#i dig through weird places in my search for rare content

[godsworstson]

i dont even know what to caption this, just bam and ryan being bam and ryan

[hex-obsession]

Silver Lining - Two

word count- 2,259

content warning- language, angst, indirect s**cidal thought

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Crows cawing, your eyes open just enough to hazily make out the all too familiar color of your room.

“Early bird gets the worm, you know,” a familiar voice murmurs. Pushing off the wall to your right, your body slides diagonally over your bed, your head dangling off the side. Upside down, Cheryl is slumped against your door frame, arms and legs crossed. Brazen as usual, just the way you loved her. You held your own in most regards but Cheryl was always there when you least expected it and needed her most. You swear there were a halo atop that adorable shaggy blonde head of hers. And not one of those tacky event items either.

“Like I’d get anything any time of day with all the birds around here.” A tickling squeeze builds in your abdomen, branching up your neck to your cheeks which now had a telling pink glow.

“So you gonna talk to old lover boy yet or what?”

You jolt forward and whip around fast enough to make any killer miss a swing. Your response is unnecessary as she’s already smirking devilishly, aware of what she’s doing. She might have been your closest friend but that did not stop her from tormenting you, or anyone else that crossed her path. All in good fun and love, of course. It went without saying that you enjoyed it and she knew when it was, rarely, time to pack it up.

Raising her eyebrows, she leans back and throws her hands up. “I’m just saying, if you don’t, you might lose your chance. That’s all I’m saying,” quieter now.

You sighed. She was right. You weren’t the only one who took a liking to Leon. But, unlike you, Yun-Jin did not hide her feelings, from anyone for any reason, ever. Of course, everyone thought he was charismatic and most, undeniably handsome. That was common knowledge. You ran out of things to talk about in a place like this, and secrets were few and far between. There was no reason to hide here. This was your foreseeable future, together. There was no getting out, no changing things. Being open and sharing everything together made your day to day bearable. The connections you lost in your old lives left gaping holes, but together as one tightly knit, weird, fucked up family, you helped fill the voids. Some took longer than others to accept that fate, and there were some inevitable hiccups, but everyone came around eventually.

Anyone who wasn’t blind could see the attraction Yun-Jin had for the newest addition to your group. Placing her hands on him in conversation whenever she got the chance, laughing a little too hard at the things he said, biting her bottom lip and smiling at him when he talked. You’d even caught her pecking his cheek playfully here and there. He’d always smile and look away, as if it were a game. Leon always had a sultry attitude to him, a ladies' man no doubt. Subtly flirting with everyone was just commonplace for him. That was part of the reason you held back. Fearing you missed your chance and someone else had filled the role you longed to be in. Maybe it was your fear of rejection or abandonment, or not wanting to lose something this important in a world as cruel and bare this. You were subconsciously working hard to convince him you were only a friend. Which you were, definitely friends. Close even, given the circumstances. Trauma bonding does one hell of a number to the timeline of friendship. Still, you sensed zero difference in his behavior toward you versus the others. Which, admittedly, was quite the letdown. Nonetheless, you had nothing to lose by casually admitting your feelings for him. Keep it light and airy and there would be no reason for things to change on the chance he didn’t feel the same. After all, you surely weren’t the only one with a harmless little crush. That’s all it was. Right? So what if you constantly day-dream about him holding you so close he might consume you, kissing you with four times the passion the Notebook tried to capture, never leaving your side regardless of what the future held. His taste, his smell… what his cock would feel like ramming into your cervix. Your brain was one giant knot, constantly distracting you and there wasn’t a single thing you could do about it. Except tell him, but keep it simple.

By your calculations, it was November 18th. You’d been keeping track, not sure if it made things better or worse. Your third anniversary in this place was not far off. Despite being a literal nightmare, it had its perks. Your need for food was no more, as well as your other bodily needs. Sickness was a quickly forgotten annoyance of the past. You stayed in this eerily perfect state. Makeup never crusty, hair never oily and always smelling of your favorite fruit. The dirt and blood you’d acquire during trials magically disappeared upon return. You had a handful of outfits to rotate but there was no real need. Another upside, there were no severe temperatures here. Jackets, shorts, sandals, snow boots if you were Nea. You were always mostly comfortable. Even on Ormond where snow blanketed the ground, those gusts of wind should have sent chills right through you, but they didn’t. It felt like living in a dream or a, simulation. Just, where you’re hunted all day and night for the rest of your existence. At least death wasn’t permanent. Sometimes you’d wish it was, just to escape.

Several months have passed since Leon and Jill were introduced to your world. You had inside jokes and more close calls than you could both count. You were a damn good team and got along smoother than melted butter. What were you waiting for? You inhaled sharply and broke your stare out the window.

“I’m gonna do it.”

To no avail, your deep breaths failed to remedy the painful pounding in your chest, or the heat radiating from your face. Nevertheless, you marched out to the campfire to seek out Yun-Jin. As selfish as you wanted to be with Leon, she was your friend, and you held that in high regard. She was easy to spot in a crowd given her loud attire, but wasn’t around the fire. Which lead to your next realization; neither was Leon. Your throat tightened, heart still pounding. You set off a little too quickly to find her, or them. First stop was Ace’s shack. Judging based on appearances, you figured he would be one of the last people she associated with. Quite the opposite, they were dear friends. Not connected at the hip per se, like her and Claudette, but they related to one another's childhoods. Trauma bonding, can't beat it. To your dismay, the shack was empty, a seed of despair planting in your stomach. Maintaining the most convincing composure you could, you continue your search. Heading left down the line of shacks, robust laughter grows closer. You’d know that laugh anywhere. Cutting through the row, David and Felix are reclined under a tree. They were one of the few monogamous couples among you. The others being Nancy and Steve, and Adam and Zarina. You understood the allure of being romantically involved with more than one person, especially given your less-than-ideal situation, but it wasn’t for you.

“Hi y/n!” Felix shouted toward you.

Not wanting to stop and chat given your current objective, you flashed a cheeky smile and waved to them. Before they could get another word out, you dipped back behind the row of houses. Nerves getting the best of you, you parted your lips to breathe through your mouth. Every breath burned your lungs, realizing now all the times you brushed off your feelings have come back to haunt you. You should never have waited this long. At this point you would be more than willing, desperate, to share Leon. Refusing to let your anxiety get the best of you, you ball your fists and dig your nails into your palms to get a grip on yourself. There was one more place they could possibly be. A sliver of premature acceptance wedged itself into your train of thought as you trudged toward your own shack. Leon’s was adjacent to yours. Feeling foolish for not checking earlier, you round the corner to the opening. As much as you wish you could close your eyes, they were pinned open with anticipation. Looking up from your feet you were shocked to see an empty room before you. Relief and confusion replace your foreboding. Too much time had already been wasted, so you return to the campfire.

“Hey, have you seen Leon or Yun-Jin anywhere?” you, as calmly as possible, ask Élodie.

“They got pulled a little bit ago babe.” She was intently focused on Jane, her concentration not broken. “Which do you like more, up or down?” her gaze still fixated on Jane.

You have to either keep the courage you finally mustered until they get back or give yourself emotional whiplash by releasing until they do. You hesitate for a moment, but to hide your disappointment you quickly retort, “Up, definitely up. Gotta distract the killer with that beautiful face you know?”

“Like they're looking at her face and not that dumptruck ass!” Élodie howls. Jane facetiously puts her fingertips to her chin and looks upward, a façade of innocence no one here would ever buy. You can't help but giggle despite your inner turmoil.

“Well hey,” you add through chuckles, “when they're back can you please send her my way?”

“Sure thing babe,” Élodie assures, finally turning to meet your gaze.

A horrible nauseating mix of dismal, relieving, lewd thoughts of Leon swirl in your mind as you wait for Yun-Jin to step into the doorway. You knew you liked him but holy shit, where did this come from? The realization slapped you in the face. Try to blame infatuation all you want, not that you did, but it was so painfully evident now you were dumbfounded.

A soft knock jerked you out of your thoughts. “Hiya y/n, what's going on?”

Her delicate eyes effortlessly comforted you from across the room.

“I...” your eyes now glued to the floor beneath your feet, a reservoir of tears barely being held back, “I need to know how you feel about Leon.” Your nerves went haywire just uttering his name to her. An icy splash of chills surged from your head to your feet as your chest panged with dread.

“Well of course I like him,” her brow furrowed ever so slightly.

All that could escape your mouth was, “Oh.” Emptiness, despair replacing the jealous unease you felt before. Tears streamed down your cheeks uncontrollably, feelings that danced around menacingly finally coming to a head.

At the sight of your distress, she rushed to sit next to you. “Honey, what’s going on?” her voice barely above a whisper.

You were ashamed for breaking down in front of her, afraid of guilting her for something that was not her fault, and now terrified Leon might follow her here, only to find you undone over him. You jerk your head up to face her and blurt out, “Jinny I think I love him,” face sopping wet with untouched tears.

She raises her eyebrows and smiles at you. “Honey I have fun toying with him all in good nature but there’s no connection there.” Your heart thuds against your ribcage. “Sure, I’ll admit he’s attractive, who wouldn’t, but I have nowhere near the same feelings for him that you evidently do.” She uses both hands to cup your face and pushes as much wetness as she can aside with her thumbs. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? Not only to me but to him!” Despite being similar in age, she feels like a mother to you. Caring for a child, your own or not, will do that to you. That’s not a trait you lose over time.

“I’m so afraid,” you softly whimper, “of what he would say, what you would say.” You're picking at your cuticles, a habit you acquired during puberty as an outlet for your overwhelming feelings.

She wraps her arms around you, carefully as to not tarnish her jacket with tears, which would definitely stain the material. “I was just having a little fun, and from what I’ve gathered, he was more so allowing it than participating. You know I love you all to death but I’m not looking for anything like that, definitely not here.” She gives you a squeeze, and suddenly you can breathe again, the air around you no longer dense and difficult to swallow. “Honey, go get him.”

“Oh Jesus, let me fix myself a little first at least,” the sudden relief causing you to laugh involuntarily.

You were grateful disease and ailments didn’t exist outside of the trials, if they had you're sure you would've had an aneurysm from the stress you went through in a matter of an hour. Yun-Jin left you to your thoughts, which were now solely you and Leon together, doing anything and everything you could think of. The rest of the day you contemplated telling him, more so, how to. Thankfully you didn’t have any trials together, you were far too disorganized for that right now. “Tomorrow,” you promise yourself. Nothing like a clear head and a night’s rest to help you be your most collected, confident self.

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Silver Lining masterlist

[ladyrivia]

Spitfire (Chapter Two)

Previous Part

Summary: Anya settles into her new environment, Carrillo and Pena continue to pine over her.

Warnings: Google Translate Spanish, guns, sexual thoughts

Anya gently shut the door, laying down and finally allowing herself to rest after hearing the click of Carrillo’s door down the hall. She closed her eyes, listening to the faint sound of the shower starting from the master bathroom. Getting comfortable she--

“Fuck,” Anya groaned, remembering her sleepwear was in her bag, in Carrillo’s car. Which was locked, and his keys with him in his room. He said I could get him if I needed anything. Plus I wouldn’t mind the sight of him shirtless.. Maybe more than shirtless. She smirked at the thought for a moment before clapping her hand over her face, dragging her hand down and holding her jaw. Stop it. You’re going to be working together. You can’t make it weird. Releasing the hold, Anya took off her jeans, folding them and setting them on a chair in the room before wrestling off her bra from under her shirt, throwing it on top of the neatly folded jeans.

Anya eventually sprawled out under the blankets and comforter, the warm embrace of the bed soothing her aching muscles. She found herself quickly succumbing to sleep, but she could’ve sworn she heard footsteps approaching her room and the door creaking open.

Carrillo couldn’t help himself, his mind completely taken over by the thought of the woman sleeping down the hall. He found his mind lingering on her big brown eyes, the blush that would creep up on her face, the way her jeans hugged her curves, the cut in the shirt being the perfect length to reveal her cleavage. Para. Stop. He felt blood rushing to his newly formed erection, fist clenching in an attempt to regain composure.

He rushed to finish scrubbing the sweat and grime off his body, then cranked the water temperature to as cold as it could go. His muscles tightened in retaliation, but he accomplished his goal of getting rid of his erection.

Changing into his sweatpants, he realised that he had left her bags in his car. Cursing under his breath, he stalked to the guest bedroom, quietly opening the door. He found Anya already asleep, her hair forming a halo around her head on the pillow and her face looked so peaceful. Espere. Wait. Carrillo found himself standing in the doorway, watching her sleep like a creep. ¿Para qué estaba aquí de nuevo? What was I here for again? His eyes focused on the dimly moonlit chair, seeing her jeans and bra sitting on top.

Carrillo felt a bit guilty about forgetting her bags, but she seemed perfectly content in her stripped down day clothes. He softly shut the door and returned to his room, shuffling into his bed. Normally he would have trouble falling asleep, the constant pressure from his job keeping his brain from shutting off, but remembering the soft features of the new agent, sleep found him quickly.

~

Javier didn’t stop cursing himself all to the store around the corner from the apartment building. Idiot. Fucking forgetting to set up her furniture. He continued mentally kicking himself as he picked up multiple cartons of his, and seemingly Anya’s, favorite brand of cigarettes, along with a couple bottles of whiskey. Least he could do is prepare her a DEA Agent welcome basket.

Returning to his apartment, he searched for the notepad which he had written down the storage locker number, lock combination, and her apartment number. Shit. Her apartment was the one right next to his, which had been empty for as long as he had remembered. The storage locker was close to the embassy, Anya having shipped her furniture down to the Southern Americas long before her arrival in Columbia.

Javier sat in his bed for a moment, formulating the plan of how he was going to move her furniture while smoking yet another cigarette. Satisfied, he kicked off his clothes and quickly fell asleep, dreaming of his new partner.

~

Anya ran down the hallway, sweat running down her face even though the cold air whipped around her in the abandoned warehouse. Her gun was drawn, pointed at the ground as she continued to run to the last door, kicking it down. A gasp left her throat when she saw her partner, Ethan, tied up to a chair, badly beaten and bleeding. She quickly ran towards him, kneeling before the chair he was bound to. “Ethan, oh Ethan.” She set her gun on the ground and brushed the bloody and matted hair away from his face, looking into his almost dead eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but the only thing she heard was the cocking of a gun behind her.

Anya gasped and sat straight up in bed, a sheen of cold sweat covering her entire body. Her eyes darted around the room, confused by the new surroundings. Memories of the previous night flooded back to her. Flight. Embassy. Bar. Carrillo. Anya looked at the alarm clock, 07:00. 7AM. She sighed, the nightmare had jostled her nerves. A shower would be nice.

“No bag, no clothes. Of course.” Another sigh escaped her lips as she shuffled out of bed, her bare legs being exposed to the morning light. She felt bad for going through his things, but she really didn’t feel like putting yesterday’s clothes back on to go ask him to get her stuff for her. Bingo. Anya found an old pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt in the closet.

She was pleased to find the guest shower already filled with toiletries, taking the extra time to scrub the remnants of long travel off her body. Exiting the shower, Anya encountered another problem, she had no clean panties. She shrugged. Guess we’re going commando for now.

Carrillo woke up shortly after Anya, hearing the shower from the guest room turn on. He quickly got out of bed and got dressed, mornings were always easy for him, whether it was years of conditioning from in the military or just naturally being a morning person. Today was a rare day, having the morning off. He shuffled to the kitchen, deciding to make breakfast for him and his new favorite agent.

~

“Steve, wake your ass up!” Javier pounded on his partner’s door.

“The hell do you want?” Steve muttered as he opened the door, his appearance disheveled by sleep.

“Need your help moving Donato’s stuff in.” He cut off Steve’s groans of protest. “You accused her of being a prostitute yesterday, the least you can do is help me get her stuff set up.” Javier purposely said this part a bit loud, so Connie would hear.

“Steve!” Connie came up behind him, swatting him on the shoulder. “You didn’t tell me that!” Steve muttered something of an apology to his wife. “Quit whining and help Javi move her stuff in.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll help you Javi, just give me a damn minute.” Javi snickered after Steve shut the door in his face, boy was he whipped.

“Don’t forget your keys! We’ll need to use your truck!”

~

Anya smelled something delicious cooking when she exited the shower, following the scent, she left the guest room and found Carrillo in the kitchen. Her footsteps were quiet, quiet enough he didn’t turn around when she stood in the doorway of the kitchen. She took the sight of him in, his uniform tight over the muscles of his arm and his back. After a minute, he finally turned around to grab something from the kitchen island, noticing her.

He had to stop himself from dropping his jaw open, and suddenly all the guilt from leaving her bags in the car was gone. He would do it again to see her in his clothes again. They were definitely too big for her, his t-shirt reaching her mid thighs and the extra length of the sweatpants pooled at her feet. Carrillo chewed the inside of his cheek when he felt his erection return.

“Morning,” Anya played it off as if she did not stare at him for a minute. “Smells fantastic, what are you making?” She sat in a chair opposite of where Carrillo was standing at the island.

“Huevos revueltos con tomate y cebolla,” Scrambled eggs with tomato and onion. He pointed to one pan. “And arepas.” He pointed to another pan, switching back to english.

“Anything I can help with?”

“No, just make yourself comfortable. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.” He poured her a cup, leaning over the island to set it infront of her. The creamer and sugar were already on the island, over to the side. Anya fixed her coffee the way she liked it, extra cream and regular sugar.

“That is a disgrace to coffee.” Carrillo commented when he saw the milky color in her mug.

“Bite me.” Anya took a long sip of her drink. “I suffer with the shitty coffee at the office, at least let me enjoy it the way I like it here.” Her accent slipped again, rolling her eyes when his lips twitched up in amusement when he heard it. A moment of comfortable silence passed between the two.

“I like your clothes, where’d you get them?” Anya gaze fixed on him with a glare, but with a hint of amusement sparkled in her eyes. Last night he was so serious, she wasn’t sure if he had a sense of humor. Well, at least until now.

“Had to find something to wear after I took a shower, I didn't want to strut around in a towel.”

“Podemos recoger su bolso después de comer.” We can get your bag after we eat. He bit his cheek again, his erection making itself known again after the thought of her walking around his house in just a towel. He plated the food, walking around the counter to set her plate in front of her before taking the seat next to her.

“Thank you,” Anya gave him a big smile before digging into her food. “Damn, you really can cook, this is very good.” She praised him.

“Mi mamá me enseñó todo lo que sé.” My mom taught me everything I know. He returned her smile, taking a bite of his own food.

~

“We have to move all this?” Steve complained when they opened the storage locker.

“We were supposed to move it before she arrived.” Javier placed his hands on his hips as he analyzed all the items in storage, Steve shuffling inside to get a better look.

“Wait.. if her bed is here then where did she sleep.. Don’t tell me you--”

“I didn’t sleep with her,” Javier practically growled. “She went home with Carrillo.”

“Carrillo?” Steve’s eyes widened. “You let her go home with that asshole?”

“Don’t remind me.” Jealousy grew in his chest. “He asked me if I would rather her sleep in my bed where.. You know.” “Well, he isn’t wrong. I’m glad you kept your hands off our new partner.. I hope it stays that way.”

“What?” Javier was surprised Steve was being so blunt with him.

“She’ll eat you alive man, it takes a particular type of woman to survive the boy’s club. There ain’t no way she’d put up with your bullshit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Javier started to get defensive.

“C’mon man, don’t act as if you don’t know,” Steve raised an eyebrow. “You have commitment issues, you fuck prostitutes for inform--”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Javier harshly cut him off. “Let’s get this shit in the truck.”

~

Carrillo and Anya took their time eating breakfast, sharing stories from previous assignments and raids.

“So your partner, what happened to him?” Carrillo asked what he thought was an innocent question, but immediately regretted it when he saw her freeze, her smile fading from her face.

“Transferred.” She muttered into her coffee, both of them knowing she was lying, but he didn’t push the subject further. They finished the rest of breakfast in silence, Carrillo feeling guilty yet again. He wished he could formulate the words to tell her that he could empathize with her, lord knows he could with the amount of good soldiers he lost in the field, but with years of shutting off and building a wall between him and his emotions, the words never came.

Anya finished eating shortly after Carrillo, wordlessly picking up both their plates and moving to the sink to clean them. She let her emotions wash down the drain along with the dirty water, replacing the shield that Carrillo had slowly whittled down. Damn him. She finished washing the dishes fast, waving him off when he came over and insisted he helped.

“We should grab your stuff.” Carrillo glanced at the clock, grimacing when he realized there wasn’t a lot of time left before they would have to go to work.

“I don’t need to bring everything in, I just need a change of clothes.” Anya followed him out to his car, leaning into the back seat and rifling through her bag to grab a fresh set of clothes. Her ass was fully on display, Carrillo not too subtly staring at it while she was bent over, but quickly looked up when she turned around.

While walking back inside, Anya tripped on the excess fabric of the large sweatpants, falling into him. He whirled around and caught her, hands firmly grasping her shoulders, one of her hands were braced on his chest.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Her face flushed bright red.

“You’re okay.” He couldn’t help but give her a small smile, she was really adorable when she was flustered.

Anya’s heart raced, she thoroughly enjoyed his hands on her far too much. She practically ran to the guest room, trying to regain her composure while getting dressed. She dressed in a fresh pair of jeans, a short sleeved button down with a tank top serving as an undershirt. She tugged her black boots on, very similar to what members of the Search Bloc wore. She pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail, letting a few pieces fall to frame her face.

Re-emerging from the guestroom, Anya noticed how Carrillo stared at her, his eyes committing every piece of her to memory. They stood looking at each other for a minute, before Carrillo broke the silence.

“Ready to go?”

~

“Morning fellas,” Anya greeted the pair as she and Carrillo entered the bullpen. “How was your evening, Murphy? I hear you have a lovely wife at home.”

“That I do, speaking of which, she has invited you guys over for dinner tonight, you coming?”

“Of course, Javier here has told me that apparently we’d get along well.” She nudged Javier in the shoulder.

“You know I’d never miss a chance to eat your wife’s cooking.” Javi chuckled.

“Wish I could but, I have a date with some narcos tonight.” Carrillo placed a hand on the small of her back. “I’ll come by after I do my initial rounds to get your Kevlar and gun.” He stalked off towards the Search Bloc’s part of the building.

Carrillo’s touch did not go unnoticed by either man, though Javier’s mind quickly went to jealousy. He wondered if anything happened between the two last night, Carrillo wasn’t known to be a physically affectionate guy, especially towards people he just met. His fist clenched as he returned to facing his desk, trying to distract himself from the workings of his mind.

“Great, we’ll just head there after work. I’m sure that’ll be around dinner time anyways.” Steve fidgeted with the pen between his fingers, also returning to the papers he was pouring over. Anya popped the lid of the tub again and dove into the ESCOBAR files once more.

~

“Anya,” Carrillo returned almost an hour later. “Ready for the armory?”

“Yeah.” She glanced up from where she was reading, mentally marking where she was leaving off.

“Right this way.” Carrillo started to lead her to the armory, Javier staring at her ass while she followed him. The fabric of the jeans perfectly hugged her curves, her gait naturally having a little swing to her hips. A slight erection was forming under his desk.

A pen hit the side of Javi’s head.

“Dude, what the hell?” He grabbed the pen, lightly tossing it back to Steve.

“She’s our partner, Peña. Not eye candy.” He rolled his eyes.

~

“Let’s try this one first.” Carrillo looked through their extra Kevlar vests for one that would fit her best, this would typically be easy but they also had to consider, well, her boobs.

Anya lifted the vest over her head, sticking her head through the hole and settling the heavy vest on her shoulders. She strapped the Velcro tight at her sides, wiggling her arms to test the fit.

“Verdict?” She asked as he grabbed the vest, tugging it a bit to inspect.

They were extremely close, she could feel his breath hot on her face, smelling strongly of cigarette smoke. They stood for a moment, neither of them knowing what their next move was.

Abruptly, he stood back, giving her a quick nod. “It fits,” He took something out of his pocket. “Here.” He handed her what she realized to be her name tape, DONATO being embroidered in black onto the green fabric. She slapped it onto the velcro space for it, then quickly got out of the uncomfortable Kevlar.

“Thanks.” She gave him a smile. Carrillo turned to the gun locker, unlocking it and handing her S&W Model 39 pistol and a box of ammunition. Anya tucked the gun into the back of her waistband, and put the box in her back pocket.

“You’re now fully equipped.” He shut and locked the gun locker once more.

“Thank you again, Carrillo.” She picked up her Kevlar vest.

“Of course. Can’t have my favorite agente underprepared in the field.” He gave her a warm smile, patting her on the back. “I have to go back to my rounds, adiós.” Carrillo left her in the armory, returning to his demanding job.

While Anya walked back to her desk, she allowed herself to blush over the fact that he called her his favorite agent.

“All suited up?” Javier looked up as she approached, she lifted the heavy Kevlar.

“Yup.” Anya opened the empty bottom drawer of her desk, shoving the Kevlar in. She unholstered her gun, and took out the magazine, placing the body of the gun in the bottom. She took out the box of ammo, quickly counting out 8 bullets and loading them into the magazine, placing both into the bottom drawer as well before closing it.

Anya sat down and returned to the evidence box, a heavy sigh escaping her lips as she dove into the realm of Escobar again.

~

“That’s it, I’m calling it.” Steve announced as he got out of his chair.

“Me too, Donato, why don’t I drive you home? Steve and I moved your furniture and boxes in this morning.”

“Oh! Thank you guys,” Anya stood, stretching her arms over her head, her shirt riding up slightly. Javier took a quick glance. “That’d be great Javier, we’ll just have to stop by the secretary, I left my bags there this morning.”

~

“Here’s your apartment, and your keys.” Javier gestured to the door before dropping the keys in her hand. “My apartment is the one right next to yours.”

“Can’t even escape you outside of work.” Anya chuckled as she unlocked the door, tossing her bags in before shutting it and locking it again.

“You make that sound as if it’s a bad thing.” She responded with a light punch to his shoulder.

“I’m starving, where’s Steve’s place?”

“Couple floors up, c’mon, his wife makes fantastic food.” A few flights of stairs and jokes later, they arrived at the door, Javier knocking-- more like banged-- on the door.

“Hey guys, come on in!” Steve answered the door with a large grin, clearly being at home with his wife made him a happy man.

“Hi Javi, oh and Anya!” Connie quickly greeted them, giving Anya a big hug. “It’s so good to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you too.” Anya returned the hug.

“I made some lasagna, is that alright?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely!”

“Wine or whiskey?”

“Wine please, is there anything I can do to help?” Anya followed Connie to the kitchen.

“No, it’s almost done, here, go take a seat.” Connie handed her a wine glass and the bottle of wine, gesturing for her to sit at the dinner table where Javi and Steve already sat, sipping on their whiskey. She sat next to Javi, leaving the seat next to Steve for Connie. A few moments later, Connie followed with the steaming dish of lasagna.

Dinner was very pleasant, Connie asking all sorts of questions about New York and the work Anya did up there. Javier listened intently, wanting to learn everything he could about her. He loved the way she talked, especially when her accent would slip, showing her New York heritage.

As Javi predicted, Connie and Anya became friends quickly, the evening was filled with their squeals of excitement when they found another thing that both of them could relate to. As the night finally came to a close, and many promises to have a dinner party again, Javier and Anya returned to their floor.

“Wow,” Anya yawned. “I am tired.” She stretched her arms over her head.

“Well, in that case, you should head to bed.” Javi leaned on her door frame, basking in her presence.

“I’m planning on it, thank you again for moving my stuff in.”

“Not a problem.” He rubbed the back of his neck, wishing he could use his usual methods of charming women on her, but he couldn’t bring himself to it. He wanted more than just his usual one night stand with his informants, there was something about her that made him feel… he couldn’t find a way to describe it.

“Oh,” Her face scrunched in realization. “Could I ride with you to work in the mornings? I’m still working on getting a car down here. License transfers and all that.”

“Of course, though if you wake up late, I’ll leave your ass here.” Both of them let out a laugh.

“Goodnight, Pena.” They retreated into their respective apartments, Anya flicking on the light and looking around her new apartment. She pulled out a couple of essentials, mostly toiletries, and placed them in the bathroom. She quickly found her “BEDROOM” box and dug out her bedding, making her bed so she could sleep as soon as possible.

Anya was getting ready for bed, shuffling to the kitchen to get a glass of water. She was surprised to find a bottle of whiskey, a couple cartons of cigarettes, and a zippo lighter with “to new beginnings” engraved. She ripped open the carton of cigarettes, pulling out a carton, and returned to her bedroom. She laid down, lighting a cigarette, letting the nicotine relax her further.

Anya knocked against the wall behind her headboard, and was pleasantly surprised when she heard a knock back.

“Thank you for the housewarming gift, Javier.” She heard a chuckle come from the other side of the wall.

“Javi. Call me Javi.”

[eldritchcryptids]

Oh no

Daisy is laying across her bed on her stomach, head in her hands as she watches as her blonde friend digs through her knapsack, “So what was this extremely important thing you wanted to tell me about?” Quinn seems to find what she was searching for and turns around to face Daisy, eyes shining excitedly as she holds up and waves around a basic, black USB flash drive. The brunette furrows her eyebrows, holding out her open hand. Quinn places the flash drive into her hand before taking a seat at the nearby desk’s swivel chair.

Daisy examines the USB, turning it over in her hands. It was unremarkable, just a regular, simple black flash drive, “...I don’t get it? What’s so important about this, what’s on it?” Daisy tosses the USB over to Quinn who quickly catches it. Quinn shoots her friend a glare.

“Don’t throw it around! It’s not my USB and if it somehow breaks, Nathan’s gonna have my head on a platter,” She states, “The contents of this little flash drive is very important to him.”

Daisy’s nose screws up at the mention of the boy, “Nathan from math class? He gave you a USB and you just...took it?”

“Yeah, well what’s the worst thing that can happen?”

“Oh? ‘What’s the worst thing that can happen?’ I don’t know! Maybe it has a virus on it? Maybe it has inappropriate stuff on it? Maybe the USB is coated in anthrax and we're all gonna die now-”

“Okay, slow down, I get it.” Quinn laughs and Daisy shrugs, muttering a quiet ‘you asked’ under her breath, “But, do you want to know what this is supposed to have on it?” Daisy nods her head. “Well, Nathan has had this obsession with a local...like...Urban legend creepypasta thing, for years…”

Daisy rolls her eyes, “Is it just an archive of creepypastas? Stuff like the “Jeff the killer” picture and story or something?”

Quinn shakes her head before leaning forward and closer to the bed, “Have you ever heard of something called…” lowering her voice to a whisper, “...Marble Hornets?” Daisy blinks at the mention of the name. Marble Hornets...Something about that sounds familiar, but she can’t quite place her finger as to why. Daisy slowly shakes her head, Quinn grins and leans back in the swivel chair.

“It was a YouTube channel from back in the early...2010s, I think? It’s said that everyone who was a part of it ended up dying and that whenever someone watches it they get cursed...or something like that, I wasn’t really paying attention when Nathan was talking about it..” Quinn holds up the USB and shakes it, “This is supposed to hold all the archived videos.”

“Well, if it’s a YouTube channel, why not just...Go watch it on YouTube?”

“Ah, well a few years after the last upload it got deleted-”

“But if everyone died, who deleted it..?” Daisy questions, confused.

“I dunno, I’m not an expert on this.”

Daisy sighs, pushing herself off of her stomach, “So you came over to have a sleepover because you want to watch all the videos on that USB? Because of this urban legend?”

Quinn nods quickly, “It’ll be fun! I’ve never seen any of the videos before, so it’ll be an interesting experience for us!”

“Fine. We can watch it, but if plugging in this USB bricks my computer then you’re buying me a new one.”

The two girls turn off the lights and get comfortable on Daisy’s bed, setting the laptop in between the two of them. The flash drive gets plugged in and Daisy pulls up the first video, named “Introduction.”

A black screen appears, with the words, “The following clips are raw footage excerpts from Alex Kralie. A college friend of mine.” written in white on top of it. Daisy doesn’t think anything of it.

Then Entry 1 starts, and that thing was in it.

Daisy jumps and nearly shoves the computer away at the sight of the faceless man. The sudden movement from her friend causes Quinn to jump too, the blonde quickly pauses the video once it automatically starts playing Entry 2, “Only 2 videos in and you’re already jumping?” Quinn jokes, giving her friend a nudge.

Daisy glances at Quinn before sighing, “Sorry, the...uh...head turning suddenly like that scared me a bit..” The blonde chuckled before patting her friend on the shoulder.

“If something like that is gonna spook you maybe we shouldn’t be watching this then.”

“No, no, it’s okay.”

They continued to watch the entries and it wasn’t okay.

Daisy knows the Alex who was being talked about in these videos. She’s met him only a few times, because Tim, Hoodie and Jay are all pretty apprehensive about being around him. Daisy was never told why that was, no matter how much she asked. But, she did still know him. Deep down, she was hoping that this was just some weird film project that Alex and Jay had worked on during their time as film students- but she knew that wasn’t true. There was no way they were going to get The Operator to participate in that.

Entry 7 soon came around and Quinn quickly paused the video as a familiar face appeared on the screen before them. “Is that Mr. Thomas?” She questions, whipping her head to the side to stare at her friend. It was a question that didn’t need an answer from Daisy, as they both knew what he looked like. Hell, he was just downstairs if they really needed proof that this was the same guy. “I thought you didn’t know about Marble Hornets?”

“I didn’t,” Daisy mutters with a shrug, “I was never told about this from my dads.”

Quinn stares at her for a bit longer before Daisy presses play. She wonders where the rumors of them being dead came from. Alex, Jay, Tim and Hoodie were all still very much alive, they had all obviously been through things, Daisy knew that much. The visible scars on Hoodie’s face that clearly weren’t on Brian’s face during Entry 7, the therapy appointments and medication Tim takes, the tiredness and pain that radiated from Jay and the regret and apologies Alex would spout during his rare appearances.

The two girls continue watching the videos, entry after entry after cryptid video and then it repeats. This went on for hours. Hours of watching Alex slowly lose his mind, hours of seeing the faceless man lurking in the background- watching as he always is, hours of watching Jay investigating.

Watching the entries was a lot to take in, but Daisy never stops the video. She could have just turned off the laptop, feign being afraid of what they were watching and then never talk about it again. But she couldn’t. She needed to know more, she had to.

When Entry 49 rolled around, Daisy tensed up. She now partly knew why her dads and Jay didn’t like being around Alex. He was a killer. As the entries continued on, more and more dread built up. Daisy watches as Hoodie seems to actively work against Jay and Tim - stalking Jay and causing Tim seizures by stealing his medication. Nearing the end of the videos, they watch Hoodie fall out from a window and be deemed as presumably dead, they watch Jay get shot in the side by Alex and then watch the final fight between Tim and Alex. Tim ultimately comes out on top- and Daisy gets her explanation on where all the scarring on Alex’s neck came from.

They finished the series completely around 1 am. Neither of them know what to say, so they remain speechless. The two girls stare at the screen, at the words “Everything is Fine” for what feels like half an hour before Quinn clears her throat.

“I, uh...I didn’t know any of that stuff happened…” She quietly says, “If I did I probably wouldn’t have made you watch it with me.”

The brunette girl shakes her head, drawing her knees up to her chest, “It’s alright.”

Silence falls over the two again.

After a while, the two agreed that it was likely time that they should go to bed. Quinn falls asleep first, which is usual. Daisy takes this time to sneak out of the bed, grabbing the USB flash drive from the nightstand and heading out of the room.

Neither Tim nor Hoodie fall asleep early, which means Daisy is in luck. She ventures downstairs and to the living room, where she can hear the TV playing. She steps into the room, seeing Tim and Hoodie sitting on the couch, watching some late night comedy show or something of the sort. Hoodie is the first to notice the girl’s presence, “Daisy, shouldn’t you be asl-”

Before he can finish his sentence, Daisy throws the USB at him, not saying a word as she turns and leaves back to her room. Hoodie frowns, picking up the black flash drive that landed in his lap. “What was that about?” Tim questions and Hoodie shrugs, grabbing Tim’s computer from off of the nightstand.

The hooded man plugs the USB in and freezes at the file that pops up onto the screen, “Tim...Uh, we have a problem.”

Tim blinks and peers over the other male’s shoulder to see what he was looking at.

Video files. Far too familiar videos and the folder being titled, “Marble Hornets.”

“Damnit.”

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Snowed In p6

This gave me such a hard time but I needed this conversation to happen for like 50% of the plot shit down the road, plz forgive me. 

Pairing: Geralt x fem!reader

Warnings: hella awkward convos, pining, self depreciating undertones?, talking about sex? idk yall im tryinna tag these with everything i can think of but if i miss something plz let me know!

Summary: (Last part was pure smut, but for those who skipped, it was basically them justifying a good roll in the hay bc it would help them sleep) The day after some completely pragmatic and not at all monumental sex they’re figuring out where to go from there. Boundaries and such?

__________

part 5 here!

You woke slowly, uncomfortably warm and… sticky? 

As reality came into focus you realized the stickiness was sweat from being plastered to Geralt's bare chest as you slept. You wriggled a little, loosening his hold on your hips so you could scoot back and see his face. He was still fast asleep, hair sticking to his stubble and mouth slightly open. He looked so much more innocent, almost juvenile when he slept. It made you want to protect him, as ridiculous as it sounded. 

Your hand reached up on its own to brush the strands of hair away from his face. When he didn't stir you trailed your first two fingers down his jawline, gently dragging the backs of your knuckles up over his cheekbones. You knew he could wake up at any moment, and it would be uncomfortable to explain why you were staring at him like he alone breathed life into you every day, but you continued tracing the peaks and contours of his face. 

If you let yourself think about it, he technically did. He got you up every morning, did anything you asked to help you, and everything you didn't have the stones to ask. This man made space for you like no one ever had and accepted the mess you brought with you, going so far as to help you sweep it into a manageable pile. 

You swallowed back the lump forming in your throat as you realized just how much of a mess you'd made for yourself this time. You'd fallen in love and set yourself up for nothing but pain.

The snow would melt, you two would join Jaskier on the other side of the pass, things would go back as they were, and you would fall asleep alone. 

You took a slow deep breath in and savored the peace for the last couple of moments you could before your heart would burst. Gently lifting Geralt's arm, you rolled up to sitting as slowly as possible, watching him the whole time. When he still didn't wake, you snatched up your clothes and tiptoed to the bathroom. 

He was still asleep after a towel bath and meticulously braiding your hair, softly snoring now. You couldn't help but feel a little proud of yourself for tiring him out so thoroughly.

Sitting down next to him you squeezed his shoulder, "Geralt. Hey, wake up." 

He grumbled something about it being early and patted the bed where he thought you were supposed to be before his eyes snapped open.

"There he is." You cooed, reluctantly pulling your hand away.

He squinted and furrowed his brow against the morning sun, pushing himself up on one elbow, "You're up. And dressed." 

Now, you knew you were manufacturing the disappointment in his words, but it still hit you just as hard. You sprang to your feet, kicking the contents of your bag back toward the corner with a little more vigor than necessary, "Woke up hungry. C'mon, get up." 

"Alright, alright." He grumbled, rolling over and reaching for his neatly packed bag.

Breakfast was uncomfortable, to say the least. 

Geralt didn't lean his knee against yours and you weren't sure if you missed it or were relieved he spared you the adrenaline rush. Though when he brushed against your arm reaching for the salt and you nearly jumped out of your skin. The neighbors sat across the table from you and one of them winked at you, almost making you choke on your oats. As soon as Geralt was done with breakfast you cleared both your plates and made a beeline for the door. 

You lead the way out to the barn, excited to see the caverns in the snow your fight had left the week before were still uncovered by fresh snow. You fumbled with the latch, not entirely paying attention, so Geralt reached over your shoulder and flicked it open himself. He was so close you felt his breath on your neck and the heat coming off of his chest. Everything in you wanted to lean back into him, but that might be breaking a rule and these rules were becoming ever more nuanced. 

You went about your usual business feeding and examining the horses and were about to leave, but Beau looked so sad and bored. Poor guy hadn't gotten more than a walk up and down the breezeway in a month and you could see the pent up energy in his eyes. You sighed and grabbed hold of his mane, swinging up onto his back and laying back over his haunches while he ate. This felt like a good place to slow down and examine your options with this whole "friends" business. 

"Y/N?" 

Or it would have been. 

"Stall." You answered, not sitting up even when you heard him slide the door open. 

"What're you doing up there?" Geralt's voice had that same confusing, unidentifiable tone he'd used when he'd left you in the bath. 

"He looked so lonely. You don't just spend time with Roach?" You spared him a glance, noting how casually he leaned against the door, arms crossed so that his collar slipped down to show the marks from your nails digging into his skin.

He shrugged, "She gets tired of me." 

Beau walked across the stall to sniff Geralt’s pockets and nudge his hand when he smelled what he was after. You shifted to stay balanced on his back, absolutely no intention of coming down any time soon.

The silence between you that crept on and on was in no way comfortable. You fidgeted while Geralt pet Beau, giving him a treat here and there when he smiled for him. Normally you’d be amused, now you were just angry at yourself.

You swung a leg over Beau’s withers, spinning to sit sideways facing Geralt, “You’re rather quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

You shook your head, frantically searching for the words you needed, testing the waters,“I ah… I had a good time last night.”

He quickly glanced at you before focusing back on Beau trying to eat his gloves, “Mhmm... Haven’t slept that well in months.”

There was a beat where you debated leaving it there, but you were never one to quit while you were ahead, “This doesn’t have to be weird, does it? I don’t want things getting tense.”

Geralt finally locked eyes with you, searching your face for something, “No… if you’re uncomfortable-”

“Which I’m not.” You interrupted.

He tilted his head, a softness taking over his face that you rarely saw, “You’re my best friend. As long as you’re okay with it, I am too. It’s just sex, after all.”

You nodded, “Just sex. Yeah. We- heh, we didn't even kiss...”

“Exactly. What are friends for?” Geralt playfully swatted at your boot, giving you a grin. 

What are friends for…

You plastered a smile on your face, changing the subject before the emotions bubbling in your chest boiled over, “Jaskier is gonna kill you when I tell him you said I’m your best friend.”

He moved to stand in front of you, crossing his forearms and resting them on your knees. His touch was calming, grounding you back into reality as he usually did.

He squinted up at you, “That’s if you tell him.”

You patted his hand, “Oh, I’m definitely telling him.” you teased. 

He gripped your wrist and quickly spun to face away from you, pulling you forward and off Beau's back. You squeaked and gripped onto his shoulders when you landed on him. He laughed, giving a little jump to get you higher on his hips and get a hold of your knees. A giggle slipped from your lips, partly due to surprise, but partly because his grip on your knees tickled.

"I'll tell him it was you who dropped the sword on his lute strings." Geralt made his threat halfheartedly, carrying you out of the barn only to have you steer him back to grab your gloves that you'd left on the hay. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, taking your opportunity to hold him close to you as possible, resting your chin on his shoulder. His warmth and his scent lulled you into a state of content as he took his time meandering back to the inn. Just before he reached the door you noticed a fresh snowflake on your elbow. 

"Motherfucker." You shouted, "It's snowing again." 

"Shit! Y/N, you're right in my ear." He tried to turn to look at you but you tucked your head against his neck, hiding almost like a child. 

"Sorry. I forgot…" you whispered, more out of embarrassment than anything.

He hummed, the vibrations permeating your whole body from where you were perched as he yanked the door open and stomped inside. You wiggled, communicating you could once again walk just like a toddler, but he just hoisted you up higher and trudged up the stairs. You bit your lip, hiding a smile on the basic principle of not wanting to feel it, not necessarily because anyone important could see you. 

When you reached your room Geralt rather unceremoniously collapsed onto the bed, sending the two of you bouncing for a bit before he came to rest with his shoulders on your hips. 

"Tired?" You asked, fighting the urge to rake your fingers through his hair.

"Exhausted." He made no effort to get up but rested his hands underneath the outsides of your knees. 

You sighed in agreement and rested your hands on his shoulders, "Post breakfast nap sounds nice."

I can handle this. I know the boundaries. Just don't kiss him. That should be easy enough ...

__________

part 7 here!

gotta edit bc im a scatterbrain and forgot to tag! If you want to be tagged plz let me know! 

@ab-haya @fire-in-her-veinz @cavillhavoc

[the-lonely-tree-original]

Green With Envy (FMA Oneshot)

Just kind of thought about what would happen when Roy got a new alchemist under his belt and...

When all is said and done, Edward Elric doesn’t want much. He wants a good life, that’s true. He wants to go to sleep in a warm bed and be able to put food on the table and have other necessary comforts, of course. There was that obvious desire not so long ago to get his and his brother’s bodies back, but he had succeeded. By all accounts, he should be perfectly content for at least the next couple of months, still running off of that dream-come-true high.

But he isn’t.

How could he be when that was happening right before his eyes?

It had been childish to curl his lip at the new Major, to refuse to shake his hand, but how could he pretend? Was he supposed to lie and act like everything was fine when it wasn’t? Is that something that he should just be able to do?

Try as he might, Ed couldn’t stop the hurt that clawed at his heart when he saw him, greeted by the team like an old friend.

The new Major is kind. He’s all smiles and laughter and Ed even saw him give his coat once to a civilian who’d been caught in a storm. He should be happy that the military is finally accepting people who aren’t complete bastards.

But he isn’t.

And he hates him.

Major Braddock was one of the many new recruits hired by Fuhrer Grumman after the fight with father. He’s young - not younger than Ed, of course, but young enough to not have started a family yet. He probably just got out of school.

So really, Ed should have nothing against this 20-something-year-old boy who only wants to secure his future in a steady job, but he does. Because he was assigned to them. Mustang’s unit. Right after Ed had resigned from duty.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad if Braddock was older. If he didn’t have a little brother just like Ed. Because, for all of their differences in appearances, it did nothing to stop the feeling that he was being replaced.

He watched Braddock’s exchange with his team (his old team), feeling like a band was tightening around his chest. Alphonse - sweet, genius Alphonse - noticed the way his hands were clenching into fists and teeth were digging into lips and guided him away with a soft, flesh hand on his back.

When they got to their room, Ed looked at the final resignation documents on his desk, lying so innocently on the carved wood. He’d have to go in tomorrow, or else some time soon, and turn them in. Back then, before they’d gotten their bodies back, Ed and Al had talked about what they would be doing after. Resignation had seemed so simple. They’d hated the military, so why would they stay?

He’d never thought it would be this hard

***

He walked up the steps of central command alone. His brother was meeting up with the doctor to check in with his physical prowess, and Al had gotten bored of his pestering, so he told Ed to make himself busy. Obliviously, he phrased it better, but the message was all the same: give me space. So here he was, marching awkwardly up the steps while trying to pretend he didn’t feel like the building was going to eat him alive.

Seeing the team should be happy. It really should. But what if he’s inside?

Ed clutched the papers tight to his chest, using them as some sort of stress-reliever. How would Mustang react when he saw the crumpled up sheets? Would he joke about Ed’s penmanship as usual? Or would he accept it with a nod and send him on his way? Just the bare minimum of acknowledgement before sending him off to the rest of his life. Without them.

It was irrational, Ed knew, to feel like this. It wasn’t like he was useful to Mustang anymore. Without alchemy, he was a dog without fangs. Their whole relationship was founded upon using each other and now he was nothing more than a broken toy.

He needed a new toy. A shining gold star to add to his resume when climbing up the ranks. With Ed he only had a desperate kid who defected not even five years into the job. He knew it wasn’t fair to Mustang, who’d shown on countless occasions that he cared deeply about those who worked under him. It wasn’t fair to label him as some heartless, power hungry bastard that only cared about his own gains.

But.

But it was the only thing that could ease the pain he was feeling.

“It’s the Fullmetal Alchemist!”

“Edward Elric!”

Ed smiled abashedly. After the whole father fiasco, Ed had become somewhat of a celebrity in the military ranks. Those who were there seemed to go out of the way to make him feel a little more welcome, smiling at him when he walked down the halls and occasionally going out of their way to get him coffee or something like that. Even those who weren’t looked at him somewhat in awe, not quite understanding the treatment he was getting since the event was kept on the down low, but also trying to fit in with the crowd.

Even Mustang’s team treated him differently. It just wasn’t the good different. Walking into their office proved as much.

He was still greeted warmly by Hawkeye, addressed as “Chief” by Breda and Havoc, saluted by Falman and Fuery - that much was true. But it was different. Hawkeye didn’t linger to ask him about his day, instead going straight to Mustang’s office to announce his arrival. Havoc didn’t playfully rough up his hair or Breda make fun of his height. Even the more resigned members of Team Mustang seemed to be holding back more than usual.

It was like an invisible force was driving them apart. Home isn’t supposed to be a place, it’s supposed to be a people, and this small home he’d made felt unfamiliar and cold. There was a distance there that there wasn’t before.

“Edward, the General will see you shortly.” Ed nodded politely at Riza’s words, surprising himself by nodding at all. There used to be a time when he would just barge into Mustang’s office, completely uncaring of the audience in the room. Now it felt wrong to even knock.

“What’s with that look on your face, Chief? You about to fight a homunculus or something?” Breda’s joke fell flat. Ed would probably prefer that right about now. At least then he’d only have to worry about himself.

The door to the office opened. “Or something,” Ed murmured. Joyous laughter came tumbling out of the room alongside a pair of boot-clad feet. Accompanying it, was the rare, genuine chuckling he only heard once in a blue moon. Ed could never make him laugh like that, but a new, unfamiliar recruit could. Right there, a stone slammed into his stomach because how else could he explain the lack of air and the agonizing pain and the-

“Edward, you wanted to see me?” Ed should be happy, Mustang’s talking to him in the same tone as always. But he called me Edward. He’s always called me Fullmetal.

“Y-yeah. I’m here to finalize my resignation.”

Mustang looked down at the papers in his hands, eyes harding into obsidian pools. “Ahhh, yes, I can take those from you.”

Ed handed over the forms, not oblivious to the way the whole team was silent at his statement. Were they waiting for something to happen or what?

“Step inside for a moment Ed-” he bit his cheek “-I just want to make sure everything’s correct.”

He sat down silently and waited for Mustang to finish examining his papers. From the tensing of his shoulders, Ed could tell the other man felt just as out of place as himself. After a few minutes, the General shuffled the papers and piled them into a neat stack.

“Everything checks out.” There was a long silence in which the two stared at each other, searching for something but not knowing what. After a while, though, it all became too much and Ed stood to leave, only stopping because of Mustang’s voice calling out to him. “Anything the matter, Ed? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“I’m fine.” You aren’t, but it’s nothing he needs to trouble himself with.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” No, you don’t even know why you’re feeling this way.

The other man sighed, before relaxing back into his seat. “Okay, if you say so. Visit us soon, okay?” Ed nodded and began walking towards the door. “I’ll miss you.”

Those three words were what did it. He didn’t cry, per say (after going through so much it just became hard to cry), but there was something lodged in his throat causing him to choke. He heard Mustang’s chair push back - he was probably getting up out of concern more than anything - and felt the man’s presence hover behind him, unsure of what to do.

“Edward?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the door was closed, which meant that no one else would see him break down. It was a weird train of thought to be having at the moment, but he’d been feeling so detached lately that it wasn’t that much of a surprise to him.

“Edward,” Mustang repeated.

“Fullmetal.”

“What?”

“You used to call me Fullmetal.”

“...Oh… of course… Fullmetal, what’s wrong?” The way he acted like that mistake was nothing… and to him it probably was, but...

With a clogged throat, Ed said, “I’m going to miss you too, you know… but it feels like I already missed my chance to say goodbye.”

Even without looking at the man, he could see the confusion on his face. “What do you mean?” he asked. The confusion was evident in his voice as well.

“You just- it just-” Ed paused, trying to get his words straight. “It just isn’t the same anymore, whenever I talk to you. Or the team. It feels like I’ve lost whatever connection I had.” He finally looked up at Mustang. The man was silent, only looking at him with very sad eyes. “And, with Barddock here, I feel replaced.”

That snapped Mustang out of whatever trance he’d been in, obsidian eyes dark with anger, arms latching onto his shoulders. “You listen to me, Fullmetal. No one, and I repeat, no one, can ever replace you. If you actually think that then you’re a lot dumber than I thought. Because, for the four years I’ve known you, I’ve never met anyone so brave, noble, and kind.”

Ed chuckled, eyes watering a bit at the praise. “Are you sure that you’re not talking about yourself, Bastard.”

Mustang didn’t laugh. “I want you to know that you’re the most remarkable person I’ve met. I will never forget how much you changed this country - you changed me - I could never replace you. I’m sorry that you feel this way - that I’ve made you feel this way. I was under the impression that you wanted nothing to do with the military once you and your brother got your bodies back, but I see now that the way I was going about doing so was wrong.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Being called Fullmetal is just as big a part of your identity as being called Ed. Furthermore, the bonds you made here run much deeper than work associate, and it was cruel of me to distance myself as both your friend and your-” He cut off abruptly, pulling Ed into a hug. “And I’m sorry. I must have influenced the behavior of the team, and for that, I am sorry as well.” Squeezing gently, he said, “We all care about you so much, kid. And you have no idea how much they’d beat themselves up if they knew we made you feel this way. If you’re going to take one thing away from this, Fullmetal, please remember that you are irreplaceable in our eyes, okay?”

Ed nodded against his shoulder, returning the hug even tighter than the Flame Colonel. Smiling, he said, “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Mustang shifted in order to flatten his hair - when it got messed up, he didn’t know, but the action was so soothing and caring that Ed was finally able to let go of a few of his tears. The sound he let out was a choked sob, but it was a lot happier than before.

“Just because you’re no longer part of our team on paper, does not make that true. We still want you to visit us and talk to us and tell us about your day. We still want to be a part of your life and watch you grow up. You are, and always will be, part of our family.”

~El Fin~

[winchester-fantasies]

Day 182 - Part  1

Day 182 Masterlist

Series Summary: You and Dean are on a routine hunt when strange things begin to happen around you. When you start searching for answers, you soon find yourselves stuck, under quarantine, and no way to communicate with the outside world.

Word Count: 4057

Warnings: angst, bit of violence, swearing

Pairing: Dean x Female!Reader

A/N: Part 1 of my quarantine fic! I am loving writing this one, and it’s completely taken on a life of its own! I will try to post a new part once a week, but there is no set schedule. If you would like a tag let me know! Now sit back and enjoy Part 1 of Day 182....

Winchester Fantasies’ Masterlist

Day 1

“So get this,” Sam said from across the table.

You looked up from the open book in front of you and Dean from his cup of steaming coffee to look at the youngest Winchester.

“‘Man in downtown Austin was attacked Friday afternoon by a man that some witnesses are saying acted like a wild or rabid animal,’” Sam read, brow furrowed. “Says here that the guy went straight for the jugular and didn’t let go until...until, uh, a local police officer...shot him…. In the head.”

“What the fuck?” you breathed. “Croatoan?”

“Doubt it,” Sam said, shaking his head. “It’s similar, but none of it really sounds like Croatoan. It’s like a weird, Croatoan hybrid.”

“Whoa,” Sam breathed a split second later, a look of shock crossing his face.

“What?” you and Dean asked in unison, darting a quick glance at one another before turning your attention back to Sam.

“Another news story of the exact same thing happening was reported in Denver,” Sam said. “On the same day.”

“That can’t be a coincidence,” you said.

“Sounds like our kinda deal,” Dean said. “Okay, me and (Y/N) will check it out.” You nodded, pushing back from the table.

“Sammy, you stay here and keep digging. See if you can find anything else on this thing,” Dean directed.

“Yeah, will do,” Sam said with a quick nod. “I’ll call up a few other hunters, dig through Dad’s journal…. Maybe even see if there’s anything in the Men of Letters’ books.”

“Sounds good,” Dean said. “Start packing,” he continued, addressing you.

You nodded quickly before heading for your room, taking out your duffle and throwing the usual clothes and necessities you packed for a routine hunt. You were half-way through packing when you realized just how nervous you were. You weren’t really sure just what it was, but something was gnawing at your insides, begging for your attention.

You stopped packing, leaning forward on the mattress and closed your eyes, taking a few deep breaths to calm yourself down. “This is just another hunt...just another hunt,” you repeated, but no matter how much you told yourself that, nothing seemed to alleviate the uneasiness.

You finished packing, throwing your hair into a ponytail before slinging your bag over your shoulder and making your way back to the library. “You ready?” Dean asked from where he was sitting at the library table, duffle bag at his feet.

You nodded silently, and Dean got up from his perch with a groan, bending over and picking up his bag. “See ya, Sammy,” he said, slapping the tabletop lightly.

Sam tipped his head and smiled at both you and his brother. “Stay safe.”

“We will,” Dean reassured. “We’ll check in once we’ve reached Austin.”

With that Dean turned and headed for the stairs that led to the bunker’s heavy, iron door. You followed closely behind, each stomp of your feet against the metal stairs like another nail in the coffin.

**********

You reached Austin by sundown. It was a beautiful and sprawling city with tall buildings and lovely views. If it hadn’t been for the fact that you and Dean were working a case, you would have actually enjoyed strolling around the city and seeing some of the sights.

Dean drove a ways out of the city, finding a secluded motel. He parked the Impala before you both alighted, taking your duffles out of the trunk and making your way to the lobby. A woman in her forties sat behind the counter, swivel fan on and turned towards her, her humidity-frizzed hair moving softly around her worn face.

“What can I do you for?” she asked, getting up from her perch, the stool creaking under her weight. She came to the desk, flipping open a ledger. Before either one of you could answer her question she spoke again. “I have a queen. One night. Cash only.”

Your cheeks flamed red at her implication, and Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Uh, no thanks,” he said, giving her her tight-lipped smile. “Two queens will do.”

The woman seemed unfazed as she jotted something down in the ledger. “Thirty-five bucks.”

Dean took out his wallet, flipping it open and taking out a small wad of cash. He thumbed through it, the woman’s eyes zoned in on the money before he tossed down a few bills.

The woman grabbed the money and tipped her head before reaching behind her and taking a key from the set of hooks on the wall. “Room 5. Check out is at 11:00.”

“Thanks,” Dean said before turning and motioning for you to follow him. You made your way outside, crossing the parking lot to a set of rooms. Room 5 was right on the street, vehicles passing every few minutes.

Dean unlocked the door, a wave of hot, musty air hitting your face as he swung it open. You both stepped inside, Dean finding the light switch, the room bathed in muted light. It was small, two beds hugging either side of the room, a worn nightstand the only thing separating them.

“We’ll find a better place tomorrow,” Dean promised as he made his way to one of the beds, tossing his duffle at the foot before throwing himself down on the mattress, springs squeaking. “You can have the first shower.”

“Thanks,” you said, depositing your own duffle on top of the bed. You unzipped it, taking out a pair of sweats and a tank top before making your way to the bathroom.

All but one of the lights over the dirty mirror was out, and the sink underneath was chipped. You closed the lid to the toilet that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months, setting your clothes on the back before undressing and flipping on the fan in the ceiling, the motor rattling.

You pulled back the shower curtain, pleasantly surprised; the shower and tub was fairly clean, and you turned on the water, letting it run for a bit before stepping inside. The water was lukewarm and the pressure shitty, but it felt good nonetheless.

After getting out, throwing on your change of clothes, and tossing the used towel and washcloth in the corner of the bathroom, you exited the room. Dean was still sprawled out on the bed, arms behind his head and eyes closed. The room was cooler than when you had first entered, and you realized Dean must have turned on the A/C unit.

“Your turn,” you said, falling onto your own mattress. It was hard and lumpy, a few springs digging into your back and it smelled old; looked it, too, with a few threadbare patches and unknown but questionable stains.

Dean groaned as he sat up, his eyes slightly puffy, indicating he’d drifted off for a few minutes while you were cleaning up. “Save me any hot water?” he asked, his jade eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Shut up,” you chuckled, smiling and closing your eyes, throwing an arm over your face.

You heard Dean moving around the room, the bathroom door closing a few moments later before the water in the shower turned on. Voices could be heard through the thin walls, a woman moaning her lover’s name. The air conditioning started up again a few seconds later, the sputtering air drowning out the sounds of ecstasy next door.

Your body relaxed and before you knew it, you’d drifted off to sleep.

Your eyes fluttered open a few hours later, the sounds of a movie filling the air, making you glance over to the other bed. Dean was leaning back against the headboard, laptop open and resting on his lap, a slice of pizza hanging from his hand. He was chewing, his eyes lit up as he watched the screen. He threw his head back, a deep and hearty laugh bubbling up. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him. Times like these were rare; moments when Dean would just let go - be carefree.

As if sensing your eyes on him, Dean glanced over at you, and he grinned. “Hungry?” he asked, a hint of laughter still in his voice as he held up the slice of pizza in his hand.

“Yeah,” you admitted, sitting up.

“C’mon over,” Dean said, patting the space beside him.

You grinned and climbed off the bed, stretching your back before making your way over to Dean. You crawled onto the mattress and settled down beside him before you leaned forward and grabbed a slice from the pizza box at the end of the bed.

You leaned back against the headboard with Dean, and he shifted the laptop so you could see, too. It was an old black and white Red Skelton comedy, and you found it hard to hold in your laughter as you ate.

You and Dean spent the rest of the evening pigging out on candy and beer, binge watching Netflix, and only going to bed when your eyes couldn’t stay open on their own accord. It had been a long time since you’d laughed like that - first time in a very long time since you had really felt content - and you found yourself smiling as you once again fell asleep.

**********

Day 2

A low rumble sounded in the distance, breaking through the thick haze of sleep. You groaned and smacked your lips lightly, rolling to your side as you chased after the sleep you were already losing. But the rumble continued, growing louder and closer.

You opened your eyes, trying to place exactly what it was. It wasn’t a plane, you knew that much, and you hadn’t seen any train tracks near the motel yesterday. You failed to pinpoint exactly what it was so you finally threw off the covers and went to the window.

You parted the dusty and yellowed shades with your hands and peeked outside. It was a few moments before you saw the cause of the rumble, but your breath caught in your throat when you finally caught sight of it. An entourage of military vehicles passed by the motel on the road, a tank following close behind.

“What the hell?” you said under your breath as you watched several men in military uniform marching alongside and trailing behind the procession.

“Dean!” you hissed as you turned away from the window. The room was still dim, but you could just make out Dean, sprawled out on his stomach, one arm dangling off the side of the bed, covers having been shoved to the end of the bed sometime during the night. He was snoring softly, and you hated having to wake him, especially given the fact he was such a hard sleeper and more often than not woke up moody when his sleep was abruptly interrupted. But what you had seen was unusual and unnerving and Dean needed to know.

So you made your way to the bed, stopping at the edge where his arm hung off the side. “Dean,” you whispered again. He smacked his lips and moved slightly as if he was aware of you, but he made no move to wake up. So you finally sucked it up and leaned over his body. “Dean!” you snapped, shaking him.

He shot up in bed, his eyes wild and searching, gun from under his pillow now in hand. A look of irritation replaced his shock as he realized it was you and not an enemy, and he lowered his gun, a hand coming to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, (Y/N),” he growled. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

“You need to see this,” you said, motioning him for him to follow you as you made your way back to the window.

Dean grumbled, but he climbed out of bed nevertheless and joined you at the window. The entourage had thinned out a little, but it was still going. It took a moment for Dean to respond, but then his eyes widened. “What the…?” he murmured.

“Exactly,” you said, uneasiness once again filling your stomach.

Dean stepped away as the last of the convoy disappeared down the road. He turned to face you, his shocked and confused expression matching what you felt inside. “Do you think this could have something to do with that attack?” you asked.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know…. It could, but I mean, it was only one attack.”

“Or at least that’s what Sam read,” you said, your tone betraying your uncertainty.

Dean bit his lower lip thoughtfully before he headed for the bed. “Let me call Sam,” he stated, picking his phone up from the nightstand. “See if he’s found or heard anything new.”

You nodded, going to join him. You sat down on your own bed, facing him. You leaned forward to flip on the single lamp on the table as Dean dialed his brother’s number.

Dean’s eyes met your own as it rang, his expression one you weren’t sure you knew how to read. His gaze dropped to the floor as Sam finally answered. “Hey, man,” Dean said. “Listen...somethin’ weird’s going on here and….”

Dean’s brow furrowed when his brother interrupted him. “Sammy?” he asked.

You could hear Sam’s voice on the other end, broken and questioning through the staticky connection. You made out, “Dean?”, “Can you hear me?”, “Are you there?”

Dean grunted in frustration, finally hanging up and throwing his phone down beside him. “Connection’s all wonky,” he growled.

The room fell silent, and you watched Dean carefully as you waited for him to say something else, anything to tell you what needed to happen. “Okay,” Dean finally said, meeting your gaze. “We need answers. I’ll go talk to someone in charge. You stay here.”

“No!” you stated defiantly. “I’m going with you. We don’t know what's going on out there,” you hurried to add when Dean started to protest. “We shouldn’t be split up. Especially not now.”

Dean eyed you as if contemplating your argument. Finally he nodded. “Okay, fine,” he said, voice gruff and sharp. “But we stay together.”

“Of course,” you said with a quick nod.

“Okay, let’s get dressed,” Dean directed. “Then let’s get outta here.”

You nodded and jumped up, rifling through your duffle bag and pulling out a comfortable change of clothes. You went to the bathroom to change before quickly brushing your teeth and throwing your hair into a ponytail. Emerging from the bathroom, you found Dean perched on the end of his bed, phone in hand. His thumb was slowly swiping over the screen as he read something.

“Ready?” you asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said, glancing up at you. He turned off the screen and stood, shoving his phone into his pocket. He grabbed his pistol from where he’d placed it on the nightstand, and you found your Bowie knife, slipping it into the waistband of your jeans.

Dean took up Baby’s keys before heading for the door. You stopped on the concrete stoop outside the room while Dean locked up, surveying the area around the motel. Everything was quiet…. Almost too quiet and that familiar prick of discomfort reared its head.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when Dean abruptly turned around, the jingle of keys loud as he tossed them in the air before catching them and stuffing them into his jacket pocket. “Easy…” he said, regarding your with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “You’ve been jumpy since we left the bunker. You good?”

“Yeah,” you said without ceremony. “Let’s just go.” You turned and stepped off the stoop. You could feel Dean’s eyes on you as you headed for the Impala, but you didn’t dare turn around. You didn’t know just where this uneasiness was coming from, and you had no way of coherently explaining it to him. You knew what his answer would be anyway. He’d just tell you you were worrying needlessly and to just relax. But you knew you’d never be able to do that. Not when everything around you was telling you to run.

Dean finally decided to join you, climbing into the driver’s seat and starting up the Impala. The streets were empty as Dean drove down the highway; no morning commuters, people walking their dogs, early morning joggers, or school buses making their rounds. It was entirely deserted, leaving you feeling as if you were the only two people left in the city.

Neither of you spoke a word as you headed towards the heart of the city. There was a certain hush in the air that neither of you really felt like disturbing so you sat still and peeled your eyes ahead, waiting and searching for anything out of the ordinary - well, anything that was more out of the ordinary than everything already was.

Road blocks had been set up on the outskirts of the city limits. Dean stopped the Impala and sat still for a moment, looking around. He finally cut the engine, pocketed the keys, and stepped out onto the asphalt. You took his lead, joining him outside.

You watched him carefully for a moment before shutting your door and walking around the Impala, going to stand by his side. “This doesn’t feel right,” Dean said as if just now realizing the strangeness.

There was a muffled shout, and you both turned to look. A man in full military uniform could be seen directing a company of soldiers as they set up another blockade a short distance away.

“Let me go talk to them,” Dean said. He jumped over the large cement blocks and started across the road and large expanse of grass leading to the group of men. You hurried after him, determined to stay together.

“Mornin’!” Dean hollered when he got close enough for them to hear. They stopped what they were doing, jerking around to face both you and Dean, guns raised. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dean said, stopping abruptly and causing you to collide into his back. You stepped out from behind him when you realized he had his hands raised in a non-threatening gesture, you being quick to do the same.

“What are you doing here?” the man in charge snapped.

“We just wanna know what’s going on,” Dean explained.

“Nothing that concerns civilians,” the man said dismissively.

“Really? Because I happen to think it does,” Dean retorted. “Especially given the fact that you’re blocking off the city.”

The soldier’s face hardened, but he didn’t respond. “McDowell!” he suddenly called over his shoulder. One of the younger men immediately left the rest of the company and made his way over to where you were all standing.

“Yes, sir?” he asked, his voice sounding barely old enough to be out of high school.

“Please escort these folks to the camp,” he instructed.

“Hold up,” Dean said, taking a step back when McDowell started your way. “We’re not going anywhere with anyone until we get some answers!”

“Not happening,” the man in charge said authoritatively.

“Wait, wait!” Dean snapped. “All our stuff - it’s back at a motel a little ways from here. We’ll go quietly; we’ll leave town just….”

“Son,” the man said, a hint of an unamused chuckle in his voice. “You just crossed the blockade into a quarantined city. Nobody’s leaving.”

“Sir, if you’ll just….”

“McDowell!” the man shouted, and before either you or Dean could register what was happening, McDowell had lashed out, pistol-whipping Dean across the head with the butt of his rifle.

Dean crumpled to the ground, a grunt of pain on his lips. “Dean!” you cried out. You lunged down towards him as he struggled to his knees, but you suddenly found yourself down beside him, cowering as McDowell held the butt over you threateningly.

“Don’t you fucking touch her!” Dean snapped.

“Enough!” the older man behind McDowell yelled. “Take ‘em to Camp.”

Dean didn’t argue this time as McDowell jerked him to his feet, another soldier coming over and pulling you off the ground next. They marched you down the road, the buildings growing closer and looming over you.

Several tents could be seen pitched across another patch of ground on the edge of the city, soldiers and military vehicles encamped about. Clamoring voices filled the air as you got closer to the camp, and you noticed a long line of civilians leading up to one tent in particular, people stepping through every few seconds.

“Wait here,” McDowell said, shoving Dean behind a woman and little girl before doing the same to you. You stumbled forward, but Dean caught you. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and held you close as he stared after the retreating soldiers.

“You okay?” Dean asked, finally taking his eyes off their backs and looking down at you.

“I should be asking you that!” you scoffed incredulously. “Dean,” you said remorsefully as you raised your hand to his forehead. A gash ran along his hairline from where McDowell had landed the butt of his rifle and a small trail of blood led down to his temple. You touched his brow gently, but he hissed and jerked away from your touch. “I’m sorry, Dean,” you said.

“Had worse,” Dean mumbled gruffly under his breath as he let you go and turned to face ahead.

“Only family members allowed to stay together!” a voice boomed out over the crowd as you shuffled closer to the tent. “All others will be taken to separate quarantine sights!” He repeated the words again and an icy chill settled deep within your stomach. You were going to be separated from Dean....

You were suddenly brought back to the present as Dean took your hand, weaving your fingers tightly together. “Follow my lead,” he said quietly, giving your hand a quick squeeze. You swallowed hard and your stomach clenched with anxiety as the woman and child stepped up next.

A scream from the little girl echoed through the air a second later as she was abruptly ripped from the woman’s arms. “No!” the woman cried, reaching out for the child. “No, please! I have to get her to her parents! I have to get her home!” The screams of the child and the cries of the woman faded away as they were taken away in opposite directions.

“Relation?” the soldier sitting at a small table asked as you and Dean stepped up next.

“Siblings,” Dean said, the lie falling effortlessly from his tongue, and if you hadn’t known better, you would have believed it.

The soldier jerked his head behind him and another one directed you and Dean through the tent. “Next!” the soldier’s voice called out.

You and Dean were escorted through the tent to the other side before being loaded into the bed of a truck. Several others joined you before the truck started towards the city. It felt as if hours had passed before the truck finally stopped.

“Everyone off!” a soldier called out, the bed coming down as people began to unload. “Every family has their own apartment! You’ll be given numbers! Stay inside and wait for further instructions!”

Dean jumped down before turning and grabbing your waist to help you down before you made your way to a tall set of apartments that reached nearly as high as some of the smaller skyscrapers.

“22,” another soldier stated, handing you and Dean a slip of paper. Dean took it and you headed inside. Apartment 22 was the last one at the end of the hallway. Dean turned the knob, the door opening without resistance. You both stepped inside and Dean quickly closed and bolted the door before flipping on the light.

You looked around at the space. It was completely furnished with quaint decor, and if it hadn't been for the fear and confusion clouding your mind, you actually would have called it homey.

Dean trooped to the recliner in the corner and sat down heavily, shoulders slumped and a bewildered look in his normally confident green eyes.

You made your way to the love seat under the window and slumped down into the plush cushions. You leaned forward, elbows resting on your knees, and cradled your head in your hands.

You ran your fingers through your hair roughly before looking up towards Dean across from you, meeting his gaze. “What the fuck just happened?”

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

Thank you for reading! If you liked what you read, let me know!! ❤️❤️

***Please do not share my content on any other platform without my consent.

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

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Dean Girls:

@weepingwillowphoenix @akshi8278 @thesuicidalflower @adoptdontshoppets @unmistakablyunknown

Day 182:

@wingedcatninja @hazel-eyed-hunter

[fandom-necromancer]

Questions for you (if you're ok answering): what is your favorite fic that you've written and what is your favorite that you've read of somebody else's

Okay, first of all: I love getting questions! I just tend to overshare so I hope that’s okay XD That’s a hard one, though. For one because I have a shit memory, but also because there are so many and I can’t decide. So, this will likely get long and I’ll put it under the cut not to disturb people that aren’t interested!

Shorts

My favourite one I wrote lately was likely the Cyberpunk AU for the Secret Santa? Because I could write whatever I wanted really and it was the first one in a long, long time that I sat down, had no idea what to write, began writing, was sucked in and a few hours later I was sitting there with a story that I absolutely loved. And that has become such a rare occasion lately because nothing is really fun anymore because Corona keeps me in a constant down phase? Idk. That was cool.

Also, the “A little distraction” series was fun! It’s an old story from last year and when I reuploaded that one, I was blown away how many people wanted more of that. As this had been planned for a longer story initially I had to condense into a short, it made me happy too, because people would have liked to read the longer version too, maybe? If I had ever written it? It was just really cool.

The Halloween short with Gavin being an eldritch shadow monster most people overlook completely was fun also because of the same reason as the Cyberpunk AU. I got lost in that one so hard. Really fun to write.

My all-time favourite short story  though is likely the pebble series. It started as a joke in my head but when I sat down to write it, it just felt natural. I kinda really projected on Nines in there and I think I like his personality there the most from all the fics I’ve written about him. They are both just really cute in there.

You can also look for the top ten stories in my opinion from last year’s anniversary if you search my blog in the tag #One Year of Stories and I think the real tag was something like #Last year revisited? I’m not sure though because tumblr and searching blog tags is horrible, hence the archive project XD. Should be around June 2020.

Big stories

I would say A Soldiers Purpose, but that doesn’t count as it isn’t a fic anymore while I rewrite it to be an original Story. Plan to publish that as a “real world” book in German and English hard copy as well as eBook and it should be international publishing? I’m not that sure as I’m still comparing self-publishers and some only serve Germany, US and Australia whats weird but okay. Although I believe with ISBN it should be available almost everywhere just not in stores? I always planned to have it ready before I finished my bachelor thesis but we will see if that is happening (I guess not but I will try). 

The Werewolf AU, definitely. It started as a vent fic to get me out of a really bad place (I guess anyone who read Somebody to die for knows it’s pretty dark) and I mean I’m here now and while I’m not happy I’m definitely happier than when I wrote it so... win? But now that I’m writing Wolfheart I really want to give them a happy ending and hopefully once that story ends the whole personal reason I started writing it ends too, so yeah. Maybe a really personal reason but I’m really invested in that story.

My favourite fic I have ever, ever written though will be one you never get to read (thankfully, hopefully). It’s super old, it’s German, it’s uploaded on a different platform I hope no one of you knows, it’s under yet another name of mine and it’s absolutely objectively bad. The writing is bad, the plot is okayish and I literally killed off the gay characters without noticing that as something bad because I was a very different person back then. But I love it to this day regardless because it got me through some hard times.

Also, as a last comment to my own stories I love my longer stories on AO3 far more than these shorts. Not because they are more fun to write or anything but because I feel like I put a lot of effort into them and put a lot of soul into the stories. But yeah, that’s to that.

Other’s works

My favourite fics I read are so, so damn many… I generally write more than I read but with the amount I write I guess it cancels it out. Also some are pretty old because I mostly read fanfic on the bus and now I haven’t really left the house for a year. I’ll try to keep it short. They are not in any particular order I just went through a few sites of my history. Really I just enjoy everything reverseAU, SoulmateAU, Mute!Nines and them all being softies. Also just the dbh stuff because I’m not sure you would be interested in other fandoms.

Accident by sv926 Soulmate AU, I really dig how the personality of Nines and Gavin are displayed and that it isn’t a “We are soulmates all is perfect now” storyline (although I like that too). Amazing.

Traitor by Skye_Willows, Stujet9rainshine If hurt/comfort was a fic. MedieavalAU. I really love the portrayal of manipulation and how Nines tries to save Gavin from it all. Also Nines is a painter so I’m in.

Soft Spot by Headfulloffantasy A story I really regret not reading earlier. Casefic with amazing characterisation and a plot that leaves you on the edge. Every time you think you got an overview of what happened or an idea of how it continues there is another facette revealed that you just didn’t expect. Can’t wait to read the next chapter.

XVIII by Sandara Cuteness overload but also prepare for the feels. It’s an ReverseAU that is set during the game events. It’s so damn well written I just love it.

Feral Nines by Kaini Nines whump. Kinda. I love it so much. Broken Nines is my weakness and also Mute!Nines. You get a lot of feelings reading this.

all the lonely nights in your life by  willgrahamssadness SoulmateAU that hurts but picks you up and shows you all the fluff in the end. I love it.

Safe and sound by a_calipygian Soft Reed900. With a lot of hurt/comfort. Lovely story about healing and found family. 

The Lion Tamer by celexdraw Equally cute as their drawings. CircusAU I didn’t know I needed but it is so well done. It is a happy story but has enough darkness to make me miss my busstop.

Despite it All by Jennilah Another SoulmateAU I absolutely love. Also has Hannor content I think but I didnt get to read that part yet.

Scrapyard Rookie by Pence Reverse AU that caught my heart. Really cute but with a little bastard GV if I remember correctly.

Sleeves by BloodthirstyMerc More Mute!Nines talking about Gavin’s past self harm. Super cute and comforting and aaaaa.

These Violent Delights by MechanicalBones Will absolutely destroy you. Is amazing and everything I ever wanted. Can recommend to those who too enjoy holding back tears on the bus.

Static Truth and Hunter Hunter Hunted by whatsanapocalae Both are super cute, super angsty and so, so comforting. The author has a really nice writing style too. Got to these fics because i wrote their Deus Ex stuff and discovered they write dbh too.

Rewind the Film by connorssock,Sylvestia Allen60. You will cry. And you will like it. I’m happy it was like 11pm on a bus  no one uses coming home from uni when I came to the part that hits you right in the feels. You have to read it.

Heavy In Your Arms by CatiDono More ReverseAU with Gavin whump. It’s also kinda a reset story. I usually don’t like these, but it starts after the reset so we never get to see the Gavin from before, just the onset of “I used to be a person before and there is someone loving me and grieving but I don’t know them but they are nice what do I do?” I really enjoyed this, although it’s kinda a heavy thing to read.

A mute Gavin one I can’t remember who or where it was from. I think it was on tumblr and timewise before the cornpocalypse but I’m not sure. Could be from connorssock? definitely on tumblr and Gavin lost his voice due to injury. I will try to find that again.

Also one from tumblr I can’t remember the name of, but it was homeless Gavin with Nines helping him. I think that one was from dumb-ways-to-deviate?

I could go on, but I already told far to much when you asked for like... 2 stories? I’m just excited to talk about stories XD

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Date of Death || Morgan and Deirdre

True romance is fighting spawn side-by-side and digging up bodies in search of a death-vision for your girlfriend’s curse.

@deathduty

They grinned like syrup-drunk children all through dinner and left the restaurant hand in hand. Morgan kissed her girlfriend’s cheek as they walked, casually, back to the car. The world hadn't stopped turning for them since their night in the woods, if anything it pressed in closer on them, daring them to buckle under its weight. But alone together, with their bodies linked, and the stars bright above them, they slipped just beyond the hold of worry, and into something else. A world of their own, as Deirdre had put it. Morgan smiled brightly at her as she fished out her duffel bag from the backseat and reclined to change her shoes. “Does coming with me to help dig up the bones of my dead ancestor’s enemy also count as part of our date?” She asked, emphasizing the word, enjoying the novelty of it. It was only their second, after a lazy picnic on the beach to watch the first sunrise in White Crest in weeks, but it felt more salacious for being so traditional. Wine. Dinner. White tablecloths with flowers on them. Morgan swallowed the urge to look behind them, just in case someone had realized those ordinary pleasures weren’t allowed for them. “Just curious,” she said coyly, “I’m not up on all the supernatural girlfriend rules.” 

It was strange to say it felt different. This was hardly their first time having dinner together or sharing casual conversation laced with intimacy. But it had felt different. Deirdre didn’t have to bite the inside of her cheek to stop from smiling too much or to stop her looks from lingering or her touches from wanting. Everything was that much better, a feat she never thought possible. The world spun kinder, the stars shone brighter and despite a slow, gnawing fear, she was happy. They were happy. “I thought the gravedigging was the date,” Deirdre hummed thoughtfully. Her grin turned lopsided, though no less brilliant and wide. “Don’t tell me it was dinner. What horror. I suppose we’ll have to have another, one day.” Ever her tone, mockingly naive, was dripping with unrestrained fondness. “I will, though,” she softened her cat-like grin, “take any reason to spend a moment with you, my love.” The endearment, though rarely said, left her naturally every time. Deirdre reached across, searching for Morgan’s hand to hold. “Funny; I don’t know all my witch girlfriend rules. The graveyard isn’t a euphemism, is it? I know this will shock you, but I love graveyards.”  

Morgan kissed her banshee sweetly and slipped her hand readily into hers. Some part of her knew this was just a bubble, that something would reach them and winter would come and she’d have to wait again, or they would have to cling to each other for something besides easy comfort. But that piece of her was submerged in a dark, quiet room far within her, and Morgan was more than happy to dwell on other thoughts. “What? You and graveyards? Oh earth, what a weird coincidence! You wouldn’t also happen to like bones, though, would you? You know some people think they’re gross, so you don’t have to look at them if you don’t want to. Or touch them, or anything. In fact, I could just hide them, as soon as I’m done. You’ll never even know they were there!” She began to laugh, giving up the game too soon. “Really, though, I appreciate your doing this. Even if it was such a ‘you’ thing I would’ve been too cruel not to ask.” She held open the gate of Eluria cemetery, and chivalrously beckoned Deirdre inside. 

Winston had mapped the way for her perfectly in their diagram, up they walked, passing tombs and slabs that grew older, moldier. Some were bent at mournful angles, half toppled from wind and rains. “How do they feel to you?” She asked as they went, soft and sincere now. “I’ve never been afraid of cemeteries or anything, but you get this look when you talk about them. I’ve just wondered.”

Deirdre rolled her eyes, chuckling eventually when she was done pouting at Morgan’s joke. “Deny me my bones, Morgan, and I can show you a different kind of cruelty.” It was as flimsy a threat as they came, further dashed by the roguish smirk that accompanied. “We can talk about how much you appreciate me later. Unless...is this all a plot to get me alone in a cemetery? Morgan, why--” Distance between them was closed effortlessly as Deirdre pressed in, using her height to tower over as she lingered, gaze turned down; ravenous. “---we wouldn’t want Constance to think your priorities are somewhere else, would we?” She leaned in only to twist and stride through the newly opened gate. Her excitement for the familiar warmth and the beckoning stories below was poorly contained, and she was forced to grip the wooden body of the shovel she held to center herself. She was happy enough to follow Morgan’s lead, knowing she’d lose herself in the gravestones and gravel if she didn’t. “The graves?” She tilted her head, watching Morgan’s face for any hint of a joke now. The sincerity of her voice assured her easily though, that Morgan’s curiosity was genuine, and Deirdre turned her gaze around to the dark cemetery surrounding them. “It’s comforting, warm. I can tell there’s something sitting under the earth and my body feels drawn to each one--but rather than being pulled apart in different directions, there’s a thousand threads surrounding me and I know if I followed any one of them I’d reach home. This place begs me to hear it.” She closed her eyes, roaming off their path as her body desired. “I imagine...you could think of this as stepping into a library, all filled with the kind of books you know you’ll like. A new story is here for my picking, a gentle place for me to fall. I could crawl into a grave of my own, let the dirt take me. I could think of it like a garden, overgrown with the most vivid flowers. I could pluck each one and there would still be another in its place. Beauty so unrestrained, so--” she snapped her eyes open, realizing she’d strayed and laughed softly as she followed a different desire easily back to Morgan’s side. “Or something like that.”

Morgan melted under Deirdre’s attention at the gate. Her breath caught in a gasp and she looked up at her, lips parted, eyes wide with anticipation. For an instant she lost the finer points of language, too thrilled to tease back and-- Deirdre slipped away, teasing still. Morgan sighed ruefully and trotted to catch up.

She caught Deirdre searching her and squeezed her arm gently in response. She meant it, truly. She wanted to know. And as Deirdre explained, Morgan’s vision went double. She could, from her study, appreciate the calm of graveyards for the living, the need to make peace mortality, the need to make something beautiful for those that had gone, to give all the love that had no place left go a shape, a purpose. But what Deirdre explained was different. When she spoke, Morgan imagined the grass turning greener, the earth richer and softer. She saw the threads, frail as spider’s silk on human fingers, spreading out, glowing white as the moon on Deirdre’s face. “You don’t have to stop,” she said, giving her a sidelong look. “It makes sense to me when you talk about it.” She looked back over at the spot Deirdre had just been. It was only earth, only special because she had been there. “We’re almost there, but, what is ‘home’? The way you say it, it’s bigger than a place. Is it…” her brow furrowed as she searched for the words. “Do you think about dying? Or is it something different, something to do with your soul? Or something else?” She turned her attention back to the map to check their progress, flushing. “You can also say, if I’m asking too many questions at once.”

It was strange to have someone be so interested, so understanding. Deirdre assumed she might get used to that strangeness after their night in the forest, after their feelings were clear. She was happy to be wrong, of course, happy to know she was a fool to think this was something she even wanted to get used to. She stabbed the shovel into the ground, using both hands gripping Morgan’s waist to reel her into her. Awe shone brilliantly across her eyes and tender appreciation softened her smile. Deirdre leaned in to kiss Morgan briefly, unwilling to side-track them with something longer.“Are you sure,” she asked gently, “that this really wasn’t your devious plan to get us alone by the graves? I don’t think old Elliot Roberts over there will mind if we use his gravestone as a seat for something else.” But there was an old bitch to dig up, as she was told. And even as her words teased, she knew this trip was important to Morgan, as she did want nothing more than to set her heart at ease. She pulled the shovel out of the earth and continued. “I mean it like a feeling, of going to a place where you are known, welcomed, where things make sense and there is just you and this place. I’m sure you’ve felt it in other things. Home isn’t always one thing, but in this feeling, there’s a home I can come back to.” Her eyes trailed across the cemetery once more. “Death for me is the same as it is for everyone here. Death is equal, always. I just know it better than these people did. I always think about dying, I wouldn’t know how not to.” Deirdre turned back, chuckling. With her free hand, she brushed Morgan’s fluffy curls out of her face--as she imagined it might be easier to read her make-shift map that way. “I like your questions. They are never ‘too many’. But I won’t distract you from getting the bones we came here for.”

Morgan sighed, safe and content in Deirdre’s arms. “No devious plan,” she said, looking earnestly at her. “I just want to know you.” She kissed her back, rising up on her toes to rest against her more as she spoke. “Just don’t think about it so much that it happens,” she said. “If you don’t make it to two hundred, I’m coming back to haunt you.” Morgan struggled to wrap her head around how many years she had left herself. How many years could she hope for with the curse? How many could she hope for without it? It might be a relief, if the time was right, to rest and never have to worry again. To lay in a place where there was no more running, no more fear. It was only when she thought about losing others that her heart clammed up and went away, she was so sick of it, so exhausted, she couldn’t bear to imagine Deirdre like that. She stuffed the thought away and looked back up at her, let herself be petted and loved. “I like the sound of the rest though. And after this, maybe we can have a date that really is just some time in a cemetery. I’d like to hear you talk about it more. And I do know that feeling. Libraries, at least the ones where you can tell someone loves them, even if they’re not very big. And some special books. And my magic. I wish you could feel it sometimes. Actually, if you’ll come with me--” She kissed her again and lead her by the hand up to the grave in question. 

The original marker, if there had been much of one, was long gone, replaced by a generic replacement the cemetery put out for those unfortunate enough to need them. Morgan stuck her shovel in the ground and lifted as much earth as she could manage. She knelt down, urging Deirdre with her, and weighed it carefully, working through what she might make of it most easily. “Energy connects everything in the universe, all the tissue, all the elements, not just the big arcane four, but everything. The compounds that--ooh, that make growth flourish after decay, that change the colors in the body, or that feed the earth, that tarnish, or strengthen, and--” She cradled the earth in her lap, touching her cuff to it. “To tap into that, you have to know it’s a part of you, you have to...I, anyway, have to trust that we already know each other, me and the thing before me. And you have to see what it could be, inside and out. And if I’m going to ask this thing to change, to become brighter, or softer, I just...it makes sense, opening myself, and meeting it in the middle and trusting it to listen. “Hold it with me,” she said, placing Deirdre’s hand on the bunched up soil. She looked at her a moment, opened herself, and pushed, willing the soil to listen. It was old hat to her by now, though she hadn’t had reason to work this particular pathway before. Still, it was waiting for her at the top of her memory, and suddenly in their hands was a dense, rough, stone of garnet.

“I was hoping to make it to three hundred, personally.” Deirdre laughed. She thought to explain that it was important to think of it, to ready oneself for it. That her family did it often, and that she had her own will already worked out despite the years before her. But she knew how much death had taken from Morgan, and as much as it anchored Deirdre, she couldn’t explain that all of this was woven into her nature before birth. But magic, as Morgan said it, might have been similar. It might just have been enough to say that death to Deirdre was magic to Morgan. But they were too different. Magic had never taken anything from her. It was far more personal and giving than death could ever be. And she was fae, Morgan was human. “I’d go with you anywhere, Morgan.” She said simply, before she was kissed and led along. 

She sat with Morgan. Watched, mesmerized mostly, as she explained. She imagined it too, being connected to life in something other than death, in this special energy and the magic that could harness it. The glowing warm white threads that connected her to the thousands of pieces of death turned multicolor, they attached to the ends of dirt, trees, grass and even the stars, trillions of miles away. And she trusted these new threads too, just as Morgan mentioned it. Her hand was placed upon the dirt and she knew there wasn’t an ounce of magic in her, not the human kind and barely the fae kind. But she did it anyway, just like Morgan said. All of the opening and trusting--even beyond the kind she did already for Morgan. She glanced down at their hands and the gem she didn’t recognize. Revealed to them so wondrously was a piece of the world. And it was Morgan who willed that. Deirdre looked up, lacking words that could explain how thankful she was, how special it felt, how much awe Morgan left her in. In lieu of trying to find language, she leaned in and kissed Morgan, giving and opening in the way she imagined the magic did. “Can I keep it?” She pointed at the garnet, “I don’t know the world the way you do. But I like hearing it, I like knowing, seeing and getting to feel it. And I want to keep that stone. And--thank you. I know I don’t feel it exactly, but if you’re with me, it must be close.” As her imagined threads turned back into the ones that pulled her to death, she found herself missing the new ones. She had never known color, not like it was revealed to her then. But it was just a piece, and she wanted to know more--she wanted to know her too. The differences between them weren’t bad, just the dirt that covered the bright stones and old skeletons underneath. She could know both, they could know both. Know each other. Deirdre glanced at the grave, “if we can get a bone out. I can show you what a vision is like.”  

Morgan watched as Deirdre took in the transmutation, the wonder in her face mirroring Morgan’s own. She felt it, as surely as if the energy between them had turned to thread and touched them, that Deirdre held the same fascination for magic as she did for her strange and gentle death. Morgan closed Deirdre’s fingers around the stone and pressed it into her grasp. And in the dark, with their hands layered and the life and death around them, she wondered if their worlds might come together somehow, not dissolved into one, but layered over one another, touching just as their hands did. And just as their interlocked hands made Morgan feel expansive enough to carry anything she was asked, the touch of Deirdre’s underworld would make Morgan’s above so much wider and more beautiful for being interlinked.

“Now you know how I feel when you talk about cemeteries,” She said against Deirdre’s lips. “At least that much is definitely the same. Close is good. Close is worth everything.” She brought Deirdre’s hand to her lips, still cradling the garnet in her palm where it belonged, and kissed her fingers with care, her gaze never leaving her banshee’s. “I made it for you, Deirdre,” she said. “You can’t tell because it’s dark, and I’ll put it through a little alchemical refinement so it shines for you, but it’s your favorite color. In popular crystal lore, garnets are an icon of devotion and love, sometimes passion. The myth goes that you keep it close to balance the energy with yourself, and to place it near the bed, to harmonize yours with your beloved’s. But mostly, I just was thinking of you when I was settling on what to make,” she beamed and unfurled her grip from Deirdre’s hand. “It was already yours,” she said, their lips nearly touching again. “Keep it safe for me until I can make it into something you can wear with you, okay?” She kissed the corner of her mouth where it dimpled and got to her feet. They had some digging to do. “And thank you. I was...I was thinking of asking you already. You did say it doesn’t hurt, didn’t you?--I’m just hoping that the more I know about her, the better chance I’m going to have at summoning her. I’m bringing in the experts, but if I know her going in, maybe I can get her to talk to me. Get her to tell me how to fix it so I’m not looking over my shoulder the rest of my life.” 

Simple as it seemed, Deirdre hadn’t once considered that the way she thought of Morgan and her magic, might have been the way she thought of her connection to death. All of her family’s words of humans that would never understand or care quieted, and she smiled, breathless and awed again. Struck, purely, by the light of Morgan. How was it that the word could seem so much wider, brighter, warmer and new in such a simple way? It was the same world, the one she’d always known so well. Suddenly, she was knowing it better, seeing it clearer. “I’ll keep it safe,” she assured, lost on what else to say. “Thank you,” she stood with her, slipping the stone into the inner chest pocket of her jacket. It didn’t feel like it was enough, but Deirdre had already said her share about words failing so spectacularly at conveying what she wanted them too. And she’d have Morgan right there, show her with more than words what it all meant, but there was digging to do. Even as desire flickered across her eyes, she pushed it aside and turned back to the task at hand. “It doesn’t hurt.” She pulled her shovel up, and started on the dirt. There was a lot, and Deirdre--though decidedly against--was used to this kind of manual labor. She’d dug up graves before, she’d made a couple too. The task was effortless for her. “It really doesn’t. It’s like...watching a movie.” A loud, overlapping, screeching or choppy movie. Sometimes one horrific, sometimes one more personal, but a movie nonetheless. “I’m happy to do this for you. It--well,” she paused her digging. “Maybe I’ve been a little...sad...knowing I can’t really help you with this. I wasn’t there at the house, and there’s no reason for me to come to the summoning so this is...something I can do for you. And I do--want to do things for you, I mean. I do.” 

Morgan dug much slower. Her arms were strong after years of lifting mannequins and balancing trays of food, but she was unaccustomed to this kind of work. She gripped her shovel stubbornly, pushing through the ache, and smiling over her shoulder at Deirdre, angling for approval. “Does it help if you know I’m not sad? My curse goes after people who are family or practically family. People who matter more than anyone else. And if the last few field trips have been any indicator, the stuff I’m tapping into to make this go away are many kinds of unfriendly and dangerous. I can’t do anything about you being close to me, or I’ve decided to risk it with you anyway, but at least with the other stuff--I just don’t want to be reckless with you, with your life. I want to protect you from the cosmic blast, as much as--” There was a sound nearby, somewhere behind them, like nails on a chalkboard. Morgan went still, her shovel mid-air. She looked at Deirdre, now wary. “Hey, did you hear--” The stone door over a nearby tomb split and shattered in a wave of powder. Death white noses snarled and sniffed the air, growling and snapping. Their eyes scanned the dark, and before Morgan could think of anything like ‘hide’ or ‘run’ they had settled on the pair of them in the dark and bounded in a charge. 

Deirdre’s digging turned mindless as a chill crawled up her spine. She knew the feeling, but placing it was harder when she was surrounded by the sensations of death. She hadn’t really been listening to Morgan, a fact she was sorry for, when one of her invisible threads tugged her harder. Her head snapped up in time to watch spawns bound towards them, hissing and hungry. Deirdre darted in front of Morgan without thought, mouth open to will a scream when her throat fought her back. A wheeze left her instead, then a sharp cough. She hadn’t healed fully, it seemed, not enough to scream under pressure. “Behind me!” Deirdre called out, swinging her shovel out to crush against the skull of a spawn, tossing it to the floor in a momentary daze. As quick as she could, she brought the shovel under the force of her heel and snapped it. The new point sunk happily into the chest of another spawn, melting it to dust around her. She flipped the shovel and stuck the point into the spawn she’d left wriggling on the floor. But two down didn’t stop a hungry group of them. She tried to scream again, then coughed. The sharp, metallic taste at the back of her mouth told her all she needed to know about how well that plan was going to work. 

Morgan jumped behind Deirdre as she was told, clutching her shovel for dear life as she thought. They couldn’t stay here. They were trapped, they had dug themselves too deep and they were trapped now. Anything could jump in, could drag them out. “We have to get out,” she whispered, pulling on her arm. Maybe if they hurried, maybe if they-- 

Two spawn leapt for them on either side of the hole. Morgan only saw the first: its claw-like hands aimed straight for Deirdre’s throat, its teeth bared to the moon. 

“No!” Her hand shot out, and with it, the certainty and force of her desperation. The creature bounced back as if it had been struck by an invisible hand and collapsed, growling, onto its back. 

The second, Morgan felt: its cold, earth-crusted hand wrapped around her neck, lifting her off the ground. Morgan flailed. Once, just once, this wasn’t the time to breathe. She had to hold herself, focus. “Run. The others,” She gulped, and pulled on the arm clutching her, pressing on its skin with her cuff. The wish wasn’t a hard one to make. This time, when the dead blood and melted flesh splattered on her hands and clothes, Morgan didn’t stop to scream. She caught herself on the edge of their hole and gave another push with her magic and screamed after she saw it vanish under the end of her shovel.

Deirdre hissed, feeling the weight of her uselessness as she scrambled up out of the grave after Morgan. A few spawns had fallen in, unaware of how to crawl themselves out. The others snarled at them, their slow brains unable to fathom how to traverse a hole for the moment. Only for the moment. “Morgan. Morgan!” Deirdre reached for her girlfriend, trying to grab her hand but unable to under the dark and the increasing threat of the spawns. “Can you distract them?” She said, calming, working through a plan. “Anything you can think of for now; they’re dumb. A bright light, a loud noise, a mirror--” she coughed, “I just need--I just need time. So, if you can--” her voice cracked and the rest of her explanation fell silent as the spawns leapt across the hole, charging for them again. Deirdre sunk knives cleanly into some, an action that only served to slow them. They were undeterred. 

Morgan nodded and ran for the nearest tree. She snapped off the nearest branch. Not much of a stake, but wood was flammable, maybe--- Morgan sparked it into flaming kindling. It wasn’t her best work, the flames surged up, crackling, and withered in the air without more to sustain itself.

The spawn turned their attention on her, stalking and snarling. She had to do more, do better. She ran further afield, circling back to dart behind a stone angel for cover. She touched the sculpture near its base. The stone cracked like thunder as it fell, drawing them towards her, away from Deirdre. 

Morgan broke her shovel against the stone rubble and braced herself for the charge. She waited. They needed to be close, so close they’d be close enough to bite. She peeked her head out from her hiding place and searched for Deirdre, then she put her power into the earth around her and willed it to turn soft and heavy, to sink with sludge as she had in the woods before. Her muscles trembled, aching to run, to hide, but she climbed onto what was left of the stone ledge and held her ground. She lifted the jagged end of the shovel. She could do this. She could last long enough for whatever Deirdre had planned.

Her only wish had been to keep Morgan safe, to protect her. She had failed, so horribly, at just that. Deirdre’s throat burned in protest at her attempts at screaming. She watched Morgan move instead, watched the fire--she’d explain later that spawns didn’t like fire--then her show with the statue. The spawns around her sunk blindly into the mud, snarling their desperation as they pulled up mud trying to crawl to her. Unable to bear the sight any longer, Deirdre forced her plan into action despite her protesting throat. “Hey!” She called out, running around the far side of the statue. Whatever spawns hadn’t yet found themselves pulled into Morgan’s mud trap turned to Deirdre, charging hungrily at her. She pulled in as much cold, spring night-air into her lungs as she could, and wailed the moment she was sure they were far enough away from Morgan that her scream could be aimed safely away from her. The spawns trembled, struck into fear by the magnitude of the strange, unfathomably loud sound. Whatever few hadn’t run off were quivering, hands clutched hopelessly to their pointed ears. Deirdre introduced them to the pointy end of her shovel quickly before she ran up to the edge of the mud-trap. Some spawns had finally reached the ledge, others were slowly but stubbornly making their way to the witch. Luckily enough, they had unknowingly organized themselves into a neat little line. In one moment they were snarling, desperate and hopeful for food, the next they were still, sinking back slowly into the mud. Deirdre had screamed again, twisting the effects of this one and aiming it down the line of spawns. Now unmoving and no longer a threat, Deirdre took the time to call out to Morgan, “get rid of the mud!” 

Of course the sound that came from Deirdre’s mouth wasn’t human. How many times had she told her she was anything but human? And yet Morgan flinched back, trembling with fear, with wonder. It was like something from an old nightmare, not one of hers but the ones that were passed down through collective imagination, that kept people up at night, frozen in their beds, through the centuries. She understood all at once how banshees had become a monster to run from, and a force of power to be reckoned with. 

She stopped in her burning efforts to stake the spawn herself without earning too many scratches and bites when Deirdre came to join her and dropped to the ground, turning it into plain, solid dirt. She looked over at the creatures, waiting to see what they would do, but they remained immobile. She stayed on her knees, suddenly recognizing her exhaustion and looked up at her girlfriend with relief. “Oh, babe,” she panted.

The screaming was horribly painful; like a dried wound splitting open over and over again. Deirdre knew blood coated the inside of her mouth before she even looked to check what she was coughing into her handkerchief. But as it were, the silky white fabric was stained with hot red blood. She stuffed the cloth away, sparing one last glance at the incapacitated spawns now sunk far enough into the mud that even if they woke, they’d have bigger problems than the two of them. Deirdre met Morgan on the ground, uncaring about the dirt that would come to coat her knees. “Are you okay?” She fussed, inspecting the human for injuries. Under the moonlight, she could only see superficial scratches, but she wasn’t sure what she’d find once they were home. “Hey,” she cupped her face, smiling in a transparent attempt not to show worry, “you did amazing, Morgan. I almost feel like waking a spawn up and bragging about my very badass girlfriend.” She turned her face slightly to the left; not hurt. Then to the right; not hurt. “Hey,” she cooed again, “how are your ears?”

Morgan sagged with relief and pulled her arms around her girlfriend. She stung in several places, ached in several more, but Deirdre was with her, unscathed, almost unshaken. “I’m okay,” she said, leaning into her touch. “It’s nothing bad, I’m okay.” Her smile came easily. “And we did amazing. You were--I’ve never even heard you before like that.” She brushed her hair back and thumbed the fullness of her cheek to reassure her. She couldn’t be hurt too bad if she could smile and touch her like this. “They’re ringing, a litte,” she admitted, lifting a hand to touch them, testing. “But just a bit. I can hear you okay.” She kissed her gently and pulled back with concern when she tasted something strange on her lips. She touched her fingers to the wet stain in her mouth. Blood. “Deirdre your throat. How hurt are you? How do you feel?”

Deirdre’s smile thinned under the praise, she had no sense of how her scream sounded. She’d heard it described as monstrous, like the pained shriek of some inhuman creature. To her, it sounded natural, almost like a song. “Okay,” she softened, then tensed again under the kiss and ensuing questions. She also had no sense of hurt, not to her. She wasn’t allowed pain, or to wallow in injury. If a wound wasn’t life-altering, it wasn’t worth note. Her voice might turn hoarse if she strained it but it didn’t matter. Her throat would heal. She could scream in peace again. “Can you stand?” She asked, ignoring Morgan’s questions. “If you can’t, I’ll carry you back to Constance’s grave. I’ll finish the digging and you can enjoy the wonderful sight of me. How’s that sound?”

Morgan’s face wrinkled with concern. “Hey, no. Answer me, babe,” she said softly, bringing their heads carefully together. “How you’re doing matters. To me it matters.” She pulled them up to their feet and ran her hands down her body, inspecting for more damage than she could see, but it was all in the strained muscles of her neck, which she pressed upon with the gentlest touch, lest she hurt her more.”I’m good to walk. For once, it’s not my leg this time,” she said wryly. “Now tell me how you are so we can finish this up.”

Deirdre winced, a reaction she buried quickly by cutting her pained expression with stoicism. She would be fine. Nothing else mattered. Deirdre pressed her lips to Morgan’s forehead. Her throat throbbed more in rest, a pain nearly worse than when she harmed it first. But she was used to this pain, her childhood was marked by it. “Okay,” she pulled Morgan close to her, wrapping her arm around her waist as she urged them to walk. “Let’s move then.” For a moment, she ignored Morgan’s question again, then realized an answer would end this sooner. “I’m okay,” she answered, sure it was a lie only in how it settled poorly in her stomach. “I’ll take more tea when we get back, but I’m fine. You seem a lot worse than me, Morgan. Now come on, let’s walk.” 

Morgan went along reluctantly. She pressed a firm kiss to her shoulder, hoping it would leave something of the care she wanted to give her behind with it. “Okay. Lots more tea, and a good brush, maybe.” She squeezed her again. They really wouldn’t have come out half as well without each other. Did it count as trouble for her curse if being together was what had kept them alive? Was this a warning shot from the universe, or just White Crest? “I guess we really do help each other, huh?” she said. 

When they reached the hole in the earth they had dug, Morgan eased herself carefully to the ground and dangled her legs over the side. The soreness was coming alive in her arm, making it feel heavy and stiff, but she wanted to do her share nonetheless. Lifting the remains of her shovel again, however, was evidence enough against the idea. Morgan winced and punched her shovel into the dirt with her foot. It thumped, striking something solid. “Can you--?” She asked, embarrassed to not be of more help.

“We do, Morgan.” And Deirdre pressed a kiss to the side of her head as they walked, thankfully, in silence. When they reached the grave, Deirdre was remiss to find she couldn’t voice more of an argument to Morgan digging. She was sore, Deirdre wasn’t. It was simple enough to her that the witch should rest. In the end though, her attempt to rest her voice resulted in working twice as hard to make sure Morgan could happily do less. Morgan struck the casket first as Deirdre pushed the dirt out around it so it could open. “Hey,” she moved behind her, her voice took on an unintentional rasp, “why don’t you crawl out and I’ll get a bone? What are you thinking? Skull? Rib? Clavicle?” Her laugh was shaky, wheezy at best. 

Morgan sighed, knowing there was nothing more for her to do. She turned around in Deirdre’s arms, touched a finger to her lip and kissed her cheek. “I think a skull for me and a few ribs for you will do the trick. They’ll make a nice memento of how you helped me break my curse,” she said sweetly. She pulled herself onto the ledge, grunting as she felt the burn from her wounds intensify and sat, waiting intently. “What do you see?” She asked.

Deirdre waited until Morgan was out before she pushed open the casket, her muscles burned under all the work, but she was happy to do it. And there, in all its glory, was Constance’s skeletal remains. 

The bones before her were clearly old, nearly dust. Deirdre decided then that they were lucky there was still something to hold, even brittle as it was. The banshee knelt down, picking the delicate skull gently in her hands. Without warning, her eyes rolled back into an impossible blackness. She opened her mouth to explain this process to Morgan but was struck suddenly into silence instead, jabbed with the demands of a dead woman’s body. Constance begged to be heard and the will of her tugged Deirdre into a vision burning and possessive. 

She sees first the full moon above, then she feels the night’s cold rush around her. Wind rustles through thick branches. There is anger unimaginable, pain indescribable. Constance stands in front of a cauldron. The wind picks up around her. Deirdre hears the wood snapping in the fire behind the witch, the runic circle she has drawn is forgein to Deirdre’s knowledge. But the heartbreak is not and Constance carries with her an unconquerable sort. The pain and venom in her voice is clear but the words are jumbled together. Deirdre tries to tug on them but her will is swallowed by Constance’s and her vision snaps to the woman’s face. She is too young to know this kind of anger. To know this blotchiness of face, to know how tears can dry and renew against her cheek. Deirdre tugs on the words again; Constance demands she bear witness to the magnitude of her anger. The fire behind her cracks again and again but the splintering wood is only a start. She wants everything to snap that way too, the intention written clearly across her face. She holds a knife. She grips the knife tighter. The fire cracks. She speaks in tongues. Then she speaks clear; she speaks with anger thick and toxic. The fire cracks. She plunges the knife into her chest. Her ribs crack to her pressure. Her body slumps instead of fighting her. This is not death, not like it should be. Before life drains from her eyes, they spare one last burning look into the depths of her cauldron: the family portrait, the locket with the dark hair. Life does not fade from her, it is taken. The fire cracks. 

Deirdre gasped, thrust back into the present. Her eyes bore into Constance’s cracked skull, wondering if her rage willed each mark there. She had never seen anger like that. Never known a voice to sound so broken and resolved in the same breath. Never known a body to slump so unnaturally. There was death…and then there was what Constance had done. Deirdre swallowed thickly and repeated Constance’s last words, “for so long as the Bachman family hearts beat blood, they will know true suffering every third year in my name. And so long as my soul exists, my curse will persist.” Deirdre glanced up at Morgan, unable to describe the torture she’d seen across Constance’s face. Her gaze dropped back to the skull. “What do you have to do to make a woman that angry?” She asked in a whisper, then directed her words to Constance, “what did they do to you?” Knowing her intimately through one tumultuous vision, she expected an answer for it. Her remains, unsurprisingly, did not speak.  

Morgan flinched back with horror as something in Constance’s bones seemed to consume Deirdre. She was there, hers and bright and solemn and ready to explain; the next she was rigid, unreal and unseeing. Her eyes rolled back, swallowed with a cold, black darkness Morgan had never seen before. She stammered her name, hoping for reassurance. But Deirdre held still, her mouth half open and stiff, as if frozen from within. Morgan waited, forcing herself to breathe slowly. How long did it take? What if something had gone wrong?

 She called her name again and pushed herself back into the hole, arms protesting. She stepped tentatively towards her. With her eyes strange and vanished into dark it was like a stranger had taken her body from within. But she must be in there. She was strong. Maybe this was even how it was supposed to work. “Deirdre…?” Her fingers trembled as she stretched out her hand. 

Deirdre was back, just as suddenly, and Morgan withdrew her floating touch. And then she spoke. Not her words, but the sealing of a generations-old curse. Morgan’s own breath hitched as she put it together. “She leveraged her life,” Morgan said, starting to feel stiff herself. “Her life. That’s what she paid. She really—” Gave up her existence to seal Morgan’s suffering. Seal Agnes’ and Ruth’s, all of them. No wonder nothing ever felt like enough. They were fighting against someone cruel enough to seal magic with her life. Morgan stiffened with chills, the more she thought, the more she dreaded. How did you balance something like that? What kind of backdoor would be waiting for her when she knew the rest? 

At last, she looked back to meet Deirdre’s face. It seemed pointless to ask if she was okay, and yet it was all she wanted to hear, the only thing she could imagine to push away her fear. She reached out to her again. “Please,” she said softly. “Set it aside and come here, please, Deirdre?”

Deirdre’s eyes traced each crack, following the arches and indents of the skull in front of her. For the first time in her life, she was holding bones she wasn’t excited about. She remembered Morgan’s offer for a memento and winced at the thought of keeping any part of Constance. Deirdre nodded and stood up, skull in her hands. “I think there might have been some kind of spell. She…” Deirdre trailed off with a sigh, remembering the searing anger etched into Constance’s face, tinged with cavernous sadness. Lost in the cracks and curves, it took her a moment to process Morgan’s words. Once they had settled into her mind, her daze lifted and she set the skull back down gingerly and pulled Morgan into her arms. She turned her head and took in her scent; lavender and honey cut now with sweat and dirt. It was grounding enough. “I’m sorry,” she said with clarity a moment later. “I’m so sorry, Morgan. I’m not---I don’t think that’s a vision I should share with you in detail.” While less gruesome than most of Deirdre’s vision, that anger was nothing but disheartening. A woman with anger like that wouldn’t be struck down so easily. She was vindictive, in every sense. Deirdre wanted Morgan to keep hope. Constance didn’t provide any. 

Morgan latched onto her girlfriend, squeezing tight. She was soft again, familiar and loving. Whatever Constance had done, it wouldn’t keep its hold over them for long. This was stronger, better, even if she couldn’t bottle it into magic, it still powered her. Deirdre had come back from the old witch’s grasp and was hers again, just as Morgan’s life would be when she prised the curse out of that ghost’s hands. Morgan clung to that thought as hard as she had clung to Deirdre. She had almost convinced herself to breathe easy again when Deirdre spoke. 

“Deirdre, please,” she said, shifting to look up at her. “You don’t have to tell me right right now if it’s too much, but please. I need this. If I’m going to bring her back here and win, I need to know her.” And yet her breath rattled in her chest. What could her banshee have seen to leave her rattled? What other details could she have seen? “Whatever you need too, whatever I can give you to make this fair, it’s yours. You can write it, if that’s better. I—just tell me how to help you.”

Deirdre frowned, her brows furrowed with obvious concern. Morgan’s recklessness could be good, she needed it--it kept her brave. But all Deirdre could see now was the horrible place it might lead her right to. Constance hated her. She didn’t even know her, but she hated her. And hated her so strong, so pure and indescribable. “You don’t have to make this fair, Morgan.” She lifted a hand up to cup Morgan’s cheek. “What I’d want, you can’t---you can’t give me now.” Would she make her promise not to summon her? Promise to stay safe? Promise to come back safe? Promise not to die? Promise that something else could be done? “Do you remember how Miriam looked at you? All that hate?” Deirdre swallowed, “she’s going to---she might be a little more than mad about seeing you.” Worry coursed through her, it seized her thoughts and coiled around her sore throat. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you what I can. Let’s take some bones home. There was this circle she had, I didn’t recognize it, but I can draw it from my vision. I can map it all out for you if you think it’ll help, just…” she didn’t dare finish that sentence. Having to look again into Constance’s final moments would tear her apart, but she was more than willing to do. And what she wanted in return, Morgan’s safety and happiness, she knew she couldn’t ask for. She knew, with a strange chilling certainty, that it wasn’t possible. Not the way she wanted it to be. But she loved her, and she was willing to bear whatever pain she needed to. She would stay, regardless. 

Morgan’s soul dug its heels into her. So Constance had something awful, bitter and personal under all her hatred. So she would fight them, maybe lie to them. So she was no better than Miriam’s blind vendetta. Morgan didn’t have the luxury of being daunted. She had her suffering on one end of the road, marked with grief and hospital bills and wounds that wouldn’t be left along long enough to heal properly. And then she had her life, the life that had been cursed away from her, on the other. She met Deirdre’s look with determination. “I won’t do it by myself,” she said. “And I’ll be stronger than her. I’ll find a way to win, whatever it takes. I’ll do it, and we’ll never have to worry about this again.” She squeezed the hand on her cheek and turned her face to kiss her palm. “And I will make it fair someday,” she added, more softly. “I don’t know how, but I will. Because this could give me everything, Deirdre. My whole life.” She slipped back into her arms again. “Thank you, for all of this. I can collect the bones. I need some for the spell anyway. You can help me up when I’m done. And then we’ll go home and I’ll make you some tea. You can show me what you found in the morning.  Will that be okay?”

Deirdre laughed bitterly in response, though the perverse humor only she understood softened in time. This was the determination she admired, the spark that she liked. The one she didn’t want to see die. “And if it doesn’t, Morgan? If this just gets you hurt?” She asked, her concern had begun to work itself permanently into her features. “Yes. Yes, it’ll be okay,” Deirdre said. It wouldn’t. None of it would. Morgan didn’t see it, or she did and chose to ignore it. But what else was there? What else could Morgan do but try? Deirdre swallowed, scared as she was, she was more determined to help Morgan. “I love you,” she smiled softly, “you don’t have to make it fair. Just...keep yourself safe.” She wouldn’t, Deirdre knew that. It wouldn’t be okay. Not with a woman who held that much hate. 

“I won’t stop until it works,” Morgan said. “And I love you too, Deirdre. For all the reasons I’ve had before, it’s the best one yet not to give up.” She rose on her tiptoes and kissed her, gentle and lingering. She had never seen Deirdre this worried, this anxious before, but it reminded her so much of her own when she had first started to uncover the truth: when she was up parsing out every choice she’d made in her day, weighing them against the shadow over her, when had at first been too afraid to even touch a book on curse-craft just in case something in the universe would see her and twist its subtle knife deeper in punishment. But Morgan had been wrestling with this long enough to become brave. She had told Deirdre as much in their earliest days. This job might kill me. It’s a long shot. But I have to try. If I don’t try I don’t know what I’ll do. It was true now as it was true then. “It’ll be okay,” she said, willing it to be no longer a question, but truth. “And I’ll be careful. There’s no way I’m leaving this world before I at least catch your first gray hair,” Morgan added. She squeezed her gently and laughed in a way she hoped would make Deirdre forget the grip of her worry. Morgan could stomach enough of the hard stuff for both of them and keep the darkest thoughts away, never to breathe the air. She would finish this. For life she dreamed of, for the life soft and banshee-cold in her arms, for the lives she never got to have, she would finish this. 

[coeurdastronaute]

Either/Or: Found 3

Previously on Found

For three days and nights, Lena refreshed the news as often as possible, waiting to hear something about the alien that escaped. She kept an eye on Superman blogs and conspiracy twitters, waiting for a glimpse of anything related to the cousin of Metropolis’ hero, and yet came up with nothing. And thus she was doomed to wonder about her.

Of course, Lena busied herself with cleaning up her brother’s mess and putting up a protective wall around her company to bar his hatred from absolutely blowing up what their family spent decades building. She certainly wasn’t about to be the end of the line. If she learned one thing from her father, it was that family didn’t dictate anything, but especially not business.  

It was a lot of work, to manage her brother, her life, the rogue alien, and the business, and so when Friday rolled around, and the rain finally stopped with the storm moving off the coast and finally freeing the lakes from the torrential and everlasting downpour, Lena dropped her bag at the door, turned on some music, and poured herself a glass of wine. A rather well-deserved glass of wine, if you were to ask her.

So she told her assistant to be gentle with the weekend work and emails, and Lena resigned herself to a lot of not doing anything. What most people wouldn’t have ever guessed about her, was that she was a notorious homebody. If she wasn’t forced to go anywhere, she wouldn’t. It grew from a desire to feel at home, and yet never attain it. But she had her own home that she’d lived in for almost three years. It was her place, and now she was addicted to burrowing into it.

There was nothing left for her to do but try to enjoy herself and relax. She dug her free hand, the one without the freshly refilled wine glass, into the soreness of her tight shoulder and neck. Music hummed and she opened the doors and windows to the sunset on the lake and the beautiful view that her penthouse allowed.

In just a few days, her entire life had changed to almost unrecognizable ways. She’d suspected her brother had been involved in weird research methods. She never wanted to believe the extent to which it drove him.

That was how Lena decided to spend her Friday night; digging into whatever files she could find on their company server. It felt nice to dust off some of the dust to her tech brain. She missed doing simple things like hacking and programing. She missed what it meant to have something to do that wasn’t stupid meetings and being the face of a company.

The sun went down, beneath the remnants of the big, fluffy storm clouds, and Lena picked at the delivery the doorman brought up an hour ago. She scrolled through files on her laptop and let Albert knead her legs before settling in a prime spot on her lap.

It was much too late when she finally saw the article, though article might have been too generous of a word. But on a blog and storming through twitter, the image of Superman and another flying person, seen from a pretty good distance and very grainy, made its way into the world.

Lena stared at it and sipped her wine, allowing herself a small smile. A tiny part of her was bothered by it, but more than anything, she felt a certain contentment at the fact that she’d stopped her brother from ruining a moment like that.

She allowed herself a single second to enjoy it before returning to her work.

There weren’t many nights that Lena made it to her bed to enjoy the luxury of the biggest, softest one she could find in the world. Most of the time, she fell asleep on her desk and somehow woke up to clean clothes and coffee waiting for her, courtesy of her assistant. Often times, she fell asleep on the couch with the glow of a tablet and television keeping her company into the wee hours of the morning.

Thus was the life of a CEO. There was a routine in it, and because of that, Lena was able to keep steady and solid, which was exactly what her company called for from her in the wake of her father and apparently her brother’s new hobbies.

But on rare nights, on those beautiful, quiet, random nights, she made it to the monstrosity of a bed with the comfortable sheets and the clean smell, and she told her assistant to leave her alone for a few extra hours in the morning, and Lena allowed herself a break. It meant sleeping until nine, which for a Luthor was essentially sleeping the day away. It meant being safe and sound, and feeling relatively renewed. It meant, that for the tiniest of moments, she was dead to the world.

But on those nights, Lena restored herself, and she loved it, begrudgingly.

In the bed in the minimalist bedroom, the cat curled up against his owner’s shoulder, satisfied to finally be able to share the bed, instead of having it all to himself. In the quiet that came in the middle of the night in the penthouse condo, a noise went unheard as the sleeping pair snoozed contentedly.

Lena shifted slightly and then woke when she thought she heard another noise. With a purr of complaint, Albert stretched and readjusted, clearly exhausted with his day, while the CEO squinted at the clock beside her bed, making out the faint numbers that told her it was already after four in the morning.

In a second, she yawned and burrowed deeper into the pillow before another noise made her sit up even quicker. The cat complained but tucked back in despite his bedmate’s movements.

Creeping softly, Lena slid open a drawer and quickly pressed her finger to the small safe, which opened a second later for her to grab the gun inside. Heart beating wildly in her chest, Lena steadied herself and followed the noises at the end of the hall. A dim light illuminated her kitchen. The cold of the early morning made gooseflesh appear on her bare thighs, and she tugged at the shirt she was sleeping in, hoping to cover something.

None of it seemed to matter to the cat, who, upon being disturbed, took it upon himself to go in search of a snack, trotting down the hall at twice the speed of his owner. When he disappeared around a corner, Lena heard him meow contentedly and jump onto a counter.

Back pressed against the wall, Lena inhaled and held it before jumping out, gun cocked and trained on a body.

Fear turned to adrenaline which turned to an overwhelming surge of bravery, but in the moments that passed and all of the signals met up in her still sleep-logged brain, all manner of feeling deflated from her body.

Across the island in the kitchen, a newly familiar face stared back at her, cat in one arm, the other hand in a box of cookies. Startled like a deer meeting a semi on a highway in the middle of the night, an alien stared back at Lena.

“Jesus Christ, I almost shot you!” Lena yelled, dropping her guard and clicking the safety on the weapon. “You can’t just keep breaking into my house!”

“I did not break anything,” Kara shook her head quickly. “I promise.”

“That’s not… I don’t mean….” she paused and took another deep breath, meaning it this time. “You scared me.”

“I did not mean to scare you. I was going to say hello but I got so hungry, and you have good food. Except this juice,” she made a face and held up a green health juice. “This is poison, I am sure.”

“It’s healthy.”

“I like these more,” Kara decided, shoving her hand back into the box of cookies, smiling to herself as she crunched.

It was a lot to process, yet again.

Lena shook her head and put her gun down on the counter, still trying to fight away the nerves and the startling that happened, waking her from such a deep, solid sleep. It’d been a week, and she hadn’t expected to see the alien ever again, and yet here she was, in all of her glory, ill-fitting shirt and shorts and all.

“Kara, what are you doing here?”

She earned a shrug, and despite the smile, there was sadness in the alien’s eyes. Kara put the cat and the cookies on the counter and waited nervously before deciding that the truth was all she had left anymore.

“There’s no one left. Just me. Kal-El is not a son of Krypton. He doesn’t understand what it all means, and he doesn’t understand me. I’m just so sad, Lena. I spent the past few days looking for something,” Kara sighed, heavy and sad and lost. “I came back here because I feel okay here.”

Lena knew what it meant to be lost. She understood what the alien was saying, in at least some way, and for some reason she wanted to help and get back the girl who once smiled about something as simple as cookies and crackers.

“He wanted to send me away, to some island with his friends. Warriors. But I don’t like to fight. I like to learn. He doesn’t understand any of it, and it’s--” the edge of the counter broke in her hands.

“You can stay here, if you want. I won’t let my brother--”

“I know.”

“You can trust--”

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t--”

“Lena, I know,” Kara smiled again finally, placing the broken granite down. “I never doubted you. I only regret that I put you in this situation.”

“What are friends for?”

“I’m not sure about Earth, but on Krypton, friends were people you shared a mutual understanding and kinship with outside the bounds of family and blood.”

“We’ll work on that,” Lena decided before giving her guest a reassuring smile.

Kara simply cocked her head and waited for an elaboration that wouldn’t come. It would be a heck of an endeavor, but from one orphan to another, Lena knew she had to take care of Kara, even if that meant hiding her from her own brother.

NEXT

[styomi]

Fifteen study dates | 15-day prompt challenge | Sweet Pea/OC | Day 7

AN: I realized that I skipped updating yesterday, so two chapters today! I was tired as heck because of overtime xD Looking forward to hearing what you guys think :D

Info:

Fandom: Riverdale Pairing: Sweet Pea/OC Rating: T Word count: 1893 Chapter count: 7/15

                                 Master of procrastination and his jailer

From the first day of studying with Sweet Pea, and occasionally his friends, Ruby knew that it was going to be a steep way up towards good grades. While she certainly didn’t have too much trouble completing her workload, her study buddy had issues. More specifically, procrastination and attention span issues. Sweet Pea was the undeniable king of getting distracted. A notification on his social media, a text from Fangs or a phone call from FP were somehow always a first priority. And, when there weren’t any distractions like that, he made himself busy by bothering her. He loved playing with her hair, lazily braiding it into weird dreadlock-like lines that Ruby didn’t have the heart to tell him took her hours and tonnes of conditioner to get rid of. And, when it wasn’t her hair, it was something else. Doodling, playing with his rings, searching for interesting tattoos online, twirling his pencil or clicking his pen. Sweet Pea was an annoying mess of a master procrastinator.

But, what Ruby hadn’t been privy to was the information that he actually didn’t understand half of the material. Most specifically, the physics material. She wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t pay attention in class or because he simply didn’t get the tasks, but Ruby knew that more than seventy percent of his work was always wrong. So, she made it her own, personal goal to get him to pass physics without him noticing how much she was trying.

The first step had been roping Sweet Pea into a study session every day except the weekend. Ruby had managed that easily enough. Promises of alone time in her room or doing something he wanted when they were done got the biker to eagerly oblige. The next task on Ruby’s list had been getting Sweet Pea to actually study during those sessions. He was like a small child, constantly distracted and pulling her attention away from the material. So, she set up an odd reward system, which she didn’t voice to the boy, instead only acted upon it. Ruby would hold his hand, kiss him, sit on his lap or even go a little further when he did a good job in order to encourage him. When she got to her third step, the actual testing, the teen realized her mistake.

Sweet Pea spent the first half of the practice exam trying. His hand kept going to his hair, messing it up when he didn’t understand something or hit a wall. He kept scratching out his answer and progress, before going back to the top and trying again. However, by the time Sweet Pea started the second half of the practice test, Ruby could clearly see that he’d given up. A small curse here and there, a shrug before writing down the answer and not even bothering with his calculator were all setting off alarms in her head.

“Is it too difficult?” Ruby finally asked when she’d finished her own test, sitting still and watching the biker struggle for the last half an hour or so.

“It’s fine,” Sweet Pea countered, eyes not leaving the page. “Just like at school.” Ruby saw him scratch out an answer and write another one.

“Then, what’s wrong?” She asked. Sweet Pea sighed, his head rising and eyes meeting hers.

“I’m just stupid for this school shit, cupcake,” the biker shrugged like the words meant nothing, but Ruby could see the way his fingers were clenched around his pen. “Sorry to disappoint your dreams of me being some kind of hidden, dyslexic genius underneath all the leather and Serpents pride.” Sweet Pea’s grin pissed Ruby off to no end.

“Give me your test,” she held her hand out, waiting, tone icy. Sweet Pea obliged soundlessly. “Now, get your butt over here and listen to my explanation or we’re going to have an issue.” The chair rolled over, crackling along the old floor of Ruby’s room. She grabbed the armrest, making Sweet Pea lean back slightly. He knew her pissed mode was on. “Listen to me. You’re not stupid, Sweet Pea,” he huffed, making Ruby smack his arm with the back of her hand. “You’re not. Otherwise, FP and Tall Boy wouldn’t be grooming you to take over as second-in-command.” His dark eyes met her pale ones, reluctantly shifting to the side.

“Whatever you say.” Do you really think so, he was asking. She knew. Ruby knew Sweet Pea better than he thought.

“I know I’m right,” she adamantly told him. “Now, just like you listen to them when they’re teaching you the ropes of gang bullcrap,” when he opened his mouth to correct her, Ruby put her finger up readily. “No, that I don’t want to know. But, just like you listen to them, you listen to me,” he didn’t reply and Ruby frowned. “Are we on the same page here? Do you want to pass this?”

“Yes.” Sweet Pea grumbled.

“Good,” Ruby smiled. “No more texting in class and you pay attention. You also have to stop procrastinating when we’re studying.”

“Alright, Miyagi,” He was grinning at her. “Lay it on me.” And Ruby took up her red pen, getting started on his test.

Toni and Fangs picked up Sweet Pea on Monday at his locker, the tall biker looking like he hadn’t slept in a week. The purple haired Serpent gave him a once-over before leaning on the wall and smirking.

“Ruby riding you hard?” She caused Fangs to choke on his coffee and attempt to prevent it from spilling out of his mouth and all over his travel mug and front.

“You have no idea,” Sweet Pea groaned, making his two friends stare in shock. “She’s an absolute beast! I think I’ve studied this weekend more than ever in my life. Please hide me or something if she comes looking.” The two bikers exchanged glances.

“Sure, because your tall ass is easy to hide.” Toni shook her head.

“C’mon, man, can’t be that bad having a study session with a girl?” Fangs tried to diffuse the situation. But, Sweet Pea turned to him with a clear face of absolute misery.

“You try it.” He spoke with conviction. “She won’t let me step out of line, like some military camp. I need Ruby-free time.”

“Then you’d better start running now,” Toni remarked, nodding her head at something behind Sweet Pea. “Here comes your jailer.”

“Shit.” Sweet Pea tried to grab the right books and close his locker but didn’t make it. Ruby had already bounded over to him with a cheerful smile on her face.

“Morning, everyone,” she greeted, the two Serpents returning the gesture. “Sweet Pea.” Her hand extended expectantly. With a groan, the tall biker fished his phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. A piece of paper was placed in its spot. “Study hard!” With that, Ruby bounded off again. Sweet Pea slumped against his locker. Toni’s eyebrows rose while Fangs’ smile widened to an impossible size.

“Oh, wait! I have something!” He cheerfully said, digging out his own phone and searching before playing a soundtrack. A whip swishing through the air and cracking sounded out in the busy hallway, making Toni lose her cool. The girl barely managed to stay upright against the wall.

“Ha ha.” Sweet Pea glared at Fangs. “Laugh it up until she sees your grades.” Fangs paled.

Sweet Pea found focusing in class much easier without his phone. While his hand did constantly go to his pocket on impulse when he got bored, only to find it empty and have a small heart attack, he kept his eyes on the board and his notebook filled with lines of examples and explanations. And, Ruby’s little notes also helped. She kept passing him small pieces of paper whenever they saw each other, each spelling out a little encouragement in her writing. Some were quotes, others were her own words of praise at how he had done well in class and the last kind, his favorite, were promises of rewards which he would get for his efforts.

So, the tall biker did his best. He actually sat in his chair, for once, instead of on his desk, in physics and wrote down problem after problem. When the exam came, he didn’t find it a head-scratcher, as usual. Instead, Sweet Pea turned his paper in less than thirty minutes after it had been handed out to him by the teacher, surprising everyone. He even got permission to leave the classroom early, which made Toni and Fangs gape after his retreating form. Ruby found him that day, after finishing her own test, by his locker.

“Hey.” She greeted in a soft tone, the hallway still empty because class was in session.

“Hey.” Sweet Pea shot back halfheartedly, expecting a reprimand for leaving early. However, Ruby surprised him, yet again. She took his hands gently, interlocking their fingers and standing on her tiptoes to plant a soft kiss on his lips.

“I knew you could do it.” She whispered against his skin, their breath mingling.

“I had plenty of help and a merciless jailer.” Sweet Pea joked, taking her bottom lip in between his teeth gently and pulling a bit. Ruby groaned and her arms wrapped around his neck, tugging him closer to her. He loved the way she pressed the whole length of her body against his, a rare show of intimacy in a public place.

“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” The girl asked between kisses, which became longer and more heated with each passing moment.

“Fangs has a new ringtone for you now,” Sweet Pea told her, pulling his head back a bit to see her reaction. “It’s a whipping sound.” Ruby lost it, giggling against him, her forehead hitting his chest.

“Alright, I was pretty bad,” She concluded with a sigh. “Here.” Sweet Pea felt her slide his cellphone into his back pocket, where he normally kept it, coping a feel along the way.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one squeezing your ass, tater tot?” He cheekily commented, their heated mood from before gone. They were back to their usual teasing push and pull. Ruby didn’t reply, though. In fact, her face was as red as a tomato and she was staring at the contents of his locker.

“You kept them?” There were two dozen small papers there, carefully left beside his books and notebooks. All the encouragement she’d written for him along the way.

“Of course, I did.” Sweet Pea shot back, watching the way she hid her face from him. He actually had her embarrassed, for once.

“Throw them out, stupid!” Ruby tried to take the notes, but Sweet Pea slammed his locker shut with a smirk.

“No, they’re mine now. I decide what to do with them,” he told her smugly when he saw her incredulous expression and red cheeks. “Besides, isn’t it your ongoing theory that I’m not stupid?”

“I take that back, you’re stupid and you’re a jerk!” She was already planning to get his locker combination somehow, he knew.

“No take backsies.” The comment earned him a slap across the chest. Sweet Pea laughed and leaned in, kissing Ruby one last time before pulling her towards the cafeteria, ignoring her grumbling about revenge and never doing anything nice for him ever again.

That’s all folks!

Taglist (still open): @enticinghell

You can find the previous parts here:

Day 1: A way to memorize Day 2: How to prepare for a study date (?) like a proper gentleman Day 3: With proper motivation, anything is possible Day 4:  PG13 PDA sugar can be good motivation Day 5: Autumn time is picnic time Day 6: It’s best when we can compete  Day 8: Take me anywhere, everywhere, away from here   Day 9:  Dirty French for beginners   Day 10:  I need… sleep?… no, you…   Day 11:  Delirium   Day 12: Stay still for me   Day 13:  Debate? Apparently, a turn-on   Day 14: Two-seater and Chinese   Day 15:  Unintentional intentions  

Let me know how you liked it :D

[jackblankhsh]

A Blood Red Reindeer Knows -- Part 6:  Escape to the Worst

Kung Fu Karl doesn't waste a lot of time with fists.  He's got other things in mind, delights to satisfy anger ten years brewing.  As such, it isn't long before he sends the other Action Figures to get his "kit."

 He tells me, "I've had time to practice.  Cheaters, thieves, and the general gutter trash we can't avoid here.  But I was always thinking of you."

 "I'm flattered."

 Karl chuckles, "What'd you think was gonna happen when you got here?"

 Drooling blood, I shrug. Black Jack's Cooler is the one spot in the whole North Pole, probably the world, where any person can hide from Big Red.  He sees anyone anywhere any time he wants.  This place, though, for reasons no one knows, is off the grid.  The cops also tend to make this the last place they check. Black Jack pays them to, though whatever crooked deal he's got with Big Red is beyond me.  

 Kung Fu Karl glances at his watch.  Somehow he looks more sour than usual.  

 He says, "Where are those idiots with my gear?"

 I say, "They can take their time."

 A sound rumbles down the hall.  It sounds familiar, but my brain is too scrambled to make sense of it.  Kung Fu Karl recognizes it straight away.  He pulls out a gun.  The sound comes again.  This time I realize it's a shotgun blast.

 The door bursts open. An Action Figure staggers inside covered in blood.  His eyes roll up into his head.  He collapses, but he's dead before he hits the floor, a gaping wound in his back pouring red.

 Karl hurries out. The door swings out before him. The moment it does I hear that shotgun blast.  When the door swings back there's blood all over it.  

 I can hear footsteps. The door opens slowly.  Roy Glitterspark marches in carrying a pump action shotgun, and wearing a long trench coat.  

 I don't know if I've lucked out, or am still in serious trouble.  Using a key Glitterspark unfastens one of my cuffs.

 He snorts, "I don't see why we need you."

 "Me neither."

 He throws the key at my chest.  It lands in my lap.  Then, without another word, Glitterspark vanishes out the door.  

 Unlocking the other cuff takes longer than I care to admit.  One eye swollen shut, and my brain not exactly firing on all cylinders -- I've rarely felt more successful than grabbing hold of that tiny key. After popping free I stand, a little too quick.  

 My body feels like a stick of butter in an oven, slowly softening into a puddle.  It's very tempting to go with that feeling.  Following it leads to a black pool, a place I can float without pain, or worries.  But there's too much to do.  

 So I push on.  

 Stumbling into the hall I find Kung Fu Karl.  His head is gone.  Not far off is an Action Figure.  Not far from him is another body.  Following them like macabre breadcrumbs I start wondering if the whole damn casino got massacred.  

 The trail leads to a basement office.  The fanciness of the room suggests the rumors are true.  Black Jack liked to have two offices in the casino.  The one upstairs allowed him to be seen with those who -- let's say -- elevated his status.  Politicians, celebrities, rich folks, anyone whom it'd be good to be seen with in public. However, in the casino basement, a second office went into play whenever Black Jack needed to do business with the North Pole's underbelly.  

 Still, the room is a magnificent setup.  Big Red's got to be the only person with a fancier office.  The only thing marring the scene is Black Jack in his desk chair.

 Just like with Collodi, Glitterspark didn't fool around.  There are four holes each about the size of a fist in Black Jack's body. Coming around the desk I find a gun still in his hand.  I can't help admiring that.  

 But now's not the time.

 Quick as I can, which isn't quick enough, I go through Black Jack's desk.  I take everything that seems even vaguely helpful.  That said, might as well be a vacuum sucking up the desk's contents.  

 Pockets full I make my way out.  Unfortunately, I don't know the underground well enough to risk wandering around.  So against my better judgment I take an elevator to the casino floor.  

 I'm expecting the door to open, and cops, or Action Figures to be there.  Guns drawn they unload into me, and I don't have to worry about any of this shit anymore.  Too bad my luck holds out.  When the doors open, the casino is carrying on blissfully unaware of the bloodbath below.

 Outside someone comes running at me.  My vision is still blurry.  

 I say, "Sorry, Cari, guess I ain't coming home."

 The person coming at me says, "S'cuse me, sir?"

 I blink.  What looked like a hitman in a blue coat turns out to be the parking valet.

 "Never mind," I say.  Fishing in my pocket, I can't find the ticket to save my life.  

 "Rough night?" he asks.

 "What gave it away?"

 "Maybe just tell me what your car looks like?"

 "Thanks," I sigh, "It's a motorcycle."

 "We only got one of those tonight."  Like lightning he's gone.  In a minute my beautiful ride is rumbling in front of me.  Getting on slowly, I wonder how many times the valet's seen this kind of exit.  Probably a lot.

 The valet says, "Hope things are better tomorrow."

 "That's always the way ain't it?"

 #

 A short while later I'm going into Kaye's diner on Rosemary Boulevard.  A waitress named Vera almost faints when she sees me.  

 Jutting a thumb at my bike I say, "Don't ever ride one of those."

 She asks, "Sugar, do you need a doctor?"

 "Only to get my head examined."  Pointing to the back I ask, "Mind if I sit there?"

 "Sit anywhere you like."

 Shuffling my way I'm glad the place is mostly empty.  Still, I worry about whatever glances come my way.  In a weird way Karl and Jack did me a favor.  My face is too messed up for anyone to recognize from the mug shot popping up on TV screens, and newspapers.  Even the trademark red nose is probably getting mistaken for a bloody mess.

 By the time I sit Vera is already hovering with a cup of hot chocolate.

 Setting it down she gently pats me on the shoulder, "Hope you like cocoa."

 I tell her, "You read my mind."  

 She smiles, "I put in something with a little extra kick."

 "I'd wink, but I can't."  The joke makes her look sadder, so quickly I add, "Thanks.  There aren't enough like you in the world."

 Placing a menu on the table she tells me to take my time.  So I take a few sips.  Whatever she put in the mug definitely kicks.  When the cup's half empty I start feeling pretty good.  Well enough to get down to business.

 Dumping the contents of my pockets on the table I frown.  A lot of it appears to be nothing more than business papers.  Even the illegal stuff doesn't offer any leads.    

 In an envelope I find several photos.  Most of them are faces I don't recognize.  However, the few I do tell me this is what I've been looking for. Vixen is in one of them.  Some show people gathering in out of the way places: guys in three piece suits meeting with gutter punks; ladies in fancy cars getting dropped off at shady tenements; anxious clusters of folks huddled under a bridge.  The last picture is of some kind of face.  Not an elf, or a toy, it looks like a horned goat with a long tongue.

 On the back of the photo someone's written, "If we figure this out first that fat bastard will owe us big."

 My stomach growls. I can't remember the last time I ate. So I wave Vera over.  

 "What's good?" I ask.

 "Not much, but what is is the best."

 "Then bring me the best you got."

 "Sure thing."

 While I wait I spread out the photos.  I let my good eye drift.  I keep thinking when I'm not looking that's when I'll see what I need to.  Lost in the search I jump when Vera returns, plates clattering onto the table.  

 She's quick to say, "Sorry, honey, didn't mean to scare ya."

 "No worries," I say.  

 She's brought pancakes, hash browns, and a steaming cup of apple-spice breakfast soup.  There isn't much room with the photos all over, so I sweep them to one side.  However, one catches her eye.

 Pointing at it she says, "You looking for that building?"

 It's the photo of the goat face.  Near as I can tell this picture was taken under a bridge.

 So I ask, "What building?"

 Vera replies, "There's a building, not far from here.  I pass it on my way to the bus.  It's got that on the side."

 "What is this?"

 She shrugs, "Don't know.  Kids call it the Krampus mark."

 I ask where the building is.  She gives me the address.  Then I dig into the meal.  It's as delicious as she promised, but over too soon.  Afterwards I get the check.  Fortunately, I snagged a fat wad of cash from Black Jack's desk, so I leave Vera a rather generous tip.  It's the least I can do.  Then I head to the building with the Krampus mark.

[itsthelinernotes]

Do I Need To Know About Music If I Want To Write About It?

Somehow everyone likes Music, but simultaneously we can’t agree on what music we like. So what is it that we’re all in agreement about liking? This makes for a strange bit of sociology in terms of how music is approached and talked about. Since music has this odd type of universality it’s seeped deep into our culture and our discussions of it manifest in some strange ways. My love of music, and later love for philosophy and sociology is what led me to studying why music is so universal but not agreed on for six years and two degrees.

All this time studying music has led me to what I now arrogantly believe may be one of the central contradictions of music which is that it is worthless. I’m not trying to say that it’s worth is = 0 nor am I trying to misdirect with a platitude that it is “priceless” meaning that it’s worth is infinite. What I mean is that it simply cannot be defined in terms of having a worth at all. In computer terms you might consider this as being null. I don’t believe this worthlessness is necessarily bad or even good. What I do mean to point out is that it prevents us from thinking clearly about the role of music. When considering we live in a capitalist hellscape this provides a problem because we can’t assign its value at “infinite” nor can we value it at “0”. This is what I think leads to the never ending arguments surrounding the worth of music, musicians, their work.

Before I go on, I should make this clear: I support every musician in their right to get paid. I wrote my Master’s thesis on the labour rights of musicians and how they are abused. However I have a utopian vision where all music is free for everyone. That vision doesn’t jive with our world and until we have some massive societal revolution, musicians gotta eat and we have to play by the rules of capital for now.

The most frustrating way that this valuelessness manifests is that knowledge about music, be it music theory, music history, sociology of music, whatever, is always valued as a secondary skill even in the industries and structures built around music (I pause here again to remind people that I’m a recovering academic writing blogs on Tumblr, what I’m about to describe is personal, I’m mad about it, maybe that’s improper or biased but it’s how I understand my own experiences). Let me give you a few examples.

After entering the hell of the job market with two music degrees I was encountered with a great deal of false hope. There were actually fairly frequent job postings in or around the “music industries”. This was great for living in a small city, albeit one with a rich musical history. What quickly hit me though is that despite all these music jobs no one was actually looking for anyone who knew anything about music. Go ahead and search “music” on a job board, most of the jobs listed will not have “requires a knowledge of music or musical background” unless you’re teaching (I’ll get to this later). Most jobs in music require marketing, business, social media, administration, event planning, etc. Whats more they require experience in those fields so they are not open to most musicians or people who have dedicated their time to the actual music. I don’t mean to downplay those skills or say they are not relevant, I do mean to say that any actual knowledge of music is rarely prioritized. Of course people with passion for music are attracted to these positions but they can also become bloated with people who enjoy music passively. I guess the issue there is that I don’t know a single person who doesn’t enjoy music.

At this point you’re probably shrugging off my frustration as an idiot who thought studying music instead of literally anything else would help me get employed in music. Well you’re right I am frustrated because even the people I know with music degrees who work in music had to get a second degree or diploma unrelated to music to get that job. You might also say “well there are people who write about music who get hired based on their knowledge of music.” But let me dig at that point.

As someone who keeps a close eye on these job postings I can say with relative confidence that most job postings at major music publications (I recently saw one for Stereogum) require experience in journalism first. Their interest is not in proving that you actually understand the content you’ll be writing about but that you’ll be able to produce content on anything. This is most clearly shown in music reviews. Take any review of a new popular album and jot down a one sentence summary of each paragraph. You don’t have to do much to see that not only do these writers bring up the same points in each review, they often do it in the same order. I don’t say this to slander journalists, I think it’s a noble profession, one I don’t have the skills to do. I do this to point out that if you take an incredibly diverse set of information and give it to people who have been trained to write in a certain way, you’ll get largely the same output. If you don’t, you’ll encounter an editor who, having raised through the same ranks will see that it is. Of course it’s not always the case that journalists get hired to write for these publications (for instance, you may just have connections) but it is very common.

I realize this comes across as arrogant and entitled but I think the question of credentials is an important one. After all, I’ve spent six years writing about music under the scrutiny of academia to be told over and over I don’t have the qualifications to write great content like “Every Radiohead Song Ranked” because I didn’t study journalism. I hosted a campus radio show on music for four years to be told the same thing at a radio station. What seems to be happening is that obviously music is important. We’ll create an infinite amount of publications dedicated to the topic. It has worth. But it’s still second to skills that have value to the institution. What I hear from people hiring in music is “Of course music is important... it’s just not valuable”. My encyclopedic knowledge of music is not welcome in the working world unless it’s tied to another skill that can be more efficiently employed. This is because we can’t actually place value on music the way we can on skills with more quantifiable outputs.

This brings me to education. All through my time studying music I got “so you going to be a teacher?” it was something I found frustrating but I do love to teach so I always said “maybe”. Well recently I figured I might as well look into teaching. Where I live, to get a teaching degree you need to have a certain amount of course hours in “teachable” subjects. There’s band class in every school here and luckily I’ve taken a number of conducting classes and have plenty of class hours in music. When looking at the list of subjects considered “teachable” one has an asterisk next to it. It turns out music can only be your “secondary” teachable meaning you have to have majored in another topic and maybe minored in music. I talk to teachers I know in the province and they say that there are barely any music teachers and they regularly have to try and recruit from outside the province. I called one of the univeristies in my area and they assured me that my masters degree was not applicable and that I can’t even apply to be a teacher with only music credits. What I love about this is that I, as arrogant as it may sound, almost certainly know more about music than anyone teaching it in my province (there is a small program at my alma matter that gives degrees in “music education” but having spent a good deal of time with those people I’m not too worried about competition). More people would have education degrees not from the music education program and instead would all have music as a “secondary”. Meanwhile I’m not even eligible to enter most of the teaching programs here at all.

While this article certainly comes off as the complaints of a dumbass, I think there’s an importance in asking these questions. If you decide to pursue the knowledge of music academically, why is that so often viewed as a bonus to a primary knowledge? Why are our priorities in the music world on non-musical skill sets and knowledge, even in careers that are concerned with music knowledge like teaching and music writing? I don’t think it’s anything to do with the well meaning people I’ve thrown under the bus here and everything to do with our way of measuring value. Or better, our deep inability to deal with things that can’t have value assigned to them. Consider also that every LP when it came out was sold for the same price, but immediately some of them became collectable and would exponentially increase in value while others you would struggle to give away. The universality of price of a new LP in the 60s, a new CD in the 90s or an iTunes single in the 00s was because we just can’t place a value on its contents so we had to concede that every song is worth $0.99. Because a good deal of my identity and work has been put into understanding music now my skill set and that of others is in a weird non-value. Afterall everyone loves music, what’s so special about me?

[accio-ambition]

WORLDS COLLIDING FOR SOME CAPTAIN COBRA SWAN GOODNESS. Ugh, yes. I hope you guys enjoy it. I know I do.

As always, a humongous thank you to @sotheylived, @shipsxahoy​, @queen-icicle-fandom, and @captainswanbigbang for supporting and getting this project through at some point in time in the past...god, seven months? Is that right? Math is not my strong suit.

Summary: Bouncing around with her son for the majority of her life, Emma Swan has told herself she’s happy in the city. It’s where the most camera operating jobs are, and that’s how she makes her money. But when an old friend calls her and asks for her help on a new project in small town Maine, Emma finds herself in a place she’s never been with people she doesn’t know filming a profession she knows nothing about. But when the captain of the ship she’s filming begins taking a keen interest in her and her life, she finds herself wondering whether she might just catch something other than fish. Deadliest Catch AU Rating: M Content warning: Character death, some violent situations

FFnet/Ao3/Cover/Snapshots/Gifset

Chapter Nine

Emma’s got her laptop out on the table, a plate of Granny’s finest onion rings at her side. Over the past couple of weeks, she’s accumulated approximately 67 hours of B roll, every minute of which she has to go through, edit, and send off to Jefferson, who has to approve it before filing it with HQ. So far, she’s made it through about an hour and a half.

(Thank god Ruby knows to keep the onion rings coming.)

She’s just cutting up a scene consisting of the boys playing cards down in the galley while waiting for Jones and Liam to figure out their plan of attack for the day when someone slides into the booth bench opposite her.

“So, tell me, Swan,” Jones startles her. “What is it that makes you tick?”

Exporting the clip and jotting its name down on the growing list of file names, Emma sighs. Of all the people she wanted to see right now, Jones was not one of them, especially on one of her rare days working away from the Jolly Roger. She sets her pen down and glares across the table in frustration. “My charming personality and sense of humbleness,” she says, her face unmoving and her voice monotone. She’s not in the mood for his shit.

“But of course,” he chuckles, nabbing a ring from her plate. Too late, she smacks his grabby fingers away. “I would’ve thought it was those sky high walls you’ve got me climbing, but the personality.” He munches on the onion ring thoughtfully. “No, that makes sense now.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “In case you can’t tell, Jones, I’m a little busy here.”

“Oh, no, I can see quite well.” Setting his clasped hands atop the table, Jones leans toward her, closing her laptop fractionally. “I can tell that you’re using whatever is around you to protect you from something.” He cocks his head to the side like a curious puppy, almost like he’s trying to read her. “Guard you from falling a little bit in love with this town. Or at all.”

“Really now?” Emma says, unbelieving.

(That is what she’s doing, technically speaking. Force of habit - distraction to keep herself safe. It’s worked so far, that’s for sure.)

“Indeed.” Jones nods and steals another onion ring. “Your work, your lad, your impending order of – what was it, pancakes?”

“Waffles,” she corrects himself. Emma pulls her plate closer to her, even though he has the arm length to reach across the table and take her food as he pleases. “If you had been up as late I was dealing with a sick 10-year-old, you would’ve been as grumpy as I was.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” He raises a brow and points at her. “But you did have a cup of coffee in front of you, so I assumed you’d be slightly more pleasant.”

Emma shrugs. “Assumed wrong.” And in her mind, that’s the end of the conversation. If she were in his shoes, she would bid him farewell and leave, get out of his face.

But when had Jones ever done a thing she would do? Instead, he continues to sit opposite her and appraises her. For a moment, Emma tries to return to editing her B roll, but she feels his gaze on her and it makes her nervous.

With a grunt, she slams her laptop down and glares at him. “What do you want, Jones?”

“I just want to get to know you, Swan,” he says quietly. “You’re the first civilian I’ve let on my ship, love, and from what I can tell, you’re going to be making yourself a frequent member of my crew.” Jones begins to trace his fingertip all over the tabletop, appearing to draw little nothings while he thinks over his next words. “I need to know who I’m working with. I need to know who is going to jump in the sea after a crewmate if they fall in and who’s going to stand back and watch.”

“Well, I can already tell you that I’ll be standing back and filming. That’s literally my job,” Emma quips back. Then she raises an accusatory brow of her own. “So, is that enough information?”

He sighs in frustration. “Something small,” he pleads. “That’s all I ask.” He searches their surroundings as if for inspiration. “Perhaps where you and Henry were before you came here.”

It seems like such irrelevant information. It’s something that he can find out by asking Jefferson or David or even Ruby. It’s safe. Still, she thinks about it, then decides to respond. “Phoenix,” she says. “Henry and I were in Phoenix before we came up here.”

“Quite a different landscape, isn’t it?” he asks, to which she makes some nonverbal sound of agreement. “How long were you there?”

“Less than a year.” Emma shakes her head and opens her laptop once more. “Look, Killian, I really do have to work on this stuff.”

Across the table, she sees his eyes light up despite her obvious dismissal and, idly, she wonders why he suddenly seems really happy to be rejected by her. “Perhaps we can talk later then,” he suggests.

“Sure, if you really want to,” she says with a shrug. It’s inevitable: they’re going to have to talk to each other in the future because they work together on a boat - ship - that she knows very little about. She doesn’t exactly want to die out at sea.

“Trust me, love, I really want to,” Jones murmurs eagerly. Finally, he slides from the bench and stands next to the booth. Emma watches him cautiously for his next move.

What he says next surprises her.

“When do you pick the lad up from camp?” he asks.

Emma’s thrown by the weird question, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Quarter after three. Why?”

“How about I meet you two when he’s free and I take you to my ship?”

If possible, her brows sink lower on her face. “Why?”

Jones shrugs. “Well, you may have seen the inner workings, but your boy hasn’t.”

And that’s got her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline.

(They’re getting quite the workout today.)

“You want him to give him a tour of your boat?”

“Ship, Swan, the Jolly Roger is a ship,” he groans, rubbing away at his forehead and the frustration her mistake causes him. “Yes. I think it’s good for a lad to know where his mother will be working, if not to meet some of the folks she’s working with as well.”

“Really?”

He nods, digging his hands into his pockets. “We’ll just pretend he’s come to your office for a little while. Meet your boss and such.”

“You’re not my boss,” Emma scoffs. “If anything, I’m your boss.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “I do love a woman in charge.”

Emma slaps his arm. “Fine. Meet me outside the schoolyard at ten after three.”

He leans forward in a slight bow. “As you wish, Swan,” he says, before walking away.

“Don’t think you’re going to charm me by quoting Princess Bride!” she yells after him, then scolds herself because she’s going to have a hell of a time editing her B roll now.

She whiles away the day doing busy work, trying not to think of what Killian had basically accused her of earlier. She knows she has walls. She knows she walks around with heavy armor around her heart. For good reason. Her life was on the right track until a man came along, got her pregnant, and then left her to take the fall for his crimes. Of course she’s going to have trouble trusting anyone after that. She thought she had loved Neal, gave him everything, only to receive nothing as thanks.

But for Jones – practically a stranger, someone she considers a coworker at most – to call her out on that. It’s unheard of.

Her past experiences are what make her eyebrows raise in confusion, but pleasant surprise when she strolls up to the elementary school to find Killian chatting with some of the other parents there. He’s laughing jollily at something a woman is saying, his arms crossed over his chest as he throws his head back. She walks up to them and clears her throat to get his attention.

“Swan!” Jones shouts in greeting. He gestures to the woman he was talking to by casually swinging an open hand toward her. “Have you met Aurora?”

“Not yet.” She leans forward with her best people smile and shakes hands with the woman. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Aurora says. She seems nice, much like the rest of the people in Storybrooke. Very domestic in her vintage dress and long hair, waiting for her children to get out of summer camp. “Killian here was just telling me about your son. I think my Phillip has been talking about him.”

“Oh, you’re Phillip’s mom,” Emma says in recognition. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Yeah, Henry was really excited telling me how Phillip had invited him to his birthday party.”

Aurora chuckles. “Yeah, he’s really excited about it. Turning double digits and all that.”

“Is the lad really turning 10?” Jones asks in disbelief.

Aurora hums and nods.

“My god, I remember when your husband burst into the Rabbit Hole and bought everyone a round in celebration of his birth,” he chuckles.

Aurora laughs. “Yes, I remember that as well. I wasn’t all too happy with him after that.” Her phone rings. As she takes it out of her pocket and finds who’s calling on the screen, she sighs. “Speaking of my darling husband. Sorry, I have to take this.”

They wave her off, Aurora heading off to the other end of the playground to speak with her husband. Emma, on the other hand, turns to Killian and says, “You’re here.”

“Of course I am.”

“You’re here early.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Sometimes Mary Margaret lets the children out early for some extra time on the playground, especially on a nice day like today.”

Emma tilts her head toward her shoulder. “How’d you know that?”

“I hear things around town,” he reasons with another shrug. “Mary Margaret Nolan, bless her heart, made her and David’s presence known the minute they moved into town.” Killian chuckles and shifts his feet a little closer together. “She came knocking on our door with cookies to introduce herself a couple days after they’d come.”

“Huh,” she hums. “Sounds like her.”

His eyes widen a bit and his brow cocks up. “You know her?” he asks.

“I should hope.” Emma says, licking her bottom lip and shaking her head. “We moved in next door. And I knew her and David when I was in school.”

“Really? You’ll have to tell me all the embarrassing stories one day.”

“Hmm, don’t count on it, buddy,” she says with a smirk, satisfied that she’s managed to shut him down.

(For now.)

(He’s trying to get under her skin even more so than he already is. Trying to create excuses to spend more time with her in an effort to make her like him, she’s sure.)

(And now that she knows he lives down the street from them and he knows they live next door to the Nolans… well, it’s a small town. She wouldn’t be surprised if he came knocking on their door unannounced.

Emma doesn’t know if she could handle that.)

The bell rings and the kids start to stream out, slowly, then in a huge crowd. As a now-sixth-grader, Henry may be a little taller than the rest of the kids, but he’s told her before how his classroom is also the furthest from the doors. So when the crowd starts to thin, that’s when she starts really searching for her son.

He appears, wet brown hair in his eyes, his pack slung over one shoulder. Henry spots her and starts jogging toward her, but slows back to a walk when he sees who’s next to her.

“Hey, kid,” Emma says happily, avoiding the obvious question in his eyes. Henry tucks himself under her arm in a side hug, her arm resting on his shoulder. “How was camp?”

“Fine. We went to the pool and they taught us how to dive.”

“You know all about that, now, don’t you?”

He nods. “I practiced on my back stroke while they taught the other kids.”

She laughs. “And how’s it looking?”

Henry shakes his head, his nose crinkling up in disgust and dissatisfaction. “Not much better.”

“I’m so proud of you, kiddo.” She reaches both arms around him and hugs him tightly.

Henry leans into her side, his still-damp hair soaking through her shirt. He speaks so quietly she has to lean down when he repeats it. “Who’s this?”

The moment of truth: Emma glances up at the man, who’s remained silent so far, waiting until she gives him the go ahead. His expression, however, has opened up into something she’s never seen before. It’s kinder than anything she’s seen on the ship. Granted, she hasn’t known him that long, but it’s still a bit eye-opening.

After a moment of hesitation, Emma repositions the two of them so they’re facing Jones. “Um, Henry, this is Killian Jones,” she says. “He’s the captain of the bo-ship,” she quickly corrects herself. “Of the ship that I’m filming on.” With the smile of a mother who can’t help herself but be happy around her child, Emma introduces her two worlds. “Jones, this is my son Henry.”

Killian pushes out his hand for a shake. Henry obliges timidly. “Lovely to meet you, lad,” he says. “Your mother told me that you had really hoped she’d be hanging out with pirates.”

Emma reaches out to punch Jones in the shoulder, scoffing, “I did not!”

“Swan, please,” Killian playfully pleads, rubbing at the spot on his arm where she hit him. He crouches down in front of them until he’s squatting low enough to have to look up at Henry. He leans into her son. “Do you want to know my ship’s name?” he asks conspiratorially. Henry, of course, nods. “The Jolly Roger.”

His eyes go wide. “Like Captain Hook?”

“Exactly.” Killian’s pointer finger moves and bops Henry on the tip of the nose, surprising both of them. Henry giggles and Emma can’t help but smile at the noise. “Would you like to see it?”

“Yes!” Henry shouts enthusiastically. The shy kid from minutes ago is gone as he looks up at Emma with bright excited eyes. “Mom, can I?”

Shrugging, Emma glances over to Killian, who sends her a wink. “Why not?”

“Awesome!” Jones stands up and gestures toward the water. In all his youthful joy, Henry takes the lead, half walking, half jogging in front of them with his back to all opposing traffic. “Can I steer it?”

“Afraid not, m’boy.” For what it’s worth, Jones matches his steps to hers, a slow sort of trudge that isn’t exactly exuberant but isn’t exactly hesitant as well. “We’ll have to stay docked today. My crew is making sure she’s all ready for whatever happens this season.”

“But can I steer it some time?” Henry asks, coming to a halt in front of them.

Killian looks at Emma for the correct answer. She’s not quite sure what he sees there, but Jones turns back to her son. “We’ll see, lad. We’ll see.”

Emma hangs back as they walk to the harbor while Henry and Jones walk together in front of her. Henry’s regaling him with tales of their travels – how to tell a good New York street vendor from a bad one, how nice winter in Phoenix is – and Killian, surprising her yet again, reacts genuinely and accordingly. Unlike other people – specifically men who’ve wished to pursue her romantically – Jones is treating her son as anyone should: like her 10-year-old is a person.

She catches up to them once they reach the docks, only to hear Jones say, “What in heavens do you mean, you’ve never seen snow?”

Henry shrugs. “We were always somewhere warm in the winter time. I might have seen it when I was a baby, but I don’t remember seeing snow anywhere but on TV.”

Jones looks at Emma. “I am appalled, Swan. You’ve never let your son experience snow?”

She shrugs, internally chuckling at the apparent family trait. “There were never any jobs where it was snowy.”

“A likely excuse,” Jones scoffs. They come up to the bow of the ship, Henry basically hopping on the balls of his feet. “Well, here she is.” Emma comes up to his side and accidentally brushes against his hand with hers. “The Rolly Joger.” His voice cracks, causing both her and Henry to laugh at his slip in words. “I mean, the Jolly Roger.” He blushes and scratches behind his ear. “Shall we board?” Henry nods fervently. Killian gestures to Emma. “Ladies first.”

She rolls her eyes, but heads up the steps of the gangplank before Henry does. “Watch your step, kid, there are ropes everywhere.”

“How would you know?”

“I work on this ship, remember? It’s like my office,” she says, wrapping her arms across her body to keep the sea breeze from making her more uncomfortable than she already is.

Always happy to be the center of attention and talk about something he's obviously passionate about, Killian shows Henry the captain’s roost and the inner belly of the boat. Emma notices that her son seems to be enjoying this time with Jones – some boys’ time that he’s never really had much access to. It’s not like his father was around, or any of the men she sought company with were appropriate for her son to hang out with.

Emma realizes that, though she might not exactly like Jones, maybe her son knowing and liking him might not just be the worst thing ever.

When the tour is finished, Henry’s eyes bright and cheeks flushed, Jones ushers them off his ship, onto the gangplank, and back to the docks. Once again, Henry’s basically jumping up and down between the two of them, practically hanging off of Killian’s side and surely his every word.

“Did you enjoy yourself, lad?” Jones asks.

“Yeah!” Henry shouts. “Are you sure we can’t take her out today?”

“’fraid not.” Killian looks at her. “The day is late and I should think your mother wants to get some dinner in you and then get you to bed.”

Emma nods in agreement. “Jones is right, Henry, it’s getting late.”

She turns and faces the sun to start their walk home, her flip flops slapping against the wood of the docks and then the concrete of the sidewalk. But she stops when she realizes that her son isn’t following her, or he’s dragging his feet and she’s had the kind of day where she can’t deal with that. Looking over her shoulder, Emma finds he hasn’t moved, still on the wood of the docks, staring up at Killian.

“Go on, Henry,” Killian chides him with a small smile. “We’ll take the ship out soon. You can be my first mate.”

But that’s not what her son wants promised. Even from her position a couple yards away, Emma can spot the determined features on Henry’s face.

“You promise she’s gonna come home?” Her son is so serious when he asks that it nearly breaks Emma’s heart. It’s not like she doesn’t understand where he’s coming from: his father’s already left him, he doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. Just as Henry is all she has in her world, she is all he has in his.

But Killian, being the ever-confusing man that he is, crouches down so that he’s at Henry’s eye level. He sticks his hand out to her son.

“I promise.” His voice is surprisingly stern and serious.

Considering his proposal for a second, Henry finally takes Killian’s hand and shakes it. “And you, too?”

“Of course, lad,” Killian assures him, standing back up. “Liam and I have always come back to shore. If anything, we’ve only got more reason to make it home.” His eyes flicker over and catch Emma’s, as though to make sure that his words don’t go unnoticed.

And they don’t. Not by her. No, she hears every word, said and unsaid.

(It sounds like he’s coming back for them. For her. And the mere idea does not sit well with her at all.)

(Mostly because it settles nice and warmly somewhere in her middle.)

But the insinuations fly over Henry’s head. He nods solemnly and then smiles brightly, as he tends to do. “Thanks for showing me around the boat.”

“It’s a ship, lad,” he corrects him gently, “and it was my pleasure. I’ll take you out on it someday soon, aye?”

“Okay!” With that, Henry finally catches up to his mother, allowing Emma to wrap her arm around his shoulders. “Goodnight, Jones.”

“Goodnight, Henry,” Jones bids him. “Pleasant dreams, Swan,” he says with a wink.

She rolls her eyes and only allows herself to smile when she knows he can’t see it.

[aleatoryalarmalligator]

life story 43

My father started an eHarmony account in October of 2004, I remember quite distinctly. He was matched with a bunch of women, who he started talking to quite a bit. I never did enjoy they way he spoke about them. I think in his attempt to compliment, he would say things to me like 'See her. She's nice, very docile, look at her exotic curly hair.' and such. I felt like we were talking about pure bred dogs more than we were talking about women. For fun, I started an eHarmony account, but only to see what kind of personality the website thought I had, since they tend to ask you this questionnaire and try to match you with a similar personality type before continuing to attempt to find a match for you. It said that I was too strange to match up with anyone – it said it differently than in those terms, but that was the message I took from it, and that nobody on their website had my personality or was compatible so it rejected me outright. After a few months of online searching my father eventually matched up with a woman down in Boise. She was around his age, blonde. Her name was Patty. He started taking trips down to Boise to meet her every few weeks and was on the phone with her frequently.

I was just happy to have him out of my hair. Since Tammy was gone, he had naturally decided to focus on all that was wrong with me again, which was beginning to be a bit of a pattern. It hadn't happened with all of his girlfriends, but it seemed like I had to get punished for his frustration for a good many of his own failed relationships. So far there had been Denise, Marlene, Jodi, Tammy and now Patty. And I had been really mistreated due to the previous three.

Patty turned out to be a millionaire. I think her father had been an acclaimed dentist of some sort and she had been his only child and sole ere. Then she had married another millionaire, and had eventually divorced, which ended up giving her even more money. She had a job where she earned quite a bit each year, and then she had an extreme mishap take place during a surgery, which she sued for and made even more money. She didn't try to flaunt her money, but it would be impossible to say that it didn't affect who she was. It was a little intimidating for my father I imagine to feel so outclassed, seeing as he was a mere factory worker, and our house was sort of falling apart.

Patty didn't have it easy however. Her father had had very little to do with Patty. Her mother had been extremely religious, and sick. For most of Patty's teen years, she had no friends, and since her father had abandoned her and her mother, she stayed home with her mom to take care of her. And her mother shamed her all the time for never being good enough. Patty became worried about being fat, and though she never would admit it, it was clear that she had and was still suffering from anorexia. There was some element to this, some sad undercurrent in Patty that stems from deep wells of suffering and aloneness. I never had a personal conversation with Patty, but I felt like there were elements to her person that I instinctively understood very well.

As for the botched surgery, basically, I don't remember the details, but I believe one of her appendixes ruptured. They misdiagnosed it, and found out later what it actually was. They had to do surgery to clean her up. But they messed that up too. Somehow she started to get this increased infection, that spread to her intestines. She was on death's doorstep. They had to open her up again and take her intestines out. But the anesthetic didn't actually work. She was one of those rare unfortunate people who don't react properly to what they give you in surgery. So, she ended up feeling all of it. She felt the doctors digging in her guts, squeezing out her intestines, but the part of the anesthetic that kept her immobile did work. She felt all of this, and could not make a sound. All in all, this whole thing took about two or three years for her to recover. This story always bothered me.

So my dad started being gone for entire weekends. I was pretty happy about this all in all. I don't know if the feeling is universal, but when I am left alone, particularly when certain people leave – even if I love them, I get this tingling sensation of inner glee when I have the house to myself. The silence seems loud in this weird way, and I feel this nervous excitement, even if it really isn't going to change much about what I have to do or what I could or will be doing in the whole. I just enjoy being left to my own devices. Of course, then there are moments sometimes late at night where I get creeped out and feel a little icky. The lights seem too bright and too dim at the same time, and I start feeling like there is someone watching me. I start missing the sounds of people cooking and talking, or the television playing. There is an emptiness that feels melancholic when it comes to waking up in the morning to that vague empty house. So there is that side of things too.

My dad would have to drive down all the way to Southern Idaho, which is very dry and agricultural – whereas Northern Idaho has a few wheat and lentil fields and the like and can be dry and deserty as well, but is far more forested and full of rivers and gets to start looking more and more like Canada the more north you are. When you are in southern Idaho, it is quite common to see fresh produce being sold in small roadside stands. My father would often buy a bunch of this stuff and bring it back to us. I always thought this was great. Suffering from extreme depression as I was, I had a tendency to eat more than I ever have in my entire life. I would often eat the equivalent of two or three bowls of soup, and four sandwiches back to back. I became especially obsessed with tomato sandwiches, and I remember one time, I actually ate six or seven sandwiches. I absolutely cannot imagine eating that much now, but at the time, it really took everything to feel content. Sometimes too, though Patty was suffering from anorexia, she was actually a master at cooking candies, and desert treats. The best deserts I have ever eaten where made by her, and sent up north with my father for us to eat. I would always really look forward to these treats. But at this time in my life, I was always anxious, always unhappy. There seemed to be nothing that ever made me feel better. So I ate.

I wrote this short story about a school shooter, a discontented student who wanted to seek revenge on a school, not dissimilar to my own. I rarely have ever written fiction, and the concept of writing in the vein of seeing things through the eyes of a killer is not an untouched element of fiction, but this short story just kind of came to me one day in class. Basically, I wrote this story about how the killer took his gun and went from class to class slaughtering everyone. He started off by entering the school, and shooting the office woman, a redhead identical to the redhead office woman in my own school. The feelings I got to write this came from personal frustration. I never wanted to put a bullet in anyone's head actually. But with this really isolated resentful feeling I had towards school, I could see that if I had been born a slightly different person I might have had those inclinations. There was this underlying cruelty and systemic bullying about the very nature of school in general, that I felt could push a certain type of person the wrong way. I could recognize that element in myself to some degree. So in a way, I felt not a kinship (as killing innocent people has never meant much to me and was actually horrible), but a link of understanding to what the feelings of some real school shooters feel. The story never stipulated that I personally felt the main character was all bad or all good. There were certain elements of the story that were at times – seeing the killer at a distance. I wasn't trying to glorify the situation. I was simply letting my mind go to a dark place.

Anyway, I wrote this story, and then I accidentally dropped it in the hallway after school. The janitor found it, and read it. They were disturbed, and so they gave it to the office. I am sure the redhead office woman, who had already gotten me in trouble, and hated my guts – read it and felt threatened by it – as it clearly explained how she was shot in the head first thing, and her head smashed against the table and her twitching body fell violently to the ground. The story was painfully detailed. This story found it's way to the principal's office, and they pinpointed me as the author of the story. I didn't deny it, but it took a long time to try to explain to these dolts that I was personally not interested in killing anyone. I was simply exploring dark ideas. They eventually just gave me three detentions and I was free to go.

My father had wanted Patty to see us as a happy and healthy family, so we went to a photographer to have a family photo (I will post it at the bottom of this). I was a redhead at the time, and hadn't really had a chance to dress nicely for the occasion. I had just gotten out of school, it was a foggy day. I was wearing a red button up I had stolen from my father. I used to hate the picture. I don't anymore. It really wasn't that bad. You can see for yourself.

I missed Zack all the time. When I thought about him, I would have trouble breathing. In my mind, I imagined that now that he was finally free from school, he was living in this ethereal plain of existence – like heaven, but not as good and he was also still alive. It was hard to really comprehend that there was any downsides to a world that didn't force you to go to school. I was warned that work would be worse, but I doubted that. Strangely though, I was also beginning to appreciate the meaning of an education somewhat. I didn't want to ever go to college or be academic, but perhaps I was seeing getting bad grades as something that was expected of me. There was almost something even more unnerving about a student who was rebellious but passed all their courses with flying colors. Not that I was ever that student. It just seemed like an elevated version of rebellion. A next level.

Sarah told me around this time that she sensed that Noah had a crush on me. He was always eager to talk to me, to be close to me. I hadn't noticed it before. I had usually argued with him just for the sake of arguing. And he had never been too insulted by it, and rather enjoyed the sparing of ideas. I admit, my hatred of him was unfounded. Noah gave off creep vibes every here and again, but he never said or did anything inappropriate towards me or my friends personally. I was intentionally being an obtuse child to avoid recognizing that I had in fact pushed Zack away for about a month. So I decided to start being mean to him. It was wrong. But I didn't want him to like me. I didn't want someone to be interested in me when I felt nothing for them in return. So I started criticizing him for small dumb things. Noah smoked weed occasionally, and I made sure to make him know just what a loser I thought he was. Sure, Zack smoked weed literally every morning before he went to school for the previous three years I had known him, but when Noah did it, I made it into being something disgusting. I made him feel badly about himself. It wasn't very nice of me.

I tried very hard to have a crush on this new kid in the class below me named Richard. He had long dirty hair, he seemed to like HIM, and had safety pins in his nose and lips. Those safety pins did legitimately intrigue me. And he seemed subtly rebellious. What also intrigued me was that he was without decent parents. He lived with his cousins, who also had a good for nothing mom. They all lived out in the woods, and had to walk three miles just to get to a main road every morning for school. There was a legitimately edgy vibe to Richard for this reason. But really, I had troubles feeling very connected, and temporary intrigue was all that it ever was. I tried to convince myself that I was interested in him, mostly to get over Zack, but also fill my time in school with something rather than nothing. But the whole thing was too contrived and I couldn't fool myself into it. And Richard just wasn't very smart. He didn't seem as pie in the sky as Zack, or as mentally unstable. He just seemed bored. Where Zack seemed dirty, at the time he actually was more hygienic than he wanted to let people know. He brushed his teeth, and his hair. His clothes were laundered. So you had the best of both worlds. Richard really was a mess. I don't think they had running water where they were living. After about a month, without telling my friends, I finally just gave up on trying to replace Zack. There was just no replacing him.

For the first month of my going to school, my mother stayed at friends house. These noteworthy friends of  hers were named Jim and Connie, a couple in their late fifties, somewhat barfly material, but nothing completely out of the norm. They had a three bedroom home, and an outdoor swimming pool. There was a musty 70's grime to their home, but they for the most part kept the place pretty clean, though I felt there trash compactor was kind of gross, though I do not recall the reason why. Jim played guitar and was a bit of a wannabe Bob Dylan. They all casually drank each night. My mom would often times leave us there, and go stay with Danny during the nights. Jim found out that I was a beginner in learning to play guitar, and there was one night where he basically spent the entire night talking to me about his love for music. Aside from 60-70's folk music, he also was very into 80's hair metal. He remembered my father's band Ogre back in the 70's and was very impressed that I was of  'that lineage'. Jim was okay, but I always found him a little bit annoying, however, I felt that perhaps he had some things to teach me. He was also very encouraging about me being a musician, and after having the ridiculous backlash from my school and from home, I took all the encouragement I could get. He ended up teaching me Every Rose Has It's Thorn on guitar, which was campy to me, but very easy to play, and I was proud that I knew the song – even while I didn't particularly enjoy the song itself.

Connie seemed a little bit crazy. She just seemed to say weird things out of the blue, and wasn't able to follow conversation very well. With that said, she was actually very nice. Far nicer than Jim. I found out from Allison a few years later, that Jim was being a creep towards her, making gross statements about what a 'pretty little girl' she was. He kept saying perverted things to her. She was nine years old at the time. Allison remembers Jim getting really inappropriate with his remarks, and Connie overheard it. She was really upset and crying, telling Jim he was disgusting. I think it was one of those things where it hurt because she felt rejected by her husband – he preferring to ogle over younger women, saw him as a sick pervert attracted to children, but was so deeply entrenched in the marriage - with a realization that it was either stay with Jim, or die alone. She cried, and apologized to Allison as best she could. Had I known about it, I would have kept Allison a little closer.

Most of the time though, nobody was home. They had this dog named Emily who seemed to constantly need attention. They had three cats, none of them particularly friendly, though the most unfriendly one seemed to like me alright. David would often stay in our mom's room while she was away, and he would play Lord of the Rings video games for hours and hours. He was oftentimes in such a bad mood that nobody could talk to him for days. I felt this was very strange for a boy his age. He had this raging temper that was hard to understand. Allison was at the time, completely obsessed with animals, so she watched Animal Planet literally all weekend. Animal rescue shows, nature and wildlife shows. She confessed to me when she got older that she had had a crush on Steve Irwin.

I generally spent the weekend in the side room, either watching things on VH1 like 200 Best Rock Songs of All Time, or something like that. And if I wasn't watching that, I would be watching hours and hours of UFO investigations or history channel specials on conspiracies and mysteries, most of them related to UFO stuff. There was very little to eat aside from Little Debbie's, so I always felt a little bit gross. I would overhear my mom talking to Danny on the phone, and I remember one time I distinctly listened in to this really annoying phone conversation she was having with him. Basically, my mother talked babytalk and sort of little girlish on the phone towards him. I always thought that was strange, and I have seen it a lot since. Why do some men only feel dominant when their girlfriend or wife is infantized? This was not the least of this conversation I found frustrating. She was trying to ask him what he wanted to eat, and he was getting mad at her for not somehow already knowing him better than he knew himself. She was stammering and trying to figure out what he wanted. Eventually he coldly told her he didn't want he food – just to be an ass, and after having made her feel thoroughly dumb about herself. She then told him that she had watched some reboot of the Exorcist, which was honestly terrible, but she seemed to like it. Danny started criticizing her and telling her she was stupid for believing in demonic possession. I tended to agree, but the way he kept cutting her down was really mean. I couldn't figure out what the hell was wrong with him.

In the end, Jim and Connie got mad because their dog Emily attacked one of their cats, and the cat knocked over a lamp. Jim and Connie were convinced that there was no way this could have happened, and instead blamed Allison and David for rough housing – though this was not the case. My mom got frustrated and tried to side with Allison and David, but kind of got dismissed. So she found another place to keep us for the weekend.

So, the next arrangement was Willy's. Willy was a mentally handicapped man who had for some reason inherited hundreds of thousands of dollars. He was very very large, and very loud. He lived in a fancy part of Clarkston known as The Heights as it was on the hillside above the rest of the town. This was one of the stranger places we had ever stayed. Basically, it wasn't a mansion, but a very large and new home. It wasn't the kind of place I was accustomed to living. However, Willy didn't have any furniture save a couch upstairs. He never once did the dishes. Rather than pay for the garbage man to come out and pick up his garbage, he threw all these bags into this car garage, and that room smelled absolutely disgusting. The whole house smelled of trash, actually, and a good portion of the room were unused.

We rented the basement though, so we didn't have to share the same living space. And Willy was usually gone, spending a good portion of his time at the bar or on his family's ranch. Occasionally, he would come home at night with young women he met at the bar, and have very loud crazy wild sex upstairs. We learned to ignore it for the most part. You got the strong sense that he was going to run out of money sooner rather than later when you looked at how he chose to live. Roxanne had at some point bought a boxer pup that she couldn't adequately take care of. My mom took him temporarily. I don't remember his name. He sometimes would get loose and run around in the fields around this big place. There was no way anyone could catch him. After about a month or so, our mother ended up selling him to breeders, who kept him and another boxer so they could get puppies to sell. I hope his life went well. Technically, though statistically he would have died a few years ago now, he actually may still be alive, though if that is the case, he would be around thirteen years old.

Most of the weekends that I was over, I was very bored. I didn't read back then very often, and mostly I would just listen to music. I drew a little bit sometimes as well. We would eat our TV dinners and Little Debbie's and everyone would fight over who got the Xbox. David wanted it all the time, but I still seemed to be able to control things for the most part. The Xbox was this new thing back then. I remember the excitement that you could put music on it. I tried to burn all my music onto it. There were these strange eerie nights I would have. My mom was working as a bartender in those days, and she often times wouldn't be home till very late. Allison and David would crash on the floor, and I would just listen to the weird sounds that the Xbox made when there was no game being played and you were left with the dashboard. It sounded like dissonant alien noises. There were these repetitive whispers in the sound of the Xbox that were used for a noise affect. I read somewhere that these inaudible talking murmurs were actually real astronaut recordings. It really made me feel uneasy. And when I looked out of the house, there was nothing but fields that went on for miles and miles of nothing, and the night sky which reminded me of this vacant impersonal nothingness that reflects right back at mankind when they look up at the sky. It just had a way of making my hairs stand on end and caused me to feel somewhat paranoid.

Roxanne started bringing Jeremy Frye over more often now to visit. She was obsessed with him to the point of revering him almost as some type of religious figure, and it looked as though he were here to stay. He was a meth dealer, and they were both often doing meth. However, he controlled how much Roxanne was allowed to take, and he forced her to do whatever it is he wanted her to do. She kept a clean house now, but it was due to her fear that he would beat her. Somehow, they were both very obsessed with ICP and their version of Christianity. It was an obviously unhealthy relationship. And Jeremy was the type of person who felt he owned everyone around him, particularly women. It was really disturbing and gross. With men, he would put on this overly hyperactive friendly act that was completely phony. And Roxanne thought that Jeremy knew EVERYTHING. After talking to me for a short time, Jeremy told Roxanne that, though I seemed like a good girl, I didn't do drugs, liked writing and reading to some degree, I was actually going to end up being this huge slut and party like crazy. This among several other things he often said, annoyed me greatly.

Willy's was also the place where David started to really act out in a disturbing manner. Up to that point, it was mostly denying of strange facts or instances and freak outs that were very disturbing and out of control. He was still a small child at the time, but something seemed very wrong with him. I tried several times to explain what was happening to my father, but he always denied it. Generally, my parents saw me as the person that was supposed to control all these details about David or Allison, to keep it out of their own hair. As a young child, something was very wrong with his psyche. He needed help. My mom left Allison and David alone one weekend at Willy's on a weekend where I didn't want to babysit. David attacked Allison with a knife. Her chased her into a closet and then waited for her to come out for over an hour. She was nine, and he was eight. I didn't hear about it for some time, but when I did, I was genuinely disturbed. When I told my parents about it, they instead decided that punishing Allison was best. They blamed him for instigating it. It's really hard to explain how frustrated this made me. I felt badly for David, but it also caused a bridge between us. David could literally attack our sister with a knife claiming he was going to kill her. I knew he needed mental help, and that was ultimately what I wanted to see, but instead Allison always took the blame. And honestly, it was a sexism thing. My mother's family has always felt that women deserve the abuse that the man brings to the table, and my father in some areas saw women as manipulative treacherous tricksters that are set on making men lose their minds. So ultimately, it wasn't bad parenting, toxic masculinity, mental illness or anything of the sort that was at fault. Allison simply being born female was.

PART 42 - http://tinyurl.com/ycnng83q

PART 41 - http://tinyurl.com/y84kmttv

PART 40 - http://tinyurl.com/y8aj6kmq

PART 39 - http://tinyurl.com/y97vprft

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PART 35 - http://tinyurl.com/ya5xhe2f

PART 34 - http://tinyurl.com/yc6y4p69

PART 33 - http://tinyurl.com/y87449dz

PART 32 - http://tinyurl.com/ycetanep

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PART 28 - http://tinyurl.com/yagdlo47

PART 27 - http://tinyurl.com/ydcj5fgf

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PART 25 -  http://tinyurl.com/y6v6pgoj

PART 24 - http://tinyurl.com/ycak5d8r

PART 23 - http://tinyurl.com/yac6sk3g

PART 22 -  http://tinyurl.com/yat6cfnw

PART 21 -  http://tinyurl.com/y783egno

PART 20 - http://tinyurl.com/y8jskymt

PART 19 - http://tinyurl.com/rfhbms8

PART 18 - http://tinyurl.com/ycrznrwk

PART 17 - http://tinyurl.com/y77unlng

PART 16 - http://tinyurl.com/yadpsv8c

PART 15 - http://tinyurl.com/yb3lt6k5

PART 14 - http://tinyurl.com/yb4cfedq

PART 13 - http://tinyurl.com/yalanq9s

PART 12 - http://tinyurl.com/yc79mw94

PART 11 - http://tinyurl.com/yc9qhj84

PART 10 - http://tinyurl.com/yb734w24

PART 9 - http://tinyurl.com/yc2t6vfw  

PART 8 - http://tinyurl.com/ybl37utq

PART 7 - http://tinyurl.com/ybvo283g

PART 6 - http://tinyurl.com/kbc9dwu

PART 5 - http://tinyurl.com/msnz4am

PART 4 - http://tinyurl.com/k9x8esg

PART 3 - http://tinyurl.com/mwp9atx

PART 2 - http://tinyurl.com/lbt6xq2

PART 1 - http://tinyurl.com/l8xbvg8

[never-shuts-up]

Murder or a Heart Attack

AO3 Link

Summary: After a tag team victory at Summerslam, Dean still isn't sure how he's supposed to feel, or what new disaster he's just left himself open to. Seth still has a knack for making everything more complicated, but the best things don't come easily.

Notes: Set immediately after Summerslam 2017. Apologies to all my anti-Ambrollins friends, I still feel you but I also needed this, really badly. And there’s offscreen Ambreigns, for all the reasons.

Content note: includes an adverse reaction based on past trauma. I hesitate to classify it 100% as PTSD, but could be interpreted that way.

As soon as he stepped through the curtain, everything faded to a blur. Spots from the bright light still stung his eyes as cameras - probably mostly phones, but whatever the hell - began flashing around him to replace them. Immediately they were pushed through to the media area, and the cameras just kept going. Dean kept wanting to pinch himself, and see if he would wake up. The title over his shoulder, and a mere arm’s-length away, with the same title over his, the one man who had caused him no end of hurt for so many years. Seth was smiling, laughing, joking easily with commentators and on-lookers alike, and the expression on his face was one Dean hadn’t seen in - well, he didn’t even know how long anymore.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that smile. Not a plotting-smirk, not a rehearsed camera-grin, but a real, genuine smile, that lit up and transformed Seth’s entire face. It felt like he was looking at somebody else, someone he thought was long gone.

Was this really him? Who, even, was the real Seth Rollins anymore?

As the crowd began to disperse, Dean felt a hand on his shoulder. Seth leaned in, so close that a wet strand of hair brushed against Dean’s cheek. “C’mon, let’s get cleaned up.” Dean nodded a response back, and they turned and headed toward the locker room.

As he fumbled around in his locker, Dean still couldn’t shake the feeling of having wandered into someone else’s dream. They had done it - actually done it - and while he knew they could, believed they could, he hadn’t predicted it would feel like this. So strange, yet familiar; so good, yet uneasy. Memories of the past three years rattled around in his head, and this new experience refused to fit in with them, like a piece had suddenly been tossed in from the wrong puzzle.

Seth emerged from a cloud of steam, smelling like expensive conditioner, shimmied his way into those damn impractical tight jeans, and began rummaging through his own things for a shirt. Dean busied himself with cleaning the protein bar wrappers out of his pockets and the bottom of his bag - with the past week of media and travel, it was long overdue.

Seth was the one to break the relative silence.

“Did you make any plans for tonight?”

“Nah, not really. Was going to just grab something to eat and collapse. You know, the usual.” Dean shoved the rest of his clothes back into the duffel bag and headed to the garbage can with a couple handfuls of various wrappers - including, for some reason, an inordinate amount of straw papers and a very mangled Popeye’s cup. “Why, did you?”

“Not really. But, uh, if you’re just going back to the hotel, maybe I should give you this now.” When Seth turned back around, he had a brown paper bag in his hand. “I had to go up to Greenpoint to get it, but I’ve heard it’s the best in town.”

Dean opened the paper bag, slightly mystified to find a white bakery box, tied artfully with black and white twine. As he raised the lid, the faint aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg greeted him, and he nearly did a double take at what was inside.

It was a perfect apple pie.

If you put a picture next to “apple pie” in a dictionary - no, that wouldn’t be in a dictionary but maybe just a cookbook or a guide to things you could buy that are close enough to buying happiness - this would have been that picture. The crust was an even golden brown, punctuated with decoratively placed slashes that showed a hint of filling flecked with spices.

Dean looked at the pie for a long moment, then back up at Seth, catching him in half a second of fidgeting before he realized his tag partner was watching. An amused half-smile crept onto Dean’s face. “So, you heard that whole thing about the pie, huh?”

Seth grinned, apparently relieved at Dean’s reaction. “Obviously. You really still think Roman ate it?”

“Dunno. It’s been fun giving him hell about it though. Gets a rise out of him, and he keeps saying Ron did it.” The friendly teasing between Roman and Truth amused Dean to no end and was, to be honest, one of the highlights of having him travel with them. Once one of them found something to dig the other about, it would keep them going for days. Dean tried not to think about how, despite treasuring his rare time alone with Roman, everything seemed so much more natural and enjoyable with a third person in the car. “I kinda don’t care anymore, but having something to tease him about kept him from worrying so much about tonight.”

Seth went back to rummaging in his bag. “So you two are still…”

“Yeah.”

“I figured. Wondered if anyone would catch your little slip-up back there.” Dean felt heat rush to his face as Seth gave him an exaggerated wink-nudge, and he fought off the urge to shove the pie directly into Seth’s face. Sometimes even Seth’s friendly teasing skirted awfully close to the line, and Dean wasn’t sure what to expect from him anymore. The weight of the pie in his hands - a visible, tangible, spice-and-sugar-scented sign of what, exactly? - had just made everything more complicated.

Dean set the bag aside, next to his duffel, and shrugged. “Ehh, I’ve got a reputation for sayin’ weird shit to uphold. Wouldn’t want to let the people down.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. Or the other thing. After tonight, they’ll have plenty to talk about.” Seth’s cavalier attitude toward the relationship that Dean was so clearly trying to keep secret still annoyed Dean a bit, but he was a little occupied wondering what his tag partner was getting at. “Also, I figured we would either want to toast victory or drown defeat, so I brought this too.” He handed Dean another paper bag, this one smaller and heavier. Dean was pretty sure he could tell what was in it, but was still surprised to open the bag and find a compact, rather expensive-looking bottle of some whiskey he’d never heard of, with a heavy wax seal on top.

“Special occasion, huh? You went all out.” Dean regarded the bottle with approval. The name was unfamiliar - some kind of artisan small batch bullshit, most likely, but knowing Seth, at least it was probably good. “So, should we just open these here, or -”

“Actually, I had an idea about that. I figured you’d want to wait around for Roman, but if you text me when you get back to the hotel, I think I know just the place.”

—–

Dean climbed the last few steps and let the door swing closed behind him. “I thought the roof deck was supposed to be-”

“Closed after ten? Yeah, I know. Pulled a couple strings at the front desk, and they gave me the card to swipe in.”

Clever. Turning on the charm to get what he wanted was just such a typical Seth move, and Dean had to admit the roof deck was pretty impressive. The three-foot wall surrounding the perimeter was made of fake-rustic-looking wood and topped with raised flowerbeds. Motion-sensing lights flickered to life as they stepped out onto the walkway. There were a few tables with umbrellas, now folded up for the night, arranged around the middle, and a bunch of chaises and Adirondack chairs off to one side, mostly stacked up out of the way but with a few pointing to the main attraction: the view. Dean let out a low whistle as he took in the Manhattan skyline rising up right front of them - how had it seemed so far when it was right across a river? - all lit up and glittering like a drag queen’s jewelry box.

“Hot damn. This place really is something else.” Dean could feel Seth’s eyes on him, searching his face for signs of approval. And he had to give him credit - it felt like the right place to go for some quiet in a city full of noise, for some fresh air on a hot summer night.

“Worth all the hype, right?”

“Couldn’t say. Since we don’t get to see any of it or nothing.”

“Everything looks great from here though.” Seth dragged one of the metal chaises to a space with a clear view, sat, and motioned to the middle, where Dean put the box and bottle down. “And I have to hand it to them, Brooklyn knows a thing or two about food. That pie shop had about nine other things that all looked amazing. Different stuff like salted honey, but I didn’t think that would be your thing. Good coffee, too. I should have just brought you there, but I wanted it to be a surprise.” Seth was rambling now, as he rummaged through the bag and pulled out two plastic forks. Dean could tell it was nerves, and even though he wasn’t sure why, it still warmed him someplace inside to hear it. “How’s Roman holding up?”

Dean shrugged, and sat down on the other end of the chaise, taking out and opening the bottle. “Not great. He’s down at the room taking a long shower. You know, the usual.”

“Think he’d want to come up?”

“Don’t know, I didn’t ask. Figured he’d understand me being gone for a few minutes.” This level of interest was uncharacteristic. Seth was still giving Roman a wide berth, rarely asking about him, and usually finding reasons to leave a room whenever he showed up. Skirting the boundary between respectful distance and all-out avoidance, ever since Extreme Rules. Dean couldn’t really put a finger on what had changed, but it seemed they had both just moved on. No longer contending for the same title, they weren’t even in the same orbit anymore. Dean wasn’t sure if that was worse or better - but it was easier. Even if easier didn’t always mean better.

“So it’s not weird for him, you and me doing…what we’re doing?” Seth had seemingly forgotten the two plastic forks in his hand, and was studying Dean’s face intently, with an expression that walked the razor-thin line between apprehension and hope.

“Wasn’t wild about it. He tried to tell me what a bad idea it was, that first time. Made me promise I was gonna take care of myself, not take some stupid risk for you. Dunno what he was thinking, he knows I don’t follow instructions. When you first apologized, he said it was bullshit and I shouldn’t fall for it.”

Watching Seth’s face fall, Dean realized too late that he probably shouldn’t have said that. Except no, he definitely should have said that and more because Seth deserved to know the truth, even if it hurt. Especially if it hurt.

He watched Seth let out a ragged sigh, and take a hand through his hair like he always did to try and compose himself. “Not surprised. He’s looking out for you, and I can’t really blame him for not trusting me.”

Dean nodded. Seth was taking this better than he had expected, but he still looked tense, as if holding onto something much more uncomfortable than a couple of forks. Something about the set of his shoulders and jaw seemed imminent, as if he could jump off the edge of the roof deck. Instead, he turned to face Dean straight-on, gripping the seat of the chaise as if to steady himself, and looked him directly in the eye.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Having the full force of Seth’s gaze directly on him made something in the pit of Dean’s stomach twist. His partner’s face was all intensity, always, but he saw something unfamiliar written in the crease of his forehead and the corners of his mouth. In the half-light of the streetlights and garden lighting, Dean couldn’t quite read what this new something was. Twisting at the lid of the bottle in his hand, he could do nothing but let Seth continue.

“Being here with you over the past week - I realized, I’ve been going about this all wrong. I know I apologized - sort of - but it wasn’t right.” Seth paused long enough to inhale deeply, eyes closed, as if about to dive into unfamiliar waters. ”I’m sorry I pushed you around. It was mean, and shitty, and uncalled for. And you deserve better than that, so I hope I can make it up to you.”

The knot in Dean’s stomach began to unclench, and unravel, but it didn’t exactly feel good. Surprisingly, these soft words, these unfamiliar words coming from Seth just replaced it with a hot wave of resentment. Dean bit back a whole string of words that ran through his mind on a loop - are you fucking kidding me - what new bullshit - what the fuck is this fucking game - and took a deep breath to try and compose himself, but could feel his entire body tense, ready to attack. He clutched at the knees of his jeans so hard that his knuckles must have been nearly white, and tried - unsuccessfully - to keep the edge out of his voice.

“So you’re really sorry, and you really mean it?” Seth nodded. “So, why now? Why do you pick now to apologize and not, I don’t know, a month ago when you were playing your bullshit games?” Once the words started pouring out, Dean realized he couldn’t stop. “Where was this fucking sorry face of yours when you were turning the whole crowd against me? Were you just stringing me along until you had that title? What the fuck took you so long to figure that out?”

Seth flinched at every word, and the deepening look of hurt in his eyes both gave Dean pause, and made him feel strangely satisfied, vindicated. But he stopped to allow Seth to respond.

“I know it hurt. I know it made you angry. But I couldn’t take the risk that you would say ‘no.’ I had something all prepared, but as soon as I got out there, the second I looked at you, it hit me that I didn’t have any idea what I would do if you turned me down. So I pushed it, and I know I pushed too hard. And it wasn’t until I looked back at the video package that I realized just how shitty it was. I sounded like such an asshole, and you looked so hurt. And I can’t say I didn’t mean it, because at the time, I did. I just didn’t mean for it to come out like that, and I’m sorry it hurt you.”

Dean let the tide of words wash over him, and it started to sink in that this was real: Seth would never have put so much of this out in the open if he didn’t really mean it, and looking him directly in the eye, Dean realized he could identify a few of the unknowns that flickered across Seth’s face: guilt, which was no less than he deserved, but also regret and a tinge of fear. That was bullshit - what did someone like Seth have to be afraid of? - but nonetheless, there it was. But Dean’s own reservations refused to slip away so easily - after all, that face had lured him with false promises before. No. My terms. I’m not letting you push me around. Roman was right that you would try. And I’m not gonna let you get away with it that easily.  “You still made me look like the bad guy, and you didn’t exactly make me want to trust you again.”

“You’re right. I did. And I shouldn’t have. You did exactly what you said you were going to do. I should know you better than that - me, of all people. And it’s one of the things I like about you. I mean, I know the way your head works isn’t always straightforward, but the way you put it out there is. Figured you were trying to make a point. And I give you a lot of credit for that, you know? Being honest.”

“That’s pretty new to you, right?” Dean tried to play the compliment off with a joke, but realized it had hit much closer to the mark when the smile Seth cracked looked more embarrassed than amused, and his gaze shifted to somewhere on the ground.

“Yeah. I guess I forgot what that was like. You know? You spend enough time around liars, you just start to assume everyone’s lying. You start to assume everyone’s out to push you around. And you start finding ways to defend yourself before they attack. And I gotta stop doing that now. Especially with you. If there’s one person in the world I can stop doing that with, it’s you. This whole week proved it. What we did tonight proved it. I didn’t realize what I was missing, and I’m going to do whatever I can to keep it.” He turned himself fully to face Dean, folding one leg under him on the chaise, and stuck out a hand. “Can you let me?”

Seth’s open, expectant face turned Dean’s stomach into knots all over again. How was this supposed to feel? Anger and hurt and longing tumbled together until none of them were even recognizable anymore. And before Dean knew what he was doing, he had closed the few feet of distance between them, and taken Seth’s hand.

“I’m gonna try,” he found himself saying. “I want this as much as you do, but you dealt me a whole lot of hurt. And don’t even think I don’t feel it all over again whenever I see your stupid face. But you’re still my brother.” Dean paused and tried to gather himself. Roman had told him, time and time again, that he needed to keep firm boundaries with Seth, and it was Roman’s mix of concern and rage that swam to the front of his mind now. “And I know we’re better together, but if you pull that shit with me again, I can’t make any promises.” The words “and I don’t think Roman can either” sat right on the tip of his tongue, but he held them back. Involving him wasn’t fair, and it probably wouldn’t do any good.

Seth put his other hand over Dean’s and gripped it firmly, for a very long moment. “Okay. That’s fair - it’s no more than I deserve, but yeah, fair. Because I’ll have to do better if this is going to work. And I get that it’s been hard for you. So, thank you. For letting me back in.”

“Back in?” The turn of phrase sent a twinge through Dean’s chest as its meaning sank in. “Little brother, half the reason this is so fucking hard is that - for all these years - you were still there. You got in my head, got in my heart, and even when you fucked around with it, and even when I wanted to break your dumb coward face, I still couldn’t shake that. When you get down to it, you were never really gone.”

Dean’s words were cut off as Seth leaned in and wrapped him in a tight hug. He felt rather than heard the response, murmured half-into his ear, half-into his shoulder, and vibrating through his entire chest: “Neither were you.”

Despite the warmth of Seth’s touch, Dean felt his shoulders tense and shudder, and suddenly it was very hard to breathe. His vision blurred the lights of the skyline together, into a rough haze. Every nerve seemed to be fighting the urge to flinch, to push away, and even his fingertips itched to take control. The places where those maddeningly familiar hands pressed tightly against his back were the same ones that had been black and blue for days, crossed by marks from that steel chair and then by everything from boots to the edge of the apron - does he really think this could ever undo all that hurt, and what the hell have I just left myself open to?

Seth released his grip and pulled away, moving his hands to Dean’s shoulders. Forehead creased and eyes soft in the half-light, he seemed to shrink a little, as he studied his friend’s face and the realization of what he was seeing there hit home. Dean wasn’t sure exactly how he must have looked in that moment, but judging by Seth’s expression, it must have been as messed up as he felt.

“Shit,” Seth muttered, in a tone that was half sharp frustration, half sigh. “I did that, didn’t I?”

Dean nodded.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s going to take a lot for you to believe me, after how much I hurt you. And I’ve gotta let you make your own decisions.” Guilt - real, true, sincere guilt - etched itself across Seth’s face in deep lines, and he seemed to be torn between looking Dean directly in the eye and staring at the ground. “Just… if it’s too much, please tell me, okay?”

Dean nodded again. The city lights shifted out of the haze and back into clarity as he placed his own hand on Seth’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Okay.” And for the time it took for both men to breathe in deeply and let it out, nothing else mattered.

As everything settled slowly back to here, back to now, Dean dimly realized his phone hadn’t buzzed since he’d come up to the roof. A few floors below, Roman was probably asleep, and the space next to him was made up just for Dean, with the pillow exactly where he liked it, and it sure wouldn’t have been there all those years ago. Roman’s arm was probably flung instinctively over that space, protectively, waiting for Dean to come back and crawl under it, waiting to hold him until he fell asleep. It was different, but better, and he never wanted to go back to a world where that space didn’t exist.

This was never going to be the same either. But maybe it could be better too. The kind of better that came from being older, smarter, and knowing what kind of bad could come with the good - knowing all of each other’s ugly parts and scars and sharp edges.

Maybe things didn’t need to be the same to be right. Or at least, start fumbling their way toward right.

Seth shifted his position first, composing himself and slipping an arm around Dean’s shoulders as he took in the lights of the skyline that seemed to rise so close to them. “So - and I’m not trying to change the subject -”  he paused dramatically with a bit of a self-satisfied smile, “that’s a really good whiskey that you haven’t even opened yet.”

Dean smiled back, tentatively, but with warmth spreading back through his chest. “Right. And a pie that I’m gonna need one of those forks for.” Seth looked at him quizzically, apparently having forgotten the forks entirely. “The ones behind you, doofus.”

“Oh. Right.” Seth laughed nervously and fumbled for the two forks and the box.

“Should make sure we save some for Roman.”  Dean watched Seth’s face intently, unsure how he would react. “Since he had a rough night, and all that,” he added, hoping he didn’t sound as tentative as he felt.

That small, slow smile crept back onto Seth’s lips, as he untied the string on the box, and Dean was already thinking that maybe he could get used to seeing it more often. “Deal.”

Notes:

During the lead-up to Summerslam, I had a really hard time watching Seth’s “apologies” and watching him string Dean along - it read as extremely manipulative and hurtful, and set off alarms for a number of abuse survivors I have talked to. When someone tells you a character reminds them of their abusive ex, it’s hard not to listen - much less when THREE do. I went through several weeks of wondering if I could continue to write and identify with someone who could avoid making a real apology and still get applauded and cast as a “good” guy for his manipulative behavior. This was my attempt to make it right, and make the shift in their in-ring relationship more believable. After watching clips from the WWE2k18 event, it was very clear that there was more going on between these two than what we saw in the promos. And the apple pie incident seemed like a perfect opportunity.

The title is from an Old 97s song, which sounds like a love song but is actually about the songwriter’s roommate’s cat who escaped (but came back). I tried to change it, but “Murder (or a Heart Attack)” is a vicious earworm that just would not let go. And it just seemed to fit.