#i left space on this shelf cause its for 'classics'

[the-kneesbees]

my fave shelf on my new bookshelf <3

[auxiliarydetective]

AP-01: Project Apocalypse

ch. 06: For Old Times' Sake

AP-01 Masterlist

This fic is part of the Academy Projects series, a full rewrite of The Umbrella Academy with the addition of an original character, Kassandra Hargreeves. Throughout the story, you'll stumble across a few songs. This is supposed to make the fic feel as much like the show as possible, so I recommend you don't skip them.

Warnings: Canon-typical issues, death, a tiny bit of gore

When Kassandra got up the next morning, she stretched the grogginess out of her limbs and hopped out of bed, perusing her closet for something to wear. On today’s agenda: Go buy groceries, make some food, talk to Luther, try and talk to Diego, catch up with Five, collect everyone’s phone numbers (whether they wanted it or not), go back home to her fishy friend A.J.. Simple enough, right? Do a few nice things, maybe hopefully make peace with people, go home, stay away from this place for a few months and hope that she’d be able to keep contact this time.

With her handbag thrown over her shoulder and a simple pinafore-and-sweater combo on her skin, she headed down to the kitchen to see if her little hint from last night had caught on – and really, in good old tradition, the siblings had gathered together and scribbled down their various wishes on her empty sticky note. Luther’s clumsy print, Allison’s calligraphy, Klaus’s large and shaky writing that just said “SNACKS :D”... But Five’s handwriting had changed. It was neater, smaller, but still just as harsh somehow. Kassandra didn’t know why that bothered her. After all, it had been 45 years, more than enough time for it to change five times over. He had marked off space on the note for himself (though Klaus had then freely breached containment) and listed off - coffee, strong - tequila, white - cointreau - limes - agave syrup - fudge nut bars. Coffee, ingredients for a margarita, sweets. Very healthy. Still, Kassandra grabbed the sticky note off the fridge, glued another note to its back so she could write on both sides, then pulled a cookbook out of the shelf and started making her own list.

Once preparations were done, she made her way out of the house, not before asking Pogo if she could take the car. “It belonged to your father,” he had said. “You needn’t ask me for permission to use it.” When she found the car in the garage, she went to place her handbag in the passenger’s seat, but froze in place when a distinct crack in the bodywork caught her eye. A bullet hole. Classic. Diego had his own car, so that left only one person that could be responsible for this. Five. That little rascal was up to something again. Of course. Why had she expected things to be any different?

A few hours later, Kassandra was in the kitchen again, humming and idly stirring a wok pan. She had stashed away the various groceries – snacks in the secret snack compartments for old time’s sake, liquor in the bar upstairs – and then gotten back to her favourite pastime: Cooking. Only that it actually had a purpose this time. It had been another trip down memory lane when she had put on her old apron, the one Grace had gifted to her when Sir Reginald had taken away her old one. He had always deemed her hobby to be a waste of time.

“I should’ve known you’d be down here,” she heard Five’s voice behind her, causing her to smile.

“If it were anyone else, I’d be worried,” she quipped.

“Because none of those idiots know how to cook?”

“Do you?”

“You got me there.”

His tone was snarky as always, but his head was covered in dark clouds. Still, Kassandra chose not to address it for now.

“Sit down, I know you haven’t eaten.”

Five gave an annoyed little sigh, but he plopped down on a chair nonetheless.

“What are you making?”

“Shrimp fried rice.”

“Oh,” he said, and she could feel him cheer up a little. Then, he chuckled.

“So, a shrimp fried this rice?” they both quoted Klaus, Five in a mumble and subconsciously, Kassandra speaking along with him.

“I wish you could’ve seen his mental image when he said that,” she giggled. “It was a shrimp in an apron and– and a chef’s hat – I couldn’t replicate it even if I tried.”

“And that was without the drugs.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me. His brain is a gallery of modern art.”

Kassandra moved the wok off the fire, then turned off the stove and pulled two plates out of a cabinet.

“You mind telling me how Dad’s car got a bullet hole in it?” she asked casually as she dished the rice.

“No, because you already know,” Five declared.

Kassandra sighed quietly. She turned her mental antennae towards Five and peeked into his mind, finding images of him at Griddy’s Donuts, off to get a coffee, only to be cornered by a unit of heavily armed men. She learned of the Temps Commission, an organization keeping track of time that Five had been working for as a hitman for a while. But now he had defected and they had sent that unit to get him back or kill him.

“You’re right,” she muttered.

She placed a plate of food and cutlery in front of Five and her own opposite him, only to find him eagerly digging into his meal without another word. She swallowed an amused scoff but also a tinge of pity, knowing that he wouldn’t want either. How long had it been since he had last had a full meal?

“So you still like shrimp, huh? Noted.”

Five looked at her with a piercing gaze, then returned to his plate. They ate in silence for a while, an exercise they were well-versed in from their childhood, Kassandra quietly listening in on his thoughts, trying to piece together all those little details that didn’t make sense and pick out all that had changed. It was a comfortable yet tense silence, until Five laid down his spoon.

“Kassandra, we need to talk,” he announced.

As soon as he said this, Kassandra stopped in the middle of putting on her gloves.

“About the present, the future or the past?” she asked.

“All three. Same difference.” He took a deep breath to center himself, but it did nothing to calm the tornado of thoughts and feelings brewing in his brain. “When I  time-travelled for the first time back in 2002, I didn’t just get stuck in the future. I got stuck in an apocalypse.”

Every syllable took him a giant’s worth of strength to form, even if it looked effortless on the outside. Silently, Kassandra took her gloves back off and held her hands out to him.

“No,” he immediately protested.

“Listen, Five,” she explained, “if we’re going to make a plan of how to stop the end of the world, it’s best if I know every detail.”

“We’re not doing anything. It has to be me.”

“Then why are you asking me for help?”

“I—” He scoffed. “I should’ve known. But I need you to keep this an absolute secret, alright? If anyone else finds out about this, I will kill you myself.”

“What a lovely way to die. But you know I couldn’t spill your secrets even if I wanted to.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He took a deep breath, one that he would never admit was because he himself didn’t want to see what was coming next. Then, he put his hands into Kassandra’s, prompting her to run her thumb across his skin in response.

“Close your eyes,” she suggested softly.

With one last sceptical look, he let his eyes fall shut, the world fading to black around him.

In place of reality, a familiar sight appeared in front of Five’s closed eyelids. Destroyed, burning buildings, dusty air and rubble, the whistling of wind in his ears. It was the same destroyed street he had appeared in when he had jumped to the future, the one that led away from the Academy. But the oddest part was, he was standing in the middle of it all, free to move and conscious – and Kassandra was there with him, looking around with an attentive gaze.

“Advanced in your training, huh?” Five said and didn’t say, the words only coming out in this world inside his mind.

“I call it ‘memorywalking’,” Kassandra explained, but he didn’t hear her voice with his ears. That was something he’d need to get used to. “Like dreamwalking but with memories.”

“Well, where am I?” Five asked sharply. “I mean, the other me. – Can he see us?”

“It’s not time travel, Five, don’t worry. To everyone here, we’re invisible and intangible. We don’t exist. – Are you ready?”

“Just get it over with. We don’t have time.”

Only a second later, another Five appeared in front of them in a blue blitz, his triumphant grin turning into despair and shock in an instant. He looked around, scanning the buildings for any life sign, then turned around on his heels and sprinted down the messy sidewalk, back towards the Academy. Immediately, Kassandra set after him, her expression warped into one of concerned focus. The real Five was frozen for a moment, but then he followed suit, not about to let his sister run off with the insides of his brain.

When she slowed down, he knew she had found what he knew was waiting for her. Buried beneath the rubble lay the bodies of their siblings, bloodied and covered in soot, various limbs and parts of their faces peeking out from under the bricks. A hand that Kassandra recognized to be Luther’s was cradling a prosthetic eye, bloody and with flesh attached, as if he had ripped it out of someone’s face and was presenting it to whoever would find it. Little Five, however, must not have recognized him yet, knowing his siblings only at 13 years old. Meanwhile, Kassandra was looking around, identifying the bodies. Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus, and her own. But…

“Where’s Vanya?” she asked.

That was when the memory faded, a wave of pain and grief washed over from Five’s mind to Kassandra’s. Quickly, he pulled his hands away from hers.

“So,” he said curtly. “Now you know. We’ve got seven days. Luther might not be very intelligent but he sometimes has ideas when it comes to missions. The eye has to be a hint. It was fabricated at Meritech – I paid them a visit this morning but they didn’t want to tell me anything about the owner. So, I need you to come with me and pretend to be my mother so I can have some more authority than just a kid waltzing in and asking questions.”

“Okay, alright,” Kassandra nodded, still trying to process everything. “But if we’re looking for authority, I might not be the right person.”

“I’m not telling anyone else about the apocalypse. If you’re not going to help me-”

“I am!” she quickly cut in. “You know what, I’ll ask Klaus.”

“Klaus?!” Five echoed, shocked and appalled. “He’s constantly high as a kite!”

“Exactly, he won’t want to know why we’re doing this.”

“Kassandra, this is important. We can’t have him mess this up.”

“Klaus can be a very valuable asset,” she declared. “I’m the one bringing him along, so I’ll be making sure he only engages in his antics when we need them, okay?”

“Are you sure you can do that?” Five questioned.

“Trust me, Five,” Kassandra assured him. “Klaus and I have always been a good team, you know that. He’s been on countless missions while drunk or high and it has always worked out fine.”

“That’s debatable.”

“I just want him there as a backup plan. … And as emotional support. I can’t imagine raising a child like you as a single mother, and I say that with all the love I can give.”

Five breathed in sharply, then let out a long, annoyed, heavy sigh. “Fine”, he finally said. “Klaus is your responsibility. But we’re doing things my way, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright, then hurry up and get Klaus. And make him presentable. You need to look like a couple. Either you dress like a junkie too or he walks around like the temporally displaced heir of a billionaire.”

“He is the heir of a billionaire, he just tends to forget that unless he needs money.”

“Raid the old man’s closet, but get going.”“Alright, alright. – But you’re doing the dishes.”

General Taglist: @starcrossedjedis @oneirataxia-girl @daughter-of-melpomene @bravelittleflower @box-of-bats

Academy Projects Taglist: @therantsofawriterrr @come-along-pond @the-wyvern-institute @cherrybombgigi

Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

[crazyyanderefangirlfan]

La Squadra haunted doll au

A/N: Based on @twisted-n-thirsty au about TWST boys as haunted dolls. Hon, if your reading this I miss and love you.

Warnings: Non-con

You have a hobby of collecting and repairing dolls and plushies, it didn’t matter if it was old, new or creepy looking, you loved them all equally and unconditionally.

You were browsing an antique store in hopes to find new dolls to add to your collection. As you headed deeper in the shop, nine dolls were lining up the shelf. They were beaten up, no doubt handled to roughly.

You shook at carelessness of the children who owned them before and gently placed them in your arms and to the desk in front.

They were all suspiciously cheap, the shop keeper explained they were brought in my some man and demanded they take them from him, he even threaten the shop keeper.

He tried the sells the dolls but no one seemed to wanted them.

Taking pity on them, you bought all nine. Once home you got to work in fixing every single one of them.

Each design on them was so unique you couldn't understand why no one wanted them.

You happily gave them all a make over, nothing too much, just some cleaning and repairing their clothes, once done they look brand new.

Smiling at your work, you placed on the shelves in you bedroom, where all your best work are. Nodding in satisfaction, you went back to your work space in the next room to come up for more outfits for them and maybe some accessories.

Few hours later, you made about five different and accessories for each of them, including maid outfits both classic and French.

Checking the time, your eyes bulged out on seeing how late it is. Quickly wrapping up for the night, grabbing a quick meal from the kitchen and headed back upstairs.

One of the dolls were on the floor when you came back, frowning, you picked it up. Smoothening it's green hair and gently placing it back on the shelf.

"Be careful next time." You giggled and kissed its fore head.

The next day, you felt some stickiness on your cheek. You shrugged, probably drooled again.

However, coming downstairs the place felt…cleaner.

You checked the entire house, no one broke in, and if they did they stole nothing.

Chalk it up as paranoia, you decided to forget all that and dress up the nine dolls you bought in maid uniforms. The one with purple hair looked good in it.

Until the next day all the dolls except the purple haired one were out in their maid dresses, some were even torn.

Weeks past and the paranoia returned full force, each day you wake up to find the house clean which would have been fine in a messed up way, if it wasn’t the way all the dolls except the nine were on the floor and sometimes the items in the house felt used.

Perhaps the most frightening part how you felt tired almost every morning. Waking up became more of a hassle, like your energy was drained in your sleep. Sometimes dark marks littered around your neck and collarbone.

And this all happened when you bought those dolls.

Normally you think logically and think a skilled stalker would do this, but…

The dolls’ eyes on you were becoming more unnerving, sometimes you feel like they’re watching you.

With a heavy heart, you boxed them, and drove to the forest. You did not have the heart to destroy them.

However a sinking feeling was forming in your gut was you drove away. Like you could feel the ire through outside the box.

But that’s crazy, right?

You never been more wrong, cause right now you were being used in twenty different ways by nine men who looked like the dolls you left.

“Fucking Puttana! You think it was that easy to get rid of us!?” Ghiaccio, you soon learned they’re names, growled as he pounded into your hole.

You wanted to push him away but your hands were occupied by Formaggio and Iluso’s cocks. Beneath you, Melone muttered praises as he took you ass.

The rest of them were watching and waiting for they’re turn.

Sorbet and Gelato were watching with wild looks in they’re eyes, Prosciutto barked at Pesci to keep watching.

You accidentally made eye contact with Risotto, his stare chilled you to the core.

It’s been years since they meet someone they want. Not when they’re boss used black magic to turn them into dolls after a failed assassination attempt.

They were left in the antique shop for years, with little to no power left.

That is until you bought them.

They couldn’t understand why someone wanted something so banged up up such as them. But the way you touched them, how gentle you were in repairing them, even kissing their heads.

Perhaps, they should thank their old boss for such an opportunity.

That is until you decided to dump them in the forest.

It was hell in getting back, but it was enough time to think of ways to punish you.

Risotto moved from his spot and stood next to your bed. He gently lifted your chin to meet his eyes.

"You ours, our darling doll."

@industriallyinsecure

[sillybouquetsoul]

Cloud Castles - Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Acting (ao3 link)

Rating: Teen

Word count: 1.7k

Pairing: Aisha/Sein

Story summary: They dance just out of each other’s reach, but each time brings them closer together.

OR

Aisha and Sein navigate through the dark fairy tale of their own making, one encounter at a time.

Chapter Summary: Aisha tries her hand at rewriting a story.

The book propped in Aisha’s arms is pushed down, and Aida’s beaming face takes its place. 

“Aisha, let’s do a play!” Her sister’s enthusiasm is infectious. Aisha can’t find it in herself to get angry at her. 

“What play?” 

“Oh, you know my favourite one. The Three Dwarves, of course!” 

Aisha groans. “We’ve done that so many times.” 

“Because it’s a classic! And it works best with four people,” Aida tugs the book clean out of Aisha’s hands, and like a fool, Aisha lets it go. “Come on. Carlo and Nemo already agreed. We just need one more person!” 

Aisha knows it’s a lost cause, but she asks anyway. “What about Sein?” 

Aida sighs. “He says he’ll only join if you play the main character. But that’s okay, I can take turns with you! You play the female lead and then I will, so we both get to act with Sein!” 

So, not a flat-out no. There’s still hope. But Aisha is tired of playing the same role. Ideally, she would exert the bare minimum effort that would satisfy Aida, and also maximize any opportunity to make Sein uncomfortable. Acting seems to be one of his pain points. She should, if she can, take advantage of his conditional response. 

Especially after the manoeuvre he pulled on her that hot summer day so many months ago. Her bottom lip tingles with the memory. 

“Sure, I can join you. I’ll play the lead so Sein will join us as well, but,” she holds up a finger before Aida can celebrate too soon. “On one condition.” 

Aisha’s mind comes alive with ideas. A smile grows on her lips, and she can almost taste the tantalizing sweetness of vengeance. 

“Let me revise the story.” 

After promising Aida that she would finish rewriting the story in two days, Aisha’s routine of reading in the library during the daytime switches over to writing. She requests for a stack of fresh parchments and inkwells in preparation for the project, which fills her with excitement. 

Reading and acting out The Three Dwarves is one experience; rewriting it is another entirely. 

She spends the first day discarding more drafts than saving them. She only leaves the library for meals and bathroom breaks; the remainder of her time is devoted to writing at the desk. Engrossed in writing, she even loses track of time. When she looks up, the sky outside the window has darkened, and the candles around the room are lit. 

Aisha sets down the ink quill to rub her aching eyes. She wonders how she could have missed a servant coming in to light the candles. It’s rather considerate of them, though also unusual because if they knew she was in the library, they left her alone. 

“Good evening, Aisha.” She jolts in her seat, lifting her head to see Sein standing beside a shelf. He holds a book in his arms, as always. From the distance and wavering candlelight, Aisha can’t make out which book. 

“Why are you… oh, it’s nighttime. You mentioned before that you enjoy reading here at night.” 

“Indeed. I usually carry one candle around for myself, but seeing as you were still here, I took the liberty of lighting all the candles in this space,” Sein comes forward, stopping at the edge of the desk. “I hope you didn’t strain your eyes too much.” 

He studies the mess of parchment papers and ink stains. He looks wide awake at this late hour, while Aisha’s body is now suffering the aftereffects of hunching over the desk all day. Her back is bound to ache badly tomorrow, and she’s not even halfway through the rewrite yet. 

As Sein leans closer, probably to read her writing, Aisha quickly gathers the written parchment and holds them close to her chest. 

Sein’s eyes drift from the papers to her, one eyebrow arched. 

“They’re not done yet. You’ll get to read them tomorrow.” If I manage to finish writing by then.  

He withdraws with a slight smile. “Ah. Then I’ll look forward to reading it tomorrow.” 

She waits for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He takes the couch adjacent to the desk, a little too close for comfort. Aisha debates whether she should ask him to leave; ultimately, she decides that it’d be rude, because their reading times have never overlapped until tonight. Now is Sein’s turn to read in the library if he wishes, and she’s encroaching on that time. 

“Will you play the lead this time?” 

“I am, so this means you will act too.” Aisha states, watching his face for any negative emotions. 

Even if Sein finds the idea of acting in a children’s fairy tale repulsive, he doesn’t reveal anything.  “Of course,” he agrees readily, leaning his head against his palm. “I don't break my promises. If you’d like me to act in this one, then I will.” 

“It’s not about whether I want you to act, because I don’t. It will make Aida happy if everyone plays a part, so this is for her.” Aisha corrects. 

Why does he have to phrase it like that? Like he’d do anything she asked of him. 

Sein hums. “If that’s how you want to think, I won’t refute it.” 

Candlelight dances in his eyes, and the faint smile he usually wears has faded away. When Sein isn’t smiling, he looks intimidating and impossible to approach. Out of Madam Sylvia’s children, Aisha thinks he’s the most memorable one; his noble features are strikingly beautiful. Aida had acknowledged his appearance since the first time they met, but it took ages for Aisha to accept it. 

Step siblings in fairy tales are almost always portrayed as deformed creatures because of their inherent penchant for wickedness and cruelty. He is Madam Sylvia’s son after all, and apples don’t fall far from their tree. So for the longest time, Aisha refused to think of him as handsome. 

But the candlelight softens the sharp lines of his face, just enough that the tension seeps out of Aisha’s shoulders. Perhaps letting her guard down around him is unwise—and she has seen firsthand how terrifying he can be, holding a bloody knife instead of a book—but for the moment, she puts those flyaway thoughts to rest. They would only distract her, and Sein is already a major distraction by himself. 

“Please don’t talk to me while I’m writing. I really do have to finish this.” Aisha says airily, returning her attention to the parchment. 

He doesn’t respond, but when she glances over after a few minutes, he seems focused on his book. Other than the turning of the page, the library is quiet, just how Aisha likes it. She’s glad that Sein is considerate enough to not initiate a conversation, otherwise she can’t concentrate on writing. 

So Aisha dips her quill and resumes her task. She’ll stop once she reaches the halfway point. 

Aisha wakes up on a firm surface. Not her bed. 

The ceiling above her is high and vaulted. The air also carries the scent of paper and ink. Not her bedroom. 

She sits up, every inch of her body protesting at the movement. She’s still wearing yesterday’s day dress; the fabric is wrinkled from her sleeping in it. The sunlight shining through the windows is what wakes her up, and she realizes she's slept on the couch in the library. The blanket covering her body slips down, pooling at her waist. It’s an unfamiliar blanket, definitely not from her own room. 

The last thing she remembers is writing… Sein was also there, though he was reading. 

She has no memory of falling asleep, nor moving from the desk to the couch. Someone moved her, and also gave her a blanket. Annie, perhaps? 

Aisha doesn’t waste time pondering her mysterious helper. She collects the stack of written parchment, intending to keep them in her room. Just as she’s about to nudge the library door open, someone pulls it open from the outside, causing Aisha to stumble. 

A firm hand catches her shoulder. Aisha looks up, breath sticking in her chest. 

Why him? Anyone but him. 

“Good morning, Miss Aisha.” Sein greets her first. 

She straightens, but his hand stays on her shoulder. Suddenly, she’s all too aware of her unbrushed hair, wrinkled dress, and ink-stained fingers. She lowers her head self-consciously, unwilling to look at him. “Good morning Sein. My apologies, but I’m in a hurry, so if you could let me pass—”

Some of the parchment slips and falls, landing in a heap around the floor. Aisha internally curses, bending down to retrieve them. In front of her, Sein also crouches, reaching for the pieces that fell further away. 

“Still not fully awake, I see.” He comments, amused. 

“Don’t read them,” Aisha says sharply as she notices his eyes running across the parchment. “Give that back, please.” 

Sein doesn’t move. “Interesting.” 

“Sein,” Aisha snatches the parchment out of his hand. “Goodness. Would you read an incomplete story?” 

He looks at her. 

“I suppose not, but I already know how The Three Dwarves goes. How far can you deviate from the original?” 

“If this is a trick to convince me to spoil my rewrite, I’m not falling for it,” Aisha huffs. “Wait and see.” 

Sein stands and extends a hand. Aisha frowns, but eventually accepts it. His hand is larger and warmer than hers, and she’s momentarily glad that her glove alleviates most of the physical contact. Once she’s on her feet, he lets go. 

“Are you planning to sleep in the library again tonight?” 

“I will try not to fall asleep,” Aisha says. “The couch is not the most comfortable place to sleep.” 

“Would you prefer that I wake you up if you do fall asleep? I could have brought you to your room last night, but that was a great distance away, and I didn’t want to risk waking both you and Aida up.” 

“You carried me to the couch?” Aisha repeats in a daze. “I thought… I thought it was Annie.” 

Sein shakes his head. His amusement grows with her discomfort. “I even let you borrow one of my blankets. Was it warm enough?” 

“It was sufficient,” she says calmly, though she’s fuming at the notion of Sein touching her again. How meddlesome and annoying. “But not to worry, I won’t let that happen again.” 

“You’re light as a feather. I don’t mind.”

Of course he doesn’t mind, because the humiliation belongs to her and her alone, and for some reason he finds great pleasure in embarrassing her. She turns tail and walks away. It takes a lot of effort to not break into a sprint. 

Even sprinting doesn’t feel fast enough to escape from Sein.

<< previous: chapter 1 <<

[layniapetrovnaaa]

“No boys”

 Request: @soytrash

Hey beautiful 🤍 how about a cute little moment between reader and Logan with Laura regarding a crush 🥺And Logan is just overprotective, but prior to Laura coming home from school and talking about a crush, Logan is trying to get some from reader 🥵 please and thank you hun let me know if that’s okay or not 🥰 (maybe with the baby from your family series too) sorry if it’s too much I love your writing 🥺🤍 

Warnings: Smut, swearing (if you squint).

A/n: Do you guys picture yourself when reading fanfiction? Cause I do and don’t haha. Typically when I read/write for Logan I picture myself as Scarlett Johansson in Match Point and The Island lol. I’d love to hear about you guys, so just let me know!

Reader is written as under 30 y/o, if you are older, just change the number :)

I hope this is good enough (I’m not really that confident in this one). Let me know if you have any constructive criticism. 

[The Howlett Family series] 

It was a particularly warm day in the Canadian Rockies, warm enough to open a few windows and have the cozy log house smelling of the fresh outdoor air. the window above the sink that you were currently standing at let a breeze into the house that tickled you just enough to have your body bear a small chill. 

As you rinsed one of the bowls you had used this morning to prepare breakfast, your hips swayed side to side in a fluid manor that matched the rhythm of the song that lightly boomed out of the speaker which sat by the fruit bowl on the counter. The reason behind the low volume was that Logan was currently trying to put your youngest daughter down for her daily afternoon nap. If the wails and grumbling coming from the baby monitor was any indication, it wasn't going very well.

You dried off your hands and picked up the monitor, holding down on the button that allowed your voice to come through on the other end.

“You need some help?”

“We’re fine. I just cant find her goddamn pacifier.”

“Did you check on the shelf by her changing table?” you spoke again.

Suddenly the crying stops and you smile knowing he found it.

He lets out a quiet “Thanks.”

You set the monitor back down and go back the the half a dozen dishes left in the sink.

“Kid’s quite the screamer hm?” you announce as Logan walks out from the hallway a few minutes later.

“Yeah she is, I think she got it from her mother.” he jokes walking around the island to be closer to you.

You let out a breathy gasp like-laugh.

“Oh really?” you say in an exaggerated tone, humor still consuming it.

“Mhm, and speaking  of screaming...” he places his hands on your waist and squeezes a bit.

“We can’t baby, Laura's gunna be home in like ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes is enough time. I can’t help it, you just look so sexy--”

Before he can finish you interrupt.

“Logan, you know damn well ten minutes isn't enough time.”

“I just need something [Y/N].” he says as his hands find your breasts and you let out a small moan, abandoning the dish towel and griping the counter.

He kisses your neck, sucking and nipping at the soft flesh, which brings forth light breathy moans from your mouth.

You turn your head to kiss him and you can feel yourself throb a bit when your lips meet. his hands dip into your top and pull your breast out of their confines, teasing your nipples with his fingers.

He continues to grope and kiss you as his dominant hand makes its way into your pants.

You moan loudly into his mouth as the pad of his middle finger circles your clit a few times.

His lips separate from yours so he can speak.

“Hmm, You like that?” he says in his breathy and gruff voice.

You can’t seem to make out any words, so instead you offer an almost whiny sounding “Mhm.” as his fingers inch lower.

You gasp, throwing your head back onto his shoulder, your right hand coming up to hold the back of his neck, as his middle and ring fingers enter your tight lubricated hole.His fingers curling in the classic “come hither” position, making you squeeze around his digits.

Even after all of the time you had spent with Logan, your body still didn't know how to handle the pleasure, that being evident in the way that your back arched and you sporadically bucked your hips back into his crotch with every jolt of pleasure that you felt.

Your moans were absolutely erotic as he seemed to push further into you, finding that spot that did in fact make you scream.

And the explicit squelching noises were making you even more desperate as he fucks you with his fingers.

As you let out another slew of loud moans, you feel his hand come up to cover your mouth.

“As much as I love hearing those pretty noises you make, baby, you gotta be quiet.”

Your eyes rolled back and fluttered shut at his his words and the vibrations from your moans bouncing against his cupped hand.

His thumb starts to circle your clit in the same rhythm that his fingers were moving in.

God, you were so done for.

He releases his hand from over your mouth before he asks:

“You gunna cum?”

“Mhmm” you let out in high pitched whine.

“Ouh! Don’t stop.” you pleaded as that marvelous feeling started to take over.

“That’s right baby, jus like that.” he speaks, egging you on until your mouth falls open and your eyes squeeze shut, your orgasmic euphoria taking over.

Eventually your body comes back down to earth.

“Look at that, you got three minutes to spare.” he coos in a triumphant tone.

Your breath is heavy and you whimper slightly when he pulls his fingers out of you.

You glance over to the built in clock in the stove before readjusting yourself and catching your breath.

Turning around, you plant your hands on the space where his shoulders and neck connect, and kiss him. Your tongues danced together sensually until you pulled away.

“I wish I could return the favor...” you hum and he kisses you again.

“You will later.” he says as the screeching of the school bus tires alerts you of Laura’s homecoming.

You look up at him and bite your lip, giving him a sensual smile as you nod.

You separate from him as you hear the front door open, going over to greet Laura.

“Hey honey, how was school?”

You could hear Logan in the kitchen, chuckling at your total change in demeanor. 

You turn slightly to roll your eyes at him, but the small amused smirk on your face gives you away.

You turn back to your daughter as she answers you while getting her homework and lunchbox out of her backpack.

“It was alright. We got to watch a movie in my english class, so that was  nice.”

You follow her to the kitchen where she sits at one of the bar stools at the dark wood island, slapping her purple folder and pencil onto the table.

You noticed something off with the young mutant, like she wasn’t telling you something.

When she looked up to see you and Logan analyzing her, she knew she would have to put on a better performance if she wanted to keep her secret. Fortunately for you, she wasn’t feeling up for a challenge today. And it’s not that she wanted to hide what her friends had told her was called a “crush”, but she knew how her parents would probably react.

“Laura, is there something you need to tell us?” Logan spoke.

“Sweetheart, you know you can tell us anything, right?” you squeeze her shoulder in a loving manor.  

She nods, taking in a breath before turning to you and muttering: No puedes decírselo a papá... (You can’t tell daddy...)

Hearing this concerned you. Laura and Logan had a pretty open relationship, despite their constant bickering.

Your eyes quickly flick over to Logan, who was watching you and Laura, his arms crossed while he leans against the kitchen counter.

“Que es Laura?”

Logan was accustom to yours and Laura’s more private conversations you had in spanish. He wasn't really a fan, only because when they would occur, he felt left out. But, he figured this must be important and waited patiently before asking you what she had just said about him.

“Hay un chico en mi clase que está enamorado de mí.” (There is this boy in my class who is in love with me). Her voice is quiet, but her tone sounds exasperated.

Logan's brows furrowed when he heard “un chico”. He didn't know much spanish, but he did know that un chico meant a boy, and he did not like the sound of that.

You snort, your hand quickly flying up to cover your mouth before you speak.

“Aww Laura!”

A shy grin spreads across her face.

“What did she say?” Logan speaks up

You bite your lip, trying to hold in your small bit of laughter. You look over at Laura and can tell that, although she is nervous for what her fathers reaction may be, it would be best to tell him about her dilemma.

“Laura has a not so secret admirer.”

“He wrote me a note.” she says, grabbing a crinkled white paper from her pocket.

You could tell by her humorous tone that she found the situation comical, and didn't seem to reciprocate the feelings.

Logan on the other hand had immediately gone into full protective father mode, snatching the note from her hand, and reading over it to make sure nothing obscene had been written/drawn on it.

After he is finished looking at it he crumples it up and puts it in the garbage.

“No boys until you are 30.”

“Logan don’t be ridiculous.” you say, walking over to fish the note out of the can.

“I am not being ridiculous.” he scoffs, incredulously.

“In fact, I think I’m being a bit lenient. 30 years old is a perfectly reasonable age to start being romantic with someone.” he says, and now it was your turn to scoff as you hand the paper to Laura.

She makes a disgusted face and holds the very corner with her pointer finger and thumb. You couldn't tell if it was because it had been in the trash, or because of it’s contents.

You turn back to face Logan and cross your arms.

“You do realize that we’ve had a baby together and I’m not yet 30, right?”

He retracts slightly, and grumbles:

“That’s different.”

“Uh-huh” you reply sarcastically.

“The feelings are not mutual by the way.” Laura finally speaks up. Deciding to clear the air before an argument started brewing.

“I don’t have a crush on him.”

“That’s my girl.” Logan says, and you chuckle.

“That conversation is not finished by the way.” you say while you walk over to the pantry to get Laura a snack, Logan grimaces, thinking of the conversation that would come later.

“Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“How did you and Mama end up together?”

“Uhh, well...” he starts, glancing up at you, not sure if it was the right time to share.

Yours and Logan’s story was a bit controversial. The reason being that you were only 19 when you first “got together”, and Logan was your ex-teacher. And it wasn't exactly the most orthodox either. Instead of the typical flowers and a dinner date, it was more like neither of you could sleep one night, and one thing led to another, which led to you waking up in his arms in the morning. You had always had romantic feelings towards The Wolverine. Though they were never truly discussed, you both knew they were there, and you knew they were unbreakable. So, after that night, you two became exclusive.

“We met at Charles’ school, you know that.” you speak, setting the packet of crackers in front of the pre-teen, and walking over to grab an apple to cut up for her.

Laura sighs, knowing that she probably wouldn't get the answer she was looking for if you weren't willing to share it.

She rips open the wrapper, glaring at Logan when he steals a cracker from her.

“Well, how did you know you had a crush on each other?”

You chuckle lightly as the knife cuts into the ripe and scarlet colored fruit.

“We didn’t exactly have a crush on each other, Laura.” Logan starts, but a dry cough finishes the sentence.

You look up at him, asking if he was alright with your eyes.

He gives you a blunt nod as he lets out a deep breath.

You notice your daughters furrowed brow as she munches on the biscuit, and elaborate on Logan’s previous statement.

“Your father and I’s relationship is a bit complicated and unconventional, Laura. What he was saying was that we have and had a connection on a level so much more than a crush.”

She nods and pops another cracker in her mouth.

“But,” the crisp sound of the apple interrupts you slightly.

“usually when you have a crush on someone, you get the feelings of butterflies in your stomach whenever you see or think about that person. You smile when they smile, and laugh when they laugh. You want to be around them all the time, and you try to get their attention. You sometimes get nervous, and jealous of others that are close to them.”

You place the apple slices on a plate and slide it over to her, cleaning up the slight mess you had made and you glance over at her.

Laura sat starring at the plate as she thought of all of her symptoms you had just listed.

“Why were you asking?” Logan asks, his voice stern and suspicious.

She looks up, once again nervous.

You smile, getting an inkling as to where this is going.

“Well, there’s this-”

“No Laura. No boys, remember?” Logan interrupts, his custodial protectiveness resurfacing.

“It’s not a boy.” she mutters.

Logan blinks a few times, looking over to your grinning face.

“It’s a girl?” he asks, making sure that he wasn’t getting mixed up at all.

Laura looks up from the oxidizing apples a second time and nods.

“Well,” he leans back in his seat, breathing out.

“Tell me ‘bout her.”

She grins and you smile back, lovingly.

And then she doesn’t stop talking about the girl with the dark umber skin and curly caramel highlights until you have to remind her to eat her apple slices.

[something-fanfiction-ie]

Tips and Tricks

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Spencer scares you for a second. And your mom is disappointed.

A/N: I know I have so many things going at once but I couldn’t help myself with this! I’m sorry. Forgive me. Like, comment, reblog, send me asks and shit. I love you! Enjoy!

___

A true book enthusiast knows that the most beautiful smell in the world can be found in the middle of a book. Whether it’s old and it’s pages are yellowed with age, or its so new that the text wipes off onto your hands when you open the cover, the smell is like a drug that gets your engine running the way no actual drug ever could.

It’s that thought that makes your pull your car into the nearly deserted parking lot of the bookstore as the rain crashes around you. You’ve seen enough ID Channel to know that waiting for the storm to pass while parked on the side of the road is about as dangerous as walking into a serial killer club meeting with a sign around your neck that reads, ‘kill me, I look like every person who has ever wronged you in life.’

Pulling your bag up over your head, you dash inside as fast as you can. The bell rings through the empty store, the smell of books hitting your senses and putting you at ease.

Even with your bag over your head, your hair is drenched and your clothes stick to your body in the most uncomfortable way possible. The store is manned by one forlorn looking teenage girl with short black hair, you can hear the gum she’s smacking behind the desk from four feet away.

Classical music filters down from the speakers, nestling among the thousands of books that take up every available space in the room. While some books fill the floor to ceiling bookshelves, the rest have been stacked on the floor like a maze of knowledge. Some stacks go up so high that even if you stand on your toes and stretch your arm as high as you could, you would still be a good ten five-hundred paged books from the top.

Every turn into the book maze reveals another secret of the store, like the collection of vinyls tucked into a corner beneath a record player that is older than your grandmother. Down a narrow path of towering novels, is a small reading nook with two red armchairs that have seen their fair share of readers.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon the house of an immortal book-lover, the rugs that stretch across the floor feeling just as ancient as the words around you. But it’s peaceful, relaxing. You find yourself humming along to Chopin’s Nocturnes, Op. 9: No. 2, the spines of books bumping under your finger. Unsure how the books are organized, or even if they are, you’ve decided to look at the book your finger is on once the song is over.

When the last notes fade into a brief quietness, you stop on a book written by a ‘David Rossi.’ You can’t help the breathy laugh that comes from your chest in surprise that the first book you look at is a true crime novel.

Ever since you were a little girl, stealing your mom’s police badge to play ‘cops and robbers,’ and sneaking into her office to read case files you weren’t supposed to, you’d been in love with the puzzle-solving of the investigative world. You’ve always had a mind for finding clues no one thought to look for, it was the only reason you didn’t get in trouble when you left sticky notes full of observations and theories in your mother’s case files.

It was this background that made everyone around you so sure you would become a detective just like your mom. It was this same background that surprised everyone when you became an author instead. To say your mother was disappointed was an understatement, she’d been the most shocked when you showed her a four hundred page manuscript instead of an application for the police academy.

“Who gets a master’s in criminology only to write books?!”

Even still, she was the dedication in every book you published. So far, that was two, you’d been in the midst of your third book for four months now. Something about the story didn’t feel right, and no matter how many times you rewrote every page, it still didn’t click together the way the first two books had.

You don’t let the thought bug you as you flip open the hardcover, the pages falling to the side as you read the synopsis printed to the inside flap. The ringing of the bell barely registers in your mind, falling somewhere behind the book in your hands, the sound of the rain beating at the roof, and Beethoven’s Sonata No. 8. After reading the first page, you decide to give the book a chance and you tuck it beneath your arm for safe keeping.

This time, you turn your eyes up to the tops of the shelves, scanning for something that might be interesting. Each binding tells a story of its own, with spines creased from frequent readings or smooth spines begging to be cracked open. There are titles in gold and black, silver and red, the backgrounds varying in more colors than the words.

By the time you’ve wandered back to the reading nook with armchairs strategically placed to face each other at a diagonal, Beethoven is coming to a close. The notes vibrate for just a moment, and you choose the book tucked into the end with a dark purple cover and gold lettering. You can’t quite see the title but something tells you that this is something you want to read, that this books is going to be a good one.

Call it a reader’s instinct.

It’s just that, there are no step ladders to get to the top shelf and you aren’t exactly tall enough to reach it. Climbing the shelf just sounds dangerous, and you aren’t too eager to die at the hands of hundreds of books and a large bookcase. You contemplate moving one of the armchairs to assist you, but ultimately decide against it when you imagine that teenage girl coming to the back with a disappointed look on her face at the sight of you.

Instead you stretch like your life depends on it, your toes cramping a little as you push up on them as high as you can go. The tips of your fingers bump the spine when you curve your hand around the lip of the shelf. The wood digs into your wrist but maybe if you keep pushing and pulling at what you can grab, it will wiggle itself free.

That’s your plan until a warm body unintentionally brushes against you, an arm longer than yours coming up beside you and taking the book from its place up high with ease. Falling back to your feet, you’re quick to turn around and come face to face with a man you’ve never met before.

His expression is kind and gentle, crinkling his eyes and dimpling his cheeks when he offers you a shy smile and the book he grabbed for you. He’s definitely in the department of tall, tilting his head down a little to meet your gaze with eyes that you can’t quite describe as brown but you can’t quite describe as hazel either. Everything about him makes your heart stutter in your chest, from the color and shape of his lips, to the sharp cut of his jawline.

He’s curls himself down a little, his empty hand palm up and open as if he is trying to seem less threatening. It’s such a stark contrast to most of the men you meet, who invade your personal space and eyeball your breasts like they’re human bra size detectors.

You don’t realize you’ve been staring until he clear his throat, a dusty pink color rising to his cheekbones as he shuffles nervously in his spot. Blinking away the cloud of initial shock from the angelic being before you, you grab the book and mumble a ‘thank you.’

“Are you a big fan of David Rossi?” He says, shoving his hands deep into the recesses of his pockets.

“Who?” Internally, your facepalm yourself at the absolute stupidity that must be radiating off of you in waves strong enough to affect the whole population of Virginia.

“You’re holding two of his books.” Sure enough, not only is the book tucked under your arm David Rossi, but so is the book in your hands. The laugh that sputters out of you is even more surprised than the first laugh, the sheer coincidence of grabbing two random books by the same author in this whole building pulling the laughter from the pits of your stomach.

His lips flicker into a confused smile. It makes him that much more adorable.

“I was choosing books my eyes or finger landed on when the song ended. I couldn’t really figure out how everything is arranged so I thought I’d let the music decide for me.” He looks around now, his male-lead, love-interest eyes flying across the room to confirm that there really was no form of originization, his brows furrowing in thought. His bottom lips is sucked between his teeth and the vividness of the lewd fantasies that come from the small action are enough to push you back a step.

Only, you’re already pretty close to the bookcase, and when you step back to get some distance your back bumps into the wood and his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head to keep it from hitting the corner. You’re not even sure how he knew to react so fast, those eyes coming back to meet yours.

“Careful there, your head almost hit the shelf behind you.” Putting just a little pressure on the back of your neck to guide you out of harms way, he doesn’t let go until his back is to the case and you’re standing in his old spot. The new smile he gives you is lopsided, causing your heart to trip over itself. What you wouldn’t give in that moment to capture that smile on camera or canvas, to hold onto it forever.

You don’t even know this man, what are you thinking?!

Pulling the books to your chest like a shield for your heart, which has digressed to the same emotional maturity you had as a thirteen year old girl when you were in love with every member of New Kids On the Block, you tighten your grip around the covers to the point that your knuckles turn white.

“I’m (Y/N).” Somehow his smile brightens even more.

“I’m Spencer.”

“Are you hiding from the rain too, Spencer?” Everything about you hates small talk, you always wanted to jump straight into the nitty gritty of getting to know someone. You wanted to know what made them tick, what made them who they were. But you were willing to do the normal thing and lure him into an actual conversation, if only to keep him talking.

“Actually, I came to this bookshop with a specific purpose.” Spencer schools his features, suddenly all business. The brown blazer with elbow patches and the lavender button up certainly help to make him appear serious. You still imagine reaching for the dark purple tie around his neck and pulling his lips to yours, the severity of his expression only adding to his sexiness.

“I work in the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, I came here because I’m in the middle of an investigation that led me here,” You blink in surprise, all kinds of questions popping into your mind. “You see, I got a tip that I may find it here. I wasn’t sure, but after some looking around it appears they were right.”

You open your mouth to ask him what he’s talking about, thinking of all the local cases you’ve heard about in the last week or so. Nothing that would involve the FBI comes to mind, especially not the BAU.

Between the end of his sentence and the opening of your mouth, Spencer has time to reach out to the side of your head, his fingers brushing against a few strands of hair.

“I only want to know two things; how you got ahold of my favorite pen, and why you thought you could get away with it?” Balanced in his thumb and index finger is a black pen, the writing tip pointed toward the ceiling. He holds it between you, a silly grin stretched across his face as you reach up to touch your ear.

Of course you’ve seen the old ‘coin behind the ear’ trick before, never with a pen but it’s the same concept. It’s just so funny and out-there that you cant help being a little amazed.

“Is this how you flirt with women, Agent?”

“Actually it’s Doctor. Doctor Reid,” he smugly goes about tucking the pen back into the breast pocket of his blazer, you can briefly recall it being there before he distracted you by switching places just seconds ago, “I do work with the BAU, that wasn’t a ruse. I have my credentials if you want me to prove it.”

He isn’t boastful, he’s just trying to distract you from the answer to your question. The answer was yes, this is how he flirts with women. It was the only way he knew how to flirt with women that worked, having stuck to the method since Atlanta, Georgia. You wouldn’t be the first woman who thought it was cute, you were the first woman to call him on it though.

“As long as you don’t try to arrest me for the kidnapping of your pen, I’ll be inclined to believe you without proof.” He chuckles, the first time you’ve heard it since the both of you started talking, and you didn’t realize he could get better. The sound warmed every part of you so much that you felt like you were glowing from inside.

“I knew you were framed. I’ve had my suspicions on the girl running the store.” You nod your head, trying to keep the smile from pulling on your lips as you tuck a piece of your still wet hair behind your ear.

“I knew something hinky was happening with her.”

“My best law enforcement advice is to always trust your gut when it comes to crime, ma’am.”

With the ice broken thanks to the magical Dr. Reid, the conversation flows naturally between you. You both gravitate toward each other like opposite ends of magnets, unaware how close you are to touching until you absentmindedly kick your foot out and hit the tip of his shoe with your own. In an attempt to keep yourself rooted, you sit in the armchairs.

Anyone, FBI profiler or not, would have been able to tell what was going on when they found you both leaned against the arms of your seats, heads together as Reid explained how the serious looking man in the back of your book is actually one of his team members. He names all of his team members, affectionately describing them to you as if they were characters in a new book you were reading.

Normally he would keep all of this information reserved, but something about you made him feel so at ease.

You too, reveal more information than you normally would to a stranger you’d just met. You tell him about your books and your mother, you tell him how you aren’t sure why your newest book isn’t working and ask his advice on it all. He takes each question into careful consideration before answering.

It isn’t until you’ve been there for two hours, talking about anything that you could think of, that Spencer’s phone starts to ring. It’s a case. You want to ask, the young girl from your childhood coming out at the mention of a case you could help on, but you don’t.

“I’m really sorry, (Y/N), but I have to go.” He fluidly rises from his seat, all at once the carefree air falls around him to reveal the intelligent, elegant, crime-fighting, doctor underneath the nerdy, magic-loving young man you’d spent the last couple of hours getting to know.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” You offer, hoping to figure out a way to cheekily ask for his number before you make it there. His answering smile is infectious, reaching out and tugging your own cheeks into a smile that hurts. The books hit the wood of the desk with a thunk, Spencer standing just beside you as the girl, her name tag reads ‘RAveN,’ rings up your purchase.

“Watch out for your pens.” Spencer teases, that boy-like amusement coming out. You’ve noticed that when he tries to make a joke, he looks so nervous that you won’t get it in the seconds immediately following it. It isn’t until you laugh or crack a smile that he visibly relaxes, glad to have someone that understands his humor.

Earlier, he’d told you the joke about the existentialists and the light bulb and had been absolutely elated when you doubled over in laughter. The joke wasn’t even that funny, but he’d been making you laugh for so long that your ribs had started to hurt.

“That’ll be $12.78.” You slide your card across the desk, pulling your eyes away from Reid longer than you wanted to. When you look back, there’s a look on his face that takes you a minute to recognize. It’s just on the tip of your tongue when the smack of pen and receipt paper hit the counter.

Quickly, you sign your name on the stores copy of your receipt. You flip your copy of the receipt to the back, using the pen to scribble out your phone number.

“Call me if you ever learn any new magic tricks you want to show off.” The bell dings when you lean back against the door, your books in a bag that dangle from your left hand while your right hand comes up in a wave.

Spencer still stands at the counter, the one in a hurry being the one who still isn’t out the door. The lopsided smile is back, that look crossing his face again as you let the after-storm sun shine on your face.

“Sir, can you take your longing elsewhere? I’d like to close early. I have a thing to get to.” He pats his hand on the countertop, ignoring the buzzing of texts coming through his phone as he makes his way to the car in a bit of a daze.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss, Ch. 1 [NSFW/18+]

Chapter 2 ->

Summary:  You can’t stand Frederick Chilton, but after he’s tortured and left scarred by a former patient, you are afflicted by an irrepressible desire to get him in bed.

This has been posted on AO3 for awhile, but I thought I’d post the chapters here! (Took the liberty of fleshing out the short smut a wee bit.)

2,380 words

Dr. Frederick Chilton was arrogant and unpleasant.

Everyone thought so, but most would dance around their hostility toward him with subtle digs couched in polite conversation. Not you. You weren’t shy about saying it to his face.

As he exited the courtroom doors, Dr. Chilton saw you waiting in the hall to ambush him, and braced himself for another soapbox diatribe. 

Such a shame, he thought. He recalled how he had tried to make a good impression when you first met, but all his charm kept backfiring, and now you patently despised him. His failure to curry favor was nothing out of the ordinary, but unfortunately, he still had to deal with you. You were one of Crawford’s lackeys, and had made yourself inescapable since Will Graham’s arrest.

“You conniving, idiotic, condescending weasel!” you exploded upon the man with an expensive suit and gaudy cane. “How could you get on the stand and make that bullshit testimony? You don’t know anything about Will!” You withheld the fuck-you’s that time, out of professional courtesy.

He brushed you off and continued walking briskly down the hall, cane tapping on the polished floor, but you followed and walked alongside him.

“Do I need a restraining order against you?” Dr. Chilton said, bored.

You crossed your arms. “Oh, hah-hah.”

“What is it, then?” he sighed, slowing down. Trying to outpace you was more trouble than it was worth, thanks to the pinching of scar tissue in every stride. “I am extremely busy.”

“‘The confused man Will Graham presents to the world could not commit those crimes, because that man is a fiction,’” you quoted his testimony.

“Correct. Is that all?”

“Did you ever consider it’s because he didn’t commit those crimes? You know, being the only one who thinks Will is a psychopath doesn’t make you a genius, it makes you an idiot. Or do you know that, but you’ve just been pining have him locked up so you can study him?”

“Incredible. Mr. Graham has found a truly gullible fool to place under his thumb. I have never met anyone so susceptible to his manipulations. Have you ever been tested for personality disorders?” He regarded you like you were a lab rat with a lot of audacity to be squeaking at him (though to be fair, that was how he looked at almost everybody).

You burned to keep arguing, but he walked down the courthouse steps and got into an obtrusively fancy classic car. Your heart was racing. You weren’t finished with him.

  *****

You seemed to be the only sane person aware that the sweet, empathetic, dog-loving Will Graham was obviously being framed, and did your best to visit him as often as possible at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Unfortunately, that meant dealing with its chief of staff.

Every time you visited Will, you ended up clashing with that pompous buffoon and his perfectly coiffed hair. He was notorious for his unethical practices, but since rich white assholes were incapable of being fired, it was your self-appointed job to protect Will from him.

Though, recently, you had to admit two things.

One: you may have been the tiniest bit biased by your fondness for Will, and two: your feelings toward Dr. Chilton had been softening.

Not long ago, Chilton had barely survived being tortured by a former patient, Abel Gideon. The sight of him on a medical gurney cradling his own internal organs in his arms was a horror that would be burned into your brain for life. He may have been an incompetent jerk whom Gideon had every right to want revenge on, but he didn’t deserve that.

You didn’t think he would survive, but in a few weeks, like magic, he was back to play Will’s jailer, a cane in hand but no other sign of the trauma he endured.

Too little sign of the trauma he endured, honestly. After all, he was only hurt because of his own meddling—using psychic driving to convince Gideon he was the Chesapeake Ripper in order to achieve the fame and glory of having treated the Chesapeake Ripper.

But no, he was still bursting full of egotistical remarks and ambition, if a little short on organs.

“I see the experience hasn’t humbled you one bit,” you commented upon his return, when he gloated about the accolades he would receive after writing a book about Will Graham.

“Funny, it almost sounds like you wanted me to be gutted,” he retorted in a pleasantly upbeat voice with a sharp undercurrent.

His rich-boy superiority complex did make it tempting to punch him in the face… but disembowelment was going too far.

Something changed after that. It used to be that you couldn’t wait to get away from him, but now you found yourself wanting to stay and fight longer, your cheeks burning with indignation. Days you weren’t visiting Will, you went to the mental hospital to crusade against Dr. Chilton over ethics and his lack thereof, just for the excuse to see him. 

The two of you exchanged cutting banter the same as always, but you found yourself being more civil... or, at least, your heated arguments felt more playful. Sure, you still called him a dirty slimeball, but now it was a friendly roast and not because you hated his (slightly damaged) guts.  

It was strange. Every time you argued your heart would pound against your chest in anticipation, but you couldn’t figure out why.

Your breaking point came when you barged into his office and discovered him spying on patients’ private conversations with visitors—headphones on, feet up on his desk, holding a Montblanc fountain pen in his mouth and swirling it with his tongue.

He didn’t startle at your unexpected entrance, as a person who feels shame might do when caught in the middle of something so sleazy. He was completely unrepentant about it. Sliding a headphone off one ear and picking up a glass of top-shelf scotch from his desk, he took a slow sip, and smugly asked, “Can I help you?”

What could you say to that? You felt your face heating up, so you turned on your heel without a word, and left. You finally understood what you had been feeling.  

You always took him for a coward—the type who runs crying to mommy the moment his knee gets scraped. But he’d been tortured, brutally, and still wasn’t running away. He got more than what was coming to him, but he didn’t change his manipulative psychiatric practices or grating personality at all.

As infuriating as it was… his resilience was sexy.

Like a switch was flipped, every time you sniped insults at each other, instead of picturing strangling him with his tie, you imagined blindfolding him with it, tying him to a bed and spanking him with his cane. He had the cutest way of shimmying his shoulders when he was trying to be coy about a secret, and that smarmy little crooked smile he made when he thought he was winning used to infuriate you, but now it caused an aching between your thighs. 

After weeks of this, he cornered you in an empty hallway. “Do not think I haven’t noticed you are here far more often than you need to be. You didn’t even talk to Will Graham the last two occasions you paid a visit. What is it, then? What’s your angle? Keeping an eye on me for Crawford?”

“Isn’t it obvious?,” you scoffed. “I want to fuck you.”

“Huh,” he vocalized with detachment.

You’d expected him to be flustered by the bold declaration, or to jump on you immediately. Not to coldly look you up and down like you’d handed him a strange puzzle piece to analyze.

It must have been a long time since he’d been intimate, considering his reputation as a Grade A piece of shit. But apparently he wasn’t that desperate.

To be honest, you weren’t even sure what his orientation was. You may have been completely off base.

“Fascinating, really. For someone who called me… what was it? A ‘morally corrupt assclown,’ you must be in a dire state to consider propositioning me. You know, as a respected psychiatrist, I can recommend some literature on sexual dysfunctions.”

A cold, satisfied smile spread over his thin lips and you realized if your attraction was one-sided, he held all the cards. You made the mistake of delivering him a massive advantage over you, and you were going to make a fool of yourself. He was relishing the power.

There was still time to backtrack on the vulnerability you’d accidentally exposed while he was still trying to figure out if you were joking. But you were around profilers, psychiatrists, and investigators with hidden agendas all day, and you grew weary of conversations having ten layers of meaning and obfuscation.

The honest truth was, it would be nice to get laid.

“Well? Are you interested or not?” You dropped your voice and stepped closer to him, inches from his face. He smelled so clean, like hospital antiseptic and spicy aftershave. His breath hitched as your leg brushed the inside of his thigh—that’s it, that was the reaction you wanted. “Do you want to fuck me, Dr. Chilton?”

Oh, he did.

A barely audible whine rose from the back of his throat, and his hands were around your waist. “I suppose so,” he said, still a little too clinically, though a hard bob of his Adam’s apple betrayed him. His eyes met yours. They were the color of an ocean wave crashing on the beach; an honest, North Atlantic wave that you might find at Chesapeake Bay—not some perfect crystal-blue wave from a tropical paradise. “It couldn’t hurt to let off some steam.”

“Precisely,” you nodded. Just two adults doing the logical thing. That’s right. No squishy vulnerable feelings that could be used against you. Just relieving tension.

He grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you hastily into the nearest unoccupied space. The door to the cramped supply closet clicked shut, and he leered at you with eyes that seemed to glow with hunger in the dark. You felt pleasantly like a small animal trapped with a wolf about to be devoured. A shiver of anticipation ran down your spine and sent heat rushing between your thighs. Before you knew it you were flipped standing with him pressed against your back, pumping into you with muffled moans—as frenzied with desperation as you’d fantasized he would be—as you braced against a metal shelf crammed with pens and packs of post-it notes.

He was strong. You had expected his suit to hide the flaccid body of a sedentary academic, fragranced of old books, but when he pulled your hips into his your body moved.

After finishing inside you with a ragged, tortured breath (barely choking back a too-vulnerable moan), he hastily zipped himself back into his pants and left you to clean yourself up on your own, without so much as a nod to ceremony or pleasantries. That was the end of that, you figured—exactly what you asked for, no more no less. Little did you know, Dr. Chilton had no intention of leaving things off at one quickie in a closet.

Before you left, he pulled you into his office and provoked you with lewd remarks about fucking you on his desk—so you knocked the clutter off it onto the floor to make room. He shrieked like a toddler as his very important papers and very expensive office décor went flying, having neither thought through the actual consequences of desk-sex nor expected you to call his bluff. His beautiful seawater eyes went wide as you pushed him back on the broad mahogany surface and climbed on top of him. Then you were riding him, chasing your climax with his well-manicured hands kneading your ass cheeks, pulling you deeper and deeper with each stroke of your hips. And still you wanted more. You wanted to fuck him into next week.

And then you were in his unreasonably lavish home, in his unreasonably, decadently oversized bed, his mouth feverishly working your heat, and you repaying him by making him come over and over until it was torture, until he could no longer hold back the whimpering sobs of pleasure as he fell apart, and he passed out from fatigue. You collapsed next to him on the bed, panting, sweating, and shaking with over-stimulation.

For a moment you considered the snoring body of an unsavory man you had exhausted into submission, lying naked and leaking fluids onto two-thousand-thread-count sheets, and briefly considered calling a cab. Then you went to the bathroom for a towel to wipe him off before curling yourself around him under the covers.

  *****

Morning found you nestling in his soft light brown chest hair, tracing your fingers along the raised red scar that divided a third of his torso like an autopsied cadaver. He flinched a little when you touched it, but remained impassive. A reservoir of sympathy swelled up within you.

“You pity me. That is why you wanted to sleep with me all of a sudden,” he said, deciphering the meaning of your look. “I’m not complaining. Apparently, to be fortunate in bed requires only that one be tragically disfigured. You are drawn to wounded birds.”

The corner of your lip screwed up like you swallowed something bitter. It’s… probably not healthy to desire someone purely out of pity, but he was right. You never felt anything for him until you felt sorry for him. But that wasn’t all there was to your relationship… was it?

“The instinct to nurture and the instinct to hurt are both strong human emotions. They’re primal,” you speculated.

“Trying your hand at psychoanalysis? I would leave it to the professionals, darling.”

“Would you?” You tilted your head innocently. “Then how come you’re still practicing?”

He clutched his chest and feigned being wounded.

Grinning, you buried your face back into his hair. “Arguing with you was always exciting… trying to land a stinging blow. Now I see you hurt, and I feel the need to protect you, too. You tickle my instincts, I suppose. Like cold ice cream on hot pie. What can I say?”

“Hmm, a plausible hypothesis,” he nodded idly at the ceiling, one brow lifted. “I’m not sure that that is any better, but as previously mentioned, your motivations are not of particular interest to me.”

“Charming. Let me phrase it another way, then: You have a very punchable face, but since you’ve already been eviscerated, it takes the fun out of it.”

“Well, and I was going to offer you breakfast…”

[alpaca-writes]

I have this habit of being very detailed in writing- hopefully not too much that it bores anyone to death. Personally, I love detailing OC's and as many aspects of them as I can before exposing these poor things to pain- almost like a slow-burn for torture, I suppose?

But then it occurs to me as well that maybe I'm just writing a normal story, with villians and heroes and anti-heroes but with more emphasis on the pains they go through.

Oh well, here is my newest creation-

CW: None quite yet. Some strong language, I suppose

MYSTICS

CHAPTER ONE: A NEW JOB

Lyrem Nomadus busied himself, flipping through resumes that bored him half to death and then a little more. Usually, he wouldn’t dare to look for anyone to share his space with. The business of curating, refurbishing and selling occultic items was dreadfully interesting to the general public and the last thing he was looking for was someone new to devalue it with their own useless knowledge and presumed ‘psychic’ abilities. The last two days were full of just that. He pinched the bridge of his wide nose as a mild headache came on- the last interview was a particularly painful thought.

A young man, with a heavily freckled, pale face, and round framed glasses poured over his collection of rocks near the front entrance, started spouting nonsense that Lyrem had little patience for.

“Ooh, malachite. I heard that stuff’s toxic, y’know,” he spoke with little regard for Lyrem standing near the cash register- an old charcoal grey thing with large buttons and made a noise like a classic ‘ka-ching’ just before the receipts printed out and the drawer popped open.

“Hm,” Lyrem hummed unamused, hoping it would prompt some style of professionalism from his prospective interviewee. It did not.

The young man continued to look around the store, finding one hematite pendulum specifically fascinating. Then he found his attention drawn to a display of elegantly designed tarot cards. The young man picked one of them up, studying the hierophant with mild interest.

“Please do not touch the merchandise.” Lyrem cut in.

The young man placed the card back down on the glass shelf, slightly askew to the rest on display. He cleared his throat and approached the register, finally.

“Did you bring a copy of your resume?” Lyrem asked him, knowing what the answer likely was, as there was nothing in his hands. He wore a long black trench coat over ratted, torn jeans and a plain tee shirt. There was one chain dangling from a pocket somewhere.

“Yessir,” he answered.

Oh, perhaps this boy had a hope after all.

After reaching into his back pants pocket with effort, the resume was presented, folded into six sections as a single piece of paper. A folded and clearly used napkin fell out onto the floor. Lyrem breathed deeply, took the folded resume, and smiled.

“Thank you for applying, but I am afraid you are not quite the right fit for this position,” Lyrem didn’t bother opening the paper, and instead tossed it over his own shoulder. It landed directly into the bin behind him.

“I-I’m sorry? You haven’t interviewed me yet”- his eyes widened with the confusion of the sudden rejection.

“Hm. I have interviewed you plenty, and I tell you now, I’d have a mangey dog run my store before you.” He didn’t mean for his tone to be so casual. Lyrem blinked.

The poor boy took a moment to process the insult before glaring across at the owner of Mystics ruthlessly. Suddenly, his fist pounded the desk, sending a short tremor through the wood.

“Anybody with half a brain could do this job! For fuck sake’s, man!”

Lyrem looked at him with a simple eyebrow raised and cocked his head toward the door. He was tired these days. The less he chose to care about children’s tantrums, the better. The boy left in a huff, and clearly, he tried slamming the jingling door behind him as he stepped out onto the street, but the spring against the top disallowed such havoc, and bounced slowly back. It closed finally with a light click, and the young man was gone.

Releasing the pinch from his nose, Lyrem sighed. He didn’t know which one was worse, that boy who left a trail of disrespect in his wake, or the woman from the previous day who was convinced that she could speak with his mother in the afterlife. The sullen woman wore gems aplenty on her fingers and hanging from ropes and chains around her neck. The wire wrapped amethysts in particular, caused her to look like an easter egg more than a living person. She didn’t take it too kindly when he explained that the stones around her finger were not a genuine turquoise either. By the end of it all, she was rather happy to be finished.

He shuddered, remembering the strong scent of patchouli she left that seemed to linger within his store, even now.. He didn’t have an aversion to patchouli, or to amethyst or turquoise, or even easter eggs… at least he hadn’t one before two days ago.

The rest of the applicants were all the same. Wanted a job, wanted something easy, and for experience- and all the time, Lyrem would ask himself: “experience for what, exactly?” Instead of asking the question aloud, he’d thank the person, and politely send them on their way out, with a promise to call them when he had made a decision.

He wasn’t planning to call anyone.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. The streets would be bustling past four, and if he wanted to avoid it and give himself a break from the eye strain, he would need to go for his coffee now, or not have one until after six. The horror.

He flipped over the sign on the door. It was one of those apologetic ones- as though it would stop a person from throwing a brick through a window for being closed on a weekday. Lyrem locked the door and turned to his right. There was a small local place not far from the corner of the intersection that he had grown accustomed to. If they had the raspberry scones today, he decided he may take one of those as a treat. Lost in thought, he crossed in front of a small white car making its left turn. The car stopped, though no horn was sounded as the engine suddenly died inexplicably next to him.

Lyrem walked around the car and poked his head through the passenger-side window which was open for the cool breeze. The driver looked back at him, his hands gripping the wheel too tightly.

“Pedestrians have the right of way, you know,” he mentioned calmly. Then, he tapped the top of the car twice. It restarted. “Drive a little safer, now.”

The driver suddenly remembered that the car was still in gear, and he moved along, crossing the intersection and left Lyrem behind like everything he had just done was part of some fever dream. He chuckled lightly and turned back down the block.

It was a sun-filled day, without a cloud in the sky, and it was a warm one too. Despite the fact that it was still early April, and the city had only just started waking from its hibernation from the cold, the streets were filling quickly with people.

His coffee took a while, which he forgave only because the end result was quite often a perfection, but he was nearly pouting at the counter as the spot for raspberry scones were replaced with one with blueberries instead. Losing his appetite, his eyes drifted around the rustic establishment. The sounds of a classical guitar filled the room with the unmistakable talents of the virtuoso, Andrés Segovia. It was a nice change from the sounds of folk rock and boy bands. The coffee shop was only getting better and better with age, it seemed.

Against the wall, a cork board was decorated in haphazardly placed notes. Some notes were simply inspirational or funny, some were searching for students for taekwondo or guitar, advertisements for plays and musicals at the local theatre were spread along the outer edges begging to be noticed, and there were a few job postings as well from other nearby establishments, restaurants, including one from a pet store.

He shouldn’t have tried putting an ad on Kijiji at all- not when the perfect people were right here all along. Like Icarus, Lyrem flew too close to the sun, and was burned by the troubling rays of stupidity that came through his door from delving into the ruddy depths of online job hunting. Never again would he make such a mistake.

“Lyre!”

Nodding, he retrieved his cup, and turned back toward the door. He nearly collided with another person, standing close up to the cork board and huffed, not spilling a drop.

“Excuse me,” he muttered.

“Apologies.” The person gave him little notice, but moved off to the side with ease to allow him through.

He furrowed his brows. What was it that was causing him to pause just before reaching the door? There was just… something… off.

It took him a moment before hearing it- the faintest humming to Segovia’s España, Spanish Dance No.10 in G coming from the person who apologized to him for being in the way. Each note timed perfectly to the sound from the speakers in the corner. He turned his head, to a particularly high note, the humming stopped to be replaced with fingers tapping in unison to the notes against their thigh.

“Guitar?” He asked, suddenly beside them. He studied the board also.

“No,” they replied. “Just looking for a job.”

He nodded, grimacing. Raising his hopes one final time, he ventured.

“I have potential work for you. I am hiring at my store’s location down the street. If you are interested.”

“That seems coincidental.” They replied unemphatically sifting through the other job postings there, knowing they were not currently dressed for success. “What store?”

“Mystics. It’s along twenty-third and”-

“-seventeenth, yes, I know the place.”

“Then you’re hired.”

They stopped, and brought their hands down from the board, and turned to stare their deep brown eyes into his of deep hazel- to finally spare a glance to the person wanting their attention.

“I don’t have time for practical jokes- or human trafficking, for that matter,” they said with insistence.

“I’m not joking, and I am definitely not in the business of human trafficking”- Lyrem stuttered incredulously. “I thought you said you knew the place.”

“I do.” They replied. “I’ve just never been in. It’s just one of those ridiculous shops for people to waste their money on colourful rocks. There’s literally a river just under the bridge half a mile from here- infinite supply for none of the coin.”

Taking them by surprise, he laughed.

“You will be the worst salesperson.” He said. More seriously, he added, “look, I really am in need of a person to take care of a few evening shifts and the weekends, I pay well above the average rate for any local retail store, and I’d be able to supply you with health benefits.”

This sudden bargain seemed to be interesting enough for the person to distance themselves from the cork board.

“I’m still finishing high school- under eighteen- is that a problem?” They asked. “It’s been a problem everywhere else”-

“Not a problem.”

They nodded.

“When do I start?”

[melofanish]

Through Rivers of Family Blood

Have Me, Have You, Have Us

Summary:  Carlos slings his bag over his shoulder, sighing as he barely resists slamming the car door and jogging up the short stairs to the gym. It's his day off, and even though he's meeting with TK later on and that should have him in a good mood, he’s on edge, tethering the line to downright pain and anger, so he figured he could relearn whatever skills he might have forgotten over the past few years while punching his frustrations out rather than stew in his resentment.

Carlos can’t stop the booming laugh he lets out as he stands up, as Marjan drags him to his own car. She will never replace Dora - no one will ever be able to - but Carlos is starting to think that maybe he’s earned himself a younger sister, even though Marjan claims otherwise.

-Chapter Two of Have Me, Have You, Have Us.

Tags: Carlos Reyes, TK Strand, Paul Strickland, Marjan Marwani, Mateo Chavez, Judd Ryder, Owen Strand, Michelle Blake, Original Female Character, Original Male Character, Developing Friendship.

Warnings: Light emotional angst.

Beta: The owner of my soul @lire-casander. There’s literally no words to explain how much help this woman has been. She’s sat through me screaming cause of lack of inspiration, she’s been a sounding board as I threw messes of ideas at her, and then somehow made sense of all of them. This would not have been done without her, and I’m forever grateful.

Chapter 1

Read on AO3.

---

Chapter 2: Marjan: Through Rivers of Family Blood.

Carlos slings his bag over his shoulder, sighing as he barely resists slamming the car door and jogging up the short stairs to the gym. It's his day off, and even though he's meeting with TK later on and that should have him in a good mood, he’s on edge, tethering the line to downright pain and anger, so he figured he could relearn whatever skills he might have forgotten over the past few years while punching his frustrations out rather than stew in his resentment.

His sister hasn’t been approved for time off. And neither has he. Which means they’re going to enter their third year of not meeting face-to-face. And he’s much more discouraged by it than he thought he could ever be. It hurts even more that they were going to go on a weekend vacation together - Dora was finally meeting TK in person - and the image of waking up to the two most important people talking and laughing together takes a step back, resigning to be unfulfilled in a yet again unknown timeline.

So he marches in and stands in line to the counter, getting the formalities over as fast as possible. He was hoping he could catch a quick run on a treadmill before the kickboxing class that he’s here for, but he’s barely fifteen minutes early, and he knows that’s not enough time - it still doesn’t stop him from longing for the burn that would spread across his thighs as he pushes himself harder than he should.

As he hands his membership card and is given the sign-in paper, somehow, even through the blurriness that's clogging up his mind right now, he notices 'Marjan Marwani' two rows over his own name.

A slight frown takes over his features before it clears up quickly. He remembers Marjan and Paul mentioning that they workout together. He just didn't think that he'd meet someone he knows his first day in a new gym.

He just about hands the paper board back when he feels a pat over his arm. He turns around to none other than a smirking Marjan.

"Here to show off your muscles to TK?"

Like a magic spell, Carlos laughs - for the first time today - Marjan bringing a quick lightness to his world. He shakes his head and follows Marjan when she motions towards the locker area with a flick of her head.

"Hello to you too, I'm very well, thank you very much for asking," he says, which Marjan rolls her eyes at, but he pays her no mind, and keeps going, "How's yourself I wonder? I hope all is well?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, Mr. Polite Texan Gentleman."

It's Carlos' turn to groan now. The crew saw him open the car door for TK once, and, apparently, the nickname has become a thing.

"Just wanted to kill a little time since I have nothing else to do,” he chooses to ignore her and explain instead, continuing when she raises an eyebrow at him. “Captain Strand has a hospital appointment today, so TK's over there with him," he elaborates.

Marjan lets out a sympathetic hum, frowning as she undoubtedly racks her mind for any mention of this session. He knows she won't find it. He confirms that no one knows about it when she asks.

"Damned Strands and their need to internalise everything," she huffs. And Carlos can't help but snort in agreement, even if he thinks he’s somewhat a hypocrite at this specific moment.

"I'd much rather punch the frustration out," she continues, and that is something Carlos finds himself agreeing with yet again.

"Which class are you taking?"

"Kickboxing," Marjan says, pulling up her arms in a classic defensive stance. “Started when I still was in Miami, and moved to this location since I moved here.”

"Oh, it’s my first class today!" he exclaims as he raises a fist to bump it to hers.

He hasn’t kickboxed in years, and he’s never been to this specific gym. He’s always been highly sceptical of it as a whole; it’s a famous chain with branches all over the country, and this specific branch is giant. Carlos would pass by it and wonder why it’s so large, why it takes up so much space. Knowing that Marjan has been a regular attendant brings a sense of relief. The fact that the recommendation came from his sister - she goes to the same gym in New Jersey - meant that he’d at least give it a try before deciding anything against it.

They fall into an easy silence as they walk to the locker areas, branching off to different sides when Marjan enters the Female-Only section of the lockers with a promise to meet him outside once she’s changed.

He hurries to the lockers, following the numbers until he gets to his assigned compartment for the day. He had caught a shower at home right before he left, so all he has to do now is change from his casual sweatpants and t-shirt into his workout gear. Which means that he barely needs five minutes before he’s leaving the locker room to find a seat in the lounge area.

Except that he must have miscalculated the time, because the moment he sets foot into the lounge area, the speakers come to life, announcing the end of the current classes and asking all attendants of the next class to make their way towards their designated halls.

So Carlos turns himself right back around, looking around the open hall for a moment trying to find the room that he’s supposed to go to before he finds the needed label and arrow, and follows them down a long hall.

He ends in a large hall, the entire front wall lined by mirrors, and what looks like an audio station shelf in one corner, a couple of headsets hanging from the corner. There are long benches that surround both sides and tables at the very end of said benches, water bottles and towels laid down across the top. The entire floor is lined with foam flooring, tape lines stretched across, marking squares where everyone has gone to stand. There are multiple sizes of punching bags both sitting on the floor and hanging from the ceiling.

Carlos can’t help the shocked expression he knows he must be making. He didn’t expect the gym to be as well furnished as it is. Especially not with the number of classes that they offer. And yet, as he stands in what is the best kickboxing hall he has ever set foot in, he can’t help but think that he might have found his new favourite gym.

He makes his way to an empty square, placing his water bottle on the ground at the edge of his border before standing in the middle. He starts cracking his joints, turning his neck both ways and folding his fingers in to get into the mindset for what he’s about to do.

Carlos would never call himself out of shape, but he is aware that he has lost much of his kickboxing abilities throughout the years. It started as a way to destress when he was a teenager, a safe and useful mechanism that helped him relieve his frustrations while keeping him healthy. As he grew older, it stopped being a coping mechanism and swung to being a sport. Unfortunately, once he graduated from the Academy and was a full-fledged officer at APD, free days came by less and less, forcing him to eventually give up the sport altogether.

So, when Dora informed him of this new program that had multiple classes throughout the week and the ability for its attendees to catch any of the week’s scheduled classes as long as they book a minimum of twenty-four-hours earlier, he knew it was a chance he couldn’t miss up.

Still, a breath of relief filled his chest at the sight of Marjan coming to stand next to him. He throws a grateful smile her way, and she responds with a low chuckle and a shake of her head. He's about to retaliate in a way, maybe take a page out of TK's book and stick his tongue out at her, when the coaches at the front of the room call the class to attention.

With a final shared grin, they both look ahead, listening as they explain the goal of the class and the plan of the day and the upcoming six weeks.

Marjan was not supposed to kick his ass the way she did.

It's not that he doesn't think she's fit or strong; she's a firefighter - and an adrenaline junkie - so he knows she's on top of her physical health.

It's just that Carlos thought that he was on top of his own physical health. And it turned out that he was wrong. So very wrong.

He noticed that while Marjan was walking with a spring in her step, arms swinging wide around her, he was limping out, holding his shoulder close to his torso after a particularly rough tackle that he didn't defend well enough.

Even now, after he's gotten a quick shower and is getting dressed in the locker room, he's starting to see bruises flourish and darken his skin, each one a testament to something he didn't do right.

Some part of him blames it on his distraction. He wasn’t exactly focused on following the tiniest of details, and maybe he wanted to get bruised and beat up a little. He hasn’t used working out as a way to disguise his emotional distress in quite a few years. And yet, as he pokes one particularly visible bruise, the blood starting to pool in distinct dark discolouration spreading across the lower edge of his ribs, he can’t help but think that his distraction wasn’t at fault here, and he’s just fallen back into older less-than-ideal coping mechanisms.

With a groan, he finishes dressing up, grabs his bag and makes his way towards the front desk.

Once he has given the locker keys back and received his membership card in return, he's out of the door. He finds himself stopping right in the middle of the parking lot, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. It doesn't fill him up like a breath of fresh air should - not that a parking lot has fresh air to begin with. But while he was expecting some relief, he finds that gets none. His shoulders are still tense, his mood still sour.

Letting out a small sigh and making a quick split second decision, he starts moving to the juice bar at the corner of the street, determined to grab a juice to go and wallow in his misery at home.

It’s a small shack right around the edge of the street that has made a magnificent business out of selling a variety of coffees, juices and post-workout drinks. The place is so tiny, it barely houses any sitting arrangement indoors, which works wonderfully when most of their regulars take their drinks to go anyway. Those who do want to sit for a moment though will find a rather large spread of benches on the terrace. It’s one of Carlos’ favourite places. The fact that it's locally owned makes it all the better.

It's on the terrace that he notices - while waiting for his drink to be prepared - a turban in the very far end of the outdoor sitting area. Immediately, he realises that he knows that turban. He knows the style and colour. Simply because he was just with Marjan. And now she's here, sitting alone, on a bench, staring at the small expanse of greenery and the parking lot ahead of her. His trance is broken when his name is called. Picking up the drink, he looks over and starts to make his way towards his car, only to stop a few steps later.

A frown starts to deepen on his forehead the more he stares at her. All the times he's met her, Marjan has always been a bright entity. Always smiling, eyes glittering with happiness and mischief. And yet as he looks at her now he finds that she seems… dull.

The worry has him abandoning his initial plan and moving towards her instead. He might be in a sad mood, but he'll be damned if that stops him from acting on his concern.

"Got space for one more person?" he asks once he's next to her. His suspicions that her mind is occupied elsewhere are confirmed when she looks up at him with wide, startled eyes. A few moments later - once she realises who is talking to her - she graces him with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes and a nod of her head.

Still, he takes the permission and plants himself next to her, drink in his hand.

The initial silence is comfortable, aided by the cooling effect that the juice had on his throat and the light breeze on his bruised body. And yet, it's heavy. Marjan is one of the firefighters he hasn't gotten many one-on-one interactions with. She’s a major part of their hangouts, and while they are friendly with one another, he hasn’t had the chance to know her better.

He's standing on uneven and unknown grounds with her. He wants to talk to her, ask if he can help. He just doesn't know how to. But the longer he takes to come up with something, the more awkward the air around them becomes, and the harder it is to speak.

So they sit in silence instead, while Carlos still tries to think of something. How it’s possible that there isn’t a single topic popping in his mind comes as a shock to him.

The silence seems to be choking Marjan as well, because she groans and drops her head into her hands. Carlos looks at her for a moment, before he slides a foot or so across the bench, inching closer to the seemingly troubled woman next to him.

"You okay?" he whispers, hands playing with the straw of his drink. Marjan sighs, so he turns his head to look at her.

She doesn’t look at him. Her head is angled upwards, eyes closed as the wind gently blows on their faces.

"You know, usually I’d talk to Paul, Mateo, or TK,” she whispers so low that Carlos has to lean towards her a little, “hell, maybe even Judd. But they’re just, they mean well. But they also feel the need to give advice and help out. And sometimes, I just want to rant about stuff and listen to them rant. And at the end of the talk, I want to not have a solution for anything."

Carlos hums, pondering over her words for a moment. He knows that the 126 have gotten close - they've been through the wringer one too many times not to be. He's also been in the position where he was the one being given advice. Even when it wasn't solicited.

He knows it's out of good intentions, they want to help, and advice is a way to do that. But so is just listening.

"Well," Carlos starts, placing his drink down on the bench next to him, "I'm here to silently listen if you want."

Marjan flats him with a raised eyebrow, the questioning challenge clear in her eyes. When Carlos doesn't budge, she looks away with a sigh.

"It's a two-way street, man. If I rant, you'll have to rant about whatever put that frown on your face too," she says as she leans back on the bench, stretching her legs ahead of her.

Carlos shoots her a shocked look, not aware that his own bitter feelings had been so clear to an outsider. Marjan seems to read his shock too though, "I could see you brooding from a whole mile away, Carlos," she explains with a shrug of her shoulders.

"Yeah, yeah, let's mend one sad soul at a time," he shrugs at her, waving her worries with a flick of his hands.

Marjan glares at him for a moment. But he’s been around her enough to know that this isn’t one of her judgemental or annoyed glares, this is more of a playful and teasing glare. He replies to it with a wide grin, and she reciprocates with a shake of her head and a soft smile.

“I miss my family,” she says after a sigh, all pretences of strength draining out of her. “I just, every time I think things are good and I start to savour life, something happens with them while I’m here and I start to think I let you down, mama and baba, and I just, I miss them.”

Carlos nods his head in understanding, the feeling somewhat familiar to him. But he doesn't speak, he lets Marjan rant, the way she seems to truly need.

“Like, my parents did raise us to go all out and be independent and live our lives for us,” she says as she gestures ahead of her. “But I guess I also just always thought I’d have them with me while I live life. And now I’m here and I’m on the move, and they’re not, they’re sitting at home catching up on their rest and their health.”

Carlos stays in his place, listening intently to each phrase Marjan is saying. Her words all run across scars he's had to deal with in the past, and they make him yearn for a time when he had his entire family under one roof.

“Did you know that my dad has been diabetic, on insulin, for a year and I had no idea?!” she exclaims, waving her hands around her head. “None at all! I don’t even think he was ever planning to tell me. I just happened to Facetime my mom one day just as he was giving himself an injection in the background.”

She pauses for a moment, dropping her head to rest her chin onto her chest, and Carlos thinks she might have gotten everything off her chest. But he’s proven wrong moments later when she lifts her head.

"And it's not just my parents. My younger sister, Yara, the fifteen-year-old one, she has grown so much during the past year I've been here. And I've missed a lot of what makes her who she is. And now, when I talk to her, there's nothing to talk about. I don't know what she likes and doesn't like, what shows she watches and what foods she enjoys and what career she wants to pursue." She stops for a moment to catch her breath, before she keeps going at it with the same passion as before.

“And my eighteen-year-old brother, Karim? We used to do everything together, he was my best friend when I was younger, and now? We could go for literal weeks without speaking. And I just,” she pauses to sigh, “I just miss the simpler times, you know? Waking up to have breakfast together, going to school, coming back to have lunch together, doing my homework quick and early to watch some dumb show with my entire family while we have dinner together, I just miss them all.”

She stops for a moment, her hands coming to rest in her lap as she whispers, “Is it supposed to look like this?”

This time feels like this is an actual question, rather than a rant, so Carlos turns to Marjan, raising an eyebrow.

“What is it?”

“Adulthood,” she groans, throwing her hands in the sky. “This whole I’m an adult and I need to leave my family and I must transcend the world on my own. I want to live and go through the world and still go back home to them, you know?”

Marjan stops talking for a moment, eyes on Carlos before she frowns and trails her eyes away. Carlos keeps his own gaze on her, waiting as she comes to a conclusion to whatever question is obviously racking her mind.

"Do you?" She asks then.

Carlos has to blink a few times, certain that he missed something.

"Do I what?"

"Do you know what it's like to leave your family? I just realised I have no idea if you have siblings or where your parents are or anything."

"I… Well… I’m the younger one, so my sister left for college first, and she still works far away, so, I guess?" he questions, unsure if his answer is what she was looking for and trying to conceal his pain with confusion.

It seems to work because a wide smile breaks over Marjan's face as she turns to face Carlos completely, bending one leg under her.

"You have a sister?! I never knew!" she exclaims as she does a full one-eighty, going from hurt and frowning to eyes wide with curiosity.

"Yeah, one sister."

Marjan stares at him with wide eyes for a few moments. "And? Tell me about her!" she demands when he doesn't say anything else, making a “go on” gesture with her hand.

An easy smile takes over Carlos' face, even as he breaks eye contact to shake his head in amusement.

"Well, her name is Dora, she's four years older. And she's kinda my favourite person in the world, but don't tell her I said that," he threatens with a pointed finger.

It brings a chuckle out of Marjan, but she still mimics a zipper closing over her lips.

"Dora and Carlos Reyes, huh?"

"Well, kinda. Her full name is Isadora," he explains, continuing when she both frowns in confusion and nods in encouragement. “I saw her wearing a pink shirt one day, and she had a bowl cut like most kids of the early nineties, and my two-year-old self decided that she looked like Dora the Explorer,” he smiles as understanding starts to take over Marjan’s features.

“Isadora in a pink shirt and a bowl cut, it’s only a natural progression that you get to Dora.”

“Exactly!”

Marjan sits back on the bench, a laugh filling the space between them. She pulls to a side and grabs her drink, Carlos copying her when she brings the straw to her mouth. Silence follows as they gulp down their now warm drinks in quick sips, trying to catch up to the last thread of coldness.

This entire situation reminds him of his own self some ten years ago, when Dora first-ever left for college. He remembers how heartbroken he was, how he felt abandoned. He knew she was leaving for her future, and that he would undoubtedly do the same. But his fourteen-year-old self was still extremely offended and hurt, no matter how illogical it was.

“Do you miss her?” Marjan asks just as he realises that she finished her drink first, and has put down the empty cup beside her. “I mean, if she’s four years older, then she graduated at least eight, nine years ago, and she isn’t here, is she?” She asks, continuing when Carlos answers with a shake of his head. “Did it ever feel like she abandoned you?”

Carlos hums for a moment, trying to figure out how he’s supposed to control his emotions when Marjan puts it like that. It doesn’t help that he can’t really tell who she is asking about. But he wants to answer her in a way that’s both honest and gentle.

“Are you asking me about me, or asking me for your siblings?” he asks, figuring he doesn't need to assume when he can get the answer almost instantaneously.

Marjan snorts, shaking her head as she takes a deep breath and lets it out in a slow sigh.

“You’re too smart for your own self, Reyes,” she grumbles before she concedes, “I don’t know. Both, I guess?”

“Well, I can only speak for myself when I say that I did feel abandoned. I was so sad and angry at her that I didn’t really talk to her properly for the first few months, even though she kept trying and calling and adding me on social media," he starts to explain, taking a moment to think of the best phrasing. "Home was her, my dad and I, and when she left, she somehow ruined our home."

He shrugs as he stops, the memories of how hurt he was coming back to him, mixing with how hurt he feels right now.

“But after a while, she just kinda messaged me less, and we weren’t that close-knit unit we were anymore.” He feels the earlier bubble of anger return, but this time at his past self, at how he was so angry that he did things that are just so stupid.

“Yeah, that sounds very familiar right now,” Marjan sighs. "Are you guys in contact now? Or has it been that way ever since?"

"No!" he almost screams in his haste to correct Marjan, the sole idea of being on non-speaking terms with his sister leaving a sour taste in his mouth. "No, no, God,no, we're good now, we're best friends, we're proper close," he assures her, crossing his index and middle finger together.

"So how did you go from not talking for months to being best friends?"

"This is tethering on advice-giving, Marjan," he teases, raising an eyebrow at her and chuckling when she rolls her eyes at him. He can’t help but chuckle at how he seems to be getting the full blast of the Marwani Eye Rolls today.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm done ranting, I'm now asking for advice. I heard you gave Paul amazing words that started his journey with the mystery bar lady, so share that wisdom, Reyes," she huffs in feigned annoyance, much to Carlos' amusement. He knows that Paul has been making progress with Bar-Lady, but he's been keeping it under wraps lest it gets jinxed and falls apart, and Carlos has been respecting his wishes, refusing to say anything about their conversation or the events leading up to Paul approaching her.

Carlos reaches a hand to Marjan, grabbing her cup and getting up to throw the trash into the bin. Even though it's covered as environmental care, it's a way for him to catch his breath and organise his thoughts. And from the soft look Marjan gives him when he turns around, she knows that as well.

Still, she doesn't say a word even when he sits back down, giving him his space as he stretches his legs and finds a comfortable position on the bench. After a couple of minutes of silence, he finally turns to face Marjan.

"So, when my sister left, I was really hurt. Dora and my dad are all I've had, they were my entire world. In my head, she left our family and somehow that meant that it was broken," he begins, recalling how his joy over her getting into her dream college was quickly shattered when he realised how far away she'd be. "And at fourteen, I didn't know how to express that pain, so I just stopped talking to her."

"Now that I'm older, I think that I did that to hurt her back." He remembers when he came to that conclusion many years after the event was done and gone. "I knew how much our relationship meant to her, and I think I wanted her to know how it feels to be left, the same way she left me."

He sneaks a glance at Marjan, finding a guilty frown on her face. He wishes there was an easier way to say what he has to say, but it's one of those things that can't be sugar-coated.

"To be fair to her, she did keep trying. She was always calling and messaging me, asking about school and sports and TV shows. And I was sad and snappy, giving her short replies or single word answers. Sometimes I'd leave her on read just out of spite."

The memories are somewhat fuzzy in his mind, those months something he'd rather forget. But he still remembers how he'd race into his room after school, turn on his computer, open Facebook, read the message, only to exit the website again.

He'd give young Carlos a good slap up the back of the head if he could.

"It wasn't until one day, a couple of weeks before her first spring break, I got home earlier than usual. And I walked into my dad in the kitchen, talking to Dora on speaker. The first thing I had registered was how hurt she sounded," he recalls the absolute agony in her voice, the defeat, the resignation. "I was about to run in, ask what was wrong, when I heard her say I just don't know what to do, Papa, he won't talk to me, and I miss him so much."

He stops for a moment, he needs to, his voice just on the verge of cracking on that last word. It's a stark reminder of the rush of emotions he felt all those years ago, when he first overheard that conversation.

"I think I needed to hear that, though. To hear that she missed me too and to realise how hurt she was by leaving. I pretended I didn't hear anything, and just snuck up to my room. Except that now, I knew exactly how she felt. I knew that she was hurt too, but it didn't feel good. I didn't feel satisfied because she missed me. I just felt like I had lost her."

"A few days later, I went downstairs to my dad, and asked him if Dora would ever forgive me." The mention of his dad forces a smile out of him, and how he was so distressed that he just had to seek his dad's wisdom. "I think he tried to play it subtle at first, asking what I meant. But when he realised how affected I truly was, he quickly laid the truth down for me."

He can tell that Marjan is hanging onto every word he says.

"He told me that Dora laughed every time I hit a milestone and cried every time I got hurt. She wasn't going to hate me just because I didn’t talk to her for a few months. But that didn't mean that I was off the hook. The ball was in the middle of the court, and I had the chance to take the first step to make things right," he shrugs, his dad's words running through his mind again.

His dad was gentle, the way he always had been, but he didn't lie to Carlos either. He made sure that Carlos knew that he was responsible for the hurt both he and Dora were going through. And no matter how he felt at the very beginning, the end result was still pain for both of them.

"So I did. The next time she texted, I replied. And then I called her, and she picked up. And, you know, it took time, but we got there. And now, we're best friends again. We're so close right now that the fact that she hasn't gotten approved for time off has put us both in the worst of bad moods."

Marjan sighs as he comes to a stop, turning around to fiddle with her rings. He thinks that part of it is giving him privacy to get his emotions under control - they both act in the same way in that they aren't overly emotional in front of just anyone, and he doesn't think they're at that level of vulnerability quite yet.

"So," Marjan says after a long moment of silence, "I just need to keep going at it? Keep trying until they see what’s been happening, then we’ll be best friends again, Yara, Karim and I, huh?"

”I mean, I don't know for sure. But yeah, I think so."

"You know," Marjan quips with a frown on her face and what he thinks is the beginning of hope in her eyes, "I think I heard Yara mention Marvel and Iron Man once, and Karim is super into video games these days. I'm no expert in either, but…"

"But interest is the first step. I don't think Dora understood a single word of all the Pokémon talk that I used to tell her, but it got us talking!"

Marjan hums, looking out ahead of her into the parking lot. There isn't something in particular that's worthy of attention, but Carlos finds himself staring at a random tree next to the juice bar.

There's a weirdly placed nest high up on one of the branches, a bird of some kind making trips back and forth between the nest and the street underneath. He's starting to wonder if birds feel sorrow when one of them leaves, when Marjan breaks his non-conventional train of thought.

"Well, that's my family drama," she sighs, turning towards him again, slinging her arm on the backrest and rests her head on top of her hand. "What are we going to do about your sister?"

"I don't know. Suffer in sadness, I guess," Carlos huffs. "There's nothing to be done. Neither one of us is getting approved for time off anytime soon."

The sad smile that Marjan gives him is exactly why he didn't want to meet anyone right after he got the news. The sympathy would only make him feel worse. Though, now that he got the frustration beat out of him, it covers him like a comforting blanket.

"Well, I know no one can replace your sister," Marjan says with a shrug and a suspiciously teasing smile, "but I can be your big sister until you meet her again."

The rapid blinking that Carlos' eyes do on their own accord is probably enough of a reaction, because Marjan stares at him for a few moments and then breaks into laughter, the happiness he's come to associate with the woman finally making itself visible.

"You're, you're younger than me!" he exclaims.

“That just doesn’t sound right, does it now?” Marjan quips, a smirk spreading on her face.

"It's literally a fact!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," she says as she gets up off the bench, hooking an arm around his once Carlos is standing up. "Drive me home, baby brother."

Carlos can’t stop the booming laugh he lets out as he stands up, as Marjan drags him to his own car. She will never replace Dora - no one will ever be able to - but Carlos is starting to think that maybe he’s earned himself a younger sister, even though Marjan claims otherwise.

[five-hxrgreeves]

I Won’t Back Down - Five Hargreeves x OC

Word Count: 1,385

You can stand me up at the gates of hell But I won't back down I'm gonna stand my ground Won't be turned around And I'll keep this world from dragging me down

1 | 2 | 3 |

Pt. 2- The Last 6 Days Until Apocalypse II, 2019

The next few days passed much the same as they always did. School was indeterminable boredom and after was a blur of time. It was nights that Lola really lived for. She wasn’t sure why but the dark, mysterious blackness that covered everything was so much more intriguing than the bright daylight. It helped spur her mind into its most aggressive thinking, it sped her heart up as she made her daily route to the large, unused library, it made her eyes strain to the best of their ability to see outlines in the blackness.

Now, don’t get her wrong- she was a fan of the light. She needed it to write, to see distinctly, but the quiet calm that came with the night was something so few people experienced in a world of billions that it made it more special to her. She didn’t think she’d ever like complete blackness, though.

The dark of night allowed her some cover as she slipped quietly into the Umbrella Academy’s library, her feet soft and quiet on the wooden floor. By now, she knew the layout by heart and made her way easily to the last place she’d taken books from and zipped open her bag carefully, extracting both volumes. While they hadn’t been extremely interesting, she’d liked learning from them as much as all the other books she’d borrowed from the library.

Lola quietly slid out the next two. One was a thick, bound leather book and she could feel the embossed gold on the cover as she slid it gently into her bag. The books on the shelf fell with a muted thump as the space became available and she winced but no one came, as usual. She moved to the next one, which was slimmer and a regular hardcover, its contents remaining a mystery until she could read them in the light.

After zipping her bag back up, she crept back down the stairs and made her way towards her usual escape except- she bumped into a soft-bodied figure and nearly screamed.

“Who-who’s there?” a light, airy voice called out, “are you a ghost?”

Her pulse picked up and Lola’s voice came out in a stutter as she said, “y-yes. O-of course,” then, feeling the need to be more ghost-like, she gave a fake, quiet moan, “wwoooohhh, my spirit is restless,” she sang in whisper.

A hand gently hit her face and brushed up and down as if petting her, “there, there, ghostie. Don’t bother me now.”

She leaned away from the man’s touch and scrambled for what to do next, but then the man seemed to freeze, “why’re you solid, ghost?”

“Uh- I’m special?” she tried, wincing at the lame answer. Luckily, the man seemed accept this and nodded, “okay, well, don’t follow me to bed. I’m open to many things but ghost sex is stretching it,” he gave an exaggerated shudder and stumbled past her, clumsily patting her on the shoulder.

Lola’s face burned bright red and she was glad it was too dark to see. After he left, she hastily made her way to the open window and slipped out, breathing a sigh of relief when her feet landed on the grass. His kids must have come back for the funeral, she thought as she made her way home. He’d spoken about ghosts, so it- it must’ve been The Séance.

She hoped he wouldn’t tell his siblings what had happened- that wouldn’t bode well for her. Luckily, he hadn’t seen her face and he also hadn’t seemed to be completely there, so he probably wouldn’t remember.

--

After school on Friday found Lola walking down the main street towards her father’s store. Now that it was the weekend, she didn’t need to be picked up and hurried home from school so she could start her homework. The local bookstore caught her eye and her father’s words echoed in her ears about the Hargreeves’ autobiography.

The bell jingled as she entered the shop and a female assistant made her way to the dark-haired girl to greet her, “good afternoon! Is there anything in particular you need help finding today?”

Lola gave her a smile and nodded, “yes, actually. I’m looking for an autobiography. Its, um, by someone of the last name Hargreeves.”

The woman’s smile flickered for a moment before broadening, “of course, right this way! We’ve moved them towards the back now that they’re not popular sellers. I think we still have a few copies, though.”

Sure enough, in the back of the non-fiction section the name Hargreeves stood out like a sore thumb, at least in Lola’s opinion. The book was titled Extra-Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven. The brunette slid a copy off the shelf and turned it over to read the summary on the back. There seemed to be a surprising amount about the woman’s- Vanya’s- family contained in the book.

“Will that be all?” the attendant asked.

She gave a nod, “yes, thank you.”

“Alright, dear, I can check you out at the counter.”

Lola followed the employee back to the front and made her purchase using her saved-up allowance money. Most of it was used for notebooks, writing utensils or additional book-buying so she had enough saved to purchase Vanya’s book. After leaving the shop, she made her way to the local diner, Griddy’s, texting her uncle of her change of plans.

Once there, she sat at the bar where an elderly woman came to greet her, “hello, dear, what can I get for you?”

Lola eyed the treats behind the counter thoughtfully, “classic glazed, please, Agnes,” she added her name after reading the woman’s tag.

“Of course, one moment,” Agnes said cheerfully and turned to complete her order.

She set the doughnut down in front of the girl, “if you need anything else just give a holler.”

Lola nodded in thanks and cracked open her new book, eager to read a professional autobiography. While she had studied some for research it had been awhile since she’d seriously read one.

My name is Vanya Hargreeves and this is my story it started out and the brunette smiled slightly at the similar openings. Pulling her pencil from behind her ear, she jotted down a note in the margin before continuing.

We were never a real family. We were our father’s creation, family in name, but not in fact. In the end, after our brother Ben had died, there was really nothing connecting us. We were just strangers living under the same roof, destined to be alone, starved for attention, damaged by our upbringing, and haunted by what might-have-been. We all wanted to be loved by a man incapable of giving love. Our father never missed the opportunity to remind me that I was ordinary, a hard thing for a little girl to hear. If you’re raised to believe that nothing about you is special, if the benchmark is extraordinary, what do you do if you’re not?

Lola sat at the counter as minutes slipped passed, slowly eating away at her doughnut and reading Vanya’s book, occasionally scribbling between the lines as she wrote notes for herself. As she read, she realized she liked Vanya’s writing style. The woman didn’t write daily stories and chronicle her life as if everything was significant but she also didn’t write the major events like they were items on a grocery list to be ticked off once they were written. Instead, she wrote in a way that made the objective viewer feel as if they were actually there, experiencing Vanya’s life. The brunette supposed that this is why the book lost popularity; some of the moments were too raw, too painful, to want to go back and reread and live through again.

Sometime later, her phone buzzed in her pocket, causing her to jump in surprise. The book lay before her more than half-read, pages wrinkled and dirty from pencil smudges and sugar from her sticky fingers as she’d turned the pages, hardly looking like a newly-bought book. Reaching into her pocket, the girl checked her text which was her uncle wondering where she was. Looking outside in surprise, she realized the sun was setting.

“Shit,” she breathed, hurriedly packing up her things. Hopefully, she wouldn’t get too much of an earful.

[allicekitty13]

Escape Route

“It was a sentiment Alice could relate to; after all, less than a week ago, she'd abandoned everything in her life to hit the road. Although, in her own case, retuning would be much harder. Charlotte had a loving and accepting family who only wanted what was best for her to return to. She envied the woman slightly; if she'd grown up with even a quarter of the support Charlotte had, maybe she would still be at NYU right now. But those weren't the cards she'd been dealt.“ Read On Ao3

Read On FFN

It was dark, the night only illuminated by the streetlamps and light peeking out the few windows scattered throughout the apartment buildings lining the alleyway. Not many people were awake at such a late hour; usually, she wouldn't be either. On an average night, she would be asleep, getting ample rest for classes the next morning. Tonight, however, Alice was sitting in her car, hands tightly clenching the steering wheel internally debating if she really could do this. She was already so close, so near to her goal. A goal that had been festering inside for months now—possibly even years if she were to be honest. 

That afternoon Alice had done the unthinkable by dropping out of school mid-semester. Just a few hours ago she had packed up as many belongings as she could possibly fit into her small two-door Honda Civic. Alice had been sitting there in the driver's seat, building up the final shreds of her courage ever since. If she were to follow through on this plan her roommate, Bella, would come home to find Alice's bedroom cleared out alone with her abandoned call phone sitting on the bedside table. It was likely by now full of notifications of missed calls and angry voicemails.

Alice admittedly felt terrible for the girl. Bella was sweet, always kind, and didn't deserve to have this sprung upon her. She would be the one who had to deal with the questions following Alice's disappearance. Worst of all, poor Bella would have to answer to Alice's father in the coming days. But Alice knew if she'd warned her friend in person, Bella would have tried to stop her; she likely would have succeeded. So Alice had written a letter left next to the phone apologizing and trying to explain that she was okay. That Alice needed to do this. She begged her friend to understand and forgive her, pleaded in written words not to come looking.

The consequences that would be placed upon Bella were the only thing causing Alice to hesitate. There was still time to change her mind, to take the responsible course of action and continue down the path laid out by her father. She could easily go back upstairs, tear up the letter, and put her belongings back in place. She could call Edgar with some made-up excuse; he would pull some strings to have her reinstated as a student. Alice could resume her life as usual, albeit with her father looking at her with slightly more disdain than usual. 

Alice shook her head furiously at the thought as though she could forcibly remove the doubts from her mind. This was something she needed to do, something she'd wanted for quite a while. To run away from her life, from her past. To start over someplace fresh, where nobody knew who she was. Someplace Edgar Brandon had no control, where she wouldn't be haunted by ghosts of the past.

So, despite the nervousness of the unknown still sitting like a weight in her stomach Alice finally started the car. She was headed off, to where? She didn't know; that was something she could figure out along the way.

---

Alice had been on the road for a few days, driving aimlessly in whatever direction struck her fancy. She took only backroads traveling through small farm towns and past long forgotten tourist traps. In Pennsylvania and Indiana, she'd found cheap cash only motels that didn't ask too many questions to get a nights rest. Her diet had consisted of mostly rest stop junk food. Occasionally she would stop at the occasional diner for something close to nutritions. She was now in Iowa, and the meter on her gas tank was bordering dangerously close to empty. Being so far from the highways and interstate, gas stations were few and far between, luckily though a sign on the roadside indicated there was a rest stop just a few miles out and so she made her way east to fuel up. 

Alice pulled into the parking lot and proceeded to drive up to the nearest of two gas pumps. A relic of a different time, it was an older style that she'd only seen in films on the classic movie channel. A sign was attached to the surface with duct tape instructing customers to venture inside to pre-pay for their gad. A reasonable request judging by the lack of space to insert a credit card, an option the woman would prefer to avoid anyhow. Accessing her bank account at the moment would leave a digital paper trail leading anyone looking for Alice directly to her location. Although chances were relatively high that Edgar wouldn't actually be looking for her, it wasn't a chance Alice was willing to take.

So, she pulled her denim jacket tighter against her body to brace herself against the harsh midwestern autumn winds as she made her way into the small timeworn building near the pumps. It was apparent that 'Bier's gas and go' had seen better days. The roof needed retiling, as evidenced by the barren spots sprinkled across the surface. A vintage coca-cola sign hung in the window. If a collecter were to ever venture off the interstate and stop by the old station, they'd likely pay a fortune for it despite the worn, sun-bleached condition. 

Inside, the owners had made decent use of the cramped space in a half-hearted attempt to keep up with the times. A table with a single chair was tucked away in one corner next to an out of date newspaper dispenser. Upon closer inspection, it became apparent that it had been out of use for years as the price per paper was set at .90 cents and the date on the periodical displayed in the machine was for June 13th of 1997. Despite the clear signs of a business on its last legs, the shelves were stocked with a small array of fresh products that the few customers passing through might require. Bags of chips were placed near the back of the store, a few boxes of candy bars sat on the checkout counter, and a belly cooler was pushed up against one wall stocked with soda, juice, and water.

A blonde woman just a few inches taller than Alice was leaning against the checkout counter, holding a backpack close to her chest as she chatted with the shops' only other inhabitant. A man, whose height towered over that of both women, was stocking cigarettes onto a shelf behind the register. Both parties looked up upon Alice's entrance, the man looking bored, yes surprised likely at having two customers within the premises in one day if his surroundings were any indication. The woman's eyes lit up, and she sucked her lower lip into her mouth, pressing it between her teeth as Alice approached the counter, paid for her gas, and received instruction from the man on how to operate the vintage pumps.

Alice said her thank yous, never one to forget her manners, and headed back outside. She began to pump her gas, grateful for Riley's instructions as operating the older pump was a foreign concept to the woman who'd never seen, let alone used one of this nature. Just as Alice returned the nozzle to its receptacle, the woman from inside exited the building. She looked around the lot before spotting Alice and headed directly over to where the woman was standing.

"Listen," She opened with a tinge of hesitation in her voice. "This might sound odd, but I was kind of wondering where you're headed." 

"You're right; that does sound odd." Alice had seen her fair share of horror movies. This was about the time she knew it would be a good idea to excuse herself, get back into her car, and get away fast. Yet, something in the woman's eyes that looked a lot like hope caused her to go against better judgment as she hesitantly questioned the woman, "Why do you ask?"

"I'm trying to get back home, to Texas. Been hitchhiking my way, kinda hopin' you might be kind enough to offer a ride it's not terribly far out of your way?"

"What's your name?"

"Charlotte, friends call me Charlie." The woman answered with a reluctantly hopeful half-grin.

"Well, Charlie, you're in luck since I've just been driving aimlessly up until now, and I wouldn't mind having a clear destination."

Charlotte thanked Alice profusely as she climbed into the passenger's side of the vehicle and placed her backpack on the floor between her feet. As the duo ventured back onto the backroads of the midwestern United States, Alice couldn't help but wonder if it was fate that brought the two girls together, that the small run-down gas station had been exactly where she'd needed to be.

---

Charlotte made for excellent company causing Alice's time on the road to become much more fun. She now had someone to talk to as her new companion was exceptionally vocal. Charlotte talked a lot about her family, specifically her older half-sister, who recently married and moved from their hometown of Dripping Springs, Texas to Tennessee with her new husband. The woman seemed to be close with her sister bringing her up in many of their conversations.

Halfway to Texas, they crashed for the night as a motel in Oklahoma. After a few drinks, Charlotte opened up about her older brother. The two had gotten into a fight just before the woman moved away. Her brother, Jasper, hadn't thought Charlotte was mature enough to leave home. He felt that she was idolizing the city and was worried she would get hurt. Charlotte argued that Jasper and Rosalie had babied her their entire lives, and she would never learn to be self-sufficient with Jasper and their mother watching over her and fixing every problem that arose in her life. Unfortunately, moving across the country on a whim had been too much for the woman to handle, and she wasn't looking forward to telling her brother he had been right.

Apparently, this was the reason she'd been hitchhiking rather than asking her family to help purchase a plane ticket. Charlotte knew that logically her always supportive and loving family would welcome her back with open arms. That they weren't the 'I told you so' type. Still, she was nervous about what would happen when she returned and had hoped that by now, she might have figured out what to say.

The next day, Charlotte was uncharacteristically quiet. She grew stiffer and stiffer as the car crept closer to Dripping Springs. Alice offered to extend their trip slightly, pointing out that she had nowhere to be, and it would give the woman more time to clear her head. Charlotte contemplated the offer but, in the end, decided that there would never be a perfect time to do this. That she would never truly be ready to crawl back home or to admit she was wrong. Besides, she knew her mother and brother would be kind about the situation. Knew that everything would be okay; still, that didn't make it any easier.

It was a sentiment Alice could relate to; after all, less than a week ago, she'd abandoned everything in her life to hit the road. Although, in her own case, retuning would be much harder. Charlotte had a loving and accepting family who only wanted what was best for her to return to. She envied the woman slightly; if she'd grown up with even a quarter of the support Charlotte had, maybe she would still be at NYU right now. But those weren't the cards she'd been dealt. So, rather than feel sorry for herself, she refocussed on comforting her friend in the passenger's seat who had a monumental task to tackle in just a few more miles.

---

Charlotte instructed Alice to pull over next to a dingy looking bar on the main street when the pair finally arrived in Dripping Springs. She explained that this was where her brother worked and was most likely to be at this time of day. They sat parked for a moment; the air filled with tension as Charlotte stared at the bar from the bar window. Finally, she turned back to Alice, nervousness apparent in her expression, and asked if her friend would mind coming inside with her as it might be easier to do this with someone around for support. 

The bar was dimly lit, the only source of lighting coming from the numerous neon beer signs scattered about the walls. There were booths in every corner, and four tables surrounded by chairs took up half of the floor space. The other half of the room was occupied by a pool table as well as a cleared out area near the jukebox that acted as a dance space. Behind the bar stood a man who occupied himself with dusting off the rack on which numerous liquor bottles sat. 

"Jas?" Charlotte called out, causing the man to startle; he dropped the rag he was holding and spun around in shock, staring at his sister, who gazed back sheepishly. The room was quiet for a long time as the siblings stood caught in a silent conversation held via eye contact accompanied only by the ambient music playing from Jasper's phone sitting next to him on the counter.

"You were right. I couldn't...." She trailed off, looking down at the counter with shaking breath. 

Jasper only nodded in response as he reached into the belly cooler next to him for two beers, which he slid across the counter to the girls. "So, who's your friend?"

Jasper sat down with the girls, catching up with his sister and learning of her adventures with Alice. He was grateful to the woman for bringing Charlotte home but make sure to let her know she was an idiot for picking up a stranger at a gas station in the middle of nowhere.

As Alice got to know the man, she found herself drawn to him; he was attractive with his tall stature, messy blonde hair, and piercing green eyes. He was smart, witty, and it was endearing to see how easily he reconciled with Charlotte and how much genuine interest he took in her life. This was a real family, the type of relationship she'd tried so hard to cultivate with her own sister but had never managed to accomplish with their father constantly spinning his eldest daughter out to be a villain.  

Alice started fighting sleep as the night wore on, and customers began to file in, diverting Jasper's attention from the family reunion. She made a comment about needing to look for a motel for the night, and Charlotte looked at her as though she'd grown a second head. 

"No, you're definitely not."

"Char, I need to sleep."

"Not in a motel; after everything you've done for me, the least I can do is offer you the guest room at our place."

"You mean my place?" Jasper cut in, shooting his sister an amused glare before turning to look at Alice with fondness in his eyes. "She's right though, guest rooms yours for as long as you need if you'd like it."

Back at the Whitlock ranch in the guest room, Alice lay in a comfortable bed for the first time in days. She was tossing over the idea of staying in this town for a while. Before reriting to their rooms for the night Charlotte had practically begged her new friend to hang around. Alice hadn't been sure what she was looking for when she had set out on this journey. But having made a genuine friend in Charlotte and the way Jasper treated her with nothing but kindness made her feel as though just maybe she'd found it. It was too soon to determine anything for certain, but as she passed into sleep thinking about blonde hair and green eyes, she decided that it wouldn't hurt to explore the option.

[teenytinystorage]

Coinscore Arcade And Laser Tag

Summary: “The Sides all run an arcade together, each using their talents to keep it up”

Word Count: 3,872

Warnings: One very very brief mention of blood, knives, and injury, but no one gets hurt whatsoever

Genre: Fluff

Pairings: Platonic/romantic prinxiety, logicality, dukeceit, & basically all the sides are besties

Notes: This fic is based on this amazing prompt I found from @sanderssides-prompts! Kudos to the anon who submitted it!!

Enjoy! :)

—

Coinscore Arcade And Laser Tag was the best arcade Gainesville, Florida could offer. And its owners Logan Middleton, Patton Heath, Roman and Remus Weston, Virgil Holmes, and Dee Webber couldn’t help but agree.

Often shortened to simply “Coinscore” for the convenience of begging kids and tired-out parents, the place had it all. Long windows in the front of the building beamed glimmering moonlight into the neon, darkly colored interior filled with music-pumping, color-flashing, ticket-spitting arcade machines.

In the front left of the building sat the prize table run by Logan and Patton, occasionally by Dee as well, with a wall hanging up packaged neon signs, inflatable aliens, plastic swords, and labels with way overpriced ticket amounts. It, of course, also had a glass shelf-table combo filled with erasers, alien-finger-toys, and parachute army men.

Right then, a couple of kids, maybe 7 or 8 or so, stood at the table, standing on their tippy-toes to set their tickets down and see how many they won.

Logan, with his tree-like lankiness, crumpled up as he crouched to grab the scale from under the table and pulled out a comically sized calculator that would only be practical in an impractical place like Coinscore.

He set the tickets into a bucket, placed it upon the scale, and quickly started to type some numbers into the calculator, all the while the kids bounced up and down and were deciding which color of alien they wanted.

Logan then looked up (or, well, down in his case) from his calculator and at the awaiting children. “Your total comes to 991 tickets.”

The kids then deflated at the admission, looking at the giant alien hung up on the wall that stared at them in otherworldly longing with its 1,000 ticket label.

One little boy ran over to his mom sitting in a chair talking with other moms and sniffly told her the tragedy. She stood, grabbing her purse, and walked over to the table.

Logan tensed. It always got serious when the mom came over.

It was at that moment Patton Heath himself walked out from the supply closet carrying two cardboard boxes stacked atop each other, his shimmering brown skin glinting in the same shade as the boxes.

“Hey Lo, my bestest friend, the platonic love of my life,” Patton smiled wide.

“Hi, Patton. I’m stuck in quite the predicament right now,” Logan answered, nodding over to the sad children and the confused but somewhat uptight mother standing on the other side of the shelf.

“Ohhhh. Not enough tickets?” Patton whispered, setting down the boxes he carried and trodding over.

Logan nodded.

Patton stood at the table and looked down at the kids. “What prize did you guys want?”

The kids sadly pointed to the giant aliens mounted on the wall in all of their extraterrestrial and airy glory.

He looked at the ticket label then back to Logan, whispering, “How much are they off?”

“One-thousand minus nine-ninety-one is nine, so they’re nine off.”

Patton turned to Logan and gave a small pout, not unlike the children’s pouts ahead of him. “It’s nine tickets off, Lo. Can’t we just give it to them?”

Logan thought for a moment, pressing his cold, long fingers onto his chin.

Patton leaned over and whispered, “Hey, hey, I get it. But I read your salary spreadsheet for the week and I can tell we’ll be fine giving away a prize for only nine tickets less. And they might tell their friends about their prize and how they got it at Coinscore and we might make even more than a breakeven amount!” Patton beamed pridefully.

Logan had a surprised look on his face. “I suppose you’re right.”

Patton turned back to the kids. “Would you guys like the red, green, or purple alien?”

“Purple!” the kids cheered, smiles coming back to their faces.

Patton unhooked a purple alien toy from the wall, detached its ticket label, and handed it to the starry-eyed kids. “Here you go! Don’t worry about the nine tickets, this little buddy’s all yours.”

The kids squealed in excitement and the mom grinned in relief. She clutched her handbag and smiled at Logan and Patton. “Thank you very much. Christian, Daria, Jacob, what do you say to the nice men?”

“Thank you!” the three children echoed as they walked with the mom out the door, smiling and squealing about their alien friend who was just as big as them.

“I didn’t know you read my salary reports, Patton,” Logan turned to start unpacking the boxes.

“I like to be a little smart sometimes,” Patton smiled, grabbing Logan’s hand and giving it a quick squeeze. “Like a certain smartie pants I know.”

Logan’s pale face bloomed with rose-pink tones, and he shook his head, a small smile across his lips.

As they got to work unpacking boxes, inside the arcade was where the real fun and drama happened.

Inside, there were all kinds of games monitored by Roman and occasionally Virgil: whack-a-mole, helicopter shooting games where players step inside a shiny plastic interior to play, ball toss, spinning wheels, hard-hitting hammer-swinging games, even an electronic Fruit Ninja game, and the classic skeeball.

And at one of the three skeeball stations stood an angered, growling 9-year-old, who chucked another ball forward into the glass cage and landed into the zero zone again.

She let out an aggravated yell before tossing her long brown hair over her shoulders, crossing her arms.

Roman, who stood at a pirate-themed wheel game and was encoring two little boys who won eight-hundred tickets, saw this outburst and, like the modern knight he was, pranced over to the distressed darling.

“Hello! You’re playing skeeball?” Roman greeted, crouching down to the girl’s height.

“Yeh, but I suck at it,” she pouted, “Hmph.”

“Here, do you want me to show you my trick on how to win? I like skeeball too,” Roman offered, and the girl reluctantly handed her one of her last two neon orange skeeballs.

Roman turned to face the glass chamber of point holes. “What I always do is focus on the wrist.” Roman bent his right hand backward, aiming it towards the skeeball ramp as he turned his eyes back to the pouting girl. “I like to think of my hand like a broken excavator, those construction cars with the big arm in front that pick up big lumps of dirt. My hand goes up super fast and flings the ball forward, just like a broken excavator would fling dirt up in the air and make dirt go everywhere!”

The girl, despite just having been mad, perked up a bit as she laughed and stepped back to watch Roman play.

Roman stood up to full height, a modest 5’5”, and stepped his left leg back and his right leg forward as he turned to face the ramp.

As he described, his hand became a broken excavator as he shot his wrist up, causing the ball to barrel forward on the ramp and land right into the sweet 1,000 point spot.

The girl smiled widely and clapped for Roman, giggling.

Roman turned and bowed sillily. “Thank you, thank you. I’m honored. Now you try,” Roman took the other skeeball from the game’s compartment and handed it to her. “Remember, broken excavator.”

The girl nodded, determined, and positioned herself like Roman had earlier with her left leg forward and right leg back (since she was left-handed), and bent her wrist back before flinging it forward and tossing the ball up the ramp and into the cool 500-point spot.

Roman smiled, clapping his hands excitedly. “What an excellent toss! Ten out of ten.”

“Thank you,” the girl smiled shyly, twirling her pink tutu around her finger. She held out her tiny hand. “I’m Melanie.”

“Nice to meet you, Melanie,” Roman grinned, giving her hand a quick shake. “I’m Roman.”

“Cool name,” Melanie added.

“Thank you!” Roman beamed, before putting on a serious face. “Alright, play another round and show me what you’ve got!”

Melanie nodded, grinning and letting two tokens clink-clink-clink down into the machine as five more skeeballs plummeted into the machine compartment.

Now, although the games and prizes were cool on their own, the hands-down coolest part about Coinscore was that the back end of the arcade was devoted entirely to a laser tag arena.

Behind the two big flashy entrance doors, the debriefing room and the vesting room, the arena was themed like an abandoned, haunted town, thanks to Remus’s suggestion.

Ripped up buildings and large open windows, bus stops, holographs of floating books and chairs projected onto the walls, long ramps up to different structures, a large platform bridge in the middle of it all, and plenty of running space for excited kids filled the massive arena space.

Dee, Remus, and Virgil ran the laser tag rodeo and also did the cleaning of the arena when arcade days were slow.

Dee’s job was to read out the rules to the ecstatic players in the empty, glowing blue debriefing room and had the kids repeat and promise not to run or hurt anyone or jump or rules like that that basically fell under anything that could cause a lawsuit. (And Dee was just finishing up law school; he knew how much lawsuits sucked.)

Meanwhile, Remus and Virgil were the “laser masters” as the kids were told to call them 3 times in a row when something went wrong or their laser gun stopped working or they got lost or anything like that.

But laser-master-worthy incidents were rare, so Remus just had to stand guard during games and hang out with Dee while Virgil got plenty of time off to help out with any extra work going on, like birthday parties or, in some cases such as this one, helping to convince a fearful kid to play laser tag.

A lonely little boy, probably 9 or so, stood outside the laser tag doors, staring at the cracked wallpaper and the spooky neon green lighting, and he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself.

Virgil noticed this boy as he stood holding open the arena entrance and as the other boys he was with walked inside after trying tirelessly to convince him.

Virgil called out to the boy, “Are you coming in? I’m ‘bout to shut the doors.”

“I… I want to,” the boy said, still staring at the wall ahead of him. “But I’m scared.”

Virgil took in a breath. “C’mere, let me tell you something.”

The boy walked over to Virgil and stood, twiddling his fingers. Virgil crouched down on one knee.

“I know it looks scary from the outside, and you wouldn’t be wrong about that,” Virgil started, looking at the boy’s frightened face. “But believe me, it’s not scary on the inside. I promise. All it is is some broken buildings and bus stops. There’s no scary robots or scary ghosts or jumpscares. There’s no scary music or blood or knives or anything like that.”

“You’re sure?” the boy croaked out.

“One-hundred percent,” Virgil nodded as the multiple chains around his neck clinked against each other. “But if you don’t want to play this round, which is totally fine, you can watch up from the top and make sure it’s all good yourself. This round’ll be done in fifteen minutes and then the next one is the last round for tonight. You can play the last round if you deem the arena good for you.”

“I think I’ll do that,” the boy nodded quickly.

“Alright. You go up and check for me, and make sure none of your friends do anything silly, okay?”

The boy chuckled. “I’ll try, but they’re very silly.”

“I’d bet,” Virgil grinned, standing back up.

“Thank you sir,” the boy smiled.

“No prob,” Virgil waved, shutting the door behind him but before that seeing the boy speedily running up the ramp to the spectator station.

Dee and Remus were leading the kids into the dark vesting room as Virgil approached in his black work apron over his P!ATD hoodie and black jeans, making him entirely camouflaged in the blacklight except for his neon purple hair that practically made him a beacon of purple light.

“Where were you?” Remus asked, retying the ponytail that held back his lion’s mane of hair.

“Helping a kid out,” Virgil answered back.

“Well, good thing you’re here now,” Dee commented, “I think these kids are especially insolent this time, so we might need another ‘laser master’ for the tots that didn’t hear the rule about having to hold onto the blaster to shoot.”

“You got it, Jekyll,” Virgil pointed a finger gun at Dee before walking into the vesting room, Jekyll being a nickname solicited by Dee’s vertigo that split his face into halves like the halved aspects of Jekyll and Hyde, and also by Dee’s absolute dorkery in all that was musical theater.

As the round was about to start and as Dee made the kids once again promise not to do anything that would hurt themselves, Remus and Virgil congregated into the half-emptied vesting room with glowing vest-holding-pillars and a few leftover vests with blasters attached.

Dee then assigned the colors and heard the groans of annoyed kids who didn’t get computer-assigned on the same teams as their friends.

The robotic voice announced above that the round was starting in ten seconds, and as the kids scrambled to find their spots, Dee turned back around to Remus and Virgil.

“I swear I’m up to here with these foolish wildebeests,” Dee sighed. “Our last few rounds were good but I think they’re just starting to get rambunctious and just want to see me mad.”

“I’m not blaming them,” Remus shrugged, leaning back against the wall with his wide pale shoulders and torso. “You’re pretty sexy when you’re mad.”

“Ugh,” Virgil shook his head, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets and wishing he could put on his headphones during work. “Leave me out of the friend-flirting, please.”

“No can do, dreamy darkstorm of doom!” Remus beamed, wrapping his arms around Virgil.

Virgil shook his head, grinning only because of the beaming Remus and the chuckling Dee beside him.

“Alright alright, let’s actually watch this match now and make sure no one gets hurt please?” Dee pulled up the arena cameras on the scoring screen in the corner of the room. Remus and Virgil crowded around him.

And from the spectator camera, Virgil could see the little boy he talked to earlier watching the round and his friends that waved and cheered to him as they played.

“Did you see what I did there, Sal?!” one boy exclaimed. “I got that kid and he didn’t even see it coming!”

Sal smiled at the comment, only then to start laughing once the boy’s vest beeped, showing that he got shot as he was talking.

“Who did that?! Michael, if that was you I’m gonna destroy you!” he fumed as he ran off. “Bye Sal!”

“Sal, huh?” Dee added. “Seems like a nice kid. Good job helping him, Vir.”

“I relate to him, y’know? Might as well try and help a little me or whatever.”

“Virrrrgilllllll has light in his soullllll!” Remus teased, poking Virgil’s cheek repeatedly. “I knew it I knew it I knew it!”

“Oh, get over it,” Virgil smirked as he playfully bopped Remus’s arm.

And once the round had come to an end (only needing assistance from Remus once because a kid did indeed forget the “hold onto the blaster to shoot” rule), Virgil saw Sal hurry out of the spectator floor to join his friends outside the door.

The kids returned their vests and quickly ran out the doors to see the TV-displayed leader-board. They crowded around Sal and told quickly and loudly of their adventures, to which Sal smiled and laughed.

And it was quite a delight for Dee, Virgil, and Remus, who were all standing by the door that Virgil held open once again for the last time that night, to see that Sal followed his friends in and that Sal smiled at Virgil with a big beaming grin.

Virgil shut the door behind them as the last round started and finished and as the kids flooded out from the doors to their parents so they could leave the arcade, smiling and laughing all the way. Virgil waved goodbye to Sal, who graciously thanked him again for the help before walking out with the other kids and their parents.

Remus locked arms with Virgil and Dee as the three headed out of the arena and over to the prize table, where Logan and Patton waved goodbye to a few more kids who stayed late to play more games and where Roman leaned against the snack bar shelf and gave some high-fives to kids as they walked out.

“Bye Melanie! You’re a skeeball champion,” Roman cheered as a little brown-haired girl and her father walked out of the doors, both waving goodbye to Roman.

Remus approached Roman, letting go of Dee and Virgil’s arms, and chuckled, readjusting his ponytail for approximately the twentieth time that day. “Made another new friend, huh?”

“I did,” Roman turned to Remus and grinned. “One more than you’ve ever made, intro-dirt.”

“Oooh! Right where it hurts,” Remus cried, putting his hand over his heart before hooking Roman into his arm and ruffling up Roman’s hair.

Patton turned from the prize shelf and walked over. “Melanie, was it? Such a cute-looking kid.”

“Oh, but you won’t believe this! Virgil made a friend today, too,” Remus beamed, letting go of Roman and turning to Virgil.

“Really? I’m shocked that your void of a heart had enough room for that,” Roman teased, before quickly adding, “Just kidding. Who was it?”

“Name was Sal,” Virgil commented, his left contact-purple eye and his right green eye darting down to his shoes. “Nice kid. About eight years old?” he glanced off to the side.

“Awww!” Patton squealed.

“Sal was afraid of the laser tag arena, but Vir convinced him it wasn’t so bad and Sal went in for the last round with all his friends,” Dee added, stuffing his hands into his black apron’s pockets after he swiped away a loose strand of hair that fell out of his yellow beanie littered with Broadway buttons.

“How charismatic of you!” Roman smiled, “What a kind and fair lad,” he trilled, stepping down onto his knee and grabbing onto Virgil’s hand for a tiny hand-kiss.

Virgil rolled his eyes. “How about you save the prince kiss until after you’ve had a breath mint?”

Roman scoffed, standing back up and dusting off the bottom of his apron while Remus and Dee both simultaneously ooooh’d at the roast.

Just then the joking atmosphere was quelled as Logan’s clacking strides from his derbies coming towards them filled the air. “Okay jokers, we’ve got a bit more work to do before we can officially wrap up for the night. There’s some boxes to be carried and a bit of cleaning to do.”

Logan cleared his throat. “Right. Which one of you is strongest, again?” he asked, directed to the two Westons, who simultaneously pointed to themselves respectively.

“Go see,” he said. “There’s four boxes behind the table.”

Roman and Remus shoved past each other to get over to the boxes, and soon enough they were both fighting to grab more boxes than the other.

Logan opened the prize booth’s gate and walked out to Dee and Virgil with Patton following behind him.

“Smart, L. Using their competitiveness to get more work done,” Virgil commented.

“Oh, well, I try,” Logan replied.

“Nothing is stronger than a sibling’s need to outdo their brothers and sisters,” Dee recited poetically, holding a nonexistent skull up in his hand like he was the new Shakespeare.

Patton laughed and clapped, and both Logan and Virgil stifled a chuckle.

“Hey, Dee, speaking of that,” Virgil added with Dee turning towards him.

“I saw you reading out rules today, and your theatrics are pretty cool,” Virgil complimented, lightly shoving Dee with his elbow. “I swear, the kids always listen to you say all the rules when you do your voices and acting. They just start snoring whenever Ree and I try.”

Dee grinned smugly, shoving Virgil back. “Gee-muh-netti. I’m flattered,” he blushed as he tipped an imaginary hat from his head.

“Hey nerd, where do you want the boxes?!” Roman yelled from in front of the storage closet, carrying all four boxes with Remus swiping at them to grab them back.

“Back of the storage closet!” Logan yelled back. “And don’t drop them, please!”

Remus opened the door for Roman politely before slamming it shut behind both of them and probably trying to grab the boxes back again.

Logan sighed, holding the bridge of his nose in his fingers. “That’s all the lifting work. Everyone else, cleaning duty. We had a crowded day today.”

And so the four got to work wiping down and unplugging all of the machines, and once all the work was done all six owners met back up at the front of the arcade.

“I carried more boxes than Romie!” Remus cheered, smiling and puffing out his chest.

Roman pushed him to the side. “You liar! I carried all four at once.”

Patton stood between them and broke up the fight. “Guys, guys, you’re both strong, okay?”

Roman and Remus both stared at each other angrily for a moment before both of them absolutely melted at the compliment.

“Thank you so much!” “You really think that? You’re too sweet!”

“Alright, listen up everyone,” Logan started. “I’ve calculated our weekly earnings up, and it seems that we have enough to do a sort of ‘splurge’ for our late-dinner-early-breakfast tonight.”

“I call IHOP!” Patton beamed. “Pancakes, anyone?”

“Not a bad idea,” Virgil nodded, slipping out of his apron and tossing it onto the coathanger to the side of the entrance doors.

The other four unanimously agreed, and Logan nodded. “IHOP it is,” he announced, taking his car keys out of his back pocket and spinning them around his fingers. He opened the door for the other five who graciously thanked the ever-loving heck out of him.

As the six headed out, Roman’s arm over Virgil’s shoulder, Dee and Remus’s arms locked together, and Logan and Patton’s hands interlaced after Logan shut off the light switch, Remus interjected, “I have another idea for the arena, by the way! What if we add a totally wrecked bus to the middle of the space, like halfway stuck in the ground and open windows and a raised ramp so it’d be a cool hiding spot?”

“Not a bad idea,” Logan added. “We might have enough in the budget for something like that.”

“Or what about this! Pop-up ghost targets that appear at random times for extra points!”

“Cool.” “Good idea!” “Not too bad bro, coming from that one braincell up in your head.” “Sounds good.” “That could work,” the others agreed.

The six friends loaded up into Logan’s RV and drove off to dinner and a long night of rest after the busy day.

Coinscore really was the best arcade Gainesville, Florida could’ve ever asked for.

—

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Is Cry Me. A River done? I thought there was more coming or did I read something wrong?

Not done, nearly though

Part Five:

The tingle of something altogether too pleasant ran along the inside of her thighs, bringing Claire out of her slumber. Two hands gripped her, keeping her gently in place as Jamie nestled himself neatly between her legs. She opened her eyes, squinting but unable to lift her head enough to see him clearly.

“Oh...God…” She moaned. Her lip caught between her teeth as her back arched off the mattress, one hand fisted in the sheets whilst the other sought out the confines of his hair, her fingers twitching against his skull as his tongue worked some sort of magic against her needy flesh.

It wasn’t long before she found herself shaky and spent, her head resting solidly against his chest as he kissed her forehead.

“I think we should finish it...together,” she whispered. The thought had been rattling around since the funeral. WIth all of Lamb’s friends gathered under one roof, Claire had been asked on numerous occasions whether his manuscript would be forthcoming and, although she couldn’t give an accurate response, she hadn’t been able to say no. “I don’t think I could do it by myself, and you have the better insight. But I would hate to see it languishing on our computers - unread.”

“When do we start?” In all honesty Jamie was excited by the prospect. It didn’t mean Claire had committed to a life in Glasgow, but it meant he would have more time to silently convince her.

“Later,” she mumbled, turning quickly in order to catch him unawares, “right now I think we have some unfinished business of our own.” Pinning him to the bed, she kissed him once on the lips, keeping him still with her hips as she began the painfully slow trip down his neck and along his chest.

-- --- --

With a fresh cup of coffee in her hands, Claire peeled open her laptop, drumming her fingers against the wood of the desk as she waited for it to load.

“So, I think we should discuss where we take this from, aye?” Jamie began, blowing the steam from his hot tea. “We’d been sort of sticking to a chronological order, ye ken from what ye’ve already read that most of the early years tales have been written, the middle too. It’s mainly the later years we have to finish off.”

“I have some of his letters, if that helps?”

Lamb, like clockwork, had written to Claire. Being caught up in her own life, she had read them -replied to a couple- though had never gone into the sort of detail he’d hoped for. But she had kept them safe, read them over and over until the ink had begun to fade from some of the pages. She had treasured them when she’d been so down that she had wanted to take him up on his offer and leave Oxford. Now, it seemed, they might be all the more useful to them.

The scent of toast wafted into the small lounge as the buzzer beeped in the kitchen. With breakfast nearly ready, she left him to finish off the food while she rushed upstairs to collect the tin. Clutching it tightly between her fingers, she placed it delicately on the table, leaving it for Jamie to open.

“He certainly covered all of his bases, didn’t he?” Jamie chuckled, taking a bite of toast and passing Claire a plate of her own. “Now we can just interpret them, I can help fill in some of the blanks and we can get a great end - something Quentin would be proud of.”

They spent the rest of the day surrounded by paper, trying to reorganise as many letters as possible, finding some semblance of an order to the stories told within them. By the time the sun was setting, the automatic lights turning on in sequence around the small room, they had already found a few that could be discarded as well as some incredibly valuable *new* anecdotes that Jamie had loosely remembered Lamb talking about but hadn’t been able to fully add to their timetable of events, not until he’d read and re-read the words a few times.

Standing, an envelope in her hands and a biro tucked neatly through her messy bun, Claire scratched her head with the end of the paper. “How long do you think this will take to finish?” She asked, knowing he might have a better idea now they’d finally completed the task of skim-reading most of the letters. “Not that I’m in a rush, of course.” A distinct red blush coated her cheeks as she smiled across at Jamie, her memories of their mornings adventures flashing before her eyes as her stomach clenched.

“Ach well, that all depends on how fast I can type.” He jested, winking -both of his eyes closing for a brief moment as his inability to do so reared its head. It looked rather like an extended blink rather than a wink which caused Claire to bite her lip as she held back her laughter.”But in all honesty I reckon we might have a good rough end in a month or two. That includes a couple of draft reads and edits.”

“Two months? Max?” A bolt of fear shot through her at the prospect of an end. After their first encounter, she had grown fond of their daily interactions. Whether it was the agonising lust that seemed to set her on fire from the inside out, or the little touches of his hand on hers as he past her on the stairs, there was something otherworldly about the way his body called to hers and the idea of another few guilt free months in his company made her heart race and her toes curl.

“What will ye do when we’re done?” The question fell from his mouth without him really thinking about it, but he could tell by the widening of her eyes that she wasn’t really sure.

In the week after the funeral, neither had really made any steps in returning to their proper routine. Jamie had made sure the shelves were stocked with good food, he had called his bosses and kept them abreast of the ever changing situation, putting their minds at ease as him and Claire had discussed some varied details of what Lamb might want in the wake of his death. Other than that, though, both had just basked in the quiet company of the other.

Claire had a few things in mind for her immediate future, she had been dreaming vividly and the more she delved into the early life of her uncle, and his days lost with her in the wilderness, the more she wanted to pen her own version of events -though she had no idea where to start.

“Maybe I’ll become like Mary Poppins,” picking up the much abused video box of the classic movie from Lamb’s shelf, she ran her finger over the front cover and smiled, “and go where the wind takes me.”

“Are ye feeling the need for an adventure now?” Tapping against one of the smaller piles, he cocked his head to the side. With the tales fresh in his mind, he could almost feel the intoxication, the lure of travel from the stories Lamb had woven into the very fabric of the paper.

“Maybe,” she sighed, a very basic plot forming in her mind, “but there’s a chance I’ll need your assistance with it.”

-- --- --

Days turned into weeks and before either of them knew it, a whole month had passed in a blur. Working day and night, powered by caffeine and the company of the other, Jamie and Claire began to put the final words down on the biography. They barely spoke of what would happen once they’d finished, but on the days she wasn’t working on Lambs memoir, Claire was thinking of her own novella.

“I think we’re ready for this version to go to the publishers now. What do you think?” Pulling his glasses from his nose and placing them beside his laptop, he stretched his legs beneath the table and suppressed a yawn.

“I agree, I think we’ve done all we can with it -- I think he’d be proud.” Gazing out of the window, the dulled glass caused the passers by to appear disjoined as they walked by. She was in a world of her own, the words swirling around her as if Lamb were here himself. His voice seemed to speak to her and it wasn’t until a flurry of activity caught her off guard and brought her out of her daydream that she realised Jamie was still talking. “C-can you repeat that, sorry…”

“I just agreed wi’ ye, he would be.” A slow smile spread across his face as she turned back to him. “He’d be so proud of you too, Claire.”

“It was a while back now, but do you remember the phone call you took for me, from Frank?”

A cold shudder ran down his spine but he nodded as he tried to hold back the vitriol. Though no more had been said about the man, he knew from the way she occasionally reacted to him that nothing good could come from her mentioning him. “Aye, I do.”

“Before you I had little to no knowledge of proper *human* relationships. I met him, Frank, in Africa when I was there with Lamb, though the two never really crossed paths. He was my first kiss and when we finally bumped into one another again back home I sort of just found myself gravitating towards him. When I was away, in the desert, in the jungle, anywhere really with Lamb he had an unconscious way about him. He kept me grounded in some way. But alone, I was useless. I was trapped, wrapped up in this elevated world hidden from mere mortals where people like Frank are completely untouchable.”

Pouring her a wee dram, Jamie walked Claire to the sofa, sitting her down before handing her the tumbler.

She took a swig before continuing. “I’m so scared.”

“Of what, lass?”

“I don’t even know!” She sighed, exasperated. “Of finishing this and having nothing. Of staying and then this turning to dust. Of going home and falling straight back into old habits - but those are the ones I know. It’s daft. I know which the terrible decision is, but you represent something infinitely worse.”

"Aye, worse am I?" He tried to joke, but it fell flat the moment the words left his mouth.

"No- harder."

"Which is it Claire?"

"I don’t know, I don't know how to explain, I’m sorry, Jamie,” she spluttered, passing the glass back, her hand shaking as she stood quickly, “I think I just need some space.” Rushing from the lounge, she headed straight up to her room and slammed the door shut.

It was the first night in a long time that she spent alone. Jamie, still shocked and flustered by her fast exit, sat for a while by himself before gathering some of his belongings and returning to his own flat for the night. Claire heard the front door slam, her hand covering her mouth as she cried almost silently. Curling up on her bed, she kept her eyes on the case she had never quite unpacked as if it’s half-filled mass was indicative of where she was always meant to end up.

There were a couple of letters she had held back from Jamie, ones that had more personal comments that she wasn’t comfortable sharing. Yet.

Morning arrived, the sun streaming in through her open blinds. She’d slept on and off and rubbed her red-rimmed eyes as she crawled out from beneath the thin blanket that she’d pulled over herself sometime during the early hours.

“Claire?”

She jumped a little, shocked that he had somehow managed to sneak back in without her hearing him. The first reply barely left her mouth, her throat dry as she swallowed and tried again. “Yes, Jamie?”

The door opened slowly, the hinges creaking as he popped his head around the wood. “I have somewhere to take ye, will you come wi’ me?”

Nodding, she plucked a piece of stray fluff from her creased jeans. “Yes, sure, can I change first?”

“Of course,” he replied, “I’ll wait downstairs.”

Quickly, she used her en-suite to wash and re-dress in clean clothes before placing her purse and notepad into her small bag. Making her way downstairs, she felt a heaviness cross her chest. He was waiting, his car keys resting between his fingers.

“Driving?”

“Aye, ready?”

“Yes.”

-- --- --

The motorway wasn’t too dissimilar from the train ride, though the sound of the wheels on tarmac were slightly more relaxing than the chug of the metal wheels against the tracks. “Do you want to tell me what surprise you have in store for me?” She tried to sound light, but somehow she still sounded worried.

“Ye’ll see.” He returned, a tight smile lifting his lips slightly.

“Have you sent the manuscript off?”

“I emailed the first PDF this morning before we left. I’ll hear soon and I’ve cc’d you into it, so ye should know the moment they respond to me.”

As they drove over each county line, a new sign popping up to indicate their direction, Claire started to feel more and more nervous. As Dumfries and Galloway came into view, she felt this almighty lump forming in her throat. Just before the Gretna junction, Jamie pulled off the motorway just as the sun peaked high in the sky. Small villages came and went until a borders train station came into view, giving her a glance at the side of a carriage as it sat quietly on the partially hidden platform.

“Will you tell me now?” She asked calmly, though she had an idea of what was about to happen.

“It isn’t due to leave for another thirty minutes,” he said, pointing at the ScotRail service idling beside them, “I’ll wait, to make sure ye get away alright, and I’ll make sure the rest of your belongings get back to Oxford safely. But I think ye might need something more than I can offer ye here.”

“You think I should go back?”

“That’s what ye’ve been thinking about, aye? Yer home. The one you’ve belonged in.”

“Home.” She mirrored, the word seeming foreign on her tongue. “What about the rest of Lamb’s biography?”

“We can email. And I can phone. It’s written, no’ much will need completing on it now.”

“...and there’s nothing for me here?” Her voice was steadily lowering, getting more inaudible as cars started to pull in and park around them.

“Only ye ken that.” Opening the car door, he gallantly walked to her side and held out his hand for her to take. “I’ll wait until yer gone, to make sure you’re safe and ye can call whenever you like.”

Finding her voice seemed impossible and she couldn’t help but replay their last conversation over and over in her head. Having confessed to him that he was the more terrifying option, she had fled and hidden in her room. Walking over to the entrance, she turned only to find him hunched over, his back facing towards her as he rested against his car bonnet. Her feet kept moving, though every step increased the stabbing pain in her chest.

Hauling himself back into the front seat, Jamie let his head flop onto the steering wheel. It was highly likely that his plan could backfire massively, but from the moment he’d mentioned the end of the book he had felt an immediate disconnect from Claire. It was fear, that much was clear, and he didn’t want to send her back to somewhere she was deeply unhappy. However, something in his gut told him that her misplaced sense of self was too fragile to be convinced to stay with words alone. At the first sign of trouble, she would run. If she wanted to stay, to make a life here with him, she needed to make this choice herself.

Sitting with her hands wrapped in her coat, Claire watched as various passengers wandered up and down the platform, the guards opening and closing the doors for them. Though it wasn’t freezing cold, she couldn’t help but feel chilled. Though she hadn’t picked up on it before, reading back through Lamb’s letters it had suddenly become clear about his intentions for her. Clearly he hadn’t voiced those opinions to Jamie but it had been silly of her to think he didn’t know of her situation in Oxford. A man in uniform raised his brows as he walked by her for the tenth time. Standing, she brushed the creases from her trousers. This wasn’t a choice between Jamie and Frank because that would have been an impossibly easy decision, but a choice between who she’d always been and a new variant of herself. As the clouds of steam cleared from the front of the train, the sight of the car sat stoically in the car park made her stumble backwards and she sighed loudly as her bottom hit the warmed wooden seat once more.

A loud horn echoed through the trees surrounding the station as the engine pulled out and disappeared off into Cumbria. As promised he waited, long enough to watch as the car park emptied and the lights dimmed in the entrance to the platforms.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he tried to calm himself enough to turn the engine on and drive away.

A knock on the window made him sit bolt upright, sweat running down his back as he twisted to see who’d disturbed his pity party.

“Claire!”

She stood, tears in her eyes as she stepped back from the car. “Take me home, Jamie, please. To Glasgow”

Taking her hand, he bought it to his lips and kissed her softly. “Aye,” he replied, watching as she sniffed, shaking her head as she made her way to the passenger side and climbed in. “Home it is.”

[aetherschreiber]

The Cycle of Fandom

I am an early Millennial.  As a 1982 baby, I literally came of age in the year 2000.  A lot of hay has been made about how my generation does things differently from our parents.  And by now, plenty of it has been made about why, as well.  I won’t rehash the talking points, but it comes down to how much things changed in our formative years.  Our parents went from vinyl to 8-tracks.  We went from cassette tapes to CDs to MP3 players to streaming over our phones.  That’s a lot to have to adapt to and as a result adapting is just what we do.

But when it comes to fandom, the human condition really hasn’t changed that much.  People like things and when they like things they obsess, collect, analyze, and sadly they eventually eventually gate-keep.

Now, let me preface all of this by saying that I don’t really have any citations for any of this.  But, as someone who was thoroughly raised in fandom, I also have a tendency to get hooked on things a lot of my generation would scoff at for being old.  I love the original Lost in Space and Man from UNCLE, the very first Mobile Suit Gundam is my favorite, I’m fascinated by the puppetry in Thunderbirds, and I’m a complete sucker for just about anything with Cary Grant.  I will binge-watch classic Doctor Who as much as I will the new stuff and love every moment of each for what it is.

For most Millennials, this isn’t the case, for whatever reason.  It’s neither a good thing nor a bad thing.  It just is.  Most folks in my generation have heavy nostalgia for the 80s at the oldest and just don’t really concern themselves with very much from before that.  It’s not that they don’t have an appreciation, but they don’t have the resulting fangirl crush I have on David McCallum that I will commiserate with my mother about (Illya Kuryakin is an adorable badass and I will die on that hill).

I like to think that this has given me a bit of a unique view on fandom, in general.  I participate in some older fandoms, where things move a bit more slowly and where the average age is usually at least one generation removed from me and therefore a bit wiser in a lot of ways.  They’ve just sort of... already covered this ground, so to speak.

The difference is the pace at which they did it.  But the cycle is the same.

It’s never anything that starts maliciously.  No fan I know of has ever set out to point-blank keep someone else from liking the thing.  Rather it starts with a sense of seniority.  “You like this thing, now, too?  Great!  I was there for the beginning and let me tell you, back then...”  It’s always like a fandom big sibling who wants to show their younger counterpart the ropes; get them proper caught-up and versed in the lore so that they can better participate.

I love fandom when it’s at this stage and it’s the type of fan I strive to be at all times.  I don’t like setting conditions for fandom.  I think it’s partly because I am such a late-comer to so many.  The idea of being a fan of something that was made 30 years or more before you were born is a hell of a thing, but I’ve never let that stop me.  And for the most part, these fandoms that are much older than I am have reached the point where they are welcoming and just sort of stuck in the big sibling stage.  Sure, you have the occasional troll, the guy that scoffs that I can’t understand because I wasn’t there at the very beginning.  But they’re usually slapped to the ground pretty quickly by everyone else.

There is the occasional exception, of course.  But one of the things those such fandoms have in common is that there is still new content being made for it.  Doctor Who is a prime example, as is Star Trek, Star Wars, and Lord of the Rings (yes, I do count the upcoming Amazon series and other non-book content as new content, deal with it).  There’s something about new content being made for a fandom that causes an odd anxiety that thing that the fandom loves is going to be somehow ruined.

I’m going to use Doctor Who as an example for a lot of this.  The show turned 56 years old this last November.  56 years!  And the fact that it had a couple of decade-long breaks in there, which were themselves only separated by a single two-hour movie, only serve to highlight the changes it went through.

My second-oldest memory is of Doctor Who.  I remember the regeneration from Tom Baker to Peter Davison.  Now, Whovian historians, before you freak out because that change-over happened in 1981, before I was even born, remember that back then the US got episodes around two and three years later than the BBC, in syndication on public television channels.  So for me, that change happened when I was two.  I remember there being some Big Thing (tm) that my dad was anticipating.  I remember the burgundy and red outfit that Tom Baker was wearing while laying stricken on the ground, surrounded by his companions.  And I remember him suddenly turning into a blond and sitting up, wide-eyed and mystified.  I didn’t understand any of it at the time, of course.  And so I also remember turning to my dad, who was watching with excitement, while the credits were rolling and asking why the man turned into another man.  Oddly, that’s where the memory ends.  I don’t remember the response.  In fact, it’s only having since seen that episode as an adult that I have been able to identify it for what it was.

After that, I don’t have much in the way of Doctor Who related memories until the Paul McGann movie in 1996.  I was 14 and not well-steeped in Whovian lore at the time and I thought it was great.  My dad was more luke-warm to it because it just wasn’t the same as what he grew up with.  It was a sentiment shared by many, unfortunately, which meant that Paul McGann’s wonderful take on the Doctor was relegated purely to audio adventures until the 50th anniversary in 2013.  Sadly, in the early days of the internet, those of us who liked it weren’t quite able to find each other yet.  In the days of Usenet and mailing lists, it was still only the most hardcore fans of a thing who got together to geek out.  Meaning that most of the conversation was “oh, that’s all wrong.”  Lurking in those conversations, I saw pretty much every tremulous young person who dared to say that they liked it get slapped to the ground and told they weren’t a fan of “the real thing.”

Gate-keeping.  It’s nothing new.  And in 1996 Doctor Who fandom ran smack into its pad-locked closed barrier.  Around that same time other old but still active fandoms were starting to manifest the same thing on the internet.  It was when Trekkies suddenly separated into Trekkies (who had seen the original as it aired) and Trekkers (who came long later), for reasons I have never understood.

No, that’s not true.  I understand it.  Us humans tend to get possessive about our stories.  We have a sort of emotional ownership to them, even if not a legal one.  And when you feel an ownership of something, there is an instinct to protect it, keep it pure.  And to do that, it’s natural to try to set oneself up as an authority on the subject.

It took another decade for Doctor Who to come off the shelf again, in 2005.  I was 24 by then, the age that marketers tend to target.  A friend got his hands on a digi-copy of Christopher Eccleston’s first episode, “Rose,” that had been leaked to the internet in its entirety about a week before it actually aired.  We watched it before our D&D group met and I was instantly hooked.  And the friend that was responsible for the new addiction was only too happy to have new fandom friends.

The pendulum had swung.  Gate-keeping was out and welcoming people to the fandom was the MO.  Of course, there were and still are to this day old school Whovians who deny that anything past Sylvester McCoy exists, calling the 1996 movie and the current series a different show entirely.  There will always be those people.  But for the most part, Whovians welcomed new fans with open arms throughout all of Eccleston’s and David Tennant’s runs.

Now, that one cycle, from welcoming to gate-keeping, and back to welcoming, took 42 years.  Most things don’t last anywhere close to that long.  A show might be on for five years or a movie and its sequels be around for ten and after that, for the most part, it’s done.  And in the pre-internet age of fandom, the pendulum swung slowly enough never to hit a repeat in the cycle.

The internet has sped up everything about fandom.  The airing of just about any show in any country might as well be a world-wide premiere these days because it all just travels that quickly.  It has to if it wants to maintain any sort of surprise in its story lines, otherwise internet chatter will spoil it.  These days, things move so fast that even the few hours between an episode of Doctor Who airing in the UK and in the US is enough that one can be subjected to spoilers.  And the swing of the fandom pendulum has sped up accordingly.

For Doctor Who, it started swinging back again when David Tennant left the show and Matt Smith took over.  Tennant’s Doctor had a lot of fans who desperately didn’t want “their Doctor” to leave, many of whom took to the internet, swearing off the show.  They said it would never be as good because David Tennant was just the best Doctor ever.  By then, there were a number of us Millennial Whovians who had dug into the lore and were comfortable with the concept of regeneration as a part of it.  After all, it had already happened nine times.  And there was a bit of a tendency to call those people who swore off Matt Smith’s episodes as being fans not of Doctor Who but of David Tennant.  Meanwhile, of course, old school Whovians were patting us all on the head going “aren’t you cute.  Now you understand why Tom Baker leaving was such a thing.”

And so, the pendulum started to swing back.  You started having people call other people “not really fans of Doctor Who.”  That only got worse when Peter Capaldi took over and there was a significant portion of the fandom upset that the Doctor was now an older guy instead of the 30-something Doctors we had grown accustomed to.

Gate-keeping reared its ugly head for most of Capaldi’s run and, sadly, I think that kept a lot of people from the fandom and from really appreciating the 12th Doctor.  That cycle has started to swing back with Jodie Whittaker’s Doctor, but the gate-keeping is in a stage where it is desperate to hold on to what Doctor Who was when they became fans and therefore is very toxic right now.  It’s not pretty.  But those asshats are starting to be slapped to the ground on social media thanks to a new influx of fans who are now once again more comfortable with the idea of regeneration and its possibilities.

Similar swings are happening with many other fandoms.  The Star Wars fandom is a really ugly place right now, quite frankly.  Star Trek seems to be on the welcoming end.  There are always the exceptions to every generalization, of course.  There will always be “that guy” in fandom.

This swing has always existed.  Millennials are just the first generation for whom it has swung multiple times in the life of the show.  The internet is probably the biggest contributing factor to that.  What that means is that we’re the first generation to really have the chance to see the pattern for what it is.  A few of us have even been able to extrapolate back and understand that, no, this is how it always has been, just slower.

The hopeful part of that is this; by virtue of being the first to recognize the pattern, we are the first ones with the opportunity to learn from that history.  And now we’re starting to see fandoms that actively abhor gate-keeping and just want more people to come in and play.  But those tend to be very young fandoms.

The one that comes to mind for me is Critical Role.  This is a fandom that was wholly born on the internet, as the series is streamed live on Twitch.  It’s really unlike anything that has ever had a fandom this size before.  It’s only been around for four years or so.  But the cast is on its second D&D campaign which means it’s already had the opportunity to have the elitism gate that could be closed.  But something different seems to have happened.  The very moment that people started saying “I’m a real fan because I watched the Vox Machina campaign, not just the Mighty Nein,” they were told to shut the hell up and let people like things.  A foot was stuck into the gate and wrenched it back open before it could close.  And you know what?  The fandom has absolutely exploded in the last two years.  And I have yet to run into a single instance of someone gate-keeping for it that didn’t get an overwhelming and harsh rebuttal from the folks who welcome people to the fandom.

Sadly, the Critical Role fandom is distinct from the Dungeons & Dragons fandom on this point.  But therein lies the difference.  D&D is over 45 years old, ten times and more the age of Critical Role.  And the “satanic panic” over it in the 80s made a lot of D&D players very protective of the hobby, only amplifying that.  The age of your average Critter is only mid-to-late 20s or so.  At 37, I’m a little bit of an outlier, I have found.  The Critter fandom is big on TikTok which I... don’t grock, frankly, because I’m turning into an old fart.  But I’ve never, ever, been made to feel unwelcome because of that difference.  It’s been a refreshing experience, frankly.

In contrast, I really feel like I’m only now starting to be considered a “true Whovian” by the old school Whovians.  It took me 15 years and required me getting hooked on the classic stuff (which I was all too happy to do).  People who have never seen any of the classic stuff and don’t care to are often still looked down upon.  That needs to change.

The Critical Role fandom is still young and all of this may prove to be overly-optimistic in the end.  But I think it has the opportunity to be the first big fandom not to go through the gate-keeping cycle.  I sincerely hope we can hold on to that.  The cast and crew are a big part of that, with how they always hammer on the idea of inclusivity and engage so directly with the fandom.  “Don’t forget to love each other” is Matt Mercer’s sign-off at the end of every episode and serves as a constant reminder.  And if more casts and crews of more fandoms do that sort of engaging in the future, it will help break the cycle of fandom gate-keeping all the more thoroughly.  This is a fact that production companies are starting to awaken to as Millennials, comfortable with social media, age into positions of authority.

So, welcome people in, gate-keep, almost cause the whole thing to collapse, repeat.  That’s the cycle that fandom has engaged in for three generations and more.  But I think we’re on the cusp of breaking that cycle, for the most part.  The idea that you can be a fan of something without knowing absolutely everything about it has been gaining very visible traction in the last five years or so and it is wonderful to see.

Now, please, people.  Don’t prove me wrong.

[ambereyesandwine]

We’ve Got Soul: Chapter 3

WC: 2450

Warnings: Sass, cursing, ya know, the usual

Beta’d By: @teaspacebar

Notes: This chapter is mostly relationship building between Fantasia and the boys, and to show the change in their relationships in the year-ish since the last chapter.

Chapter 3:

October 8, 2037

8:04 A.M.

           “Hey,” Fantasia called out around the hair-tie bit between her teeth. “Gavin, get up.” She shoved his shoulder before putting her hair up the rest of the way.

           “Nooo,” He groaned.

           “Seriously, you have to go to work today.”

           “I shouldn’t have to, it’s my birthday.”

           “Yesterday was your birthday, today is Thursday. Get up.”

           Gavin propped himself up on his elbows so he could face her. “What time is it?”

           “Eight. I let you sleep for as long as I could before I came in to get you, but I have to go, and you need to leave for work soon.” She was walking around Gavin’s apartment, finishing putting herself together as she spoke. “My blanket is folded on the couch, and I made you breakfast, it’s in the fridge. Take a shower before you go, you stink.”

           “You’re an asshole.” He called through his bedroom door.

           She grabbed her keys, “That’s what friends are for, I’ll see you later!” And the door was shut behind her. Fantasia boarded the next bus to get to Carl’s and rang the doorbell right on time.

           Markus answered the door, “Good morning Fantasia.”

           A smile plastered across her face. “Good morning,” Fantasia said as she walked through the house to the studio. When she entered the room, Carl turned in his chair to face her.

           “You’re late.”

           “I am not,” She dropped her bag under the desk by the door, “You just get bored when I’m not here.”

           “I’m an artist, I’m never bored.”

           “I’m an artist and I get bored regularly.”

           Carl chuckled lightly, “That’d be why you’re an apprentice with lots of work still to do. Today you’re working on texture. You get one color, and you’re going to tell me a story with just the paint thickness and brush stroke.”

           “That’s it?”

           “That’s it. Have fun.” Carl left the studio without another word.

           For a few moments, Fantasia just stood in front of the canvas with a blank stare. “How the hell am I supposed to do this?” She quirked her head a little. “What if I…” Fantasia collected a palette and the paint she’d need to make her color and got started. It was almost three hours later that Carl re-entered the studio to find her standing in front of a dull blue canvas with no visible concept, other failed attempts scattered on the floor.

           As Fantasia continued to add paint to the piece as she spoke, “I’m almost done.”

           “There’s nothing there. I told you to make a story, not a mess on a canvas.”

           “Just give me a minute.” Fantasia looked over her project one more time before turning to face Carl. “It’s done.”

           Carl sighed. “My dear, I sincerely hope you are about to surprise me.”

           “Don’t I always?” Fantasia turned on the lamp she had set up to shine over the painting from the upper-right corner of the canvas. The shadows cast by the ridges in the paint formed a city block, crowded with silhouettes.

           Carl nodded. “Pleasantly surprised, indeed. It’s an interesting idea to use the light, I may have to use that at some point.”

           “Thank you,” Fantasia’s smile grew as she looked between Carl and her painting.

           “I figured this would take you a larger portion of the day. You’re more than welcome to stay if you’d like to continue working.” Carl wheeled over to his lift and continued a large piece he had in progress.

           Fantasia grabbed her bag and found a place to sit on a table across the studio from Carl’s lift. She sat cross-legged and hunched over her sketchbook as she drew her mentor at work.

           Markus entered the room and approached Fantasia. “What are you drawing?”

           “Carl,” Fantasia replied lightly and showed Markus the page. “It’s fun to draw him when he’s too busy with other things to stop me.”

           “I can still hear you.”

           “But you won’t stop me cause you’re already in the lift.” Upon receiving no reply, Fantasia continued to sketch.

           “Do you need anything while I’m here?” Markus asked politely.

           “Just your company, if you have some time.” Fantasia looked up from her work to smile at him.

           Markus smiled back. “Of course.”

           Fantasia scooted over and moved her bag to the floor to make room for him. She patted the newly opened space, which Markus gladly filled. When he was seated on the table comfortably, Markus switched between watching Fantasia draw and watching Carl paint, almost as though he was studying.

           “What do you think?” Fantasia tilted her sketchbook Markus’s way to show him her semi-finished drawing.

           “I think it’s very life-like.”

           She hummed, “Mm, an easy answer. I’ll get an opinion out of you one day.”

           “Were you looking for another response?” Markus questioned lightly.

           A small huff left Fantasia’s chest. “No, Markus. It’s okay.” She smiled at him. “I think I’m gonna get some lunch. Carl?” She called across the studio, “I’m gonna make lunch, do you want anything?”

           Carl continued to paint as he replied, “No, I’m fine, help yourself.”

           “Awesome,” Fantasia hopped off the table and held her hand out toward Markus. “Do you want to come?”

           “If you’d like.” Markus took Fantasia’s hand and neatly slid off the table before following her into the kitchen.

           When Fantasia got to the kitchen, she immediately turned to Markus and asked, “What do you think Carl would like to eat?”

           “He said he didn’t want anything.”

           “Yes,” she huffed, “But he always says he doesn’t want anything and then as soon as I bring food into the studio, he asks you to make him something. I’m just trying to take out the middle step.”

           “He does seem to have a pattern.” Markus replied. “What about a salad?”

           “That sounds great, Carl could use some vegetables in his life.” Fantasia went to the fridge and collected lettuce, peppers, a cucumber, and some other vegetables. “Do you have any chicken breast?”

           “Yes, second shelf from the top.”

           “Awesome,” Fantasia grabbed the package and handed it to Markus. “Will you cook a couple up while I cut veggies?”

           “Of course.”

           The two had lunch put together in 20 minutes, and Fantasia put it out on the table while Markus went to collect Carl.

           “I said I wasn’t hungry,” He said, rolling up to the table. “But that does smell pretty good.”

           Fantasia smiled. “I figured you’d say that, that’s why we made enough for two to begin with. Here.” She placed his salad in front of him on the table.

           “Aww,” Carl said with disdain. “I smelled chicken, I thought it was all chicken. This is not real person food, it’s for herbivores.”

           “Good thing you’re an omnivore and can eat both.” Fantasia picked up her utensils and stared at Carl from across the table. “Eat.”

October 13, 2037

12:27 P.M.

           As Fantasia walked into the station, she was greeted by the call of her name.

           “Tasia!” Gavin jogged over to her and snatched the paper bag from her hands and kissed her on the cheek before plopping down at his desk. “Finally, I’m starving.”

           She sat down in her usual chair. “You’re super affectionate today, are you dying?” Fantasia said it between bites of fries.

           “Fuck you, I’m in a good mood.”

           She nodded, “Ah, there you are. What’s up?”

           “I made a big arrest today, for your information,” He laced the second half of his statement with attitude. “We’ve been looking for this guy for months,” Gavin continued to talk around mouthfuls of food, “And I got him today, cause I’m the fucking best.”

           “Uh huh.” Fantasia gestured with sarcastic curiosity, “So were you the only police officer at the scene, or did you have other people there?”

           “There were others.”

           “Uh huh, and did you do all the work by yourself while they just stood around, or were they all involved?”

           Gavin narrowed his eyes. “The second one…”

           “Uh huh, so did Gavin Reed get him or did the DPD get him. Together.”

           The pleasant expression on Gavin’s face melted. “You’re a soul-sucking terrorist. You know that?”

           “Chris, I fixed him!” Fantasia called out across the station.

           “Thank you!” Came back from the general direction of the break room.

           Gavin’s eyes went wide, “What was that?”

           Fantasia replied nonchalantly, “Chris texted me while I was on my way over. He said you were being scary. I fixed it.”

           “I hate you.”

           “I am the only person you don’t genuinely despise on some level or another, and I brought you food, so you have to be nice to me.”

           He grumbled to himself and silently ate his food with his normal, grumpy disposition until Fantasia got out her sketchbook.

           “What are you drawing.”

           “You’re talking with your mouth full, and it’s disgusting.”

           “Sorry m’lady.” Gavin dramatically attempted to swallow the entire mouthful of food and almost choked before trying to pretend nothing happened and asked again, “What’re you drawing.”

           She looked at him, perplexed. “Do you regret that? Do you regret what you just did, or do you stand by that?”

           “Yes.” His voice was strained as he coughed and reached for his drink.

           Fantasia nodded slowly with an affirmative hum before answering Gavin’s question. “I’m drawing you with a smile on your face. It’s so rare, I figured I’d capture it forever. Ya know, ‘make a picture, it’ll last longer’ and all that.”

           “That is not how the saying goes.”

           “Do I look like I give a fuck?”

           “Ouch, the Clever Comeback Queen has struck again, let’s hear it folks.”

           Fantasia rolled her eyes. “What else do you have going on today?”

           “Paperwork.”

           “Ah yes, saving the world and filling out paperwork. Real heroes don’t wear capes, they wear dirty leather jackets and listen to shitty music.”

           “Hey,” Gavin pointed accusingly at her, “You stay off my music. Carry on My Wayward Son is a classic.”

           She scoffed, “Yeah maybe, but its but its older than Hank and you act like it’s the last good song ever released.”

           “Cause it is.”

           “No. Look me in the eyes,” She pointed at her own face with two fingers. “I listen to you blast all kinds of terrible music from when you were in middle school and high school that is way different than Kansas, and I am willing to put money down that the only reason you’ve ever even heard of that song is cause of that show you used to watch cause you thought it would make you cool.”

           Gavin’s face crunched, trying to formulate a response, but he caved, “I got nothin.”

           “Yeah.”

           “You free this weekend, or do you have super special painting practice?”

           “I’m free, I think,” Fantasia stated as she started cleaning up their lunch. “Carl has some fancy charity auction thingy that I’m not allowed to go to.” She shrugged.

           “Why not?”

           “Oh, ya know, big names only, they have a reputation to keep up.”

           “So, you’re not even allowed to go?”

           “Nope.”

           “That’s dumb.”

           “Agreed. You wanna go out instead?”

           “Depends,” Gavin considered.

           “On?”

           “Are you gonna be pissy the whole time about how you didn’t get to go to the auction thing?”

           “What? No. It’s literally a bunch of old dudes in a room talking about ‘strokes’ all night and pretending they aren’t talking about their dicks. I am totally fine not being the only female in that room.”

           “Awesome, then I’ll see you later? I gotta get back to work.” Gavin gestured widely to his mostly empty desk.

           “Yeah, you have fun with all that. I’ll shoot you a text when I pick a place.”

           “It better not be some shitty line-dancing bar again.” He called out as Fantasia started to walk away.

           “If you actually cared you wouldn’t make me choose every time.” She shot finger guns at him before she turned to leave.

November 2, 2037

6:09 P.M.

           “So, dad, what’s for dinner?” Leo walked into the dining room where Fantasia and Markus were serving dinner.

           Fantasia’s smile dropped as soon as she saw Leo’s face.

           “Oh, hey Tay, wasn’t expecting to see you here. Are you on the menu tonight?”

           The resulting scowl and glare that Fantasia produced could have pierced most people’s skin, but Leo didn’t back down. “Nobody calls me Tay,” She seethed.

           “Exactly! So, I’m unique!” He smiled a shit-eating grin.

           “So, you can call me Fantasia. Nothing else.”

           “Oh ouch,” He turned to Markus, “That bitch is almost as cold as your insides tonight, huh?”

           “Leo,” Carl interrupted, “That’s enough. What do you want?”

           “Well food for starters, if you’re offering.”

           Carl made no gesture to offer the things his son demanded. “Why did you come here, Leo?”

           “What, I can’t just come over to hang out with my pops?”

           “You never have before,” Fantasia spat.

           Leo turned on her, “I’m sorry, who were you again? This is my dad, not yours, little orphan girl.”

           “I said enough,” Carl restated sternly. “No more games, Leo. Why are you here?”

           “I need money.”

           Carl looked confused, “I thought you said you got a job.”

           “Yeah, well it fell through and now I need money for rent.”

           “What do you mean it ‘fell through?’”

           “They found out about the ice, does it matter?” Leo’s agitation covered his face.

           A sigh left Carl’s chest, “How much do you need?”

           “A thousand dollars.”

           “Fine.”

           “Thanks, dad, I knew I could count on you.” Leo made a pointed glance toward Fantasia before he spoke again. “I’m glad the help is keeping you good company while I’m away.”

           “I’m not-” Fantasia started but dropped it when she saw Carl’s face. He was already upset, and she didn’t want to make it worse for him.

           “Was that all you needed?” Carl asked hopefully.

           “Yeah,” Leo started back out toward the door. “I can’t stick around. I got places to be.”

           “Oh.”

           “I’ll see you around pops,” Were Leo’s last words before the door closed behind him.

           Fantasia immediately turned to Carl and asked, “Are you okay?”

           He took a deep breath before replying, “I’m fine. What did you two make for dinner?” The smile on his face was forced.

           Markus chimed in, “Alfredo that Fantasia insisted we ‘wing.’”

           “I just didn’t want it to be something from a cookbook you have memorized! I wanted it to be fun!”

           Markus smiled. “It was fun.”

           “Then the mission was accomplished, can I eat now?” Carl reached for his plate.

           “Yeah, sorry.” Fantasia set the table the rest of the way and sat down across from Carl to dig into her food.

           The two ate in relative quiet with only the sounds of the dishes being washed as background noise.

[reminaissance]

So this happened...

'Cause I felt melting magnets, babe; the second I saw you through half-shut eyes. I love this secret language that we're speaking; say it to me, let's embrace the point of no return. —Lorde ft. Disclosure, "Magnets."

1

Dusk begins to slowly paint the sky a cobalt blue. 

Farther beyond, the sun is kissing the horizon. It expands its light as it goes, making it burst into a bright orange hue before it disappears completely, giving way to a starlit night as they drive through the Hollywood Hills. 

They're out on the Jaguar tonight. A roofless classic. Blue—the color of the ocean. It is her favorite after all, and this is something that Hans has always let her choose.

Her hair is up in a bun, having had no time for anything else, while the few strands that she's missed keep flying across her forehead as the car roars and speeds down Mulholland Drive for yet another party. Nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. She's grown accustomed to them just as much as she's grown accustomed to her marriage. 

They require the same kind of effort; the same kind of pretense.

She looks out at the green hilltops: a maze for the rich. It is the privacy, she eventually learned, because nothing is better than living in the Hills, and nothing is better than living distanced from society and higher than everyone else. 

The sun is gone by now; tucked away for the night to give way to a sky that has been painted black and speckled with white. Her forearm rests atop the door while her hand flies against the wind, curving up and down, mimicking the shape of a wave. 

Her eyelids are growing heavy, becoming lost in a haze. They have gone through this road so many times before it is starting to become bleak. The lights of the city far away blur and grow out of focus until they meld together and get lost against the darkness of the hills.

She doesn't know whose party it is tonight; has no interest in knowing. She shows up because Hans wants her to. Because, he says, he needs her there. It is this same need she once craved. The attention he gave her, as though she was the prettiest and shiniest object he had ever laid his eyes upon. 

An object meant to become his.

She closes her eyes, and allows herself to fall into the backdrop of the city. 

.

The mansion's driveway is so big it could fit a second house. There are cars loitering the space by the time they arrive, and she glances at them with a detachment that has grown since the first time se attended a party like this. The Audis, the Ferraris, the Porsches—too much ego carried around inside a structure that can break in a matter of seconds.

She gets off before Hans has the time to step around the car to open the door for her. It is something he has never stopped doing but something that, lately, she has stopped waiting for. She looks at him through her long lashes and he smirks, closing the Jaguar's door before pining her against it. She feels the hem of her skin-tight dress ride up, giving way to a warm hand's touch on her bare thigh.

"I can't wait to get you home," he breathes against her neck and she nods, smiles a little. Her hand travels up his chest and holds on tight to the lapel of his white shirt. 

She doesn't pull him closer. 

Inside: another mansion and another person too rich to care. She greets everyone she knows and everyone she doesn't know, too, with a tepid kiss on each cheek—never touching—, and somewhere between the high-ceiling foyer and the garden she accepts a glass of red wine. 

Every place she's ever visited has a pool, and this time the pool opens to a view of the city and the hills. Like an edge to infinity.

She looks at the translucid clearness, bright and blue from the lights coming from below. The water moves in soft ripples caused by the summer breeze before lapping at the mosaic walls, creating a sound that she can't hear below indiscernible conversations.

She feels the sudden urge to take her heels off and dip her feet in the coolness of the pool, but Hans's hand is still on her waist, guiding her towards the places he wants to go.

She follows without protest. He needs her here. 

The conversations: she hears but doesn't listen. There is a certain process here, a mechanical response that she has fallen into. Her attention zeroes in on words, like single threads of a whole garment, but nothing else. Nothing more. She knows how to act the part by now. She follows the eyes of the participants, is attentive to where his husband's gaze falls. She laughs and smiles, her hand going up to readjust her earring, her fingertips traveling up and down the golden chain around her neck. 

She remembers the first parties she used to relish with Hans by her side. The first view of Los Angeles from the top of the Hills, and the sense of importance that came with it.

How easy is it to welcome wealth into your life and to forget that everything comes at a price? 

She goes up to take a sip but something happens along the way. It is a push. Somebody has tripped behind her; a chain reaction that causes her to pour red wine all over the front of her dress. 

She gasps at the sensation of the liquid seeping through the fabric and blushes at the embarrassment. A man is beginning to apologize profusely but what is the point of that? She dismisses him with a wave of her hand before Hans gives off an easy grin to everyone but her. He flashes her a with loving look, leaning in to whisper something in her ear.

"Go clean yourself off."

An imperceptible sigh escapes her. She excuses herself with a tight-lipped smile.

The kitchen. Marble countertops; a stainless steel fridge; so many cabinets that she doesn't know where to start looking for something as mundane as a towel. For a party, the space looks inhabited, straight out of a catalogue. 

She opens and closes the doors closest to her right. Many of the cabinets are bare. 

Does anybody even live here?

"Need some help?"

She turns around, startled, and finds a woman leaning against the frame of the door. She is wearing a suit that hugs the curves of her body and opens at her chest to reveal the barest amount of cleavage. Her blue eyes are penetrating, and she suddenly feels a little too vulnerable standing in the middle of the kitchen with a stain on her forest green dress. 

"I was just looking for a towel," she mumbles. 

The blonde woman walks straight to her, shortening the distance in four quick strides. She is hit with the scent of her perfume—elegant; a mélange of red roses and orchids—while her back is hit with the coldness of the marble top. She can feel herself blush before adverting her gaze. The woman is too close.

A whisper: "Behind you." 

She lifts her gaze up, gets lost in the depth of her eyes for a second too long.

"I'm sorry?"

"Behind you," the woman repeats with a smirk this time. 

She steps to the side with her eyes cast down. The woman reaches past her to open a top shelf and pull out a clean, white towel that she hands over.

"Thank you," she whispers, stepping away with difficulty in order to walk to the sink. She blows a little air through her mouth. Warmth is filling up her insides and she doesn't know why. 

She pats herself slowly, distractedly. The woman is standing somewhere behind her. She can feel it—like a magnet, drawing closer. 

She feels the need to fill in the silence. "Too much space in this kitchen," she laughs softly, "They don't know what to do with it."

"They don't use it much. There's no point when only one person lives in it."

Turning her neck to the right she can fully watch as the blonde rests her hip against the counter. She becomes distracted by the way her black blazer rides up slightly with the change of her position; by the small wrinkles of her shirt where it meets the hem of her pants before disappearing beneath them.

"How do you know?"

The woman gives her a smile, and responds with a question. "What is your name?" 

There is something in the intonation of her voice that makes her lean closer before she can stop herself. She forgets for a second why she came to the kitchen in the first place and begins to fidget with the stained, humid towel. 

Why does she keep avoiding the woman's eyes?

"I'm Anna."

A hand extends itself out. It faces up; an odd and peculiar choice. She is asking for her hand, but when Anna goes to touch it, the woman doesn't shake it. She wraps it in her own and squeezes lightly. Warmth in a cold touch. 

"Elsa."

Anna dares another look before time slows down. She catches a flicker of emotion in the pools of her blue eyes that is gone too fast; that doesn't last long enough for her to be satiated. Because suddenly, she wants to know more—she wants to know everything that words can never manage to express.

They hold onto each other by the merest of touches while her eyes roam over the freckles on her face: softened, unlike her own. She could count them, if given enough time, but when her gaze travels down to her lips something inside of her snaps. 

She retrieves her hand as though it's been burned.

"I have to get back," she mumbles. She rinses the towel quickly, neglecting whatever is left of the stain on her dress. It is dark, and it is night. No one will notice—and if they do, she won't care. "Thank you," she repeats.

Elsa stares at her, arches an eyebrow. 

"For the towel, I mean. And for... yeah."  

Anna goes back outside with a heart that continues to flutter wildly inside her chest, and forces a smile when Hans's hand reaches out to pull her closer by the waist.

She shudders, but it isn't from the cold.

He doesn't ask if she's okay.

.

More conversations. More of the same act. But every now and then: a glance. She catches the woman's eye from time to time, because whereas she didn't know of her existence before, Elsa seems to be everywhere now. 

Their eyes connect as inevitably as the positive attracts the negative. 

She is handsome in a way that falls between feminine and masculine; in a way that she owns as she stands tall with her right hand deep inside the pocket of her suit pants, while her left hand holds a cocktail she barely sips from.

Hans is talking now, pulling her away from the conversation and towards the place that she, too—this time—wants to go. 

He introduces them again before Elsa searches for her hand once more. This time, it comes with a kiss on each cheek. They do touch and it is not tepid. Warm breath grazes her skin, and it feels like a searing mark that makes it hard for her to pretend she is not reacting. Anna is losing control of her body, as if she's drunk on the presence of her.

"She just bought this house," Hans tells her, but it barely registers.  

Somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks it all makes sense. The towel, the kitchen. The solitude. 

Hans continues to talk to the rest of the group, to discuss things she has never found interesting. In the openness of this garden that overlooks a city of millions, she feels constricted.

She touches her husband's bicep. "I'm gonna get some air," she says, aware but careless about how ridiculous it may sound.

He nods, doesn't ask if she's okay.

Her eyes connect with Elsa's and linger for a moment before she steps away. She treads near the edge of the pool, half-wishing she could be inside, until she reaches the other end of the garden.

Seconds later, she will realize that the blonde has followed her.

"It's a nice view," Anna whispers. The right side of her body is burning. Elsa is too close again.

"It is," she hears her say. "It makes up for everything else."

When she turns her head around, she finds that Elsa is already looking at her. 

Something snaps again. It takes her breath away, making her forget everything she's ever established about herself. She can feel her chest rise and fall in tempo with her beating heart. She gulps down the knot in her throat, and shudders once more. Her body is craving something it hasn't craved in a long time, and the way the blonde is gazing into her eyes is making it hard for her to resist it. 

"Do you like it?" She manages to ask.

Elsa tilts her head. Her eyes dance across Anna's features, as though searching for something. She feels like caving in tonight. Her hands twitch against her sides, aching to touch.

"Like is not a strong enough word for what I feel."

Everything in her is screaming for something she is fighting to restrain. It makes her voice grow weak when she says: "Then what do you feel?"

The blonde bites her lip and Anna follows the motion with her eyes. She can sense their bodies draw closer to each other, sharing a kind of heat that is intoxicating.

Elsa leans in until her mouth is close enough to graze the shell of her ear. She closes her eyes with a sigh that is pulled out of her lungs, sensing liquid warmth shooting straight down to her center. 

"I'd like to think I feel the same way you do."

.

It is late at night when they leave, with Anna feeling like her body has been shaken to the core. 

She gets in the car, looking back to find no one standing at the door, reminiscing a night that hasn't fully become a thing of the past; wishing, against all wishes, that it had lasted a little longer. 

The sensation of Elsa's presence has been hopelessly engraved in her mind, and every time she closes her eyes she can feel her warm breath against her skin. 

As Hans drives through Mulholland her hand keeps going up to caress the shell of her ear. 

"Does she host parties often?" Anna asks, lost in the memory of her.

"I don't know," Hans chuckles, dismissive. "Why do you care?"

She leans back against the leather cushion of his Jaguar. Her hand begins to fly with the wind again before she closes her eyes, pretending that the touch of it is warmer—softer. 

Her entire body is screaming with heat. Yet, all she can manage to do is whisper two simple words: "I don't."