was, with Simon releasing my arm and Tom taking my hand in his, not even noticing that my bouquet had somehow gone missing when I raised my right hand to wave like a child at my beautiful man and managed to squeak out a single word.

“Hi.”

He waved back, voice cracking as he returned the greeting. “Hi.”

I heard a whooshing sound and briefly thought I was dying, then realized the noise had been everyone sitting back down in their chairs. The judge cleared his throat, and we turned to face him, backs to our guests. Today he was wearing a proper suit, which startled me because my addled brain had been expecting the tuxedo T-shirt. It was dark green linen, with a white shirt and bow-tie, and I wondered if it was a coincidence that he coordinated with our color scheme or if Melanie had requested that he do so. He smiled at us, then began speaking.

“We gather today in this place of sea and sky and sand and sun to join the couple who stand before me in matrimony. That word, it’s a significant word, an important word, but what it represents is most meaningful…two individuals who feel a profound connection between them, both physically and spiritually, a connection from which stems a deep and abiding love so powerful that the two seek to become one. To become… a family, not to which they’re born, but one which they choose to create.” He paused briefly, then continued. “Thomas William Hiddleston and Maude Gallagher, is it your wish to marry each other on this day, June 29th, 2016?”

We nodded, speaking in unison. “Yes.” The urge to say ‘absofuckingloutely’ had been overwhelming, and I was super proud of myself for exercising some self-control.

“Then let us proceed. It is my understanding that you’ve prepared your own vows?” Another nod from both of us. “Please turn and face each other. May I have the rings?”

After panicking for several very long seconds because I had no idea how we were handling that bit for this ceremony, I spotted Luke stepping forward and passing them to the judge, who in turn gave Tom’s to me. I sighed in relief, having hoped that’s how it would play out this time around as well. I reached for Tom’s left hand, which I’d released as we’d turned, and grasped it with my own, pretending to wipe sweat from my brow with my right hand.

“Well thank the universe for small favors…I SO didn’t want to have to try and come up with something after this one had a chance to speak. “ I hooked my right thumb in his direction, noting the soft chuckles that emanated from our friends and family as I met Tom’s gaze. “One year ago, I drove out to Talk Story because I, book nerd that I am, couldn’t resist the prospect of maybe, just maybe, finding that long-sought first edition of The Gunslinger. I didn’t…not that time, anyway…but I did find One Hundred Years of Solitude. Which, looking back, is so over the top ridiculous, because…that’s what the life I’d lived before that day feels like since you appeared in those stacks, trying to go all incognito and using a certain bullwhip-toting archeology professor’s name as your alias. Up until then, to me, you were that incredibly talented actor whose social media accounts I used as an example of what NOT to do in my lectures. But in your presence, seeing you, then and there…gotta be honest, I kinda lost the plot for a few seconds.” A round of laughter from our guests ensued. “Which was, you know, totally unacceptable. No thank you, hard pass, Maude is better off alone. But then you followed me outside, and then you KNELT on the sidewalk in front of me…deep down, I knew I was a goner when I let you have one of my Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup peanut butter cookies, but my jadedness persisted. For like, a few hours. And that night, in my hotel room…which is now OUR hotel room…when you tucked me into bed and spent the night…when you stayed…that was that. There you were, the other half of my soul, and finally, I’d been made whole.” I’d managed to not cry, but tears were running freely down his cheeks. “So, Dr. Jones…are you ready for the life-long adventure of being my husband? I don’t have an Ark or a Holy Grail, but I’m pretty good in bed, and I promise to love you with all that I am and all that I’ll ever be.”  

He nodded, wiping away tears with his free hand. “I do love a grand adventure…and I’ve never been more ready for something in all my days.”

I turned his left hand over, opened my right one, then slipped the band onto his left ring finger. “Well then, with this ring, I thee wed. Off we go!”

Tom let go of my hand in order to hold his up high, grinning proudly as he moved it slowly back and forth to show off his new accessory to the crowd before turning his attention back to me, taking hold of my left hand, then bringing it to his lips and placing a gentle kiss on my knuckles. The judge placed my ring in Tom’s open right palm, his fingers closing tightly around it as he stared into my eyes, and I knew the vows he’d planned on using had gone right out the window, because he was re-writing them right then, crafting with his heart and soul words that would likely echo my sentiments. Following a slight nod that indicated he was satisfied, he began to speak.

“One year ago, I drove out to Talk Story to pick up a book I hoped would assist me in playing a role. I was in a rush, as Luke had scheduled a meeting I wasn’t expecting. In an attempt to avoid being recognized, which would have slowed me down and made me late for, as I’m sure Luke will confirm, the millionth time, I donned a baseball cap and Hawaiian print shirt as a rather crude disguise. When I walked through the door and saw the staff wearing Loki shirts, I panicked…and then, I saw you. And, like you, I lost the plot. It was as if the heavens had opened up and the sun shone on you and you alone, lighting my way. I followed the path, finding myself standing behind you, thoroughly unable to form words as I watched you choose your books so very carefully. When you spun around I thought you might slap me, but instead, you recognized me, understood my plight, and solved my problem. When you called me Indy…well, how could I NOT follow you outside and beg for your number?” I snorted. “I was completely bent out of shape that I had to leave in order to make that damn meeting, which I had no desire to attend in the first place, because all I wanted to do was be near you, to talk to you, to get to know you. The entire ride back to this side of the island all I thought about was you, and I was telling Luke that this was it, you were THAT woman, MY woman, as we walked into Kauai Pasta and…there you were. You were the person Luke had set up the meeting with. Of all the people in this world, it was you. Over the next few hours, I fell in love with you at least a hundred times, each instance pulling me deeper and deeper until we parted company and…I couldn’t bear it, so I turned up at your door practically in the middle of the night with tea and truffles. And later, when I stayed…I knew I never, ever wanted to leave. In seeking out something to help me play a make-believe role I’d already been cast in, through some miraculous alignment within the universe, here I am stepping into the real-world role of a lifetime, the one I was born for…that of being husband to you.” I’d managed to swallow back my sobs, but hot tears were dripping down and off my nose. “So, Ms. Gallagher…are you ready for the life-long adventure of being my wife? I’ve no Sankara stones or crystal skull, but I’ll always have truffles at the ready, and I promise to love you with all that I am and all that I’ll ever be.”  

I nodded. “You had me at truffles. Plus, you’re really good in bed. Sign me up and let’s roll, baby.”

He turned my left hand over, opened his right one, then slipped the band onto my left ring finger, absent of my engagement ring, which was currently residing on my right hand. “Well then, with this ring, I thee wed. Off we go!”

We looked to the judge, who had placed both hands in front of his chest, palms together. “By the power vested in me by the state of Hawaii, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

There was no waiting for permission…our lips were locked before he even finished his sentence, and if it weren’t for Simon poking me in the ribs we would have missed our exit cue. Ode to Joy’s divinely loud chorale had begun, and Tom and I started upon our first official walk as husband and wife, our guests all on their feet, applauding, cheering, and whistling as we worked our way to the white screen, where we waited for the rest of the wedding party to join us. When the tempo sped up, they ran towards us, and Tom picked me up by my waist and spun me around…it was such an incredible moment, a happy moment, the kind you want to freeze frame and go back to again and again, one you wouldn’t mind having as your very final thought on this earth. And then, it was over in a flash as I desperately signaled for him to put me down, making my way behind the screen just in time to barf on the impeccably groomed green grass.

Just as it had the day before, my stomach purged itself until it was empty, and afterward I felt perfectly fine. Tom surrendered his pocket square so I could wipe my mouth, and while I dabbed at my lips I noticed no one else was around. He placed a hand on my bare back, smiling softly.

“I shooed them back around the screen. Figured you wouldn’t want an audience.”

“Thank you. That was…bizarre. Have I reached that age where spinning makes you puke? But I wasn’t spinning yesterday, that was stress…so, is EVERYTHING going to make me puke now? Or is it a stomach virus? Because I was really queasy earlier before I ate.” I looked down at my dress, and the mess I’d left on the ground. “Well that’s disgusting. Sheese. But, the dress appears to be unscathed so, commence picture time. Though I’d kinda like to bush my teeth or at least rinse, and I guess I could use some more lipstick…”

“Why don’t we go back to your dressing area so you can freshen up?” His smile was still the same, which struck me as odd, and I felt my mind wander into ‘oh my god is there something really wrong with me and I’m the only one who doesn’t know it’ territory. I nodded, and he kissed my cheek. “I’ll go let everyone know we’ll be back in a bit – they can head in to the Paddle Room with the guests, then come back out when we’re ready to do group shots before our session with the media.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

When he returned from around the screen I could discern from his expression that something was absolutely up, which made me freak out even more. He took my hand and we walked the short distance to the Hokulea suite in silence. After we were inside, he went into the kitchen, grabbed a Coke from the fridge, then sat on the sofa to our left and motioned for me to sit down next to him. I did so, as carefully as possible, suddenly dying of thirst and wanting what was in that can more than anything else I could think of. He popped the top and passed it to me, and I drank three-quarters of it a few long, loud gulps then wiped my lips with the back of my hand.

“This is so COLD and so GOOD. Mmmmm.”

Tom’s hand came to rest on my knee, his eyes first staring downward, then lifting to meet mine. “Maude, I’ve…over the past month or so…I...I’ve observed some…changes…in your behavior, and now, over the past two days, there’s been a physical manifestation…” The world started to dim around me, and I could feel my internal temperature rising as panic washed over me. “I just…I didn’t know how to broach the subject, so I haven’t and I still don’t know but…I think need to ask you a question and…well…have you been…are you…you know…late?”

My brow crinkled as my head tilted to the left. “Late? I don’t…what does that…late with, like, what? Or do you mean slow on the uptake or something, to which I’d respond with a resounding yes but I thought it was all the pressure but do you think I have dementia or a brain tumor or something? It’s okay, just say it…”

“Oh no. No, no, no.” He slid closer to me so our legs were touching. “Your period. Have you been late with your period. I know you’ve been expecting it, and it hasn’t arrived, and when I thought back, I don’t recall you having it for quite some time, so…”

Shaking my head, I put my Coke down on the floor. “By a few days, maybe. But my cycle’s been wacky since I went off the pill. Christ, you scared the SHIT out of me.”

He swallowed, wondering, I imagined, how to proceed because he obviously thought differently. I counted to ten silently, because for some reason I was fast on my way to becoming pissed off, then put my hand over his.

“Tom, I know, I can’t stand waiting for it to happen either, but it’s on my calendar and everything. I’ll go get my phone.”  I stood, then walked back to where my shorts were bunched up on the floor and dug the device out of my left front pocket. As I sat back down on the couch, I pulled up my calendar and swiped back to May. “Yep, there it is. May 27th. So yeah, I’m technically late but I went 21 days in March and then 32 in April or something, so…” And then I swiped back to April. And then I swiped back to March, then back to April. Then to May, then back to April. And then, my jaw dropped open and I REALLY started to freak the fuck out. He just sat there, expressionless, while I tried to wrap my head around what I was seeing.

“I…I…I can’t believe this. April. There’s nothing there. No data. Not. There. I think…I think I…now that I’m like, really THINKING about it, it does seem like it’s been a while since I bought pads and I think maybe I put April’s dates on the May grid and that means May was period-less and that means…I’m late. Like late…enough. Wow. WOW. This is CRAZY. Tom. TOM. I thought you were hallucinating or whatever and here I am trying to prove you wrong but you’re like, not wrong, I don’t think. Okay. We can’t be sure until I take a test, right? And I don’t think I can wait until after the reception to know. I need to know. Oh my god. CRAZY. Can I sneak out of here in this outfit and go to the drug store around the corner without anyone recognizing me, do you think?”

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning up just slightly. “No, I don’t think that’s possible. Honestly, I don’t know how we’re even going to send Luke or Simon or someone else we’re comfortable discussing this with to purchase a pregnancy test what with the media lurking all over. Even if they’re dressed in casual clothing.”

We were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Melanie Hale’s voice, inquiring softly.

“Maude? Tom? Is everything all right?”

Tom and I looked at each other, and I gave him a double thumbs up. She was a local, not as overly-adorned as the rest of us, and the press had no clue who she was yet since we hadn’t mentioned her on social media as part of our effort to keep the wedding details under wraps. And, since she’d not mentioned a blessed thing either, I had complete faith in her ability to keep a secret. I shouted for her to come in, and when she saw us sitting down she placed one hand over her heart and said some seriously magic words.

“If there’s something I can do to help, anything…please, feel free to ask.”

My face scrunched up as I spoke. “Weeellll…now that you’ve mentioned it, there is this one thing…”

****************************************

After hunting down the lipstick shade Veronica had applied earlier and giving myself a fresh coat, I texted Simon and told him we were ready to have the bridesmaids and groomsmen join us back at the ceremony site for photos. Focusing on the task at hand was nearly impossible, my mind preoccupied with images of Melanie walking into a store, choosing a pregnancy test, paying for it, driving back to the hotel, then sneaking up to our room, using the key we’d given her to enter, and leaving it behind along with what she’d purchased as we’d planned. I attempted to estimate how many more shots the photographer would likely require before this session was declared complete and we were permitted to move on to the next one, all the while attempting to portray myself as a woman who’d just wed the love of her life, which I was…but now I was ALSO a woman who might be carrying his child, and trying to disguise the fact that the anticipation of confirming such a thing was driving me insane turned out to be a wickedly difficult challenge. Finally, it was over, and Tom and I headed to the same room the press conference had been held in yesterday to pose for the media outlets, all of whom had complied with our requests. A large backdrop had been positioned at the front of the room, a medium-grey gradient that was typically the first choice whenever someone specified ‘not the blue one’. They’d structured their positioning and rotation on their own, so all Tom and I had to do was smile and shift around to add some variety. One photog yelled ‘dip her!’ and I held my breath during the act, hoping I wouldn’t throw up at such an inopportune time. I didn’t, and even managed to spin around a little in order to make my skirt flare out without any repercussions. Tom had set his phone alarm, and when it went off, we thanked the group for respecting our wishes, then exited via the side door, closed it behind us, and held hands as we walked to the stairwell and up to our room. He released me to slide the keycard, and I followed him inside, then pushed past him to get to the gift bag on the bed. There was a card attached, written in Melanie’s overly-rounded cursive.

“Got you a few different kinds – that’s what I’ve always done. Fingers crossed for you!”

Melanie’s definition of ‘a few’ was six, apparently, because that’s how many there were, along with three plastic shot-glass sized cups. That she’d thought to use a gift bag to bring it all into the hotel was a testament to her thoroughness, and I stopped to seriously consider offering to pay the entirety of their college tuition for her kids, then decided that if Tom and I got and kept her name out there she wouldn’t need any help with that. At all. Tom’s arms slipped around my waist from behind, and I leaned back into him.

“Maude, I hope you won’t be upset with me if…”

“I won’t be. I’ll be disappointed…BEYOND disappointed…but I’m glad you brought it up. I had no clue. None. It might have been another month or two before I noticed, and this way, if I’m not pregnant and something else is going on, we can address it sooner as opposed to later. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. Let’s do this. I hope I can use those cups to pee in, because the odds of me landing any on the actual sticks are slim to none.”

Four of the tests were supposed to show results in three minutes, the other two in five minutes. And yes, cup dipping was an acceptable substitute for stream-to-stick. Even still, I took off the maxi-skirt and hiked up my dress as far as possible before I went into the bathroom in order to avoid any unpleasantries…as any woman who’s ever endured a urine specimen collection will attest to, at best, you’ll wind up with a little on your hands. At worst, there will be none in the cup when you’re done and you’re back at square one. I was really grateful for that Coke and the length of time that had gone by since I chugged it, because I filled those cups like a fucking champ, handing them one by one to Tom, who placed them ever-so-gently on the counter. I finished my business, washed my hands, and we each dipped three tests, one in each cup, placed them on the other side of the counter in a tidy little row, then went out into the main area to wait. Neither of us spoke as we stood watching the countdown timer on Tom’s phone he’d set for five minutes click off the seconds, and when it reached the two minute marker I reached for his hand, my own shaking so badly I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hold on to him. He grabbed, then squeezed as he exhaled heavily.

“Are you ready?”

“HA – no, dude. No I am not. But I think they can give false results if you wait too long so…”

He nodded, and since we couldn’t fit through the door side by side, we closed our eyes until we were both inside the bathroom. His voice echoed off the walls as he spoke.

“All right, open on the count of three, then…one, two…THREE.”

I counted two sets of pink vertical lines, two sets of blue vertical lines, one grey plus sign, and one ‘pregnant’ that I’d later insist blazed in neon purple showing through the little plastic window. Six tests, six positives. I counted once more to be sure, blurting out the very first thing that came to mind.

“Oh my fucking god, Hiddleston. You did it. You knocked me UP.” I turned to take stock of his reaction, but his face wasn’t where it was supposed to be so I tipped my head downward and discovered that he’d sunk to his knees and was white as a sheet. My jaw dropped, and I put my hands on his shoulders. “Babe, are you okay? You don’t look okay. Talk to me.” His head lifted slowly, eyes blinking rapidly as he started at me, his mouth hanging halfway open, still silent. “Tom?”

He reached out and wrapped his arms around my hips, then pulled me close, resting his head on my lower belly. In which I was growing a tiny human. I felt my body go cold, and as I began to shudder Tom rose, shifted the tests to the side, then picked me up and plopped me on the counter top. He placed his hands on the sides of my face, leaning in so his forehead touched mine.

“You’re pregnant.”

I nodded, his head moving with the motion as well. “I’m…pregnant. Pregnant. Is this real? How can this be real? Who finds out they’re pregnant in the middle of their wedding? Seriously. I mean…I’m pregnant. I…I can’t believe it. I really didn’t think it would happen, you know? And it happened and it’s like one miracle on top of another and I just…” I began to sob, full-body, noisy, grateful sobs. Tom leaned back and gently pressed my head to his chest, smoothing my hair, and I could feel his body heaving as he sobbed right along with me. As much as I needed to be as close as possible to him right then, the desire to see him was greater, so I leaned back and grabbed his lapels, still weeping as I spoke. “We’re having a BABY.”

“Yes. Yes we are.” He smiled through his tears and began to sing. “You’re havin’ my baby…what a lovely way…”

I screeched and covered my ears. “NO OH MY GOD NO TOM NO I HATE THAT SONG…”

He laughed, which made me laugh as well…at least until I remembered we had a reception to attend, and pondered if we should keep this news to ourselves, and, if we went that route, precisely how we were going to do such a thing while surrounded by all the people we’d be dying to tell.

[thetradeway]

Session 30: Jan 30 2021 An opportunity for Dwarven gumption

I’m late in, they all got there ahead of me. Mina is hungry, apparently. Also she has a bottle of cider.

Ed has been thinking about last week’s session; we beat the boss lady and followed a dog into a dungeon, but we haven’t actually asked Melaina why she was imprisoned by an elf lady.

Melaina: “That’s just how I roll.”

What were we doing? Oh yeah, still looking for Raeph. Kessler threatens to make tracking devices and inject us all with them; I’m not entirely sure why.

We move west after a bit of an argument. We find ourselves back outside; it is dark. Gideon uses his wily dwarven stonecraft to see if there is anything unusual about the stones here. Looking at the way they are broken; it was part wear-and-tear, but he also thinks they have been singed by some kind of spell. Gideon inspects further with an 11 (plus Guidance). It was definitely some kind of fire magic - more intense burning than a standard fireball.

Ahleqs has heard tale of Hellfire; he informs us through trembling lips that it burns more intensely than ordinary fire magic. Gideon is angry with himself for not knowing that. Melaina finds some doors back in the corridor we just left. She has gone out for a cigarette but Gideon is certain that she would check for traps. She checks, but does not find any.

Gideon and Gunna decide that we want to check further. Gunna wiggles the doorhandle. DM asks him to roll 2D8; oh no.

He rolls 11 total - it could have been worse apparently. A spectral hand reaches out through the door to grasp him; he takes 11 necrotic damage and a level of exhaustion. Ah shit! Ahleqs remembers that he has Mage Hand. He’s been using it to turn the pages of the books he reads when he wants to take a sip of his coffee, apparently.

Gideon wants to know about sources of Hellfire; devils and demons - mostly. Sometimes evil mages can wield it. Melaina goes for the door with her Mage Hand - but it is locked. The spectral hand doesn’t trigger again, so she is fairly certain that it is spent. She picks the lock.

And we roll initiative - huh??

Melaina swinging the door open isn’t especially stealthy, it turns out.

Popcorn is first; he rushes in, hates what he sees, can’t reach it so readies an attack. Tarragon comes forward but can’t see anything, so she readies a Thorn Whip.

Kessler throws some lightning at whatever it is, hitting with a 25. The creature shrieks as it is hit with 11 points of lightning damage. She shoots at it again with a 14 which also hits for 5 points of lightning damage. She uses her movement to back up, calling the creature a dick.

It’s another dretch, apparently. It shrieks and rushes at Melaina, past Popcorn who unleashes his attack and kills it. It skids along the floor, dead, fetching up at Melaina’s feet. Fucking hilarious.

There’s not many places to hide in there so Melaina will simply shoot the remaining dretch, in a simple way. She one-shots it in spite of not having any sneak attack damage. She rushes forward toward the shiny chest in the room. Can she Mage Hand it?

Yes. How far back does she want to stand? Mage Hand has a 30 foot range but she’s quite excited about the contents so she stands 20 feet back. She tries to open it - it opens and the flagstone on the floor in front of it swings to one side revealing a pit trap with spikes at the bottom. She approaches the chest and peers inside.

Three healing potions, a coin purse containing 30gp and two matching daggers, as well as three gold buttons worth 3gp and 1sp each. She shares the money and pockets the buttons, telling us that she always had them. We admire them; they are very shiny.

This room was a store room at one point. Barrels and crates, but whatever was in them is long gone. It stinks in here, thanks to the dretches, and there is graffiti on the walls that makes us think that it was used as a prison cell at some point.

Ahleqs turns to the door opposite and has a waggle of the handle with his Mage Hand. As it touches the handle the spectral hand grabs at it but it passes right through. Ahleqs does a little shriek, and gives the hand the finger with his mage hand. The mechanism clicks and the trap is spent. Gunna slams a potion.

The door isn’t locked. Open the door and charge! Ahleqs opens it with the mage hand, and retreats to the second rank. More dretches!

Grease wizard rolls good and goes first. He’s the one that we want. (arf.) He does an Acid Splash. They roll a 20 and a 10 for their saves, and they are in no way resistant to acid. He melts off one of their toes.

Tarragon tries to wallop one and misses; it emits a Fetid Cloud. It then bites and swipes at her, but she bends over to throw up because of the stinky cloud and it misses her. Popcorn goes to rush in, sees the cloud and backs up. He don’t want none of that.

Kessler wisely fires from a distance, with her lightning launcher. It doesn’t do full damage, but the dretch is still on its last legs. She crouches down so anyone behind her can fire over her head. Gunna helpfully points out that she doesn’t need to do that. Sick burn. Zing!

Melaina natty 20s her attack and we are all caught in the splatter when she does 54 - that’s FIFTY FOUR - damage. Holy shit.

We open the chest - Melaina does it at a distance with her mage hand and a dart flies out, harmlessly missing everyone. Inside is some more money and a stylus; what is that exactly? It’s for an iPhone. Or a DS. (It’s actually a sort of inkless pen, used to scratch on stone or clay tablets.)

Well we’ve done west now, shall we do east? Joe goes for a coffee to give us time to plan. Or procrastinate!

We get into a discussion about Wee Jock’s bag of holding; he kept heads in it so every time he opened it it smelled like a burning zoo.

We go east - definitely not south - and find a dead end and some more doors. Neither Gunna nor Tarragon can afford another level of exhaustion so we hang back. Melaina Mage Hands it. As it touches, the door comes alive with electrical energy which then dissipates. She picks the lock. The door swings open - there is nothing living inside. Gideon pokes the chest with a quarterstaff - it rocks back and forth so he smacks it. Checking for traps, he finds a wire inside - he does an Acid Splash and melts the lock and the trap in one.

Gunna was wrong; clearly this was an opportunity for dwarven gumption. Having discovered a taste for melting things, Gideon has a go at the door further along the corridor, near the dead end. It doesn’t quite give; Melaina asks if he would like to stand back. The acid on the door melts her lock picks. Gideon boots the door with a nat 20. A small amount of wood flakes off the bottom. Kessler has a go but fails as well. Ahleqs is proficient because of his urchin background but doesn’t have any tools; he borrows Melaina’s and gets Guidance from Tarragon. He is impressed with the tools, and says he might get some of his own.

The door swings open. It takes Joe’s a computer a while to let him delete the doors; Ahleqs considers taking a level of rogue. He already wants to hide basically all the time, why not be good at it?

The door opens - we pile in. Behind is a corridor and some steps leading up. Around the corner at the top is a pit with bones in it - on the other side of the pit is a door. Ahleqs checks the ceiling. It’s too far away to see. Gunna looks at the door we passed; it’s definitely a door. He bends down to Naysa and offers her some jerky.

Ahleqs goes back to Gunna and the other door, and offers to Mage Hand it. More lightning.

Ahleqs: “Gunna, do you have any thieves’ tools?”

Gunna: “Uhhhh, I got a battle-axe…?”

Melaina Mage Hands the door across the pit; it opens. The pit is about ten feet wide, so most of us could jump it with a ten foot run-up. Trouble is, we only have five feet to run. There are no spikes in the pit, only bones. The skeletons are piecemeal, but none of the bones are broken.

Kessler decides to take a rope and take a flying leap. She rolls a 7 - with Guidance - for her athletics check, but just in time Melaina manages to pull the rope taut. She is now dangling into the pit, but takes no damage. We pull her out and she tries again and makes it this time.

Tarragon tries, but thanks to her exhaustion she fails miserably. Melaina tries to help but ends up dropping her. Finally she gets across but not until she’s taken four bludgeoning damage. Ow.

Gunna, lured by the siren song of treasure, is battering the door way back down the corridor by himself.

Kessler and Tarragon make Insight checks; it turns out we are back in the first room, where we started. Goddammit, Gideon!

Kessler and Tarragon trudge back around, not wanting to jump the pit again. We pass the monster behind the barrier. Tarragon at Disadv. alerts it; it can’t get to us any more than we can get to it, but it’s still fucking scary.

We meet up with Gunna and Ahleqs. Melaina opens another door, to reveal the first room again. There is one more door to check, and we haven’t been south yet either. Melaina mage hands the door, but flubs her sleight of hand to open it so Gunna uses his battle-key.

A male voice sounds from the other side - “Althea? Is that you? Just open the door!” he is speaking a strange dialect of elvish. Gunna wants to bum-rush this guy; Melaina suggests we just use our faces instead. Ahleqs opens the door - the man is devastatingly handsome and has horns, and Ahleqs falls instantly in love. Melaina tells him to get off, he’s hers.

(Hilariously, the picture Joe chose to represent this guy is Molly fanart. I love it.)

He sees us, goes “who the fuck fucked this?” and disappears. In his place appears a light that looks a lot like the barrier in the other room. It is an orb emitting light. It looks like it could twist, as it has two hemispheres. It looks easily smashed, and might be connected to the barrier that is holding back the demon.

Huh.

Ahleqs picks it up and adds ‘strange blue glowing orb, probably safe, nothing to worry about’ to his inventory.

(It is around now that we notice that Ed has dropped out of the Discord.)

The ceiling at some point has collapsed, blocking the way to the south.

Wait - the elves here took Melaina to impregnate her with demons. They want to continue their half-elf, half-demon species. Have they done the same with Raeph? What about the big-ass demon, is that the one that does the breeding? (Ahleqs thinks that as long as all parties are consenting then what’s the problem?) Are we saving Tarragon’s boyfriend, or interrupting his shag sesh with the demon?? We pause momentarily, suddenly uncertain how to proceed.

We decide to take a long rest with watches, since it appears that the only way forward is through the demon. We discuss long versus short rests; the DM suggests a long one so we very quickly make up our minds to do that.

Melaina remembers that these fey’ri are descended from House Dlardrageth. Also, Ed pops back in.

We decide to wait until next week to fight the demon but before we go the DM has Gideon and Ahleqs make arcana checks. They both roll real good, so next week anyone who picks spells, knows that demons are resistant to: ice, fire, lightning, and bludgeoning piercing and slashing damage from non magical weapons. They are also immune to poison damage and the poisoned condition. If Joe is telling us this, it’s because he thinks we might actually die this time. Oh shit...