#i need to draw organic metal so someone can pinch his cheek

[rapidhighway]

uh night mode engaged sparkle on!

[angstyaches]

“Someone shyly asking, “Could you rub my tummy?” while groaning with pain because who doesn’t love that?” This scenario for Felix and Elliot please. With Fee being the sickee

Here it is! It was supposed to be a drabble, but in true Flick fashion I could just Not Stop. I might even write a part two about the car ride back to the townhouse (if I feel like it / if anyone expresses an interest). Also, I can’t believe I’ve written like ten sickfics for my vampire boys but in not one of them (?!) have they actually been sick because of drinking blood?!

CW: blood, slaughter of an animal, vampires drinking blood, spice (?!), nausea, drowsiness

___

Felix’s stomach felt like it was being pinched from the inside, caught in the grasp of something with claws that wanted to drag it right out of his body. It was impossible to tell anymore whether the discomfort was from nausea or prolonged thirst, because the former almost always accompanied the latter. He’d have pressed his hands to his belly if they’d been free, but they were working on another ache.

His fingertips were pressing into his face, just above the edges of his lips. He let out a low groan as he tried to massage away the throbbing pain that had gone from dull to distracting in the space of a few minutes. Pressure piled up on the roots of his upper canines, and to a lesser extent, his lower ones.

Ryan stood up from where she’d been crouched, feeding, and looked over her shoulder, rubbing at the red stain smeared across her pale white cheek. Her sleeve was white too, and as the blood soaked into it, Felix could already hear Nancy yelling about it as soon as they got back home.

“You should have a wee drop,” Ryan said smoothly. Her eyes were golden yellow and practically glowing after the hunt and the kill and the blood. It was always about the blood, wasn’t it? Her white hair looked brighter out here in nature too; back in the townhouse, it just matched the walls. “Just to tide you over.”

Felix looked down at his feet, getting momentarily distracted by his hands, which were trembling horribly by his sides. The ache in his belly was increasing from the sight and the sound and, indeed, the smell of feeding. The pressure building up in his gums was growing more and more intense, and it almost felt like his fangs were jabbing upwards, scraping at the bones below his eyes and making them water.

He knew he could refuse if he wanted to, and Ryan wouldn’t say another word about it, but he did need to drink, and it would be a while until he could get his hands on anything other than blood in its rawest form; warm and straight from the vein. Ryan knew he didn’t like it, so she would never suggest it if she didn’t think it was the best thing for him.

Fingers pressing even more deeply against his gums, he slowly approached the beast that had been breathing minutes before but wasn’t anymore, trying his best not to look it in the eye. He sank to his knees beside Elliott, whose back was so hunched over it looked like his spine had been bent in half. He was slurping and sucking at a wound he’d opened in the creature’s neck.

He didn’t notice Felix sit down next to him, not until Felix reached out to touch his leg, automatically seeking physical contact. He was nervous, and he was in pain, and Elliott understood him better than anyone he’d ever met. He didn’t stop to consider the fact that Elliott was currently a hundred miles away, in feeding mode, and probably could have turned and ripped his arm off without hesitation.

But when Elliott’s head snapped around, all he gave was a sound that was halfway between a snarl and a question. Hmmph? His eyes were practically blazing gold, his lips were furled back over sharp fangs, and his teeth and chin were painted brightly with blood. Spatters of it dotted his face and had gotten into the strands of hair he liked to wear by his face.

Felix, trembling and clean in comparison, couldn’t tell if the sight of his boyfriend giving in to his bloodlust like this was terrifying or beautiful. Either way, he didn’t flinch or move, besides the violent quivering that suddenly set into his lower lip.

The hungry look in Elliott’s eyes softened slightly, and his fangs began to ease back from over his lower lip. He unclenched one hand from the dead beast’s neck and laid it on the hand Felix had put on his leg.

The eye contact didn’t break until Elliott had leaned in close enough for their lips to press together.

Felix inhaled sharply, the sweet, metallic smell of the blood on Elliott’s face already making him dizzy with lust. The pressure inside his skull shifted, almost like a cork had popped deep inside his gums, and he felt his fangs beginning to contract and lengthen.

He let Elliott pry his mouth open for a deeper kiss, tasting blood on his tongue until he didn’t anymore. Their teeth clashed, and there was a trickle of blood that wasn’t animal blood, but Felix didn’t know if it was Elliott’s or his own. Either way, it didn’t put him off.

He needed more. He sat up higher on his knees and sucked the animal’s blood from around Elliott’s lips, barely aware of the low, desperate noises rising in his throat as his body demanded more –

“Whoa, hey – here,” Elliott half-laughed, leaning back and pulling Felix with him, so that the younger boy could drop against the open wound in the animal. Felix sank his teeth into the beast’s still-warm flesh, gasping and drawing in mouthfuls of liquid.

It tasted unbelievably sweet, almost unbearably so, and once he started, it felt like he would never want to stop. His body seemed to ripple with instinct and pleasure and relief. His stomach grew warm and heavy. He didn’t stop until his lungs ran out of air and he began to see stars. He ripped his teeth free and scrambled back on the forest floor, gasping. Elliott put a hand to his back to stop him from toppling over.

“Jesus, that was…” Elliott’s voice was close to a growl. “So fucking hot.”

Felix gave a shuddering sigh. Elliott was a lot more present and coherent now, it seemed. He was grinning breathlessly, jerking his shoulders slightly like he did when he had excess energy. “Are you okay, boo?”

Felix glanced down at himself and gave a shuddering sigh at the sight of his second-favourite skinny jeans and third-favourite green sweater patched with blood.

“I’ve got blood all over me,” he mumbled unhappily.

Elliott laughed at that, but Felix barely reacted. He felt like his brain was hovering somewhere outside his body; his eyes too, so that he was staring at himself in horror. The only thing that brought him back to reality was the loud gurgle that came from deep inside his body, a thing that he both heard and felt.

“Oh, gosh,” Felix gasped, folding his arms gently over his belly and leaning forward.

“Fee?” Elliott asked, leaning in a little closer. “Does it hurt? It probably shouldn’t hurt. Hey, Ryan, is he okay?”

Ryan appeared in front of them, dropping to a squat and lowering her head to get a look at Felix’s face. “Felix, are you going to vomit?”

Am I going to vomit? he asked himself very sincerely. No. Or, at least, he didn’t want to. An animal had lost its life, and he’d taken its blood, and that meant something; it meant he had to hold onto it.

Felix slowly shook his head, gulping hard and wishing he had something to rinse his mouth out with.

“Probably just drank too much too fast,” Ryan mused.

Elliott gently helped him to his feet, but as he stood, it felt like the contents of his belly were still down on the ground somewhere, dragging and weighing him down. He had no idea how Ryan sprang so delicately to her feet, like a pixie on puppet strings. He had no idea how Elliott looked so beautiful when he was such a mess.

He didn’t know anything except for one fact; his stomach was starting to ache. A lot.

He winced as he felt something shift in his gut, but instead of a gurgle, this was a deep, clenching rumble that made his knees feel a little weak. He pulled away from the hug so he could put his hands on his belly. He stared down at it as it cramped again, imagining his organs weren’t quite sure what to do with this amount of blood when he’d only ever consumed a fraction of that amount in the past.

His throat tickled with panic, and a different kind of pressure was building around his eyes.

Elliott hovered a few feet back, like he still didn’t trust Felix not to going to puke all over him. Not that it would have mattered, since he was already soaked in blood.

“You keeping it down, boo?”

“I – I hope…” Felix said weakly.

“I’m a bad influence, aren’t I?”

Felix grimaced through the faint sting of tears. Considering that Elliott was the reason he was half-vampire in the first place, he’d have said that was an understatement. He didn’t say it though, because his stomach and his jaw both clenched in unison, and all he could let out was a strangled whimper.

“Oh, boo,” Elliott sighed, finally coming close again so he could tuck some of Felix’s bangs behind his ear. The tips of his fingers were so gentle against the side of his neck that he shivered and sank his head against his chest again, desperate to be held and comforted.

“You can take it easy for a few more minutes while I’m working here,” Ryan said. She was still licking subconsciously at her lips as she readied the syringe that she used to take blood home for future use. “Then we’re going to have to get a move-on back towards the car, before it gets dark.”

“Mmhmm,” Felix said, nodding weakly against Elliott’s ribcage.

Ryan turned her back and crouched by the dead animal. With his head lowered and with Elliott blocking his view, Felix didn’t see her work after that, but he reckoned she was concentrating enough not to be paying attention to him anymore.

“Elli, darling?” he asked in a small voice.

Elliott touched the back of his head. “Yes, gorgeous?”

“Could you rub my tummy?”

Without another word or a single beat of a pause, Elliott ran his hands down over Felix’s shoulders. His touch lingered along his waist for a second, fingertips careful despite knowing every slight curve in his body like a map he’d studied for decades. He brushed the palm of his hand gently over Felix’s stomach, pausing as he felt the pressure just below his ribs, trying to assess how much pressure would be too much.

He got his answer not too long after, as Felix whimpered again, tensing a hand around Elliott’s elbow.

“Sorry,” Elliott murmured softly, smoothing his hand down over the tight, achy spot and kissing the top of Felix’s head again.

The smaller boy just continued groaning and whining in discomfort. He felt his face flush slightly as his belly bubbled under Elliott’s hand, its contents sloshing unbearably into his oesophagus. Something pinched at the bottom of his ribs and inched its way upwards, and Felix opened his mouth, covering it quickly.

He barely lifted his head as Ryan came back over and stood in front of them, stowing her syringe in her bag.

“Boys,” she said shortly, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

Felix began to straighten up, turning in Ryan’s direction. Along with the pressure leaning down on his internal organs, his bones and muscles were beginning to respond more slowly to his commands, and there was a fuzzy feeling in his head that told him he would be asleep as soon as he was out of the forest.

He felt Elliott keep his hand pressed to his stomach and step around behind him, pulling his back against his chest. Elliott was so much taller than Felix that he had no qualms about letting him take his full weight, and his skin tingled in relief.

Ryan looked at them blankly. “This display is not very dignified.”

“Your face isn’t very dignified,” Elliott murmured with a smirk, now smoothing both hands delicately over Felix’s belly. He could practically feel the heavy liquid sloshing around under his hand, and could only imagine how uncomfortable his poor boyfriend must have been. If the groans he couldn’t manage to suppress were anything to go by, it was quite a bit.

Ryan’s eyes flicked about lazily, not quite reaching the level of rolling. Most people would be too afraid to insult her, even in jest, but Elliott knew she simply viewed that kind of thing as beneath her, and wouldn’t rise to it.

“Love you,” Elliott offered by way of apology, letting his smirk soften into a warmer smile. “Your face is very nice.”

Ryan blinked and began to walk in the direction they’d come from, jabbing Elliott gently in the shoulder with a long, black fingernail as she passed him.

“You can both sit in the back if you’re going to continue with this,” she said, “otherwise I’m going to be losing my well-earned lunch.”

“What do you think, boo?” Elliott asked gently, leaning down towards Felix’s ear. He worked his hand back and forth across the swell of his belly, careful as ever not to jostle it too much. “Are we going to continue?”

It took a few seconds for Felix to register the question and mumble a reply because it seemed as though that post-feeding sleep was creeping in on him much more quickly than he thought.

[skinks]

Food for thot.....Richie getting rug burn on his face from getting pounded into the carpet. Yes its before an interview and yes its is from a tiktok but I don't know anyone that would appreciate this like u would. Thank u 😔

no, thank YOU!!! WOW!!! I know @pineapplecrushface wrote about Eddie having face rug burn in this post here and it’s such a funny concept I want it for Richie too.

Like, the heat comes from the fact that they couldn’t even wait to move to the bed. They’re cuddling on the couch, sweet kissing turns hotter, heavier, they’re rolling off the couch and knocking shit over on the coffee table, wrestling like they always used to. But now Eddie’s shoving himself up and noisily ripping his belt through the loops like grabbing a snake by its head behind the metal fangs. Both of them panting and swearing and laughing, Richie goading him on like c’mon slugger, c’mon baby, let’s see you go the fuck to town, except he gets more than he bargained for because Eddie’s going NUTS like I wanna, Rich I really fucking wanna, on your front, your knees, let me, and Richie’s already trying to turn over, kicking his pants down his sweating thighs and grinning so hard he can hardly reply back yeah yeah yeah fuck me through the floor, Eddie, ‘course I’ll let you, you can do anything you put that batshit little mind to.

And y’know, Richie grabs a leg of the coffee table for purchase but that’s getting shoved across the floor with the force of it too. Movie’s still playing. Feels briefly surreal, the sound of a chic Soderbergh heist chopped up roughly between the louder sounds of fucking, and of getting fucked. His other hand’s ripping scores against the pile of the carpet, knees are burnt, glasses are nearly bent against his face until he pushes them up and off and Eddie takes them away because his hand is there, suddenly, grabbing Richie’s fucked up hair like he can’t bear not to be touching him everywhere for reassurance now that Richie can hardly see.

Eddie’s everywhere, the glide of his thighs and the scrape of his shoved-down jeans burning open the insides of Richie’s spread legs, the stretch and pressure angling down tight into his stomach as Eddie presses his cock balls-deep and yanks hard on Richie’s hips at the same time. Pulls up, buries himself hard in Richie’s body and holds him there for a moment to grind the ridges of his abs right against Richie’s lower back, mossy with dark hair flattened to his tailbone. Eddie moans between his shoulderblades and Richie chokes into the carpet, Eddie holding him fast and pushing, pushing, socks rasping against the carpet to brace themselves.

It’s one of those fucks of a lifetime, every time he swings his feet up next to Eddie’s on the coffee table he’s gonna remember how he was so glad Eddie kept him face down and ass up, cause otherwise his entire dick and balls would be chafing a slick band of precum into the carpet too, burnt and red as their skinny little forearms got as kids, when they’d attack and grab at each other with both hands, twisting opposite directions til it hurt, because violence was the only way to touch each other with an audience back then and apparently the habit takes some breaking.

Now they’re good at breaking all their worst habits together. They can touch each other gently, even in public. After Eddie’s rubbed him raw against the floor and come so hard in short, sharp, knocking thrusts that left him shaken and incoherent against Richie’s aching shoulders, after he grabbed his own discarded shirt and, still hard and throbbing, coaxed Richie to buck his cum into it instead of the carpet—he smooths some aloe vera into Richie’s stinging cheek. They were still both naked and dripping, but he insisted.

Eddie’s always achingly sweet when he feels he’s gone too far, still sometimes forgetting there are ways to love each other rough that aren’t cruelty, and ways to care for each other soft that aren’t coddling.

It’s nice though, nostalgic for the times spent just the two of them, when the need to compete against and for each other’s attention waned and Richie could make a production of kissing Eddie’s twisted forearm better. Big smacking kiss between the red imprints of his own fingers, to match the burn in Eddie’s face as he grabbed at Richie’s noodly arm to give one back, never to be outdone.

“Hold still,” Eddie murmurs now. “I’m kissing it better.” He cups Richie’s other cheek and draws him down to kiss long and slow where the arch of his dark stubble turns an angry pink underneath. Puts his other arm around Richie’s shoulders and kneels there next to him on the bed, held right back around his waist. Gentling his lips all over Richie’s face.

“You kissing me better, baby? You little sex demon.”

“Yeah. You feel better?”

“I always feel better now. You kissed me all better.”

“Loved you all better.” Eddie turns him so he’s kissing at Richie’s broad, smiling mouth. “God. Gross. I love you so fucking much.”

“Ghh-huh. Ah. I love you, Eds.” For a moment Richie stares at him, helpless. One of his eyes always squints up harder when he grins, but Eddie likes being able to see the crinkly corners when Richie’s not wearing his glasses. He strokes them. Richie makes a tiny noise. “And they say I’m the sap.”

“You’re a fuckin’ pine tree.”

“Yep!” Richie sticks his tongue out gleefully, straight into Eddie’s mouth.

“Don’t say it—!”

“You climb me, and I get you all sticky!”

Eddie wheezes as Richie nuzzles into his shoulder, tightening his arms around Eddie’s waist. His sore cheekbone is hard and hot against Eddie’s cooling skin. “What are you—giggling about?!”

Richie falls back to the mattress, tugging Eddie down with him. The breath shudders through Eddie’s punctured, healed chest like there’s still a hole there and he squeezes his eyes shut against Richie’s collarbones. He shakes with it sometimes, how much of this he gets to feel and have and keep to himself, overwhelmed giddiness lurching his stomach out miles above his body. That’d be bad. He’s already lost a couple organs just for loving Richie Tozier, but the difference is—he can live without the organs.

Eddie squeezes Richie’s thigh between his own and hides his crumpling face in the fuzzy ditch of his broad chest, in case Richie thinks he’s upset and stops laughing.

He pinches the soft give of Richie’s tricep. He’s hugging Eddie so tight, his little yelp buzzes Eddie’s ear. “What are you fucking giggling about!”

“I have—I have that promo thing tomorrow, I’m gonna look like I made out with a brick wall!”

Eddie’s jostled with the gusts of Richie’s laughter. He keeps his eyes closed. He supports Richie’s career, he really does, but no matter how hard he tries Eddie can’t seem to stop providing juicy fodder for talk-show stories. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, it’s okay, you can get them to cover it up before—”

“No! No way, and pass up walking out there like Harvey fuckin’ Dent because my hot as hell boyfriend railed me across the floor like a lawnmower?”

“That doesn’t—you don’t fuck lawnmowers, how do you fuck a lawnmower!”

“Very carefully! You sound like one sometimes, though, Jesus, how you get all revved up. Okay, something about carpets matching drapes, or—wait, wait, Dented? Harvey Dented? Dented my ass, or something, there’s a joke there, I promise—”

Eddie gives in to the snort building up in his sinuses. Richie’s whole face is pink with happiness when Eddie levers himself up onto an elbow for a look at him, not just the rug burn like a strawberry birthmark blooming from his temple to his jaw.

“That’s weak shit,” Eddie says. Richie’s grin only gets wider when he sees Eddie’s laughing too, so Eddie nudges a kiss against his endearingly goofy-ass overbite. “Two-Face is obvious. You wanna do a Batman joke, it’s gotta be like—you wanna know how I got these scars?”

Richie shrieks with laughter at Eddie’s nasally Joker (really just an imitation of Richie’s, and thank fuck it’s improved from sounding vaguely Pennywise-ish, that’s a real mood-killer) and piledrives him over into the bedspread. “Genius! Genius, holy shit, you know it gives me such a boner when you do Voices! You wanna know how I got these scars? Well, one day, Daddy Kaspbrak came home all riled up and wanting to play—”

Eddie pretends to gag though his laughter, rubbing at the backs of Richie’s squirming thighs with his heels like a cricket. “Do not call me Daddy Kaspbrak when we’re naked—or ever, what the fuck—”

“Whipped his belt off—”

“No!”

“Hey Eddie, you wanna know how I got this jawline?” Eddie’s careful with Richie’s sore cheek, even as Richie’s gnawing at his throat. Cups his hand to it for protection against Eddie’s own stubbly jaw. Then Richie’s groping at one of Eddie’s asscheeks, lifting his thigh, and, shit, looks like this afternoon might be a twofer. “Do ya, Eddie?”

“Fine, how?”

Richie waggles his stupid eyebrows. “Lemme show you the workout!”

“Oh, Christ—don’t hurt your face,” Eddie gasps, but Richie’s already moving south.

-

The host asks about Richie’s face—obviously. It had faded a little from that vicious red, but not enough to escape attention, especially since his entire shit-eating demeanour was clearly begging for enquiry.

“What happened, man, you get in a fight?”

“No—no! Look at me, dude, I can’t even get heckled without being like yeah, you’re right. Y’know, you’ve got a point. If someone tried to fight me I’d probably join in.” Richie grins and glances at the camera. “Nah, I’m more of a lover.”

[sunnyblackwidow]

Natasha Romanoff X Reader - Natasha's secret

Sypnosis: For a long time, Natasha has kept you hidden from the outside world. No one but Nick knew about your existence. It was going to change soon when the team was in danger and needed help.

Warnings: Angst(?), fluff, a little bit of smut.

So it's the first story I've written for tumblr and I hope you enjoy it. Please don't forget to let me know what you think, your feedback is what keeps me writing. I'm open to requests so hit me up.

The team had been compromised. They needed a place to hide. Your place was the nearest and the most well equipped. Natasha knew that. She brought them there replying all questions with "We'll be safe there."

Cap had the worst injury and needed to be treated asap, Clint had needed stitches, Tony only had a few bruises due to his suit, Thor was mostly unscathed and your girlfriend, Natasha had a bullet lodged in her thigh.

You were sitting down at your desk doing last minute night work when the front door opened. Your eyes lit up. It meant that Natasha was home. You stepped out to see the Avengers staggering into your living room. They looked visibly startled to see you but didn't say anything. Their eyes held fatigue and you grabbed your coat from behind your door hurriedly.

Your worried eyes scanned for Natasha. She had an arm around Thor and hobbled into the room.

"Baby I'm sorry. I didn't have time to-" she tried to explain but you cut her off.

"It's fine. Sit down guys." You quickly took out your first aid box. The name "First-aid box" gave it no justice as it contained everthing anyone could possibly need from band-aids to sutures and scapels. It even had a comfort toy.

You instructed Clint and Cap to lie down. You quickly strip the dining table of it's decorations and sterilize the surface. You lay down a cloth and tell Clint to sit there while you stitch up his arm. Being the expert that you were, he was good to go in 7 minutes.

As for Cap his wound was much more complicated. Thor carried him to the table. You assessed the injury, set up what you needed and got to work. There was a small shard of the alien like blade lodged into his abdomen. His stomach was punctured but the other organs were all fine. You removed the shard and quickly added gauze around the area. There were no other shards and you quickly and skillfully stitched up his stomach. The stiches were small and precise. The Avengers watched your movements in awe. In no time you had stitched up the tear in his stomach. "Thor" you called out to the man standing next to the machine, "Vitals please."

"Erm lots of numbers.... Which colour ones do you need?"

"Vitals are stable baby. You can stitch him up." Natasha piped in.

You gave a nod and started to suture up the wound. You tried your best to make the wound look pretty and to stitch it up so it wouldn't scar too much. The man had to look pretty. He was Captain America after all. Once you were done with the last stitch you cut the thread and heaved a sigh of relief.

"He'll be much better after some rest. Lay him down on the bed down the hall please. The blue door."

As Thor carried Captain to the spare room, you help Natasha onto the table and sat her down. The bullet was lodged in her upper thigh. Easy to remove and only a about two stitches were needed. It was a simple but painful procedure. As if she could read your thoughts, Natasha said "Just do it Y/N. I can take it."

You looked up to her with a worried expression. "You sure?"

"Go ahead," she said as she pushed her leg towards you.

You breathed deepy and went in with the tweezers. She laid her head on your neck and gripped the back of your shirt as you reached in , gritting her teeth, eyes squeezed shut. As you pulled the bullet out, Natasha screamed and gripped your shirt even tighter. The scream sent chills down your spine hating the fact that your loved one had to feel pain.

She let out the breath she didn't even know she had been holding when the metalic cling of you plopping the bullet into the tray sounded out. Even as you stitched up the wound, she never did let go of your shirt. Only until you were done with the stitches then did she let go. You wrapped up her leg and gave it a gentel pat.

"Good job little red." You said as you said before giving her a peck on lips.

You turned around to see the remaining of the team looking at the two of you, looking like they were going to burst from the number of questions they wanted to ask but refrained from asking.

You didn't even change your gaze as you applied medicinal remedy on all their bruises that would male sure the ugly blue and purple marks would fade within 12 hours. "I'll blow up some beds," you said before walking to the store room the get the inflatable beds that you and Natasha had gotten in case of this kind of emergency.

She had told you when you had started dating that it wasn't an easy path to take when you wanted to date the world's best spy. But you didn't care. Now, you're her everything and she was your world. You trained in the medical line to make sure that if she ever came home injured you could treat her. To make sure that in any situation, she would never leave you as long as she was in your hands.

You fit the beds in the visitors room next to the existing bed which held a sleeping Steve Rogers. You put the other two in the living room.

"You guys can wash up in the toilet. It's in the room Cap's in. Beds are ready but you can sleep anytime you want. I'll go cook something. You boys must be hungry.

You walk to the kitchen to begin cooking up some greens, meat and your secret recipe smoothies used to boost up Nat's strength for the team. Just as you were done searing the steak, Natasha walked in.

"Hey uhm Y/N. I'm really sorry about coming in like this. We just...we just were in a really tight spot and I know you don't-" Natasha tried to explain before you slienced her with a kiss. The kiss turned heated and you lifted her onto the island. She grabbed your face and wrapped her legs around your waist as you slipped your hands around her and pulled her closer. She tasted the same as always, sweet. But this time there was something else that could be felt. Desire.

You hadn't seen each other in months and you two were so deperate to hold each other again. To touch each other again that you completely forgot where you were. All you needed was her. Her touch. Her kiss. Her smell.

All tongues and lips left red. Teeth clashing, tongues brushing. You didn't care about anything as long as she was safe and in your arms.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped you and Nat out of the trance you had been in. It was Thor. "I'm sorry lovely lady who's been smooching the all so deadly and private, Natasha Romanoff. But can we take her for just a sec. I promise we'll return her to you."

You blushed furiously and coughed awkwardly unwrapping Natasha's legs which have been tightly holding you in place. "Of course you may, I'll just cook the rest of the food up and we'll eat how does that sound?"

Natasha smirked at your embarassment and gave you a kiss on the cheek before walking off.

Thor turned around and gave a wink before skipping over to the sofa where the concious Avengers were gathered.

You fanned yourself trying to cool down from what had just happened before you cut the steak and set them onto their respective warmed plates, adding the greens as well as some garnishes. You put those in the warmer as you got started on the, as you call it, strength smoothies.

Throwing frozen fruit, vegetables and açaí just to add flavour into the blender, you buzzed the thing up. In about 10 minutes, you had a jug full of the smoothie and put it into the fridge. The Avengers were still talking and so you decided to start washing up. You put all the pots and pans in the sink and slowly scrubbed each and everyone of them. You hummed your favourite song as you cleaned trying to make the process less boring. Once done you wiped it all with a dry, clean towel and put them back in their respective places.

Natasha always liked to call you a perfectionist. Making sure things were neat despite the number of things you had. Your shared bedroom was split into two. The left side hers, and the right side yours. Her side was simplistic. All the basic things like her tools, a gun, black widow bites and a picture frame with the two of you in a lip lock during one of your dates infront of a ferris wheel. Your side however, was a neat mess of photos hung on walls, strings linking them together. A peg board with momentos as well as your drawing of your girlfriend. You can even see the distinct line on the walls where the room was split because in order to save space, you lined the photos up in a straight, vertical line going down from as high as you could reach to the dresser which you two, also shared.

You smiled at the memory of Natasha teasing you about how you might as well decorate the bathroom in half as well with all your antics. Your reply to that was "I would. But then we can never get hot and steamy inside like we always do," which earned you a pinch to your cheek that although painfull, made her so cute that you just had to kiss her.

Snapping out of your flashback, you saw Natasha leaning against the entrance of the kitchen.

"Wake up dreamy. We're done you can cone out now." You can see that she was tired. But her eyes had a green sparkle. Her body was toned and curvy in all the right places making you want to just pounce on her. But you refrained from doing so. Not while everyone was here.

"Yes Ma'am," you said smiling as you put the last pan away and took out the food, balancing three on your right arm and two on your left.

You laid the food out as Natasha handed them the utensils. You went back in to get the drink before all you you sat down around the table and ate dinner.

"Oh my god Nat. You never told us your...." Tony said before pausing. "Roomate, was so good at cooking." He finished with a small smirk.

"That's funny Tony. You see. I don't even remember telling you I *had* said roomate." Natasha replied.

"Well now that you *did*, why not just let the cat out of the bag huh Nat. How long has it been?" Tony asked excitement flowing out of him.

At that moment, Tony looked like a child, giddy with excitement. Curious to know everything around him.

Natasha looked at you and you flashed her an 'it's okay' smile. "It's been two years and a half." She replied flatly.

"Didn't think you of all people would be able to have such a long relationship. Being away so much and all." Thor teased before letting out a groan as Natasha kicked him from under the table.

The others at the table just grinned at this knowing that you and her were serious about the relationship.

The rest of the meal consisted of the Avengers learning more about you, how you met Natasha and as, you quote Tony, "Deal with such a difficult woman".

The crew slowly started to learn about you, what you did for a living and why you were so good at fixing people. Their trust grew as well as certainty that you were, indeed the only one that can make Natasha soft and believed that you were the right one for her.

"Did I miss anything?" Cap's voice rang out as you guys sat around drinking after the dinner.

"Nope," Clint said. "How are you feeling Cap?"

"Better, and curious." Steve replied.

You had gone to the kitched to retrieve his part of the dinner and as you approached him he asked "Who are you and why are you so good at stitching people up?"

"Hi Steve. I'm Y/N. Natasha's girlfriend. I'm trained in all aspects of medical care to make sure that she," you pause and look at Natasha, "Is always safe." You end with a smile looking straight into Steve's eyes.

"Considering that you did such a good job on me, I'm sure Nat's not going to have any problems. Pleased to meet you. I'm Steve Rogers also known as Captain America," he stuck his hand out for a shake.

You grinned and shook his hand thankful that he trusts you with one of his best friends.

"Hey Natasha. I get why you like her so much now. Her smile is entracing isn't it." Steve said as he tucked in.

"Too bad guys. She's mine." Natasha said protectively before pulling you onto the couch, between her legs and hugging you and shooting the men a glare.

[vodkabite]

Our Little Secret - Act 1, Preview

To liven the mood inside the dimly lit basement, while cursing at the horribly cheap lightbulbs she bought from the Circle K off Elmwood, Nicole shares a random fact she knows: Superman didn’t always fly; in the beginning he could only leap over buildings, but the animators for the animated series they were doing in the 40s thought it would be too difficult to constantly draw his knees bending, it was easier to draw him in one pose and have him fly.

And how Major League Baseball once had female players; the first was Lizzy Arlington, who pitched during the ninth inning for the Reading Coal Heavers in 1898 and won her team the game, and a little over 30 years later, an African-American woman, Jackie Mitchell, pitched against the Yankees during an exhibition game, striking out both Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig.

Nicole’s always been one for sharing random facts about things, especially to the break an awkward silence or change someone’s mood. And while Waverly is probably sure that the alpha spends her downtime at the station searching the internet for new things to talk about, she finds it cute. Adorable even, the way it eases the tediousness of doing laundry.

And as she crosses her legs, letting her feet dangle freely in the air against the side of the filing cabinet she sits upon, Waverly stares at Nicole from the corner of her eyes. Through the loose strands of hair that have fallen to form a curtain against the side of her face.

A thought crosses Waverly’s mind: I want to know you, see you, feel you.

Nicole grabs a heap of clothes from the dryer, mostly blacks and grays, and puts them on the folding table for separation. Her hands and fingers glide over the different fabrics, gripping the end of a sleeve or hooking under a collar and swiftly folding them to make a pile. The veins swimming through her wrists and up her arms quietly peeking out from beneath her skin—Waverly licks her lips. It feels nice, getting to be alone with Nicole without constant distractions and interruptions.

She has a great smile, a disarmingly perfect smile, and Waverly wants to see more of it.

The past few years had chipped away the once frequent sight of it, leaving a tightly lipped, exhausted, and irritable grin in its wake. Nicole grits her teeth more often now, due to frustration and impatience. The tension in her muscles defining the sharp curve of her jawline; a feature that hadn’t gotten lost with the weight gain.

Waverly folds another shirt, one of Nicole’s many black undershirts, and leaves it closer to her side than the others.

It’s comforting.

Though, the omega notices the pinched nerve expression on the alpha’s face. Frustration rippling through the air as she organizes the clothes into neat piles, sometimes refolding the same pile several times until all the shirts are in uniform.

Being a police officer, even in a dull town like Purgatory, must be hard; clocking in early and signing stacks of paperwork every day, patrolling the monotonously boring streets just hoping for some excitement. Waverly can’t imagine that coming home is any easier: having to make sure Wynonna and Willa don’t kill each other, driving Waverly to school in the morning and from cheerleading practice in the afternoons.

With Mama being gone so often, Nicole is the only adult who can keep the house in order. Doesn’t help that the washing machine turns off again. The on button keeps coming unstuck during the middle of cycles, needing to be pressed to resume working.

And each time, Nicole presses it with more and more force.

The tension is palpable and she wonders if the alpha had ever… done anything to ease her frustrations.

Waverly is reminded of the times she laid at night with her bedroom door closed after a long and stressful day, searching the internet for a video to masturbate to. The front pages of the sites she usually visits are oversaturated with amateur videos that are less than five minutes long with abysmal film and sound quality, or the more professionally done videos that are always filled with cheesy, half-baked storylines barely stitched together by basic comprehension of plot structure and graphic closeups. Not to mention the overly exaggerated moans by the actors and the director’s near obsessive need to always include at least one POV shot.

But what interests her, is that they all shared the same kind of theme: relieving tension. Whether it’d be an injured frustrated patient getting a blowjob from their extremely busty nurse, or the pool boy being seduced by a woman twice his age who’s frustrated by the lack of attention from her husband, as though sex and all aspects of it is simply a means to an end.

Waverly looks to Nicole again, shoving another batch of clothes into the dryer.

“Nicole?” The alpha turns to her, giving a final dirty look at the washing machine before settling down, more to hide what she feels so the omega wouldn’t see; pretending that nothing is wrong.

But Waverly knows better.

Dropping down from the filing cabinet, Waverly pulls Nicole by her wrists, bringing the alpha to stand in front of her.

“Nicole, I… you…” The words die on her tongue.

Instead, her hands speak for her. Running up Nicole’s forearms, pressing lightly against the veins to feel the alpha’s pulse thrum vibrantly beneath the pad of her thumb. Nicole is frozen still, confused. But her skin responds brilliantly. A shiver runs through, goosebumps rising in its wake as Waverly’s hands find their way over her biceps.

Waverly’s hands continue their exploration: the hardness of her shoulders, the softness of her sides, the muscles of her back, fingertips lightly drifting down the curve of her spine; committing each and every detail to memory. Finally, she reaches the hem of Nicole’s old basketball shorts. Her excitement grows, much like a fever as she slips a finger past the waistband. Breath hitching at the thin hairs that bristle against her index finger. Immediately, the omega’s hands are pulled away. The alpha’s grip is strong, her honey-golden eyes searching Waverly’s own.

For a moment, no one moves.

Part of Waverly fears that she has crossed a line she won’t be able to take back, but the other part, the eager and hungry side of her, takes hold and she takes the deadly plunge. Pulling Nicole forward and kissing her.

Nicole is tense at first, though, she soon quickly melts against Waverly. The acceptance brings forth another surge of confidence; the omega presses their bodies together, adamant in keeping less than a sliver of space between them. Backing into the washing machine that had now sputtered and died, for the third time that afternoon, Nicole is the one who breaks the kiss first. Taking the lead and picking Waverly up and placing the omega on top of the washer.

Even though the red blush that colors her face burns like hell itself, Waverly pulls the basketball shorts low enough to reach through the alpha’s boxers for her cock.

She thumbs at the top of her cock gently, rubbing the sticky drop of precome around with the pad of her thumb, making a mess of the wet spot that grows against the fabric, but the way Nicole inhales deeply above her shakes Waverly to her core. Dear God, fuck, is it everything she’s ever imagined. Waverly presses the flat of her palm along the thick shaft, firmly squeezing and effectively choking off another moan before it can even form. Sliding her other hand down to pull her boxers off, Nicole takes the initiative to help, springing herself free. Uncharacteristically, Waverly stares at the hardened member resting against the cold metal edge of the washing machine between her legs. Awkwardness quickly gives way to awe and hungry praise when she wraps her hand around the shaft and feels a pulse.

Waverly finally begins to stroke Nicole, she does it slowly, still mesmerized by the sounds the alpha makes because of her. It’s a bit too dry without some sort of slick to ease the fiction, so, much like what she’s seen countless of times online, she licks her palm. The wetness makes it slippery, easier, gaining Waverly a high-pitched groan that makes her toes curl; warmth spreading through her chest.

Nicole starts to buck into Waverly’s hand and the omega can only watch, spellbound by her rutting hips desperately trying to reach climax. Letting go, she pulls the Nicole into another kiss, roping her arms around the alpha’s shoulders to keep her in place.

Yet, they break away for a quick second. Waverly wants to whine for the momentary lack of contact, but is shocked still as Nicole mounts the otherwise small surface of the washing machine. It creaks and groans helplessly under their combined weight, and while she wonders if the poor thing can actually support them both, she gasps at how roughly Nicole moves into her, hand accidentally slamming onto the on button.

The omega doesn’t know what hits her first: the vibrations shaking her entire body to the core, or Nicole’s cock slipping beneath the leg of her shorts and rubbing against the front of her sex.

Her cheeks burn hot with another wave of heat flooding between her thighs. Nicole never looks at her, just keeps her eyes screwed shut as though she knows that as much as eye contact turns Waverly on, the omega won’t be able to last with it. Nicole moves faster, rolling into the feeling like her life depended on it; the friction of the alpha’s solid weight moving against her clit is enough to drive Waverly wild. And as such, a sharp cant of Nicole hips leaves her shattered.

Nicole isn’t far behind, her thrusts start to falter; her speed and intensity wane considerably under the consistent vibrations bringing her towards that inevitable—

“Waves?” She blinks and Nicole stands before her, concerned. “Are you alright? I asked if you wanted to order pizza and you just spaced out on me.”

A hand is placed to Waverly’s forehead. “Hm, you don’t have a fever.”

“No, no, I-I was just… daydreaming,” She says saving face, sounding breathier than she wants to. Nicole shrugs her shoulders and finishes up the rest of the laundry, kicking at the washing machine, cursing it and murmuring that she’ll need to buy another one.

All Waverly can do is breath a sigh of relief when no one is looking.

[bubblesthemonsterartist]

Cat in the Cradle: is the witch really going to give up that easily, having been thwarted once by Obi?

Prompts are currently closed while I catch up. I will announce when I am open! :)

A/N: An installment of Our Place in the Stars.Takes place after Nightmares.

Content Warning: This entire series has allusions to ahistory of sex work and involuntary servitude. This chapter is no different.

He wishes he took Miss’s orders to sleep a little lessseriously last night.

For now that his fast has been broken, with so few hoursto boot, he is delirious, disoriented, and dizzy. The motion of his hands andhis mind no longer work in perfect concert with the other, the distancebetween one place and the next is longer than his memory.

But the draught had done it’s duty, lulling him to slumber deeper than he had any right to.

(“Take this,” Miss says, pushing the steaming mug intonumb hands. The brew is black. Nothing good ever came from a medicine that wasbrewed to black. “It will help.”

Eyeing is dubiously, he takes a delicate sniff, thenrears back, nose traveling up his face to escape it. “Can I take it tomorrow?”

“Obi,” she huffs. “You haven’t slept through the night indays. This will help.”

He peers up at her from under the veil of his lashes, ather puffed up cheeks and her tiny body forming a barrier between him and thedoor. Then back down to the drink.

“I’m fine, Miss,” he smiles, every beautiful tooth baredas he holds the cup back towards her. “Our walk was very refreshing. I think Ican sleep just fine without it now.”

She crosses her arms, staring down at him.

Wilting, Obi cradles the mug against his chest. Takes in the potion again. Hecan already taste the bitter that hovers in the air, the particular mix ofherbs meant to numb his brain to something approaching quiet. It looks like ascrying mirror, it is so thick, like something a traveling nomad would brew to tell him that he would soon come into a fortune if he would part ways with just a little bit more gold. 

A little twigthat the strainer didn’t catch floats about its depths.

Oh well. Nothing to be done about it. “Down the hatch,”he mutters, and tilts his head back to take it whole.

Ye gods, what is inthis? He only manages about half the draught before his tongue rebels, throatclosing against it, and then he’s coughing, liquid spraying as the mugdisappears from his hands. Swallowing, he bends over his knees, gasping betweeneach wrack of breath that escapes his body.

Miss is already sitting on the bed next to him. “See?”she tries, patting him on the back as he rubs the moisture from his eyes. “Itwasn’t that bad!”

If he could sit up straight, he tell her with his facewhat he thought. As it is, he has to find his words.

“Au contraire,” he wheezes, wiping off the liquid drippingfrom his chin with the back of his sleeve. “It’s worse.”)

But if his men notice, they don’t say anything. Makiricertainly doesn’t, instructing him in passing to oversee the security for the meetings.

So he does. Just… alone.

(“Are you sure, commander?” Jirou asked, leaning inclose. “I can send one of those idiots to take care of sweeping the meetinghalls.”

Obi thinks of Hiro, with his round, boyish face and hiswide smile. Of Kune, with his new wife and a baby on the way. Of Shinto, hissoft voice and brass laugh. Each and every one of them didn’t sleep for two nights in a row after he told them about his first days in Laxdo.

“I’m sure.” Obi claps his second on the shoulder, smilefirmly in place. “Though if I’m bewitched again, it’s your responsibility getme the best scratching post and only the finest collar.”

Jirou grunts, crossing his hulking arms in disapproval,but he says, “Would you like it to be belled or spiked?”)

It’s not a hard task, not in this city, where a glare ora pointed look is enough to send any busy bodies scrambling. After scatteringthe third anthropologist and the second historian from their hiding places, he thinks that the wingmight be close to ready.

Though, he muses, rounding the corner. He might have totake extra precautions from keeping that biologist from returning to her study spacethat shouldn’t have ever been a study place in the first place.

(“But it’s quiet here! And all the study rooms in thelibrary are taken. I’m working on my thesis,” the woman whines in a way that reminds him too much of Suzu,piling one paper on top of another so slowly that he might tear out his ownhair. “Are you sure I can’t stay? I’m only taking up a corner!”

Obi smiles through grit teeth. “Only if you desire to beturned into a mouse. There’s a Samese witch here, you know.”

Her lips press together in a thoughtful manner, the roundlenses of her glasses making her grey eyes enormous. “I always wondered howtransfiguration affected the body. If it existed, I mean,” she mulls, hands staying upon her task. “Doyou think it is even possible to make something the size of a human intosomething as small as a mouse? I imagine I would have to be turned intosomething of like size, maybe a wolf. There’s so many bones in the human body,though. Do you think they break to condense into a smaller form? Or fusetogether? I wonder if the internal organs mo-”

He really should have known not to give her that option.“Mistress Kazune,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please leave. Now.”)

The room at the end of the hall is the last, and most obnoxious.The carved teak has been primed to shine, the glossy surface of the tablereflecting the centerpiece of evergreens. Circling, he runs his fingers underthe edge, ducking down to check the legs of each chair and each cushion, when asudden blast of cold air sends the curtains of the far wall billowing.

Skin prickling, Obi bristles, crossing over to close thebalcony door. For a city so northward, so obsessed with every burner going at all times,you would think they would only open themselves to the out-of-doors to thespring, but it is a constant battle to explain to his Miss’s maids that doorsand windows lock for a reason-

Clucking his tongue, Obi pushes aside the curtain,grabbing hold of the knob.

“Leave that open, if you will. The air is so stagnant in theserooms. It’s like no one ever uses them.”

Obi has not spoken Samese in years. Has not evenpracticed the syllables on his tongue. But, as Garrack and Shidan and everyscholar he’s ever met is so prone to pointing out, his memory is excellent.

Slowly, he cranes his head, looks over his shoulder. It’snot often that someone is able to sneak up on him, but if anyone were to, itwould have to be-

Them.

Between her two hulking guards, the red of her veils burnagainst gray stone. Her other guard, the giant dog who stands as high as themeeting table, sniffs at the floor. Eyes following, Obi hopes that it is not inspiredto take a piss. It would really be a hassle to put the maids through securityagain on such short notice just because of a little puddle.

“Thank you. It is… refreshing,” she says, hands claspingtogether. Then, with a twist of her head, her voice lowers. Carries authoritywhen she says to her companions, “Leave us.”

Back drawing up straight, Obi’s shoulders go so tightthat it is pain. And her guards don’t so much as answer as grunt, turningtowards the exit. Obi moves to follow.

“No, no.” Something in her voice trembles, sounds amused. “Not you.”

It’s nothing short of an order, though, and while he hasnot been- been that since he was aboy, his joints lock up, rooting him to place and staring helplessly as thedoors close behind the two behemoths. And he wishes, just once, that Miss washere. Or Jirou. Or even Makiri. That someone was present that would rescue him,too.

The touch of a wet nose to the back of his hand bringshim back to himself, eyes coming back to focus on two brown eyes and a lollingtongue staring up at him.

“And what about him?” he asks, voice as dry as a two daytrek across a desert.

The dog licks its great maw, tail giving two quickshakes, and then it- it licks at hishand. Like a connoisseur of flesh. Like it’s testing if he is going to need a little seasoning before enjoying a mid-day snack of escaped-slave a-la-mode.

“Her,” the witch corrects. “What’s wrong? Does the littlekitten not like the big dog?”

She laughs, pleased with herself and Obi’s jaw ticks asher pet nuzzles at him, sliding its nose underneath his palm.

“Come now, it’s a joke,” she tsks, patting her leg, andhis assailant is immediately called away. “I’m very funny.”

Subtly turning his hand towards his trousers, he rubs offthe lingering sensation. “As you say.”

She hums, floating towards him, and his heart gives threeloud bangs inside the cavern of his chest.

“Don’t.”

Obi pauses, blinking, and he- he takes stock of himself,tries to figure out what he has done, and-

His left hand flexes around steel, the tip of his pinkytouching leather behind his back. His heart still races, though, his mind stillscreaming danger! so he lets themlinger, lets them hold that reassuring cold of tempered metal still tucked awayin his belt.

“You,” she sighs, dipping her head to catch his eyes. Heturns them further away. “You’re one of ours, aren’t you?”

His lip curls, fingers wrapping around a hilt. “Never.”

Arms crossing, she straightens herself and he can feelthe weight of her glare like a physical touch. “No need to hiss, kitten. I knowyou belong to her.”

Blinking, Obi forgets himself, head snapping in herdirection, but she’s moving away, looking towards the window at the snowfallblanketing Lyrias.

“Still, though,” she comments, voice distant. “You are a brave little one, living so closeto the border. It would just take the wrong set of eyes and a greedy hand tocarry you back.”

A cold sheen of sweat spreads across his face, and it’snot like- not like he didn’t know that. Not like he didn’t weigh thepossibilities when he followed his Mistress from the safety of the south to theuncertainty of the north, but still- It’s been years since the wars. Yearssince someone has seen another with a face like his in these lands, and- “Noone here knows.”

“Kitten,” she looks her shoulder at him, and he’s madebreathless, the light striking through the material of her veils just so he cansee the white of her eyes. “Everyone knows.”

The cold sickly feeling spreads, eyes watering as ifpunched straight to the nose. “Then why? Why,” he swallows, words battling fordominance between the world he was born to and the world his mistress insistedwas reality. But, despite Miss’s insistence, her tempered demands that he believeher and not them, he can think of no better word. “Why enchant me?”

“Ah, that… embarrassment.” She sighs, rolling hershoulders. “That was not meant for you.”

Obi stares, lost, then whispers, “Then why her?”

She hums, and fabric ripples as she moves, as she comescloser. “She makes herself too small. Like you.”

He’s not expecting it, though he should. He’s far too outof practice, unable to stand still any longer as those above him take him into appraisal, holding hisjaw between forefinger and thumb, turning his head one way then the next,prying back lips to check teeth and pressing on the skin below his eyes tocheck for yellowing. So when her hand appears, still gloved in that thickfabric and so near to his face, he roots himself to the ground. And waits.

After several breaths, his eyes slowly flutter open – hehadn’t even known he closed them – and he- stares at her. At the way her handhovers between them.

“Your witch,” she says slowly, carefully. “She treats youright?”

Obi rears back. “My mistress,”he hisses, “is only kind. Even if I were to deserve-”

He cuts himself off, biting his tongue. But it’s toolate. He’s revealed too much. Stirred up too many memories of that day in theforest, of how she bowed to his failure, asked him to fail her again-

Her hand lowers. “And why would you deserve it?”

Brows furrowing, he blinks at her, trying to figure outwhat she’s about, why should would ask him to state the obvious. “I’m cursed.”

She tsks, breath strong enough to move her veil. “Nowthat’s some lie.”

He stares at her. “But- in Wati-”

“Wati.” Shespits out the name like it’s a blasphemy, drawing herself up while he shrinks.Even though she is no taller than Miss, he is like a boy before her. “Thatcountry of heretics? Why would you go to such a place?”

Gaping, he stumbles over his words, “It wasn’tintentional. I just crossed the steppes and-”

A noise, not unlike the grumble of an aggrieved camel,vibrates from beneath the veils. “What gives warmth to this world?” she clips.

It’s a struggle to remain standing, to not follow the urge to sit at her feet,to retain and recite like the schoolboy he used to watch through open windows in the summer, but that’s not what she wants. He doesn’t think so, atleast. Obi’s lips part and, for once in his life, he is unsure of whether tospeak.

Palms smacking together, she raises her voice. “I askedyou a question, kitten. What gives warmth to this world?”

His mind, the sure thing that it is, goes perfectlyblank. “The, ah, sun?”

“Yes!”

Obi jolts at her enthusiasm, the way she claps her glovedhands in praise instead of as a method for drawing his attention. And issomewhat shamed with that pleased little warmth that blooms in his chest.

“The sun gives light to this world,” she says, her voice softening.“Grows the plants that the animals eat. Melts the snow at the end of winter.And what color is this sun?”

“I- Uhm.”

“What color are your eyes, kitten?”

Swallowing, Obi shakes his head, backs a few steps awayand- and this can’t be happening. This has to be some sort of dream. Some sortof new nightmare. She can’t be serious.

“You have eyes like a leopard that are the color of thesun,” she says earnestly, closing the distance he creates. “Why would that becursed?”

His mouth parts to answer, so sure, so very sure that sheis wrong. That he is right. But he can’t. Not before a Red Witch, of all people.

“My- my Master. When I was a boy. He kept me hidden, toldme I would only do harm if I left his house.” Not that it stopped him fromtrying. The marks that etch up and down his calves are proof enough of that. “BeforeI- I left, he said I was damned. That’s why the temples wouldn’t have me.”

“Sit, boy.”

He stares at her, so lost, so disbelieving. “But-“

“I said sit.”

It’s been years since he was so easily beckoned, but hedoes what she wills, tumbling to the ground, legs barely crossed, and she- she joins him.

“Look at me.”

His eyes try to latch on to anything but the color ofred.

“Look.”

There is nothing else to latch onto, so he does.

“I feel warm just looking at you. Blessed,”she says, so simply. Like she isn’t tearing down and putting back together hisentire world. “Just like when I stand next to your witch. Though I am starting to see why the two ofyou found the other.”

His mind rebels. Screeches and spits. No matter what she said, he still has his memories. He knows the way people’s eyes fell from his when he looked upon him is the truth. The way the others scurried from his path is not a lie. It isn’t his imagination that remembers the whispers into ears and the exchange of coin - the goldthe same color, they said, as his eyes. 

Whata lucky find, they murmur, touching his chin to tilt his head back. Hewill bring so much more of it.

“But my Master-”

“He lied to you,” she interrupts. And her words arefinal. Law. Touched with the heat of anger. “He was selfish. Kept you from oursight. All of them did.”

He shifts, uncomfortable, until the slippery slide of herglove touches his face and he jolts, staring straight into the veil.

“If we had known-” She clucks her tongue, thumb smoothingdown his cheek, and he’s been a man for years – years longer than he shouldhave been – but it takes every last bit of his will not to bow forward, to not buryhis face in her lap and let her soothe whatever hurt she could find. “If we hadknown, you would have been brought to the coven, been given a true Mistress.And oh, how we would have spoiled such a face as yours.”

His shakes, and- this room is cold, suddenly. So cold.“But I-”

“Hush,” she commands, a single finger to his mouth. “You would have beeneducated and dressed well, never knowing cold save when you went outside toplay. Been given a bed of your own alongside the other little boys blessed justlike you. And we would have protected you, little one. We would have made sureyou were safe.”

“I-” His voice chokes out and he shakes his head to clearit. “That sounds… nice.”

“It’s the will of the gods that we witches shelter you,”she says, so certain. Like she didn’t lay every single dream of his since he wastaken from his parents at his feet. “That a foreign one found you that is proofenough, hmm?”

To his everlasting horror, his eyes blur, leaking withouthis will, but he can’t look away. So he simply nods.

“So lucky,” shemurmurs, almost to herself as she runs her fingers through his hair. He’s followsthe touch, helpless. “That’s the reason your Master kept you like he did,child. He was trying to keep that luck for himself.”

He weak, so weak. And it’s that weakness that makes himask, “But how can I be lucky if I can’t-” Heat prickles his face, the beginningof a blush more mortifying than him purring like a housecat on his mistresseslap, but he pushes forward. “I can’t- be touched. Even by those that I want totouch me.”

The snort, he is not expecting. “Spirits,” she mutters, headtilting towards the ceiling and the boreholes of stones above them. “You sendme here to find an unimaginable treasure in this desolate place and it is ashorny as a young buck in the spring.”

His lips twitch, but then he flattens them, mustering upsomething like a glare that only makes her laugh more.

“Kitten,” she sighs, moving closer. “You don’t seem to becomplaining right now. Are you sure you can’t stand to be touched?”

He stares at her, uncomprehending, but then her handmoves again, carding through the bristles of his hair and he- his eyes pulsewide, mouth falling slack.

“All wounds can be healed, little one,” she cooes, thesilk of her gloves brushing his temples, smoothing down his neck.

He stares. “But-”

“Your woundscan be healed.”

Obi shakes his head, the whole world trembling beneathhim. “That’s not- it’s not-“

“That doesn’t mean they go away,” she whispers, takinghis hands between hers, thumbs rubbing along the lines of his knuckles. Across the memory of pain. “Woundsscar. Especially ones that have been left to fester. But that doesn’t mean theywill never close. You just have to stop picking at them.”

His mouth opens and shut, unsure of how to work. Unsurehow to pass the enormity of what he’s feeling, so he says, “You’re not going todrug me again, are you?”

All at once, she sags, the weight of her palm heavy inhis lap as she slaps the other to her forehead, but his chest- it feels lighter. He thinks he just made her laugh. Hehopes he did.

“That enchantment wasn’t meant for you,” she says, flat.“But the spirits work in mysterious ways.”

His lip twitches. “Is that a no or-”

If he could see her face now, he is certain he would haveearned himself a full glare. It’s a wonder that this knowledge doesn’t terrify him.That he finds himself breathing so easily when it would be nothing for her tostrike him down. “I don’t think either of us would survive that humiliationshould it happen again.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but then he remembers whatit had felt like, waking up on his mistress’s lap, how warm she had been, howsoft and giving, and the exact way that his heart had shattered with the simpleknowledge that he could not bear it.

“Unless you would like more gifts of catnip. I heard that it can be particularly daunting to keep the stockrooms in the pharmacy stocked in the winter. Really, your King should learn how to better manage his roads-“

Flushing, he bites back, “Point taken.”

Humming, she says, “Glad to know we’re on the same page, then.”

He eyes her, words carefully chosen. “It may be one ofthe few places that we are.”

Her hand clasps his, fingers wrapping the back of hishand and she squeezes. Hard. “Come early tonight. To the ritual. I will haveyour brothers show you what should have been yours.”

Before he can answer, he has a face full of dog, it’sgiant paws crawling up his thighs and great pink tongue lapping at his cheek sosuddenly he nearly topples over. It’s the shock of the door banging open thatkeeps him upright, that keeps him from scrambling away from the cumbersome thing,and he turns his head, wide eyed and shocked to find Lady Haki and Lord Makiri staringat him.

The great dumb creature, having done its duty ofembarrassing him further, leaves him, barking twice at the newcomers as ittrots up to the Arleon heirs.

“Ah,” the witch says, clapping her hands together. “Excellenttiming. I was just about to teach your young kitten here the secrets of uswitches. I’m glad you stopped me.”

“We are eager to continue the exchange.” Mistress Haki’sface is cool, composed, but he sees himself reflected in the tail of her gaze,the look she casts over him concerned. “When we heard you came early, it wasdecided that we need not wait.”

“Very good, very good,” The witch hums, a pleased noise,smacking her lap and levering herself up. “No need to waste any more precioustime.”

[antiquechampagne]

Beastly Kingdom - Chapter 2 - It’s a Date

Stepping through, Nate was surrounded by raiders. All of them watched him like jackals waiting to pounce. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with an immediate sense of danger, the only thing holding them back from tearing him apart stood before him, climbing out of her massive power armor.

“Gage, take this back to Fizztop, will ya?”

Gage eyed the outsider suspiciously. “Are you sure boss?”

“Did I stutter?” She leaned in a bit closer to him. “Besides…you’re the only one I trust not to scratch the paint!” As she strode towards the exit, she glanced back at Nate. This was the first chance he really had to take a good look at the ghoul. She still had some of her blond hair left, but most has either been lost to ghoulification or shaved off. What was left lay in a long strip down the center of her head, The ends dyed blood red. She wore a bright red and white Nuka-World jumpsuit with “Maintenance” embroidered in black on the chest. “You coming? You might not want to stray too far… These guys tend to misbehave when someone isn’t watching them too closely.”

Emerging into a wide-open courtyard, a strange wave of nostalgia passed over Nate. He had always wanted to bring Shaun here someday, back before the war tore his carefully crafted future away. Even after all these centuries, the sight of the once grand of the theme park remained inspiring. Blinking lights, cartoonish colors and happy painted smiles were plastered everywhere, decaying and perverted by years of neglect and vandalism. Slaves scuttled back and forth, dressed in rags and wearing heavy metal collars, the explosives strapped to their necks were blinking dangerously.

A woman with a metal mask made of metal straps skipped up to the Nate’s side.

“He sure is a pretty one, isn’t he?” She pinched Nate’s cheek, a creepily affectionate gesture from a stranger. Her sweet thick southern accent a perplexing and seemingly out of place in this den of killers.

“Dixie, hun, can you go and make sure Cappy’s Corner is cleared out. I need a nice quiet place to talk to our guest.”

“Sure thing.” She swung an arm around Nate’s neck, causing him to defensively stiffen. Dixie leaned in close and half whispered into his ear. “The Boss must be sweet on you, getting the star treatment and all… don’t go raising no cane while I’m off. You won’t live long enough to regret it.” Through his vault suit, he felt the tip of sharp weapon press lightly against his ribs to drive her point home. She whistled cheerfully as she skipped off.

“She’s such a peach.” Liz smirked, her sinewy lips drawing dryly against each other.

“I’m sure…” Nate was less than enthralled with the woman. He watched the shuttered vendor stalls and defunct parlor games, catching movement here and there out of the corner of his eye.

Liz noticed his diverted attention. “Yeah, don’t think for a moment you aren’t being watched.”

“Is that why you haven’t taken away my other side arm?” He retorted.

Liz nodded. “And your pair of boot knives either. I’m more concerned about that shiny Pip-boy on your wrist. Luckily, I’ve set up an interference shield around the whole park. You aren’t calling for back-up any time soon, General.”

Nate tried to mask his surprise at this new information by being suitably impressed by her tactical forethought. He wasn’t expecting to be cut off so completely from any form of rescue. He started recalculating as they walked.

Just then, something foul wafted through the air, wrinkling Nate’s nose. It reminded Nate of the stink from the zoo during the hot hazy summer days of his youth. They walk passed a bright red arch, the plywood reinforced façade adorned with wildly colored animals spray-painted haphazardly. Several similarly bizarrely dressed raiders lounged out front, barking and baying at him. They sported eye-searing neon clothes, trussed up with helmets and amour crafted to resemble various animals. The whole effect reminded Nate of the animals found on a toddler’s birthday cake.

The Overboss inclined her head slightly towards Nate, quietly instructing him that too much direct eye contact would be seen as a challenge to a Pack member. Nate took the hint, and tried to look straight ahead until they reached the aforementioned Cappy’s Café.

Dixie stood outside, leisurely leaning against one of the red tiled columns holding up the crumbling entrance, drinking a Nuka-Cola Orange.

“Everyone’s skedaddled, Boss.”

“Make sure there are no one interrupts us, hun.” Liz instructed.

Dixie nodded as the continued to drain her soda. Liz held the door open for Nate to head inside. Sure as Dixie said, the small café-turned-bar was empty. Liz sat, straddling the only chair at her chosen table, forcing Nate to scramble to find one of his own. He returned to see her studying him coolly over a blue glowing bottle Nuka-Quantum. A plain Nuka-Cola was on the table opposite her.

Slowly she put the bottle down as he sat. “So… prove to me that you are really the Nate I knew from all those years ago, and not some clever fake.”

“Sit and deliver, eh?” Nate straightened his shoulders. “Your full name is Elizabeth Rosa. You lived across the street from Nora and I. Your husband died and left you alone with your son, Louis. I helped you figure out the tricky timing on that old cherry red Corvega convertible you were restoring with him.” He narrowed his eyes a bit. “Shame you killed Codsworth. I remember you really liking the lemonade he used to serve at the summer block parties.”

Liz sat back and huffed. “You shouldn’t get so attached to things. Lemons haven’t existed for centuries now. But here you are… playing army-men again. But it is you.” Her eternally bloodshot green eyes locked onto his. “How?”

Nate shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hadn’t prepared for this kind of interrogation. “Surely you’ve heard of the kind of stuff Vault-Tek pulled, right?” Liz nodded. Vaut-Tek’s ‘scientific’ fuckery with their resident’s lives was well known. “Well, Vault 111 was no different… only we were treated to a deep freeze treatment. They kept us on ice, cryogenically frozen, like a freezer full of frozen TV-diners.”

“So, where is the rest of the old neighborhood popsicles?”

“Dead.” Nate said flatly. “There was a malfunction. I was the only one who ever walked out of there.” Nate steeled his mind as it raced across the painful memories of waking up from cryo-sleep. She didn’t need to know there had been one other person to make it to the outside world… that his infant son Shaun had been ripped from his dead wife’s arms by Institute agents as he watched helplessly trapped in a pod. Liz also didn’t need to know that Shaun had grown up to become the leader of the same morally corrupt organization, which he had taken down a year before.

Liz read the discomfort on his face and softened a bit at the thought of Nora and Shaun. She had known them, after all. “I’m sorry to hear that… for what it is worth. War doesn’t give two shits about family.” Liz hid a distant look by downing the rest of her soda. She thumped the empty bottle down on the table.

“Now… down to brass tacks, shall we?” She focused on the man before her. “What exactly are you proposing? Why exactly would I help the Minute Men, of all people, take on the Brotherhood of Steel?”

“Because they threaten Nuka-World the same way they threaten the rest of the Commonwealth. There is a ton of pre-war tech here, whispers of unique military robots and weapon systems. Some of the traders talk of the buildings here being powered by a functional power plant. News like that makes the rounds. From the little bit I have seen so far, it looks like there might even be more.” Nate leaned his elbows on the table. “And we all know how the Brotherhood feels about those they deem degenerates. They wouldn’t think twice about stomping out a nest of raiders scum and their zombie leader.”

Liz narrowed her eyes. She lowered her voice. “I wouldn’t say the z-word around here… it makes Dixie… extra stabby.” Nate had a feeling it wasn’t Dixie she was talking about.

Liz sat back. “We can handle ourselves just fine if they bring the fight to us. What makes you think we need you?”

Nate continued. “Two reasons. First, I think you underestimate the breadth of firepower the Brotherhood has. With the Institute destroyed, they are setting their sights on the rest of the Commonwealth. It’s not just zealots in power armor wielding Gatling lasers you’ll have to worry about. Remember those news leaks before the bombs, about the government developing a giant robot?”

Liz furrowed her pocked brow, digging through her buried memories. “The one that was supposed to be in the liberation of Anchorage? There wasn’t any evidence of it’s existence, I thought.”

“I infiltrated the Brotherhood for a while… they have it. Transported the thing in pieces from Washington. Nothing is going in the Commonwealth is going to be able to stop it once it is fully operational.”

The Overboss sat silently, looking unconvinced. Inoperable prewar abandoned robots were too farfetched of a problem for her to worry about.

“Secondly, you’ve tipped your hand trying to get a foothold in the Commonwealth. Threatening farms. Trying to set up outposts. My bet is you don’t have enough food to feed your growing ‘family’ here.” Nate sat back and crossed his arms. “How has that been going for you?”

That rankled her, Nate could tell from the way she ground her teeth. He was happy he remember her tell from when they used to play cards at the Able’s place, back when she had skin. He knew exactly how well her attempts as expansion were going… the Minutemen beating them back at every turn, defending the settlers they tried to put the squeeze on and caravan routes they tried to ambush.

“But… if we came to some kind of agreement. One where your raiders stays put, inside the bounds of Nuka-World, and help push the Brotherhood out of the Commonwealth.”

“That’s your pitch? We get nothing out of that deal. No dice.” She idly played with a bottle cap with her fingers.

“Let me finish. Help us with the Brotherhood, stay in Nuka-World… and I can make sure your little slice of paradise is supplied with plenty of food. Enough that you won’t ever need to stick your nose out of your rosy red gates.”

“And you think we are just going to sit here with our thumbs up our asses, eating your food and getting fat?”

“No, but I can open up avenues to you that you would never be able to access before… things like chem trade routes that can have you rolling in caps and, with the Gunners gutted, enough blood to keep the throngs happy. You already have a small trade system in place. With the right help you can build upon it!”

Liz laughed, her hoarse voice echoing off the empty café walls. “You gotta be fucking crazy, thinking you can get these guys to go legit.” She banged her fist on the table.

Nate coolly doubled down. “I’m not. You are. You are if you want this little experiment here to survive. I’ve learned a thing or two about keeping a growing population afloat… what you have here, all these people, this isn’t sustainable. You know it’s not. That’s why you have been trying to grow beyond your borders.”

An uncomfortable silence passed between them as they locked gazes across the table. A table that seemed excessively small at that moment.

The standoff broke as the door creaked open. The Overboss had to stop herself from rolling her eyes as she saw who it was.

“Fuck off, Gage. Didn’t you get the memo? I’m busy.” Liz growled, not taking her eyes off Nate.

“I know Boss. I just wanted to let you know Damion’s gang is back.” Liz turned her head to half-face him. “They bagged her.”

[sher-soc-the-famder]

The Show Must Go On- Chapter 10

Word Count: 3536

Pairings: Gen, Platonic LAMP, Platonic Roman&OC, Platonic Virgil&OC

Warnings: Violence, Explosions

Masterpost

Read on AO3

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Roman didn’t bother to open his eyes as light filled the strange compartment in the back of the van once more.

“Come on brat,” the man grunted. “It’ll be easier if you don’t fight us on the way.”

Roman hummed to himself, and made no move to follow their directions. He wondered if Patton had a point about the whole non-violent protesting. It could certainly be more entertaining, even if it felt less honorable. He tapped a rhythm out on his leg as the silence stretched and grinned to himself at the frustrated noise the man made.

“Kyle,” Rose said softly, “he's got a right to be angry—”

“Oh shut up,” Kyle growled, and Roman opened his eyes to see them glaring at each other for a brief moment. Rose looked down and away and Roman barely had time to brace himself before the back of Kyle’s hand meet his cheek. His neck snapped to the side and Roman focused on his breath as the man snarled.

“We gotta right to be angry too.”

Rose sighed heavily, and pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something that Roman didn’t catch.

“Just–” she said through gritted teeth– “just let’s get him with the other one alright?”

Roman licked his lips, tasting salt that he wasn’t sure was sweat or blood until the extra iron tang hit the back of his throat. Blood it was, lovely.

Kyle hauled him up roughly and unlocked the handcuffs. He jerked Roman’s arms behind his back and reapplied them, before shoving him forwards. Roman focused as best he could, trying to focus through the ringing in his ears as they marched him through the almost warehouse.

The moment that they stepped through the door, he had to bite back a gasp, because godmother, Logan would have been dropping a Doctor Who reference then and there. The indoors gleaned in ways that they outside could never manage and Roman could have sworn there hadn’t been a second floor, but they were tugging him past a set of stairs anyways.

They paused outside a door without any handles and Kyle hesitated.

“You really think it’s a good idea to put them together?” he asked.

Rose shrugged. “Boss’ orders.”

Kyle grumbled something before tracing what Roman assumed to be a run along the metal of the door. The F-shaped rune glowed and Roman couldn’t help his gasp as the door slid open on its own. He stumbled as they shoved him in and he whirled on his heels as the door ground shut behind him.

“Well, a good day to you too!” He yelled back, and rocked back on his heels.

Something shifted behind him, and his breath caught. He was the confident one, but in that moment nothing felt certain. What if he thought wrong, what if this wasn’t who he thought it was? What if Virgil hated him? What if Virgil didn’t remember? What if—

“I can hear you thinking from here,” the voice was dry and exhausted, but it wrapped around his chest and Roman’s body shook with a single sob before he stopped himself.

“Well of course you can,” he said lightly, (fake fake fake) ignoring the way that his fellow cellmate would most certainly see his hands shaking. “My thought processes are perfect and need to be shared! My princliness is simply so out of this world that—”

“Roman.”

It was the waver in Virgil’s voice that did it and Roman took a deep breath, turning smoothly on his heel. He forced a grin on his face, and would have thrown his hands out if they weren’t cuffed behind his back.

“The one and only…” His words died off as he got a good look at the other side, eyes widening.

Virgil gave him a single tired wave from against the wall, black eye gleaming even in the low light. His clothes (too ragged, too worn down; even Roman had better) hung off of his frame and Roman could have sworn he caught sight of a scar before Virgil tugged the collar of his shirt up a little higher.

Virgil’s eyes were just as feverishly bright as they raked over his form, and Roman straightened as best he could. The anxious side’s emotions swirled in his eyes, too dark for Roman to pick them all up.

“Oh fuck,” Virgil breathed. “Seriously what the fuck, you look like they put you through a meat grinder, Princey.”

Roman let out an offended noise, somehow deliriously happy at the insult.

“Excuse you,” he wheezed, “I always look perfect. My beauty cannot be tarnished by something as simple as a kidnapping! If anything, my injuries only highlight the natural contours of my jawline, so how dare—”

He snapped his jaw shut as Virgil started to drag himself up against the wall, his legs shaking the entire way. Roman strode over—less than three steps, the cell was tiny—and cursed the fact that he was handcuffed. At most, he could offer his shoulder for support; only instead of taking it Virgil reached out and Roman yelped as he was yanked forwards into Virgil’s arms.

Virgil trembled, burying his head into Roman’s shoulder. Roman felt himself melt into the hold, pounds of stress dropping from his shoulders. Something clicked and Roman buried his nose into Virgil’s hair, pressing up against him desperately as if they could absorb each other through contact alone.

Maybe they’d go back to being Thomas and this whole thing would just be a bad dream.

Virgil’s fingers dug weakly into his back, and Roman could pick out a simple repeated mantra, mumbled into his shoulder.

“You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive.”

Roman’s breath hitched and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“You’re real,” he allowed himself to murmur, just once before he pressed his lips to Virgil’s head, waiting for the other side to calm down. Godmother, kidnapping or not, Roman was ready to do cartwheels for the next week. He felt a grin creep up his face and he wished that he could pick Virgil up and present him to the world with a scream, a twirl, serenade him until the other felt comfortable.

“Wh-whatever y-you’re thinking,” Virgil hiccuped into his shoulder. “No, just no.”

“Roman, yes,” he crowed, giddiness seeping into his voice.

“Roman, no,” Virgil’s voice was muffled by Roman’s shoulder, but Roman could feel his trembling ease.

As Virgil finally pulled back he had to bite back a whine; he knew it was ridiculous but it felt like Virgil would disappear again the moment they were apart. Virgil scrubbed at his face, taking a shuddering breath before blurting out.

“I’m sorry.”

“Pfffft,” Roman shrugged the apology off, turning to sink down against the wall. It scraped against his bruises, but he ignored it, preferring the way that Virgil sank down next to him, pressing their shoulders together. “I deserved that sock to the jaw, which of course, I handled masterfully like the prince I am.”

“You cried,” Virgil scoffed, a weak smirk curling up his face.

“I did not,” Roman shrieked, and winced as Virgil slugged his shoulder.

“You totally did, but that’s not what I meant,” Virgil replied, his face falling. He looked away, legs curling up towards his chest and Roman purposefully leaned against him even more. Maybe he’d be a grounding presence for once. “And you know it.”

Roman hummed, and brought his own legs up so that he could attempt to tangle them with Virgil’s. He rolled his eyes at the glare that Virgil sent him, and only shuffled closer every time that the other tried to shift away.

“I’m afraid that I really don’t,” Roman said softly, leaning his head back. “From my point of view you have nothing to be sorry for.”

The laugh that slipped out from Virgil’s mouth was dry and sharp.

“I dragged you into this. They never would have found you if you didn’t come here. Maybe you never would have gotten caught; maybe you would be, I dunno, living it up in the city somewhere,” Virgil muttered, digging his hands into knees. “But goddammit, I thought you’d at least be smart enough not to get caught after seeing the tail end of mine.”

“Wellll I mean...” Roman replied, drawing his vowels out and glancing up at the ceiling. Virgil’s eyes darkened as his head turned slowly to look at him, and Roman whistled innocently to himself.

“You didn’t,” Virgil growled.

“I have back up,” Roman scoffed, “There’s a plan. It’s a great plan, I love my plan.”

“A plan,” Virgil said slowly, “That started with you getting caught by the people you should be trying to avoid.”

Roman rolled his eyes.

“A true hero can escape from any bonds he is thrown into!” Roman barreled on before Virgil could object even more. “I wasn’t about to just leave you behind! The only other option to track you down would have been to use the ten year old. At least I think he’s ten; I haven’t actually asked. And Patton would have killed me for that! It wouldn’t have been right!”

Roman took a deep breath, pasting on a grin. “And so! You’re hero has arrived to rescue you from the lair of the Evil Organization that would dare get in the way of our reunion.”

“Oh my god,” Virgil buried his head in his hands, and Roman spared a moment to be jealous that he could even do that. His arms were starting to cramp already. “You’re hopeless. You’re going to die and I’m going to be stuck here watching it. If we’re lucky, I’ll die first. Do you even bother to, I dunno, tell your back up about this plan?”

“Of course I did!” Virgil turned expectant eyes to him and Roman relented, “Victoria and Richard were somewhat helpful in pointing out the very few flaws in the idea.”

Virgil froze next to him and Roman blinked.

“Richard,” Virgil said in disbelief, “The twelve year old Richard? That Richard? A child helped plan this Roman?!”

Roman rolled his eyes again, “It wasn’t just him Virgil calm down. I came up with most of it, and Victoria checked it for how realistic it would be to pull off. We are infinitely prepared for whatever could happen.”

“Tell me Victoria is like, Logan 2.0,” Virgil begged. “A genius of the highest calibre; someone who keeps you grounded.”

“Well of course! Victoria is the first person to recognize my perfection so…” He trailed off as Virgil groaned. Roman rolled his eyes.  “Oh come on! I come up with marvelous ideas, Monster Mash!”

“We’re gonna die,” Virgil moaned. “They’re going to pull us apart to see how we tick and no one will ever know what happened to us. Everything will crash and burn. We’re never going to see the others.”

Roman sighed, leaning in against Virgil and struggling to set aside his pride and excitement to focus on the other. Virgil’s breath hitched and Roman grumbled under his breath about not being able to properly hug him. The lack of response made his stomach drop and he nudged Virgil lightly.

“Come on Virge,” he coaxed gently, “trust me on this. We’re going to get out of here. You can get Vic to yell at me with you for pulling this off. You’re going to love her and hate her at the same time I promise. We’ll go find Patton and Logan, then you and the nerd can yell at me some more. It won’t change the fact that I was a hero, so.”

He wanted to tug Virgil closer to himself, but he settled for leaning his head against Virgil’s.

“It’s going to be alright. I promise.”

Roman wrapped his arms around Virgil as soon as it registered where they were. He felt Virgil’s hand dig into his back once more and Roman squeezed back as hard as he could. They stumbled over and crashed into Thomas’s couch, the soft cushions familiar enough that he felt Virgil tremble.

“What if they’re not– What if—”

“They are,” Roman insisted, hooking his chin over Virgil’s head. Here he felt almost like things were normal, that they were alright. His voice grew urgent, hoping that the other would understand. “I’ve seen them Virge! Here! But not really? Dreams are weird and I’m not quite wired to understand them on this level anymore.”

Virgil shifted, shuffling until he sat between Roman’s legs, fingers tangled in his shirt with a grip so tight that it pulled at Roman’s skin.

“Are–” He hesitated– “Are they alright?”

Roman tightened his grip on him, closing his eyes and feeling the room shift as he tried to dredge up the old memories of the dreams that had drifted at the edge of his consciousness. Virgil stiffened beneath him, and Roman hunched his shoulders inwards, waiting for the words of reproval. For Virgil to ask why he hadn’t gone after the others first.

How he could have chosen any of them over the rest.

“God, Logan, mood,” he heard muttered instead, and he couldn’t help the hysterical giggle that escaped from his lips.

“We're going to find them,” Roman murmured. “Together.”

Virgil leaned back into his chest and nodded, whispering back.

“Together.”

Victoria's knees jiggled as they stared at the warehouse just down the block from them. She wasn't alone in her nerves; Richard gripped Roman's cape tight enough that Vic almost thought he was going to tear the cloth.

"Okay." She let out a breath. "Okay, we just have to get inside and find them right? Easy. They're not expecting us, we can go invisible. Just– Just get under the cape and wander around just like Roman said. Simple. Easy. We can do this."

"Not," Richard groaned.

"Hey, hey, hey, no. I need you to be with me on this kid," Vic protested. "Repeat after me: it's possible"

"No."

"God, you're a little shit," Vic told him, and earned a weak smirk in return.

Richard twisted the cap in his hands again, eyeing the warehouse with an even darker look than she leveled at it.

"It's not that large—" Victoria started weakly.

"No," Richard interrupted. "Large. Bigger inside."

"Oh so now we're throwing Doctor Who into this now too," Victoria said dryly. "Sure why not. Let me know when the werewolves and fairies are going to show up. I want to get my silver and iron early. I hear Target has a sale on crosses."

"Vampires." Richard eyed her. Judgmentally.

"I know that– We're just stalling now aren't we?"

"Yup."

"Fuck. Alrighty then."

She took a deep breath and threw her door open, climbing out of the car. It wasn't a huge step but getting moving meant that she couldn't just sit in the car forever. She shuffled and narrowed her eyes at the warehouse. She couldn't make out any vans or cars, meaning that they must have taken Roman around the back.

Or they were invisible. Who knew. Not her, that's for sure.

Richard slipped a hand into hers, and startled Vic. She looked down at him.

"Hey," she said softly. "Like you said kid, it's going to be alright. It's gotta be. or I think Roman will do something even more drastic and I love him, you know I do, but I don't think it's possible to get even more Extra than planning your own kidnapping and not end in death. Please, no death. So we gotta make it work here and now.”

Richard blinked at her.

"Don't look at me like that," she said, inching towards the building. "You haven't seen the way that he's escalated before. He doesn't take things one step at a time. He leaps over the entire staircase and wonders why he broke a leg. Moron."

"Afraid." Richard whispered, almost tripping over her legs from how close he was standing to her. They walked closer to the gaping maw of death that was the warehouse before them; Vic wondered if maybe there was a 'Beware' sign somewhere that would complete the image. Or even 'Evil Villain Lair here!'

God, some part of her hoped so. That would be perfect.

"You and me both," she muttered, glancing down at Richard before taking a deep breath. "There. See it?"

She pointed towards a side door, just visible from where they were standing. A woman stood at the entrance, leaning back against it. Her suit was rumpled and every inch of her screamed indifference as she took a slow drag from the cigarette in her mouth.

"We can wait until she goes back inside," Vic whispered. "Slip in after her while the door is open. Then it's just a matter of finding our boys."

Victoria took a deep breath.

Just think like Roman, she told herself, and threw her shoulders back. She tilted her chin up, flipped her hair despite it not really being long enough for that action, and took the cape from Richard’s hands. She swirled it around them. The cloth did it’s magic thing, settling around them.

Richard huddled even closer to her side, gripping at her shirt. Once Vic was confident that they were out of sight, she strode forward. Richard kept as close to her as he could, to the point of almost tripping over her feet as they approached the door.

Vic bit down on her lip the closer they got, trying to ignore the way that Richard’s breath hitched.

They were going to this. They could do this.

She thought that up until the moment that Richard’s foot finally caught on her heel and they both went tumbling forward.

“Fuck!”

Her hands slammed into the concrete in front of them. She hissed at the sting and—

Wait.

“Well, what have we here?” The mage at the door asked and Victoria squeaked at the look in her eye. “A pair of young teleporters. Don’t you know that this is private property– wait.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Are you who I think you are? You both—”

She took a step towards them. Victoria threw her hand out as she scrambled to her knees, trying to place herself between the mage and Richard. Her heart pounded in her ears. Of course she had ruined it right from the start.

Richard let out a shriek as the woman took another step forward and flung his hand out.

“Back!” the kid screamed.

Victoria’s ears rung from the explosion that echoed around them. Her eyes widened as the woman flew back, slamming into the door and tumbling even farther as it almost shattered under the force of whatever the hell Richard had done.

“There is no way in hell that they didn’t hear that,” Vic breathed, her ears popping and the alarms from the building starting to wail in front of them. Richard shrunk in on himself, and fuck, they didn’t have time for guilt now.

“Okay–” She swallowed– “new plan. You get to do that. A lot. Away from me. As distraction. I’ll look for the boys. Take the cape. Be loud, be bright, be distracting.”

She shoved the cape at Richard, and put her hands on Richard’s shoulders.

“Can you do that?” He hesitated, and she shook him, just enough to snap his attention to her. Her entire body thrummed with the need to get to her best friend. She had to make sure that Roman got out of there. “Richard we don’t have time. Can you do that?”

He nodded, fingers turning white as he gripped the cape and pointed his fingers again. The building shook as a wall crumbled under whatever he was doing and then Richard was racing off deeper into the facility. Vic watched his retreating back for a long moment.

She wondered if his pale, thin-lipped face already streaked with grime would ever be something she could forget.

She shook her head of the thought and dove into the warehouse herself.

Her feet pounded against the metal of the hallways and Victoria cursed Richard for being right. The whole place was huge despite what it looked like, for every hallway she ran through it seemed like there were three more to turn into. 

Her eyes darted over the doors she passed, looking for a clue, for a map; anything that could help her find where they had put Roman and Virgil.

Her chest heaved, and every muscle in her legs protested running anymore. She gritted her teeth and took off along the farthest left hallway, the one that lead deeper into the facility.

She took the next corner at a sprint, passing by a mage as she raced past. From the corner of her eye, the light caught the man’s face, his eyes reflecting almost a yellow color.

She skid to a stop, whirling on her heels and bringing her gloved hands up. The nails gleamed in the low light, ready for a fight.

But Vic blinked as she stared at the empty hallways.

She could have sworn—

She rolled her shoulders, and shook off the sudden chills that ran down her spine. She had to hurry. Victoria didn’t have time for mirages. She spun on her heels and took off at a dead sprint once more.

[elfnerdherder]

The Fault in My Code: Ch. 14

You can read Chapter 14 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 14: One Eye Green, One Black With Grief

           Will wanted to see Chilton, but at the doors to the hospital, he couldn’t. It wasn’t so much the sight of his foul, awful skin or the smell of antiseptic laced with dead flesh; Will knew those things, expected those things. Perhaps it was the decidedly pungent absence of guilt when he thought of what he’d done, what he told himself he’d inadvertently done.

           He hadn’t been much of a liar before Lecter, but he was certainly one now.

           Instead, he found himself at a small funeral service for Matthew Brown, huddled at the back of the group in a wrinkled suit with a tie whose knot was close to choking him. It’d been the coincidences of coincidences, if he was being honest. Pacing outside of the BSHCI, he overheard two orderlies getting off shift talking about it, deciding pointedly that no matter how much the guy hadn’t deserved ‘getting offed like that’, they wouldn’t go to the funeral of someone that’d conspired with Hannibal Lecter. He’d left his contacts at the hotel when he went.

Matthew didn’t have much family –a mother, a younger brother and a few acquaintances. Will had hoped his presence would go unnoticed, an unfamiliar face in a large crowd, but the size of the service was enough that he stuck out like a mismatched, unfamiliar thumb.

           He didn’t sit in on the actual funeral; he lingered outside and focused on the tactile feel of index finger meeting index finger, middle finger meeting middle finger, ring finger meeting ring finger, and so on until they were pressed against one another, like he could scrape his fingerprints off by sheer force. He rode the wave of his hangover with a grumpy awareness of his surroundings, the feeling of the dead too close to him for comfort. Organ notes wafted out of the church. Will wondered if Abel Gideon was out of solitary yet.

           When it came time for the burial, that is when he was noticed, oddball that he was. The mother and brother cast looks, first curious then uncomfortable. The brother was the one confidant enough to approach him. He walked over the spongy grass and stared at the hideous concoction that was Will’s tie.

           “Did you know Matthew?” he asked. His voice wavered, but his back was rigid. The man of the house. The one to care for those left behind.

           “Yes.”

           “Who are you?” he pressed –more of a demand than a question.

           “Will Graham.”

           He didn’t expect a reaction, but he got one. There was a shifting expression, one of surprise then dismay, and he grasped Will’s forearm before he could think to draw away, his matching eyes fixated on his face. He had to have been no more than twenty or so.

           “Are you? Are you, really?”

           Will gently extracted himself from the boy’s grasp, tugging at the knot of the tie. He really was horrible at them –clip-ons were the best in a pinch although Molly used to throw away any he bought.

           “He said we’d never meet you, but you…come on, come on,” the boy coaxed, and Will found himself standing up at the front, studying the gloss and sleekly elegant design of Matthew Brown’s final resting place.

           “Mom, this is Will Graham. It’s Will Graham,” the boy emphasized.

           Her expression was polite disinterest, followed by a bleak shift as the cracks of her veneer revealed a distraught pain. She looked at him from head to toe, and he wondered if that is when the hit would land –he figured he’d allow her to slap him, if she wanted. Once, though. No more than once.

           He stiffened when she threw her arms around him, hugged him tight like he could hold her cracks together. She looked to his face, eyes dry, and she reached up to touch him, much like a mother would. The way he thought maybe a mother would.

           “I never thought I’d meet you,” she whispered, and there was such genuine conviction that Will had to physically pull away from her, her love a waxy coating that made his skin feel dirty.

           “I’m sorry,” he said, and it wasn’t right but it was all he had.

           “He hoarded you away, much like he hoarded his life away,” she said like he hadn’t spoken, like he hadn’t cringed out of her embrace. “Only a half-connection, but he said you bore it so well.”

           “What?”

           “The relationship. You lost your soulmate, he found some part of his.” At his stricken, stunned expression, her face softened. Polite disinterest became maternal instinct. “I’m sorry, this isn’t…this isn’t how we wanted to meet you. I’m Matthew’s mother.”

           “I know,” Will said slowly. Out of the peripheral of gazing at her chin, he saw one green eye, much like Matthew’s had been, and one black as a jet stone in sunlight.

           “This is Mark, but I’m sure you knew that. He said he’d showed you pictures, but he’d only ever showed us one picture of you. In profile, you looked so serious. I didn’t recognize you.”

           Will’s mind turned, reeled. He thought of distant interactions, uneven steps that didn’t quite match with his, a shadow in the background that wasn’t tangible, shifted unseen. He was unseen because he’d wanted to be unseen.

           That didn’t mean he had to be that way with his family, though.

           “I’m sorry,” he said again, and he was Matthew’s lover of three and a half years, a half-connection but one he bore so very well.

           “I told him that place would just kill him one day,” she said sadly. “He said you hated it, too, him being there.”

           “I did.”

           “Do you have family, Will? Are you…are you doing okay?”

           Will swallowed heavily in the wake of her worries. He wondered if his own mother would have sounded so concerned if he’d died and Hannibal had shown up to the funeral, lurking at the back with a badly knotted tie. If Bill Graham would have been able to find her to even let her know Will had died. “I’m trying,” he managed to gasp out.

           He decided that Hannibal wouldn’t have allowed himself to have a badly knotted tie. He’d have a freshly pressed suit, something plaid like the one he’d been wearing when he was arrested.

           “He said you were a person of few words,” Matthew’s mother admitted. “I can see it, but I think it suited him just fine.”

           “Do you really catch killers? He said you caught killers,” his brother, Mark, declared.

           “I’m trying to.” His throat was dry. He needed a drink.

           “They have the one that got him, and that’s what matters,” she said. “I didn’t understand what he was taken there for, what he was even arrested for…he wouldn’t say. Did he tell you, Will?”

           “…He wouldn’t say,” said Will. He tugged at the knot, took an uneven breath.

           “He kept his secrets from you, too,” she said disapprovingly. Will marveled at her eyes, no sign of tears along the rim of them.

           “I’m sorry,” he said again. He put his hands into his pockets so that he didn’t wring them.

When she linked arms with him, hands stuffed into his pockets as they were, he didn’t draw away from her. He let her have this, a memory of a relationship that’d never existed, a lie built upon the distinct lack of desire Matthew Brown had to look the fool in front of his family.

           He promised to call, and he saw them to their car, accepting a kiss on his cheek from the mother and a handshake from Mark Brown, something firm and promising. When they drove away, he stood near the grave for a long time, staring down at it. Nearby, a fresh wreath of flowers had been left for someone else. Not quite guilty, he snagged one of the roses off of the side of it and laid it over the fresh dirt.

           He hoped that when the gravediggers returned to press the sod down, they’d crush the rose beneath it.

-

           Zeller called while he was trying to unknot the stupid tie in his bathroom, and he answered with an irritable grunt, blunt fingernails picking at the satin.

           “Jack’s in a meeting, but I wanted to tell you we found the place. We’ve got a car coming to get you, and we’ll take off in thirty.”

           Thirty minutes to be on a private jet to the lair of Red Dragon. Will stared at himself in the mirror, managed to rip the tie off of his neck, and he sighed in relief. He’d have enough time for a drink.

           “Good.”

-

           He wore contacts because it was easier to concentrate without the feeling of people trying to sneak glances at his face. When they pulled up to the decrepit, peeling monstrosity at the end of a shabby lane, he looked up at it and rested his hands on his hips, frowning.

           “Is the distance bad?” Beverly asked beside him.

           Will cast her a withering glance. “It’s been worse,” he said, and that was that.

           The house had a murmur of something secretive as Will let himself in with the key from the rental property, gloved hands squeaking on the metal of the knob. They hadn’t wanted to give up a key, but with the court order they had to comply, and Will had been quick to help a secretary hang up from a whispered call she’d made while they walked into the office. It’d been to a friend to gossip, but Will wasn’t going to risk that the friend was Dolarhyde.

           “Joe Smith,” he murmured. He went in alone, as he’d requested. The rest would come in later, when he’d had enough time to inhale the taste of Red Dragon. It had been a bit of a twist, trying to get the police to let them in without having already mucked the place up with their hands; they’d been nice enough to do a sweep and declare it uninhabited. Francis Dolarhyde no longer lived at the place.

           Why have use of it now that he was on the hunt?

           It still smelled like him, though. Joe Smith, a bad name. The nursing home had assumed he was Mormon with a name like that, and they’d left his personal life well enough alone as a result. A good cover, Will thought. A great cover.

           Dust coated furniture, and he was able to see the places Red Dragon lurked. A recliner held no dust, although a small loveseat was coated in it. Will sat in the recliner, shifted and got comfortable. It was a place of peace, planning. The recliner was a throne. To the side, a small projector and a white sheet, and he picked up the first film canister, curious.

           What did Red Dragon like to watch?

           He hooked it up, fingers passing along the film as delicately as he was able, imagining his hands to be clever, quick. Red Dragon would have known how to unspool the film, set it up with ease to play. By the time Will figured it out, he found one of the things he didn’t have in common with Red Dragon –he hated old film.

           He turned it on and it clicked, whirred, ticked with each slide. The grainy footage shifted on the projector screen, and Will looked up, mouth turning to cotton at the image of Frederick Chilton glued to a chair, sweating from head to toe.

           “I have had a great privilege…I have s-seen…I have seen with wonder…wonder…and awe…the Great…Red Dragon.”

           Will didn’t like seeing him with no clothes, as vulnerable and bare as the day he’d been born. Will had made him that way, made him a target. Same way he made Matthew Brown a target.

           “I have b-blasphemed against him…spouted lies from Dr. W-Will Graham. All said was l-lies, lies, but H-He is merciful. I will serve Him, and…in s-service, redeem myself. Will Graham…reach back, W-Will Graham…reach behind you, t-touch the…knobs…knobs of your pelvis…feel where the spine meets. T-That…is the precise…place…the Red Dragon will break…y-you.”

           There was a shadow of movement, and Will watched with wide eyes, rising from the recliner as a Great Red Dragon shifted into view. It took several seconds for Will to see it as a magnificent, lovely tattoo rather than a real, breathing animal. The way he curled, shifted in stance made the spine of the dragon curl, breathe. The face cut to the side, dipped down; Will dipped with it, took a step forward and had to stop himself from lunging as Red Dragon lunged and grasped Chilton’s mouth with his teeth, bit down.

           A howling shout of pain, the sound of wheels jerking against hardwood floors –these hardwood floors, Will realized dazedly. He took a step back, then another. Red Dragon roared, Chilton screamed, and Will could only stare, half horror and half amazement at the sight of Chilton without lips, blood pouring down his face and over his teeth, rivers of red against the stark white. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and Will clapped his hands over his head, keening with it as he fell to his knees.

           The projector clicked off; Will pressed his forehead to the aged, ugly rug and breathed. He grasped his head rather that reach back to touch the space where Red Dragon had mentioned, the space where he was supposed to break him. He painstakingly refused.

           “Fuck you,” he seethed into the carpet. “Fuck you.”

           It took a long time for him to get up, to explore the rest of the house. He forced himself to though because he had to get to know how Red Dragon lived if he was going to make Hannibal kill him. It was only right. It was only respectful. Red Dragon probably knew the Hess’ and the Panters’ intimately before their death, so it made sense that he returned in kind.

-

           When he walked out of the house, he gave a nod to the rest of them to go in and loitered by the car. He agitatedly tugged at the gloves, removed them and stuffed them into his pocket. Fingers danced across the keypad of his phone, and he called Jack.

           “He’s not there, I know,” Jack said.

           “We interrupted him,” Will replied. He bit the fat of his cheek, imagined the sensation of flesh breaking against enamel. He imagined what Chilton’s skin tasted like. Bad, now that it was burnt.

           “What?”

           “He was going to send us a video of Chilton, but we interrupted him.”

           “Lounds’ article was released, so he probably knows now.”

           “Everyone knows now,” Will said. He rubbed his bad eye, covered as it was.

           “Where’s your head?”

           “He’s filmed the killings, Jack. We know he worked at a film place before, and he filmed his killings. They’ll all be in there. This is Red Dragon’s lair.”

           “Okay, but where’s your head?” An uncertain, wavering hesitance. “Did you watch them?”

           “It’s a good plan still,” Will assured him. He began to pace.

           “We can assume he’s-” At Will’s sudden laughter, Jack paused. “What the hell’s so funny?”

           “You remember in Quantico, that kid that said ‘we can assume’?” Will asked. “You got in his face, shoved his hand at the chalkboard and made him write A-S-S-U-M-E over and over and over again.”

           “…I remember.”

           “You grabbed the chalk from him, shoved it at his face and said, ‘WHEN YOU ASSUME, YOU MAKE AN ASS OUT OF U AND ME.’” Will pantomimed underlining the letters, grinning a little.

           “He was being an ass,” Jack said flatly.

           “I’m being an ass,” Will replied congenially. “Assume all you want, but he’s going to come for the bait.”

           “How’d you know he was interrupted?”

           “He made Chilton sing a speech about just where Dolarhyde was going to snap my spine. He wouldn’t have done that unless he was going to send it for me to see. He has no idea we’re here, otherwise he’d have burnt it up to hide evidence before he left.”

           Silence. Jack didn’t find it as funny as Will did. Realistically, Will only found it funny because he knew Red Dragon did.

           His guts twisted, panged. Hannibal was concerned for him. Hannibal hurt while he was away. Will thought to brush fingers along his skin to see if it’d blister and burn the way it felt like it would, but he didn’t. The woman on the plane was right –first was the worst. It got easier, but only just.

-

           He lay in bed the next day and stared at the ceiling, Dolarhyde’s file laid out alongside Mrs. Hess’ and Mrs. Panter’s. After a final meeting with Jack discussing for the umpteenth time the general plan, he had some free time. That time was spent seeing the Red Dragon curl and lash out on camera over and over and over again.

           He replayed Chilton’s screams over and over and over again.

           He didn’t like how he’d moved when Red Dragon moved, shifted and almost sprung. Much like a marionette he didn’t think to question when the strings were pulled. It’d made sense at the time, but as he held up a photo of Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun, he stared at the great wings and imagined them placed over Dolarhyde’s shoulders, majestic. Lethal.

           He was getting to know him very well, Will decided. A little too well.

           The madness of his mind was spilling into the cracks of Will’s. He felt it, acknowledged the sensation of near-disassociation. He both was Will Graham and not Will Graham in the silence of the hotel room, both Red Dragon and not Red Dragon. Rather than fight it, he took a sip of the rather expensive whiskey Beverly had given as a show of apology and reveled in the feeling of what it’d been to rip Chilton’s mouth off with his teeth.

           Now that he was back in Baltimore, the burning feeling had abated. He wondered if Lecter would want to see him like this, eyes dazed, too glassy. Lips chapped with constant biting, fingernails wrecked from gnawing at them in thought. He considered taking a walk, but he knew that if he looked at people while like this, he’d see people not as people but as something else –the stone I’d use to carve Michael, he thought. He’d see them as tools, beautiful tools to his Becoming.

           Dolarhyde was Red Dragon; just what exactly was Will Graham? In that moment, periodically lifting up pictures of Mrs. Hess and Mrs. Panter, he couldn’t say.

-

           Molly woke him in the early morning, early enough that he was still drunk from the night before. He fumbled with the phone, fought with it, then lifted it to his ear rather than sit up and let the room spin.

           “Hello?”

           “Will?”

           “Molly,” he realized, and his voice was equal parts awed and horrified. The sensation of her pause was stifling, and he had to sit up so that he could better breathe. Beside him, Red Dragon watched.

           “You sound drunk, Will,” she said.

           “I am drunk.”

           “From last night, or is it from this morning?”

           He wasn’t sure why she’d care, and he thought about saying that. Why care, Molly? A pause meant an end, no matter how many others wanted to suppose there was hope in the fact it wasn’t quite an absolute yet. He knew Molly though, and he knew many people like Molly; a pause was so that the doubts could crowd their mind until they suffocated whatever hope was left in salvaging the relationship –if there’d been any to begin with.

           “Last night,” he managed from a mouth that felt fat and distinctly inarticulate. “You woke me up.”

           “I’m sorry,” she said, and the words sounded odd coming from her end of the phone.

           “Don’t say those words.” He took a long, pained breath, closing his eyes to stop the room from spinning. “You…you don’t have to say those words to me.”

           She didn’t speak, and he listened to the silence of her breathing as he held the phone against his shoulder with his ear and managed to make his way to the bathroom. He had to wash his hands of the feeling of Red Dragon slithering through his bed, through his skin. He dried them with the scratchy towel by the sink and glanced up to the mirror, blanching at the mismatched, surly gaze staring back.

           “How bad is the drinking?” she asked.

           “It’s fine.”

           “Will-”

           “We’re paused, so I don’t have to feel bad about lying to you,” he said. He still felt bad, but he was just drunk enough that words were going to fall out every which way without his ability to care. He wondered how inebriation felt through the bond; did Hannibal feel drunk, or did he merely feel disconnected? Will certainly felt disconnected, disjointed. His body was not his own.

           His eyes weren’t his own.

           “You do feel bad, though,” she said. “I can tell.”

           “I do,” he agreed.

           “My parents say hello,” she redirected when he said nothing more.

“Hello.”

“…I saw the news article, Will.”

           He nodded, the true motives behind her phone call finally revealed.

           “Everyone’s seen the news article.”

           Not everyone. Matthew Brown’s mother and brother didn’t seem to read Tattler News, and he loved them a little bit for that. When they did finally find articles about Matthew, maybe they’d only see the part where he aided a psychopath, not the part where the psychopath was connected to Matthew’s faux-lover? If he had it in him to hope, he’d have hoped ardently that they simply let Matthew Brown go to rest, so that their memories of him wouldn’t be tainted with his lies, with his deceit. They wouldn’t love him the same if they realized he’d lied about his relationship, if the person he claimed was his boyfriend was in actuality involved with the woman he’d helped to almost murder.

           No one can love the same when that love becomes tainted with something unrecognizable, something they never knew to be wary of. They may continue to love, but as Molly had fast found out, it is not a love that can sustain. It is not a love that can grow.

           “How did she find out?”

           “The way Freddie always finds out,” Will said sagely. That wasn’t true; Freddie normally found out through not entirely legal means, and this time they’d given it to her hook, line, and sinker.

           Will refused to pose for photos, this time.

           “Oh, Will,” she sighed quietly, and it burned in a way he couldn’t handle. He continued to stare at his gaunt features in the mirror, focusing on the way his pupils dilated whenever he paid particular attention to the maroon eye rather than the blue.

           “Oh, Molly,” he returned with only the mildest hints of sarcasm.

           “How are you feeling? I just…you’re alone in that hotel room, aren’t you? This is happening with Lounds all over again, except this time you’re alone.”

           “No I’m not,” he whispered, pressing the phone to his ear. “Don’t worry about me, Molly. This is why you paused us, isn’t it? I’m not alone; I’ve got Hannibal-fucking-Lecter.”

           It was meant to sound harsh, but it was bleak. It was meant to needle at her, really punch it to her that she’d shifted aside and paused him to let a psychopath in, but as he stared at that eye, he couldn’t make his voice aggressive. He could only sound pained, agonized. The room swayed, and he swayed with it, catching himself. He felt like he was falling underwater again.

           She wanted to ask about it. He could taste her burning need to know. “How…does he make you feel?”

           “I’m staring in the mirror, and I don’t know who I am anymore,” he confessed. He thought of Matthew Brown, whose life was cut short because he’d been cruel when he could have been kind. He thought of Chilton enduring acute agony because he’d been cruel when he could have been dismissive. “I don’t recognize my own face. These…these aren’t my eyes, Molly. How do I feel? How the fuck do you think I feel, being a soulmate to someone like that?”

           “Will-”

           “I said this would change me, and I told everyone; I told you, I told Jack, I told Alana, I told…everyone.” He stared at his eyes, at the shadows underneath. He told Jack that being connected to Hannibal made him feel like he’d pressed black paint to his eyes. He wondered what Molly would say if he said it to her instead.

           “You told me,” Molly agreed. “You…tried to warn me, and I pushed you anyway.”

           “I’m not drinking a lot,” he tried to reassure her. “Just a little.”

           She was quiet at that, and she let him have his lies. When they were paused, he could lie to her all that he liked, it seemed. He figured, finally dragging himself out of the bathroom, it said more about him than it did about her, that the simple difference of wording –paused rather than together, a break rather than a whole –made him feel somewhat less guilty about lying so abrasively and badly.

           He blamed it on the alcohol, since she’d woken him up while he was still very much under its thrall. When he woke up again later, he knew to just blame himself instead, like any other honest alcoholic would.

[lilithhawthorne]

Title: Blood of the Brotherhood Fandom: Mass Effect: Andromeda  Relationship: Sara Ryder x Jaal Rating: M Chapter: 2/? Fandom: ME:A Cross posted on A03 / FFN First // Previous / Next

Huge shout out to @thesassblr for editing and helping to turn some of my weird sentences into real words! 

Snippets of conversation invaded her dreams.

“This is not going as planned.”

She was lost in a cave, or maybe it was a never ending series of tunnels designed to keep her angry and confused. The floor was slick and spotted with puddles, making it difficult for her to keep her footing. The sounds of her feet sloshing as she searched for a way out echoed all around her.

“It was a bad plan to begin with.”

Should she go left or right? Hadn’t she been down this tunnel before? It was dark and she was cold. Her suit had been stripped away piece by piece, leaving her shivering in her thin, Initiative issued uniform. Out of the corner of her eye she tracked the movement of her crew as they followed her. They ghosted through walls or fell through the ground if she tried to reach out to them.

“I told you this was a bad fucking idea,” Liam said. His lips moved out of synch and he smiled.

“And I told you to stand down! If she dies, I swear…“ she couldn’t understand what else Drack meant to say, his words trailing off into a series of elaborate threats.

“She’s not going to die. Thankfully you’re a terrible shot, but you all are driving me mad. I’ll call you as soon as she wakes.” Lexi tapped away at her data pad, not bothering to look up. “That’s it, Ryder,” she cooed, “you’ll be just fine, just fine….”

Darkness and silence welcomed her back into their midst.

Ryder raised a hand to block the light shining in her face.

“Aaaaand she’s awake! Easy now - here, let me help you up.” Rough, cold hands slipped under her arm, helping her to sit up despite the cramp that numbed her right side.

It took a moment for her to adjust to the light, and sitting up straight was a stomach clenching experience in nausea. She counted footsteps as they receded, trying to pull herself out of a fog that clouded every sense. Once the world stopped spinning and she could think beyond her rolling stomach, she assessed her surroundings with a shrewd eye.

First, she noticed how small the room was; crates and boxes were stacked all the way to the ceiling, with some tipped on their side to fill every inch of space. It was an organized mess, everything arranged specifically to leave the center of the room clear.

Second, she noticed the door, only a few strides away from the foot of the cot she was sitting on. The light was green, the hum of power flowing through it just barely audible in the silence.

Third, she noticed the smell and gagged immediately. Her already rolling stomach pitched in protest. It was a thick, ripe smell that was cloying in its overwhelming power. It reminded her of boot camp, about three weeks in, when the smell of everyone’s rank bodies had saturated itself into the walls of the bunker.

Someone laughed, a high pitched laugh that made Ryder think of a storybook princess. “I’m sorry, you’ll get used to it eventually. It always smells like that.”

Ryder swiveled her head to search for the owner of that musical laugh. She locked onto the tail end of a thick, blonde braid and followed it up to the source. A woman stood with only her profile visible, her face intently studying a terminal, her fingers moving tapping a rhythmic pace against the keyboard. Her foot tapped in tune to an unheard song.

Wearing her best stink eye, Ryder cleared her throat, hoping to warrant enough attention that the woman looked at her. All she got was a raised eyebrow and a slight head tilt. “I’m listening,” the woman assured her.

When sulking in the silence warranted no additional response, Ryder gave up and asked a neutral question: “Where am I?”

“You are in my office slash operating room slash med bay.” The woman laughed again and finally turned to face Ryder. Her cheeks and nose were red, like she had recently given them a good scrub and accidentally took a little more off than just dirt. And while her broad shoulders gave a hint of what she used to look like, she had long since withered away, her arms and legs too long and spindly, her collarbone prominently displayed in a loose fitting tank top.

Despite herself, Ryder found it easy to relax in the warmth of those brown eyes and couldn’t help but return the woman’s toothy smile.

Then she remembered the way Jaal’s voice cracked with anguish as he dove from cover, the look of rage on his face a fraction of a second before she felt the hot tendrils of pain.

More than just the memory of pain followed. Gasping for air, her lungs constricting, she struggled to keep from crying out. She ran her hands over her body, exploring her sides and lower back, trying to find a source of the pain.

“Oh, easy there!” The doctor pulled Ryder’s hands away, squeezing them in a grip that felt too strong for such a slender frame. “You’re okay… but I think the sedatives are wearing off. You were shot, do you remember?”

Ryder no longer trusted those eyes. She wrestled her hands free and shoved at the woman hard enough to send her to the ground. “Yeah I remember being shot!” she screeched, her pain and panic mingling to create a toxic feeling that ate away at her composure.

Not willing to lose the advantage, she rolled from the bed and stumbled towards the door. The doctor yelled something, her words too jumbled and rushed to make sense. It was either a plea for Ryder to come back or a plea for help.

“Open you piece of shit!” She pressed against the door, struggling as if she could push herself through solid metal if she only tried hard enough. As soon as there was a space big enough for her to get through she darted out, her knees and elbows banging against the edges of the door as she did. There would be time later to figure out where she was and what she needed to do. Right now she needed a place to hide.

“Not so fast, girly.”

Thick arms wrapped around her hips, her captor hoisting her in the air with not even a grunt to suggest it was difficult. She dug her nails into hairy forearms and braced her feet against the wall, pushing off with as much force as she could manage. Whoever was holding onto her tripped and fell backwards, but their grip was still tight enough that she went with them.

The sensation of skin tearing along her lower back startled her and she felt something warm soak into the fabric of her thin tee. She writhed and gnashed her teeth, clawing at her captor in another attempt to free herself.

“Stop!” The familiar voice of the doctor floated down the hall towards them, her plea almost drowned out by the sound of her feet clunking as she stumbled towards the struggling pair. “You’re going to hurt her Murphy, let her go.”

Murphy did as he was bid, though it was a not so friendly shove that sent her rolling to the ground. “Doc, she nearly broke my neck!” he whined as he climbed to his feet.

“Oh boo hoo,” Ryder mocked as she struggled to find her own footing, backing up to put distance between the two of them. “That’s what you get for grabbing me like that.”

“Oh yeah? Well that’s what ya get fo’ runnin’!”

“Oh, well, I guess that’s what you get for - “

“This conversation is over,” the doctor cut in, inserting herself physically between the two. Ryder had puffed her chest out to make herself look bigger, finally making use of her stink eye. Murphy, who was as thick as a Krogan and likely just as thorny, didn’t look too put out.

The doctor took the time to give them both a withering look before turning her back to Murphy, her focus softening as she looked Ryder up and down. “Did you feel your stitches rip?” she asked, an obvious hint of worry in her voice.

Stubborn and distrustful, Ryder crossed her arms over her chest and scuffed her foot against the ground. “No,” she lied. Like hell she was going to let that woman touch her again.

Clearly not fooled, the other woman merely tilted her head and offered another toothy grin. “That’s good. I was able to staunch the bleeding and we had enough medi-gel to spare that it healed almost completely. It just needed a little help.” She pressed two fingers together to mime skin knitting back together and winked.

“Waste, if ya ask me,” Murphy mumbled behind her.

That was a shared sentiment, although Ryder did a good job of looking offended by the assumption she was a waste. Medi-gel had made up a sizable percentage of packed medical supplies, but the goal had never been to bring enough to sustain the effort, only enough to see them through until they could make more planetside. With a different source of resources to draw from, the Andromeda quick fix gel was sadly lackluster when compared to its predecessor.

“Please, if you would,” the doctor took a step back and motioned for Ryder to follow. “Lonny is waiting for us. He will be able to answer your questions.”

Not waiting for Ryder’s response, the doctor turned on her heel and bustled down the hall, though she slowed down to give Murphy a playful pinch on his arm. As an afterthought she called over her shoulder, “My name is Lia but you can just call me Doc. Everyone does.”

Ryder considered her options. She could try to run again, but the pain in her back was quickly becoming more than a minor annoyance, and it was doubtful she would make it very far. Murphy might not be so gentle next time and he could easily squish her head between his massive, hairy knuckled hands.

On the other hand, she could follow through with the plan that had led her down this road to begin with. It would be in her best interest - both in the short term and if there was ever any hope of there being a long term - to con Lonny into thinking she would be willing to work with them. She started out after Lia, stopping briefly when she crossed paths with Murphy. “Don’t call me girly,” she snapped.

Murphy grunted, keeping his arms crossed and his head low.

Trailing after the fast walking doctor, she committed every turn they took and every door they passed to memory. They had yet to pass by a window, but the floors and walls were too quiet to be a ship, so she knew they had to be grounded.

Lia finally came to a halt and waited patiently for Ryder to catch up. “Now that we’re clear of Murphy, I should tell you that I know your stitches tore. Would you let me look at them, please?” She pulled something out of her pocket that looked like a syringe and balanced it on her open palm. “I only stitched you up because I needed to wait a few hours to administer another one of these, but it’s been long enough that I can give you a quick jab and be done.”

“Jab is a real unfriendly term, Doc,” Ryder said gruffly, her shoulders raised in agitation. “Is that the official medical vernacular?“ Why couldn’t this woman be a normal evil doctor, one that left her bleeding and hurt?  

“Out here it is.” Lia tossed her braid over a shoulder and took a step forward. When Ryder didn’t run or put up her hands for a fight, Lia motioned with fingers for her to spin around.

Ryder did as she was bid and rolled her shirt up to expose her back to an alleged doctor who was approaching with what she claimed to be a canister of medi-gel. Worst case scenario she got stabbed in the spine, but at least then all the confusion about her motives would be resolved.

“This is going to be cold.”

Ryder twitched when she felt Lia’s hand alight on her waist. “Your hands or the gel?”

Lia laughed apologetically while spreading a thin layer of gel over the puckered, angry looking wound. “Both, sorry. Well, that’s done then. You’ll have a scar, I think, but there was no internal bleeding. You’ll be sore for the next few days and you’ll need to - “

More aggressively than needed, Ryder spun around and tugged her shirt back down. She held out a hand to stop Lia and motioned to the door behind her with a jerk of her head. “I don’t need medical advice. Let’s get this over with.”

A flash of - discomfort? regret? Ryder couldn’t name it - crossed Lia’s features before disappearing behind an apple cheeked smile. "Of course. Let’s go see Lonny.”

Turning back towards the door, she pressed her hand against the screen of a terminal, tapping her foot again as she waited for the scan to complete. The door slid open and the two stepped over the threshold, each wearing a similar look of glum foreboding now that they thought the other couldn’t see.

This room at least didn’t smell as bad, though it featured worse company. The short man who had faced off against Ryder was seated at a desk, his deep set eyes already tracking Ryder’s movements towards him. There would be less confusion about his motives concerning her; a pistol took up a corner of desk space, his hands hands folded neatly next to it.

“Ryder,” he said, inclining his head to a chair across from him.

She took his direction and perched on the edge of her seat, feet flat on the ground, elbows on knees.

This room was small too, although poorly lit and nearly empty. Shadows darkened the corners and creeped into the pockets of space between two, waist high lamps. One side of Lonny’s face was dappled with shadows, the poor lighting emphasizing the sharp jut of his cheekbones. Ryder could see a nick over his lip, the only mar on his otherwise smooth, hairless face.

“I think,” he began slowly, “that I should begin by apologizing.”

“Oof, I might need more than that. Are you sorry that you tricked me into landing on an asteroid with a fake distress signal and then tried to kill me, or are you sorry that you shot me and almost killed me?”

“Lia assures me that you were never in any real danger of dying. Nothing vital was hit.” He winced, his words unconvincing even to his own ears. “I don’t have any interest in harming you. What happened was an unfortunate consequence. Our situation has become dire.”

“Excuse me if I find that hard to believe.” Ryder glowered and folded her arms across her chest. “If you really had any interest in ‘working’ with me, you could have approached me like a normal person. I have an email address.”

He shook his head. “That was not an option. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the way things happened.” A terse pause followed and he chewed on his next words before speaking. “The other two made it back to the ship unharmed. I kept my word.”

Relief flooded through her on a current too powerful to hide. When she felt her jaw start to tremble she clenched her teeth, schooling her face back into a mask of disinterest. “I guess I can’t be too upset that you shot me. After all, I didn’t explicitly say that you couldn’t. I should have listed it with my demands. What a learning experience this has all been.”

The carefully constructed air of friendliness that Lonny had colored his tone with leeched away as his face fell into a mask of fury. “You have no idea what we’ve been going through down here!” he hissed at her. “I’m sure Addison and Tann were happy they were able to cast so many of us off the station, it sure cut down on costs.”

“Save your - “

“Shut up!” he roared, rising with such force that his chair shrieked in protest as it scraped across the floor. “You don’t get an opinion on this. You weren’t there, you didn’t see what we did. That hasn’t stopped you from taking up the Nexus’ banner, though, has it?”

He crossed from behind the desk and made his way towards Ryder. Before she could rise and put distance between them, he was standing over her, his hands pressing into her shoulders to hold her in place.

“I’ve been watching you, Pathfinder Ryder.” The word Pathfinder slid off his tongue, his mouth puckering as he tasted how sour the word was. “You’ve brought hope to a lot of people. I think it’s about time you share the vision with us.”

Despite how much she wanted to pull herself free, stand and defend herself, she stayed seated, forcing her body to relax beneath the clap of his hands. She spoke around her clenched teeth, the words hissing in the air. “What do you want? Credits? Supplies? Tann won’t pay for me.”

“I want,” he said with a shake, “hope.”

[marriedthedark]

@ouraliceandthecatthings I’m sorry this took so long! I love angst and comfort so I decided to give a little bit of both. I hope you like it! Canonverse, 1.3k words, angst/comfort

It was a cool crisp evening on the island of Menagerie as Blake leaned against the railing of her parents’ balcony. A gentle breeze blew through the air causing the nearby trees to whisper sweet nothings into the orange streaked sky. Of all the things Blake had missed about her homeland during her time in Vale, the gorgeous island sunsets were definitely toward the top of her list.

The Faunus girl’s ears pivoted curiously as she heard the delicate clinking of metal approaching her. She turned around to see Sun approaching her with her mother’s serving tray and tea set.

Mind some company while you take in the view?” Sun asked as he stretched the tray toward Blake offering her one of two tea cups.

“Sun, you should be resting!” Blake lightly scolded her friend. Although it had been a week since their face off with Ilia, Blake didn’t want to chance Sun getting hurt again before his aura had completely healed him.

“I’m fiiiine,” Sun drawled out. “The cut is basically gone now. I’m just still kinda sore.”

Blake sighed before accepting her cup of tea. She figured she was being overly protective, but she couldn’t help it. The last thing she wanted was to see her friend get hurt again.

“Well, I’m glad you’re better,” she said before taking a sip. Sun carefully placed the tray on the wooden railing before starting to drink from his own cup.

“I am too. No way that chameleon chick is gonna keep me down!” Blake stared thoughtfully at the small cup in her hands. She observed the small wisps of steam disappear each time the soft breeze fell against her. “With the way things are going, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities to get back at her,” she said with anger threatening to consume her tone.

The faunus male took that as his queue to drop the subject. He didn’t come out her to make Blake brood again, all he wanted was to try and help her relax a little.

Still, a question that had been prodding at him for months continued to pester his mind.

Should I really bring this up now? If I’m gonna help her bring down this Adam guy, I’m gonna need to know more about him. But he seems to have a bad history with her…what if she yells at me for asking? After several minuets of comfortable silence, Sun finally spoke.

“Blake, can I ask you something that might be really personal but also will help me help you?”

Blake turned her head away from the now purple tinted sky to address her friend.

“What is it?”

Suddenly feeling awkward, Sun diverted his gaze to his teacup.

“This Adam guy. I know he’s clearly a bad dude for what he did at Beacon, but…what exactly happened with you guys? You told me the Fang wasn’t always like this, what about him?”

Blake’s hands tightened around her cup at the mention of her former mentor. Memories from her past began playing out in her mind, some more pleasant than others.

She took a step back from the balcony in order to seat herself on the outdoor sofa. The faunus girl exhaled softly as she attempted to organize her thoughts, her cup now lowered into her lap.

Sun followed suit and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. He was surprised (albeit thankful) that Blake hadn’t decided to yell at him for asking such an intrusive question. 

“Adam was…my mentor. He was a few years older than me, and we rose through the ranks together until he was head of the White Fang faction in Vale.” Blake felt the ghost of a smile threatening to appear on her face as she reminisced her old partner.

“When I was a new recruit he took me under his wing and showed me the ropes. As soon as I was old enough to fight he began training me and taught me everything I know. He taught me how to use my semblance, he helped create Gambol Shroud, he was part of everything really. We were almost inseparable, like brother and sister.”

The gentle smile that had nearly appeared quickly vanished as Blake’s memories turned dark.

“But it was that bond that caused me to lose myself. I…I cared too much about him, and I started making excuses for everything he did. ‘He didn’t mean to hurt them’, ‘It was in self defense’, ‘He’s just trying to protect me’. All of it…I blinded myself to what he was becoming.”

Sun listened intently as Blake spoke. The pain that was starting to creep into his friend’s voice caused his brow to pinch anxiously.

“Adam kept insisting that what we were doing was for the greater good. That people getting hurt was just part of the process, but…” Blake felt the corner of her eyes prickle as tears began to develop.

“I didn’t want to hurt people. I just wanted to be treated equally like everyone else! I only wanted peace between humans and faunus! I was never okay with hurting all those people yet I did it anyway!” In an act of rebellion, a single tear began running down Blake’s cheek.

“Why did I do that, Sun?”

Wordlessly, Sun took Blake’s cup from her hands and placed it on ground before drawing her into a comforting embrace. Feeling Blake flinch at the sudden close proximity caused his heart to crack that much more. 

“It wasn’t your fault Blake, if you weren’t at his right hand then someone else would’ve done the same things you did. You were only doing what you thought was right.”

Although she didn’t hug back, Blake allowed herself to be embraced by Sun. After a few minuets of the comforting gesture, she pulled away when she was certain no more tears would fall.

“On my last mission with Adam, we were supposed to blow up a delivery train from the Schnee Dust Company. I didn’t know that included the crew until he was about to set the charges.”

Sun looked to Blake expectantly before asking his next question.

“So what did you do?”

“I did what I do best,” Blake said ruefully. “I ran, and I haven’t stopped running since.”

Sun sat quietly as he absorbed the new information. He never realized just how much Blake had been through, and that was all before the fall of Beacon.

But you have stopped running,” Sun said. “You’re here now, and you decided that you’re going to take back the Fang and return it to what it was supposed to be. That’s not someone who runs away, that’s someone who stands up for what they think is right.”

Now it was Blake’s turn to sit in silence. She couldn’t deny that Sun held a lot more wisdom than he let on, and it was most appreciated during times like these.

“You’ve always done things based on what you believe in,” he continued. “Your drive to do good in the world is one of the things I admire the most about you, and I can bet your teammates would say the same thing if they were here.”

Blake looked up to Sun only to see the most genuine look in his eyes. This time she felt no qualms in allowing the soft smile to appear on her face. Before she lost her moment of courage, Blake gently leaned her head against Sun’s good shoulder.

“Thanks Sun, I needed to hear that.”

After the brief surprise of Blake initiating contact with him, Sun gently bought his arm around Blake’s shoulders allowing her to lean against his chest.

“Thanks for opening up to me,” he said softly. “You’ll never have to fight alone while I’m around.”

Blake’s view once again moved to the sky which was now a deep navy blanket speckled with shimmering stars.

“I know.”

[astridthevalkyrie]

Here Comes the Groom: Prologue

Hiccup has ten days to convince Astrid to marry him, or both of them could meet a fate worse than death. The good thing is that he has all of Berk by his side, ready to help. The bad things is, Astrid hasn’t been friendly with him for over a year and very much hates him.

It had been a slow day. Gobber was just looking around, hoping for anyone, anyone to come by and say they needed a saddle, or that their dragon was sick. He., he would take baby Thunderdrums over nothing.

No one came.

Gobber sighed. Having nothing to do meant that he had to get started on cleaning the shop, something he had been putting off since Drago attacked. That would mean that he hadn’t cleaned up in say, two years. And it wasn’t like there had been many cleaning sessions before that. By the time he was done counting everything and organizing it all, it would be time for him to do it again.

He found an old box that was labelled “Stoick”, and deciding that he had done enough work (which was just thinking about what he had to do), he sat down and opened it.

There was a bunch of things in there, although most of it was rocks. Gobber smiled fondly. Him and Stoick had always collected rocks, the strangest, most exotic ones. Valka would have always been telling the pair of them to find a better place to store all the rocks the=an underfoot.

Slowly, Gobber softly took all of them out, intending to show the kids of the village some of the best ones. Some of them were perfect for sharpening blades.

At the very end of the box, there was a parchment, rolled up tightly. At this, Gobber’s brows furrowed. That didn’t ring a bell at all. He unrolled the parchment, skimming through what it said.

The man nearly burst his eyes out when he read it. This was horrible. This was so very bad. He ran from the forge, deciding to clean it later.

Hiccup had to know.

The chief pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing heavily.

“You’re joking.”

“A’m not,” Gobber insisted, shaking the paper in front of Hiccup’s face, “Stoick an’ Arvid had a deal, lad.”

Hiccup took the paper and skimmed over it desperately. “Gobber, there is absolutely no way my dad would make a deal like this.” He stood up, agitated. “It’s ridiculous!”

Gobber sighed and motioned for him to sit down. “They both thought they were gonna die. They did nay actually think they would live to have children.”

“But then why not tell me?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Because in case you didn’t notice, Gobber, they did live. And now - well, they’re…gone! Without telling me nor Astrid that they they signed a deal for us to get married.” He sat down, exasperated. “Married, Gobber,” he said again, in case his mentor didn’t hear it the first time.

“A’m sure he meant to tell ya, but then ya two were together. He mus’ have thought ya would ge’ married anyway.”

Hiccup pointed at the contract. “Ten days, Gobber. Ten days, starting tomorrow, I have to somehow convince Astrid to marry me. All because a contract signed in blood can never be broken. Have you forgotten that we haven’t spoken more than two sentences to each other in forever?” He started pacing. “Have you forgotten that Astrid Hofferson hates me?”

“An’ you hate her?”

“Yeah,” Hiccup said softly, facing the wall, not looking at Gobber. Ugly memories were forcing their way up to his head. “Yeah, I hate her too.”

“Now,” Gobber said, attempting to cheer him up, “I’m sure it’s not tha’ bad. You two were happy -”

“Emphasis on were. Gobber -” He looked up, trying to decide what was best to say. “I know what I have to do, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

Of course it didn’t make it any easier. Marriage itself was a difficult thing. In what world was he ready to share his life with someone else like that? There would be responsibilities, and the thought of the entire tribe pushing him to produce an heir was terrifying.

But the most scary part of this all was that it was Astrid. Of course, she would do it if their lives came into question, but then there was the other damned fact of the contract.

Astrid was not to be told. Was his father drunk when he had made this, thinking he was going to die? Or was he just stuck in some story, where the author needed a cliche way to add more drama?

What would happen if he was to break the pact? Hiccup thought long and hard about it. Thor himself would curse them, and probably the entire island along with it. It was all up to him. The groom was to wed the bride who hated his guts in ten days. And it wasn’t like he was particularly fond of Astrid either.

Not after everything that had happened.

Hiccup stumbled into the arena, clenching his fists when he saw Astrid. Her aim had never changed; each small knife in her hand met it’s target. Each one she threw swiftly, although why she was so tense was beyond him.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Astrid didn’t seem to hear him. She hadn’t even turned around. He looked down at his metal leg, it had clinked the whole way there.

“Hey,” Hiccup said louder, stepping closer to her.

This time, Astrid turned. She had a bright smile on her face, which immediately turned into a frown when she saw him. Hiccup’s stomach churned.

“What’s wrong? Is someone attacking?”

“Nope.” Hiccup leaned on the wall, crossing his arms. Oh boy. “Just dropping in to say hi.”

Astrid’s eyes narrowed. “Since when -” she began, as she threw a knife at the target without looking - “do you just drop in to say hi?”

“Since today!” he answered, his voice overly cheerful. She did not share his enthusiasm, however, and simply stared at him with an unimpressed look.

Hiccup cringed. This conversation was going exactly as he thought it would, like a complete disaster. Vividly, he remembered back when they were kids - there had been infinite instances when he just couldn’t talk to her.

And then, of course, like a dull blow to the stomach, the memories of when they could talk to each other sprung back up, teasing and taunting him that she didn’t like him like that anymore. He remembered their casual touches and the kisses on the cheek and the dragon rides together.

All that was gone. Their relationship was gone.

“I-it’s just, you know, we haven’t spoken in a while, and -”

“And,” Astrid cut in, giving him a deathly glare, “whose fault is that?”

Her Berk Guard Look of Death™️️ was the worst thing in the world. No one escaped it, no one dared to glare back. Hiccup laughed fakely.

“I just…I was sitting in my room today…” He fiddled with his fingers, sighing. Eye contact was necessary. He looked up at her. “And I realized that…the torch…that I once had for you…”

Gods, this was difficult. Astrid looked half confused and half impatient.

“That torch!” Hiccup exclaimed, hoping the dramatics would somehow make this easier somehow. “It’s fire never went out. I…I still love you, Astrid Hofferson.”

Bad, bad, bad, bad idea. Her cheeks reddened with displeasure, and it spread to her ears. Kind of like how they did when she was being tickled - except then she didn’t look as though she was about to scream at him (well, she did, but this time it looked serious).

Before Astrid could speak, Hiccup went on. “And! And - and - and…and,” he said, holding up a finger, “I was really hoping that you would marry me. Is that cool with you?”

It seemed as though she was at a loss for words. Astrid’s mouth opened and closed again, her brows furrowed and her fists clenched. Hiccup took a step back.

And then suddenly she was running towards him, with a single tear falling out of her eye. She was going to hug him, maybe tell him she felt the same way, probably scolding him for not bringing a ring.

Oh. Oh, she was drawing back her fist and he was slightly too close.

The contact that he was met with was certainly not a hug.

But then again, this was Astrid Hofferson - soon to be Haddock or soon to be dead - and to expect anything less than a punch would have been ridiculous.

Yes I KNOW I just started two new stories when I have three unfinished ones, but tHIS IDEA ISN’T LEAVING MY HEAD OKAY

[marialouisestoffregen]

Failure To Launch: When Beauty Fades

Because I need to make a point, I'm just going to be immodestly candid: I was a remarkably adorable child, the kind with such rosily expressive cheeks that grown-ups couldn't resist pinching them. So when I became a teenager and then an adult, I was what you would call a hot number or something like that—at any rate, they put me half-dressed on the covers of my books to sell them, so draw what you will from that. Now that I'm in my forties, people say, I think kindly, She still looks good. This is to be followed by a phase of ... for her age, which is hot on the trail of handsome, and then—then who knows? I think it deteriorates from there, enough so that the vain among us start to look forward to death, or at least stop resisting its horrific pull.

So here's what I'm getting at: I was, at least at some baseline, a pretty girl, the kind that boys were supposed to like and sometimes did. And because I was cute all along—it's not like I blossomed into honeysuckle after adolescence—I was given to believe that love would be easy, men would be elementary, and I would have my way. I was meant to date the captain of the football team, I was going to be on a romantic excursion every Saturday night, I was destined to be collecting corsages from every boy in town before prom, accepting such floral offerings like competing sacrifices to a Delphic goddess. It was all supposed to be to the tune of some glorious Crystals song from the early '60s, when everything was still innocent, and my life would be a wall of sound from "Then He Kissed Me." Love would be simpler than tying a string bikini, the kind I wore a lot while waiting on the beach for my ship to come in.

Alas, love has been complicated.

The men have piled up in my past, have fallen trenchantly through my life, like an avalanche that doesn't mean to kill but is going to bury me alive just the same. There's really no point, this late in the day, in picking through all the boys in order—alphabetical, chronological, epistemological—but looking back, I have been in far too many scenes that could have happened in a John Cassavetes movie or an Edward Albee play, if only they rose to that literary level. I attract (and seek) bottle throwing, foot stomping, door slamming, pot clanging, hair pulling, and, above all, a lot of loud screaming and walking out in a huff—usually leaving me crying, wondering what just happened, or, more often, too astonished to cry.

Or else: There is the thrill of loving for a little while—a night, a week, a month, even a year—and then loving stops, just like that, in the coldest, blankest way, a screen going snowy at the end of a movie. There is no yelling, only silence—the kind in a Carole King song: the phone that doesn't ring, or the words you didn't say that you think of on the staircase spiraling down once the door is locked behind, or maybe even months later.

When I was still in my twenties, for several years I had this wonderful boyfriend; I'll call him Gregg—he's the one we're all waiting for: tall, blue-eyed, with this thick black hair, all smart and sensitive, an inveterate graduate student who used to rub my feet at the end of the day with a lovely pink peppermint lotion from the Body Shop. It was young and romantic. You'd have thought we were happy. I think really we were happy. He was good for me: People met him and liked me better because I was going out with him; his sweetness redounded to me like a sunny day on a dark sidewalk. I could have and probably should have spent the rest of my life with him, might have avoided scenes like the time some guy I was seeing later on chased me down Topanga Canyon with a hot frying pan, screaming at me something about learning to make my own goddamn omelets. In other words, had I just stuck with the good boyfriend, I could have prevented a good deal of extraneous craziness.

But something went wrong—terribly wrong. The calm I had during those years was like a dormant illness or an allergy that doesn't emerge until later in life, or something you don't see coming because it's coming from within: You are making yourself ill. I became seasick with contentment. It was nauseating daily, and I couldn't still myself against a funny feeling that there had to be more to life than waking up every day beside the same person. To say I was bored would be to misunderstand boredom: I did not need to take up table tennis or ballroom dancing—I needed a sense that this wasn't the end of the story. The idea of forever with any single person, even someone great whom I loved so much like Gregg, really did seem like what death actually is: a permanent stop. Love did not open up the world like a generous door, as it should to anyone getting married; instead it was the steel clamp of the iron maiden, shutting me behind its front metal hinge to asphyxiate slowly, and then suddenly. Every day would be the same, forever: The body, the conversation, it would never change—isn't that the rhythm of prison?

My imagination, my ability to understand the way love and people grow over time, how passion can surprise and renew, utterly failed me. I was temporarily credentialed with this delicate, yummy thing—youth, beauty, whatever—and my window of opportunity for making the most of it was so small, so brief. I wanted to smash through that glass pane and enjoy it, make it last, feel released.

And so, I cheated on him. With everyone I could. Bass players, editors, actors, waiters who wished they were actors, photographers. And everywhere I could, like that Sarah Silverman and Matt Damon video: on the floor, by the door, up against the minibar. I couldn't sit still or stand still or lie still. And I didn't want to lose Gregg either.

He knew, or must have known. But he was such a gentle guy that he gave me a chance to fix the damage. We were sitting at brunch one Sunday; Gregg was in his denim jacket and Sonic Youth T-shirt, his hair swept across his face, and he grabbed my hand over the table and looked at me so earnestly that if it had been a movie, the audience would have laughed. "I wish I could make whatever is bothering you feel better," he said.

"I know," was all I could say.

Months later, when Gregg found out for sure what I was doing, when he went through files on my Mac and found letters never sent to this lover or that one, he didn't want to make me feel better anymore. He threw a two-thirds-empty bottle of Stolichnaya at my head when I finally found him at a friend's house. He told me, I was your only chance at happiness—now it's over for you.

Years later, when I was dating a guy who drank much too much and did things like toss lamps around because he had a temper when he was loaded, and I was ducking to avoid some projectile and wondering how I'd found my way to this, I knew Gregg had been right: I could have been a contender; it was over.

And then, somehow, years go by.

Dating this person for three months, that one for a few weeks, sometimes longer. They come, they go, someone is always coming as someone else is going; it's not like there's no one, but it's all so lonely. I have no trouble meeting them, and I meet them everywhere: the usual places like friends' rooftop barbecues and downtown dive bars—but also in business meetings, where we end up making eyes at each other instead of working, or standing in movie lines or walking home at night. I am a hopeless, shameless flirt. I wish I were shyly, quietly intriguing, like Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, like someone French and fashionable who knows how to twirl her ladylike locks just so and walk adroitly on kitten heels, who is all gesture and whisper—but I am unfortunately forward and forthright: When I am interested in a man, he absolutely knows it. And I like men quite a lot and convey so much excitement and heat that I can keep the game going, at least for a while. Occasionally, I meet someone truly wonderful, and my heart breaks because I don't know how to sustain the energy. It never quite starts, and I can't tell you how it ends—all this pretty persuasion is a big pull for men, but then they're gone. All of them. Somehow, I can seduce and be seduced for a moment here and there, but I can't seem to meaningfully connect. That's why it's not seduction at all; if it were, I'd be getting what I want.

And I can get what I want in so much of life. I can sell sand to the Saudis, tea to the Bengalis. I get fired from one great job and then hired by a better organization. I decide in my thirties to go to law school and get into the very best one despite some questionable credentials. It's what you would call not a bad life, even a good one.

But I am baffled by men. When they want me, I don't want them; when I want them, they don't want me. We are just shooting dirty pool. Or maybe it's more like I'm still sitting at the baccarat table at a smoky, dingy casino in Reno, it's well past 3 a.m., I'm in hock to the house, I'm drinking bottom-shelf martinis and eating stale canapés from the complimentary smorgasbord, my mascara is smudged, there's no reason to reapply Cherries in the Snow to my chapped lips, it's long past the point where any reasonable person would have cashed in her chips and gone home—but I keep thinking I still might win or at least break even one of these hours or days.

Age is a terrible avenger. The lessons of life give you so much to work with, but by the time you've got all this great wisdom, you don't get to be young anymore. And in this world, that's just about the worst thing that can happen—especially to a woman. Whoever said youth is wasted on the young actually got it wrong; it's more that maturity is wasted on the old. I was both emotionally unkempt and mentally unhinged—deeply depressed, drugged, sensitive, and nasty all at once—during the years I was supposed to be spousing up. My judgment was so lousy, I probably deserve plentiful wedding gifts—Tiffany silverware to serve several dozen—for all the people I didn't marry, because the men I dated were awfully bad choices, and I was not such a good bet myself.

These days, I am a stable adult professional—a practicing attorney, capable of common sense—but I still know how to live life on the edge. I was a terrifically brooding and mature teenager, then a whiny and puerile adult, and now I may finally approximate the grace of a person who has come of age. But it took a very long time—probably far too long. Now that I am a woman whom some man might actually like to be with, might actually not want to punch in the face—or, at least, now that I don't like guys who want to do that to me—I am sadly 41. I am past my perfect years.

No one says to my face that 41 is just a little too old to still be dating—in fact, people like to point out how it's normal these days, which is also true—but I know what's up. I just moved a couple of months ago, and I made a determined effort to put my effects in order. I went through a box of old photographs and contact sheets from shoots I had done throughout my twenties and thirties, pictures in all kinds of poses, various stages of dishabille and froufrou and frippery, too much makeup and barely a bit of blush, Kodachrome and black and white, in studios and hotel rooms and cornfields and corners of streets—piles of portraits, marking a life. And I looked at the girl in all these images, as varied as they were, and still I could see the same person somewhere in there. But most of all it wasn't me anymore. It's not what I look like now—I have aged since. Oh, it's nothing to cry about, nothing to mourn for—I probably have another decade before I really start to look old, but something has changed.

I don't know what it is—I don't have wrinkles or age spots or any of the telltale signs that the years have gone by. Thank God for La Mer and Retin-A and Pilates—and, yes, hot sex, which is good fun and may be no more than a Maginot Line against the inevitable, but that's not nothing. And my hair, honey-highlighted for years now, has the swank length of mermaid youth—which is how I plan to keep it no matter what proper pageboy is age-appropriate. No question, there are physical facts about my age that are undeniably delightful. I am much sexier now than I used to be—I suddenly have this voluptuous body where I used to just be skinny and lithe. Really oddly, a couple of years ago I got serious breasts, to the point where people think I've had them surgically enhanced, which I certainly have not. Still, I think, the honest truth is that I'm just not as pretty as I used to be. Something has abandoned me. I don't know what that thing is—they've been trying to jar it and bottle it for centuries—but it's left, another merciless lover. My hips are thicker, my skin is thinner, my eyes shine less brightly—will I ever again glow as if all the stars are out at night just to greet me? What finally falls away, after enough things don't go as planned, is that look of expectancy—which, when worn down to pentimento, is revealed to be exhaustion.

So here's the funny thing: There seem to be more men coming around these days, and they keep getting younger as I get older—I'm an interesting, mature woman to a man in his twenties, while to a guy my age, I'm just jaded—but I think they are falling in love with a person I used to be, with a girl in a picture, with an idea or an image, not with who or what I am now. Because with every passing second, I feel I am less physically desirable, even though I'm finally, in fact, a desirable person. It makes no sense, it's not fair, and it sucks.

I'm hopeful that there will be a moment in the next few years when I'll be more striking than ever because some aura will wash over me in that way that these things just do: as when feminine confidence and feisty intelligence overwhelm the depredations of age, and suddenly women smolder anew—running companies, winning Oscars, reaping millions, landing heavenly younger men. After all, there are many famous women who seem ageless, like Catherine Deneuve; or have aged sexily, like Susan Sarandon; have aged voluptuously, like Catherine Zeta-Jones; have aged beauti­fully, like Michelle Pfeiffer. But eventually, at some somber and sobering calendar date, most of us lose our looks and likewise one of our charms—and I will lose mine. At which time, for me at least, there won't be much point to life anymore at all.

I don't want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don't want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet. Sex and sexuality, at least for me, are not some segment of life; they are the force majeure, the flood and storm and act of God that overtakes the rest. Without that part of me, I'd rather be dead. And I know all I can do right now is hold on tight to the little bit of life that's left, cling to the edge of the skyscraper I'm slipping off of, feel my fingers slowly giving way, knowing I'm going to free-fall to a sorrowful demise.

Maybe I would not have to hold on with such tough white knuckles if I'd done things right when I was still young.

Oh, to be 25 again and get it right. People who say they have no regrets, that they don't look back in anger, are either lying or boring, not sure which is worse. Because if you've lived a full life and don't feel bad about some of what you did, pieces are missing. Still, there are some mistakes that one is eventually too old—either literally or spiritually—to correct. I can't go back.

[sandalwoodandjasmine]

If I Could See You Again

(It wouldn’t be like this) “Antoni, it’s Liara. I need to see you as soon as it is possible. Preferably, in the next few hours.” Liara. He hadn’t seen her since before Alchera. He stares dumbly at the interface. She was still beautiful, appearing unscarred by the catastrophe that befell the SR-1. And Shepard. Her eyes carry the sense of urgency stressed in her tone however and that was enough to pique his curiousity. He supposed some part of him still wanted to function normally despite the circumstances. “Antoni, please. I know things have not been easy for you, but it’s really very urgent. Will you meet me at the docks?” “Yes. I’m sorry. Liara,” his answer comes stiffly, unnatural. “I’ll meet you. What is this about?” “I’ll explain as soon as I’m there.” He nods, an even more stiff notion. It felt like he hadn’t moved in ages. Maybe he hadn’t. The medication seemed to work, after all. --- Liara spots Antoni in the docking bay and rushes over to meet him. He looks haggard, exhausted. The cocky strut had died. He walked like he’d prefer not to move at all. The usually proud shoulders were slumped. Dark circles hung below his eyes like crescent moons. One hand was bound in a cast. His hair was an absolute travesty. She knew he’d suffered, but to see his suffering in person was an entirely different story. “Oh, goddess, Antoni,” she gasped and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You don’t look so great yourself,” was his uncharacteristically numb tone. No humor to be had. “What’s this about?” “I wouldn’t come if it weren’t important but there’s something I need to show you. I don’t have a lot of time.” This seemed to grab his attention. She parted him and fell in at his side as they made way for Feron’s ship. “What have you been up to?,” he asked, and seemed to grab at his ribs as he forced himself into action. “A great deal,” was her answer, then pressed her lips together as though containing everything she wanted to say. -- Once at the airlock, Toni leaned against it for support on the undamaged arm. He glimpsed the inside of the messy ship. Hardly space worthy. One chair. Cords and cables lay unsecured on the bare metal floor. It was nothing of special note. But, then again, his primary focused remained on her. He asked again, “So, what’s this about?” Liara drew in a deep breath. Her eyes seemed to widen as she struggled for words, then hesitated as her lips parted. “Liara.” “I found him,” she said immediately. “Him?,” Toni’s green eyes narrowed at her. When she didn’t answer, eyes darting to and fro nervously, he took her meaning. “What... I don’t... Is-Iska-n...” He couldn’t even get the name loose from his lips, a name long denied to his own mouth. She burst at the seams. “His body was missing from Alchera, Antoni. I went to discover why and who. But he’s currently in my possession, on this ship.” Toni’s legs wobbled and he sagged against the airlock entrance. “I-I’m... what? Th-they said....” “I know what they told you. It was a lie. The Shadow Broker was going to hand his body over to the Collectors.” The shaken man, who had once been a close friend, stared at her. His skin flushed. Sweat beaded at his temples. Rage spread across his fine features, pinched his expression. “The hell are you talking about?! It’s a fucking fairy tale, Liara! A ghost story to scare people away from the Terminus system!” She shook her head, “I’m sorry, Antoni. I’ve encountered them in person. I fought them to retrieve Shepard. They’re real. But I don’t know what they intended with Shepard’s body.” Silence. Antoni knew Liara wouldn’t lie. Not about something this serious. Not when it came to Shepard. He stares, dumbfounded, unbelieving. Everything felt surreal. She stood nervously, wrenching her fingers. Then his eyes met hers again and the look on his face was nothing short of anguish. The overwhelming need to comfort him swelled within her and before she could take a step forward to do just that, he spoke, “Let me see him.” --- “It’s sealed,” she said pointing to the life pod. “I don’t know his status.” She lied. She’d seen the body close enough to gauge whether or not life was still possible at this state. It was charred, ruined. All the glory and perfection that had been Commander Shepard lie devastated. Antoni was already in poor state. It was better not let him see the love of his life brutally ravaged beyond recognition. “How do you know it’s him?,” Toni asks, his voice barely a whisper, but it seemed to fill the interior of the ship with overwhelming sorrow. “I found this,” she said, stepping forward with something clutched in her hand. Toni opened his hand and she dropped the object into his palm. It was a charred warped band of gold. He shook his head. The longer he stared, the more violent his denial. Then with the casted hand, plucked it up and examined it closer. Inside the band was an inscription, half worn. 7 Alwa. Tears streamed down his face. “Oh, fuck,” he croaked. “Since N7. Always.” Liara was already regretting this side trip but knew Antoni needed closure. It was better than wondering what had happened to Iskandar. Maybe it would help him heal. “I know this is hard. I’ll give you a few minutes.” Then she left, footsteps fading past the airlock.

-- On weak legs, Antoni stumbled to the metal casket. He supposed it was that, at least. Then sagged against its side, unable to keep up his strength. His vision was blurred and head ached. The blood in veins rushed through him as emotion welled. “Goddamnit,” he couldn’t help but sob. “I fucking watched you go out. I broke my hand punching the pod door while I listened to you struggle to breathe. I thought maybe... maybe there was hope, at first, but then debris from the ship hit your line and...” He paused, to cry, to catch his breath. Powerful waves of emotion welled up, overcame his ability to speak. He stuttered. “I watched you...kick and struggle. I couldn’t bel—” Another pregnant pause. “Iskandar, you were my world. My reason to breathe. To get up in the morning. I had everything because of you. I had hope and reason to fight, to live. I remember meeting you, that face, those curls... I thought about that moment over and over. About how fucking cruel the universe is to deny you life, you of all people—!” He was so angry, he suddenly couldn’t breathe. A panicked attempt to draw in air followed, to control the rage. Choked words came. Choked and stuttered but true. He dug into them hard, held them with rage and vehemence. “You gave me so much when I thought I had nothing. You showed me hope and determination and a kindness I hadn’t thought existed. I am so in love with you. Everything about you. Your charity and patience and thoughtfulness. I always wondered what you saw in me, some guy like me who knew nothing, who was nothing. From the start, I was nothing, just barely alive, searching for purpose, for someone to understand me. I still... How am I supposed to go on without you? What...am I supposed to do?! How can I find reason to fucking exist with you gone from me and all that made me in the years we stood side-by-side was because of you! Without you, I may as well be fucking dust! Nothing! Again!” Then the tears fell, steady and thick. They stung his cheeks. “I miss you so goddamn much... I wish I could have went with you. I would have preferred to, rather than to know life without you again, to feel that absence and void... I don’t want to live without you... I just want an end to this...I want to join you...Fuck living. Fuck this life.... What is there left?” Silence fell. He sagged against the pod, head hung low. The tears still coursed down his face. A few minutes later, Liara returned. There was a soft gasp and she was at his side, scooping him up and bringing him against her. She softly rocked him in her arms, resting her cheek against his forehead. “Oh, Antoni...” “What’s going to happen to him?,” he asked. His voice cracked. “Are you turning him over to the Alliance?” He felt her breath catch up in her chest. “N-no,” she said. “About that...” --- “Are you sure about Cerberus?,” he asked. Of course, he was pensive, hesitant. After Akuze, Kohaku, and Toombs, he had every reason to be suspicious. He was trusting the body of his beloved to an organization that had caused much suffering. “This Miranda woman... she says there’s a possibility. We have to try, don’t we?”

Toni hung his head. He looked so pitiful, broken. She longed to hug him again. He needed all the soft contact he could get. “It may not change, Antoni, but if there’s a chance... if there’s a chance to save the universe, shouldn’t we try?” “The Reapers...,” he sighed. Liara shot him a compassionate glance, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “What will you do?” “My friend was captured while saving Shepard. I have to find a way to track him down.” Toni nodded. “You can’t tell anyone. If word were to get out, it may spread false hope. If it doesn’t work out... Well, we need to find a way to prepare.” Toni’s scoff wasn’t reassuring. “Yeah,” he croaked. “They swept Saren and Sovereign under the rug.” “I know,” Liara answered. “We must still try. Antoni, I know I cannot understand the depths of your sorrow, the loss you must feel, but if we don’t act, so many others will share in your experience. We must do what we can.” Toni shakes his head. More tears descend. He was such a beautiful human. Seeing him emotionally wrecked broke her heart. The state of his body and mind... He’d lost muscle mass and weight, and looked like he’d spent too many nights staring at the ceiling. “I know deep down you’re right, Li, but I don’t want to care...” “I know... I... I would feel the same were it me. Think about what Shepard would do. Please, try to take courage from his example.” “Unfortunately, I’m not as diplomatic as he. I’m not sure the Council would listen to me any better, and he had really good points. He knew how to argue. He knew how to work the system...” Liara dropped her head. “I-I’m sorry...” Toni shook his head, “No. I’m making excuses... I know this is right. I just can’t get my heart to listen.” “Focus on yourself, right now. It was selfish of me to expect you to assume his place. You need to take care of yourself. I never knew your past but I always sensed you’ve been through much.” “Y-yeah...” They both fell into silence. “I need to go,” she finally said. “Miranda is waiting and I need to find Feron.” Toni nodded numbly. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, which had gone dry. He could feel the dried saliva cracking as he moved it in attempts to work up moisture. “Please, be kind to yourself, Antoni. I’ll keep in touch when I can.”

Another nod. He stood on the dock and watched the ship depart. Small and silver, it shot off into the unknown with his husband on board, with only a tiny sliver of hope in his heart. A silent plea went with the departure. Please, Iska. I need you.