#i slide mine down the stairs right into melted wax.

[robotspock]

ken dolls are like the non living version of absurd hamster death stories

[platypanthewriter]

No Expectations

Just an idea that wouldn’t git, so I wrote it.  Maybe it’ll leave me alone?

Steve’s eye caught on the new guy tending bar at Harvey’s, and he nearly broke his nose dropping the pint glass into his face.  Billy Hargrove wasn’t the very last person he’d expected to run into trying to get another round, he thought—Hitler might might have been more surprising, or Ronald Reagan—but he stared all the same, until Billy looked up and grinned.

“Seen a ghost, Harrington?” he asked, and Steve felt like an idiot for wanting to nod—he knew Max’s brother had made it out of Starcourt Mall, and into intensive care, and then weeks of physical therapy—they’d all taken turns as moral support, helping her pick out awful presents.    

Steve swallowed.  “Max said you left.  ‘Cause your dad’s an asshole.”

“Don’t forget monsters,” Billy grunted, pouring shots with a spin of his wrist, and sliding them across the counter to someone and her gang of friends.  “Dunno why you all didn’t get the hell out of—”

“Why come back?!” Steve asked, not because he minded Hawkins, but because of the thick scars across Billy’s shirtless chest.  He tried to remember what they’d talked about, the last time he’d taken Max, Lucas, and Dustin to sit around Billy’s bed, the day before he left.  

Billy glanced at Steve’s face, then lowered his eyes to the glass he was drying.  “Max needs a roommate while she gets her degree, so I’m back.”

“Oh,” Steve nodded, spinning his empty beer glass against the counter.  Billy’d laughed, startling both of them, when Steve had helped him get to the bathroom, and he’d nearly fallen.  He’d been heavy—and warm, from his blankets, Steve remembered—and Steve had grabbed him with both arms, asking whether he was okay.  Billy had started laughing into his shoulder, muttering “shit, shit, sorry, shit,” the whole way down the hall, and left the next morning.  “You didn’t say anything,” Steve told his glass, and wished he hadn’t, because it sounded childish once it was out of his mouth.

Billy paused in his plucking of mint leaves to look up.  “...what did you—”

“Nothing,” Steve cut him off, looking at the boy who’d shoved him around, hit him with a plate, and nearly died trying to save Eleven.  “Nothing.”  He stood up to pull his coat back on, and Billy half-fell across the counter, knocking over the ketchup and pepper shaker to grab Steve’s glass.  

“On the house,” he said, running to the taps, and Steve opened his mouth to tell him what he’d been drinking, then let him fill it with Bud Lite.  “On the house,” Billy repeated, running back to smack it down in front of Steve, so the suds lapped over the edge.  “Sorry,” he panted, grabbing it back and wiping the glass.  “Here.”

“...okay,” Steve bit his lip, but sat back down, and whover was next to him slammed a fist on the counter, yelling.  Billy got them drinks while Steve contemplated his free beer.  

He was a third through it by the time Billy stopped in front of him again.  “...so,” he said, and Steve snorted.

“You got something to say?” he volleyed back, and Billy laughed, shaking his head.  

“Guess I’ll see you around,” he said, flashing a smile.

Steve tipped his head back and drained the glass, and a shot glass slid out of Billy’s hand and clattered to the floor.  Steve stood on the side bars of the stool to lean over the bar, watching Billy scramble around with an arm under the cupboards.  “...maybe you should learn to bartend,” he suggested, and Billy flipped him off.

“Order a real drink, Harrington—”

“Have to be up early,” Steve told him, grinning down.  “Bet you get to sleep in.”

“You wanna know?” Billy pushed himself up, his back and shoulders flexing, and Steve swallowed.  Billy brushed off his jeans.  “I’m off in two hours,” he said.  “If you…”

“What?” Steve asked, feeling strangled.

“If you want to catch up,” Billy said, shrugging, and Steve blinked.

“Um, you’ve been—Max probably told you everything.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, okay,” Billy shrugged, backing away, and Steve smacked his hands on the counter.  

“No, wait, yeah, let’s—let’s catch up!” he said, too loud, and Billy laughed.

 That night he sucked Steve off in the parking lot, against his station wagon, and Steve garbled “Holy shit,” and “What the hell” and “You’re so good at this” into a stream of gibberish, sinking to land on his butt on the gravel.  

“...some kinda catching up,” Steve panted, his knees on either side of Billy’s. 

“Mmn,” Billy leaned in, heavy against Steve’s chest, kissing up the side of his neck.

“Your place or mine?” Steve whispered, and Billy stilled, then laughed.

“Can’t get enough of me?” he asked, and Steve snorted.

 The next morning, Steve got dressed, brushed his teeth, and then crawled back over the covers, kissing Billy’s shoulder and the side of his head as he laughed, curling deeper into the blankets.  “You haveta work today?” Steve whispered, and Billy rolled to blink up at him.

“Mmpf?” Billy asked, squinting up.  “...why?”

“I’ll be done in an hour or two,” Steve told him, letting his thumb rasp against Billy’s stubble.  “Want me to bring back some food?”

Billy stared up at him for a second, then nodded.  “If you want to come back here.”

“Do you have to work?” Steve asked again.  “I can make myself scarce.”

“Nah, I can go again,” Billy propped himself up on his elbows.  “Kick me awake later.”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve rolled his eyes, and leaned in for a kiss Billy dodged.

“Morning breath, asshole,” Billy whispered.  “Hey.”  

“Mmn?” Steve asked, standing on one leg to tie his shoes.  

“Wait, dickbird, tell me you love me, if we’re gonna play house.” 

Steve leaned on the bed again to shove his blanketed bulk, but leaned in to smack a kiss on Billy’s head.  “See you later, babe, love you, g’bye,” he said dryly, and Billy rolled away, groaning into his pillow.

 When he showed up later, Billy was sitting on the arm of the couch, peeling the label off a beer bottle at eleven am.  “Didn’t know whether to lube up or set out the candles and tablecloth,” he said, laughing, and Steve walked around for another kiss.  

“Honey, I’m home,” he told Billy, who pressed up against him, wrapping a leg around Steve’s butt.  “Daydrinking without me?”

“Welcome back,” Billy whispered, grabbing Steve around the shoulders and falling back onto the couch, so they landed in a pile of limbs.  “Thought maybe you stood me up.”

“In sickness and in health, right,” Steve said against the skin of Billy’s throat, and Billy grabbed him tighter.

“You’re so goddamn weird,” Billy laughed.  “How long you gonna play house with the town fag?”

“What?” Steve stopped mid kiss, breathing against the buzz of Billy’s voice in his throat.

“No, nevermind,” Billy snorted.  “I’ll get it when you stop returning my calls, right.”

Steve pushed himself up, doing a pushup to stare down at Billy Hargrove’s grinning face.  “What?  You—”

“Ssh,” Billy pulled him down again, and in the ensuing kisses, Steve forgot what he’d wanted to say.

 Every so often Billy’d ask again—“How long’re we gonna play house, Harrington?” and Steve would stop to ask what that even meant, and Billy would distract him again, and demand flowers, chocolates, or a welcome-home kiss.  

He didn’t even seem to know what to do with flowers, Steve realized—he just stood staring at them, until Steve rescued them back, cut off the ends, and filled the blender with water as the closest thing to a vase.  For Valentine’s Day, he brought over the biggest, pinkest, sparkliest heart-shaped box he could find, and licked melted chocolate off Billy’s abs, thighs, and eventually, everywhere else.  The next day, he replaced the sheets.

 When Steve sped over from work and walked in on lit candles, covered dishes, and Billy pulling garlic bread out of the oven, Billy said, “Five month anniversary, right?”

Steve tried to remember what day it even was, kicking his shoes off, and Billy laughed, backing away.  

“Just playing,” he said quickly.  “Just playing house.”

“I like playing house,” Steve told him, sliding in his socks across the linoleum to kiss Billy’s neck where he was bent, frowning into the tinfoil.  “Need to talk to you about that.”

“...thought you might,” Billy said, stopping his inspection to clench his fists against the edge of the counter.  “What?”

“Kinda silly, us both having houses,” Steve said, the way he’d practiced in the mirror.  He slid a hand under Billy’s shirt, stroking his thumb over Billy’s taut muscles.  He felt a scar, and grabbed Billy’s hips to turn him, suddenly needing to get his face under Billy’s shirt and kiss his skin.  

“What—what are you saying,” Billy asked hoarsely.

“Don’t like it when you’re not there at night,” Steve told him, looking up from where he knelt on the floor.  “I roll over and there’s this cold space where you aren’t.”

“Holy shit,” Billy said, and he started laughing, but his eyes went all red and shiny, so Steve didn’t mind.  

“I have a garage,” Steve said persuasively, and Billy snorted, coughing.

“That’s your offer?  A garage.”

“You could wash your Camaro and the rain wouldn’t ruin the wax,” Steve tried.  “And there’s no stairs.  I know you hate hauling groceries up here.”

Billy just kept snickering, leaning back against the counter, and Steve bit his lip.  

“Or if you like it better here,” he surrendered, and Billy laughed harder, sinking down to the floor.  Steve wasn’t that attached to his house, he thought.  “I would do all the dishes,” he offered, and Billy tilted to lean against him, burying his face in Steve’s neck.  

“You’re bargaining with me,” he whispered, and Steve shrugged, beginning to wish he hadn’t said anything.

“You can just tell me where to shove it,” Steve forced a laugh, and it came out sharp.  “We can eat.”

“I get to sleep in your bed, though, right,” Billy whispered, sniffling.  “Not the garage.”

“What the hell,” Steve whispered back.  “Don’t make me bite you.”

“Go ahead,” Billy laughed.  “I’m yours.”

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Steve told him, yanking them both to their feet, so he could slap the keys he’d made into Billy’s hand.  “You want to, right?”

Billy nodded, standing there in the kitchen, holding the keys out and staring down through them.  “I—I want to.  I want to.  Are—are you sure you…”

“What?!” Steve asked, assessing the bread—it looked fine—and sliding it onto the prepared plate.  

“This—this is what you want?!” Billy asked, probably waving at himself like an asshole, and Steve kept his eyes on the precarious stack of bread, spinning to kick Billy lightly in the shin.  

“Stop sounding like you’re the discount version of something,” Steve told him, sticking his tongue between his teeth as he bore the bread out to the table.  “Yeah, I want to fucking play house, come play house with me.  Forever.”

“That sounds kind of ominous,” Billy said, his voice shaky.

“Gonna play the hell out of this house,” Steve muttered, and Billy started laughing again, leaning against his shoulder.  

“Feed me bread,” he commanded, and Steve shoved him, but pulled him back again after grabbing a slice.  “Honey.  Babe.  Lover,” Billy whispered, and Steve shoved the bread in his mouth, feeling his face heat.  

“Hurry up and eat, sweetums,” he whispered back, and Billy choked, coughing.  

 The first morning Steve awoke to sharing a house with Billy Hargrove, he was gone from the bed, and Steve stomped petulantly down to find him naked, in an apron, making breakfast.

He laughed until he cried.

[maximus-bruin]

Event One: Ambrosia

tw: blood, abuse, suicide mention, death, rape, self-harm, drowning, burning I. Principia 

Maximus sat with his back against the wall, watching carefully as he was handed his golden chalice. The young man eyed the contents of the drink carefully, swirling it around as he listened to the offered proposal. He wasn’t exactly sure if he was going to drink just yet. Being more observant and cautious, he was unsure if this was the best move. Just to save for any side effects that happened, other than the aforementioned pain and immense suffering. All parts of it spoke of poison to him, but at the same time, he wasn’t exactly sure there was much left for him. Hopes of returning home while he was stuck in Norway seemed unlikely, and it was either play along with this or suffer something probably worse. Still, the prospect of this being covered as poison and possibly killing him didn’t exactly calm him in the slightest. 

Staring at the liquid in the chalice, only illuminated briefly by the candles in the hall, Maximus steeled his nerves and drank away, letting the cool liquid slip past his lips and down his throat. It was mildly sweet to him, not overpowering or bitter. For something that was supposed to have such horrible effects, it wasn’t bad tasting at all. He drank it all in one go, not bothering to prolong it any longer. If this meant that he was done and could go back to sleep, then he’d much rather do that, instead of sitting around and waiting to see what other lectures he was about to receive. Whether or not he lived to see tomorrow, Maximus figured he’d find out the next morning. 

II. Semper Fideles 

There was this funny thought that kept running through his mind, the thing about if a tree falls in a forest but no one hears it, did it really fall? But replace all that with screaming, and that was how he felt. And what were they doing, but just staring at him. Letting it happen. Holding torches and walking up as a crowd to throw in onto his pyre. The young man thrashed at the vines that dug into his skin, but he was tied up tight, a point that was taken very clearly. Prickly points caused little rivulets of blood to trail down his skin, but it didn’t stop him from trying. Tied against the post as he heard their low, arcane chanting. But they were people that he knew. People he went to school with, teachers, neighbors. Mouths were covered, and yet it felt like they were drowning out his scream and pleas for help. And still, the fire grew closer. 

It was licking at his toes now, and Maximus was trying his best to not be another reenactment of the witch trials. But all he heard was the thumping bass of their chanting. Cast him out. Cast him out. What did they nickname in high school again? Right, the Outcast. Fitting. He wasn’t the conventional pretty boy or the athletic boy or even the indie boy. He was the poor boy that got bussed in early mornings, lived off hand-outs and worked in his spare time. Not the richy rich or even the middle class. And if they saw him now, drinking chalices and having hallucinations like this, maybe they were right to burn him at the stake. Was he a witch? Going insane? The fire grew higher, continuing to consume his legs with this all-consuming hellfire. Tears streamed down his face as his voice grew hoarse with his screams. The pain was unbearable, slow and painful, yet searing hot and inflammatory all the same. He wished, as it rose up to his chest, the tips of the flames encroaching his neck, that it happened all at once. A flash fire, or even the grease fires he’d seen before at work. Nothing like this. This… was pain. Agony he was unfamiliar with. And Maximus’ eyes closed for his last, he thought. 

III. Vero 

He awoke with a start, clutching at the blanket that laid over his body. A dream. Nightmare. That was… reassuring, Maximus supposed. It felt so… realistic though. The way his skin felt heated, the way the burns were almost traceable on his body, even if they weren’t there. Glancing over, he saw that the candle by his beside had burned out, and perhaps the hot wax had dripped onto his hand. That must have been what woke him up. Rubbing his head, the dark-headed boy chuckled softly to himself. Right. Ambrosia. Poison. Sure. Just to be sure this wasn’t some other dream and such, he pinched himself hard on the back of his hand. You know, the whole pain to wake you up, to make sure it was real. And sure enough, it hurt like hell. Ouch. Worth it, he supposed as he adjusted his bed to sleep once more. But there was soft voice, this calling. It sounded like… “Mom?” 

Climbing out of his cot, Maximus walked over to the closet, where the sound was emanating from. As he popped it open, he met the gaze of one of his earliest crushes. Someone who he adored, who he couldn’t ever bring himself to tell that he loved, because how could he. But the sounds they made, they felt like his mother calling out to him. Asking him for help, yet at the same time, reassuring him that things were fine. His mother’s voice, but his love’s face. It should have clicked for him, but it didn’t. As the young man reached down to help them up from the floor of the closet, the other person grabbed his wrist. Tight. Too tight, in fact, where he heard his bone practically crack. Crying out, the dark-haired boy fell to his knees, trying to dull the pain of the broken bone. 

Useless, it hissed, shoving him down onto the wooden flooring. With a grunt, Maximus reached up towards the other with his other hand, watching in horror as it gripped his wrist with a clawed grasp. The creature wore a face so familiar to him, so recognizable that he wanted to trust it. But the eyes, those beady black eyes almost glowed in the darkness of his room as it pried away his hold. “W-Wait…” he stammered, but it slammed the closet door shut on him. And there he was in complete darkness, feeling the walls of the closet slowly compress and move in on him. At first he was sprawled on the ground, and the next instant, his limbs were pressing into his chest as the closet boxed him up. The clustering pain, the enclosed space was encroaching him, forcing him into more and more uncomfortable positions. Trying to push back against the trap, he knew he was fighting a losing battle from the moment it began to close on him. Maximus began tumbling, as if his box was falling down an endless flight of stairs. One bump after another, bouncing him continuously away into the dark void below that seemed to swallow him whole. 

IV. Corpus 

The water he splashed on his face seemed to jolt him, washing away the remnants of such a horrid dream. Maximus shivered, the cold water enough to keep him going he thought. He scrubbed his face, trying to rub down the weariness that seemed to seep out from his skin. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five fingers on the left, good. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five fingers on the right. Not a dream. He counted his fingers over again, just to be sure. Double check his work, right? The nightmares were excessive at this point. It was getting too much, blending together in a way where he wasn’t even sure anymore if he was asleep or awake anymore. But he learned about this trick. This should work. This was reality. 

And as if to prove him wrong, the walls around him began to shake, and Maximus began sliding. It was as if the whole place began to turn, rotated on a wheel. The walls slowly merging and blending together, until he was rolling around in this tube. There was nothing for him to grasp, everything around him crashing down and tumbling just like him. Maximus gasped, trying to avoid begin crushed while making it to the end of the curved hallway. Just to stop the spinning for a second, to grab onto the edge and hang if he had to. Pushing his way through, the young demigod lunged forward, fingers grasping tightly to the edge that seemed to drop off into darkness. What happened to the world he knew? To the water that he was just splashing on his face? But the rumbling failed to cease. In fact, it only got louder. Maximus’ face paled as he saw an enormous head rising before him, bloodshot eyes all too familiar. That face, that sneering expression. It carried so much weight behind it. Power that he had difficulty overcoming, a control that seemed to have a hold over him. It spoke of lust, of anger, of that… man. Every bit of him was just so familiar, so realistic, it was hard to believe he was even here. Maximus had thought he had gotten away. 

Suddenly, the tube began spinning quicker, shifting and morphing into a sphere. The edge he once grasped melted away, and Maximus was tumbling head over heels once more. It was like he was in this snow globe of horror, that face imprinted everywhere he saw. And he could hear it too, with his large hands clasping either side of the globe. You’re so perfect. So pretty. Don’t worry; I’ll make you feel good. You’re mine. All mine. Forever. 

V. Hereditas 

Bursting out of that room, the young man shut the door behind him tightly. His chest was heaving, eyes widened in fear. He needed this to be over, he wanted it all to stop. He needed a break, just to breathe. Sliding down the door, Maximus reached into his pocket, clutching onto his keepsake. It was a trick his mother had told him her family passed down through the generations. Some object that kept you grounded, and if you focused on it long enough, all dreams faded away. Knowing it like the back of his hand, Maximus traced the small outlines of the leather keychain, the end of it a feather. The mini dreamcatcher was his only father’s gift to him, or so his mom had said. He never knew him, so the young man could only take what his mother said at face value. 

And all around him, there was just one resounding click. Like the hand of a clock, but it was. amplified through all-surrounding loudspeakers. Doors appeared all around, shooting down the infinite hallway. The click sounded urgent, demanding. As if trying to force him away from one room to the next. That or an impending monster, clicking its way down the hallway towards him. Not eager to test that last theory out, Maximus opened up the following door, his keepsake still in hand. And there he was, an exact copy of him. Hand where hand was, face mimicking the same movements. He stared on in fascination, because it was just a mirror. That was it. Except mirror reflections didn’t move on their own. It didn’t reach down and grab the knife that was so conveniently there and slice away at his wrists. Maximus staggered back in surprise, watching in horror as blood began to trickle out of his own reflection’s wrists. It was so frightening that he dropped his own keepsake. He could feel something drip down onto his own fingers, and when glancing down, the dark-haired man was greeted with the sight of his own wrists bleeding. Except he didn’t do that. His reflection did that. Not him, not him, not him. He could only do what he did best, which was run. And so, the young man fled the horrifying specter, bursting into another room. The resounding click rang throughout the space as the door opened, just as insistent as the last time. 

And there he was. Hanging. Rope around neck, dangling like a slab of meat he had seen so often in the back freeze of the diner. Eyes unflinching as they held his gaze. There was a tightness around Maximus’ neck unlike anything he had felt before. Gasping for breath, the young man pushed on, one door after another. Drowning. Click. Pills. Click. Falling from a height that left him with a sickening crunch and blood splatter. Click. It was one death after another, and it was too much for him. The rooms were endless, just visions of how he could kill himself if he wanted. Oddly enough, the clicks felt rhythmical, controlled in a way that dictated he remain in each room for a certain amount of time. Just enough to witness the death happen, and to have it happen to him in turn. Perhaps this was the poison that he feared for so long, bubbling up inside of him and spilling out as he lay on the ground, struggling to reach the handle for the next door, as if, by some sheer dumb amount of hope, the next one would be his escape. 

VI. Offero 

He wasn’t sure if he slept at all. The way his body was covered in a sheen cover of sweat, the way his feet crunched against the cold, frost-covered leaves. It was a wonder he was even alive. Why the fuck did he have to come here, of all places? In the winter? So much for the holidays; his feet were so numbed and yet so pained, Maximus was certain he had frostbite. There was no way he wouldn’t. He didn’t even know where he was, only staring out over some lake, where the waters lapped at the shoreline. He would’ve appreciated the beauty if he wasn’t huddled against the side of a tree, arms wrapped around his bare chest as he tried to cover himself and warm himself. Maximus wasn’t sure at what point in the night he had scratched himself, if he did, but there was no way to tell for sure with the dried and frozen blood on his fingertips and the claw marks on his chest. From the way his back stung, he could tell he went berserk there. 

The worst part about this, despite being too cold to really move with what little willpower he had left, was that Maximus wasn’t even sure he was still awake or if he was dreaming. All the tricks he thought he knew, about pinching yourself, counting the number of fingers you had, testing out some mental object that he had traced with such explicit detail, all of those tricks failed. So this, to him, was no less a nightmare. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. He whimpered softly, suddenly feeling the world spin underneath him. And the young man was leaning over, retching again and again with his insides suddenly coming outside of him. There were voices, voices that he wasn’t sure if they were stuck inside his mind or actually voices around him. Could he trust the voices? More tricks and troubles coming his way. His eyes fluttered weakly as he saw a trail of torches cutting through, making its way closer and closer to him. For now, he’d stay here. The pain in his head, the tattered shirt around him, the way the snow could envelop his toes and fingers and numb what he was feeling, even if it was just a dream… Maximus figured he’d just stay a little longer, letting the feeling wash over him and lull him to sleep. Who knew you could sleep in a dream? Just for a little bit; he needed the rest.

[flannelpunkcalum]

The Devil Wears Kevlar - Part 6

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 7

I’ve been excited to post this chapter for WEEKS you guys are hopefully gonna love it. also not to spoil it or anything but CONTENT WARNING: this chapter contains violence ok that is all. pls enjoy and let me know what you thought! 4k words

“Dick Grayson, you’re a brilliant actor.”

It had been all too easy to get into the kitchens. Aspen had pretended Dick was nervous something bad was waiting for him around the corner after his scare, and chefs are usually pretty kind-hearted, they melted. For their troubles, Aspen and Dick got a plate full of the edge pieces of brownies and cheesecake bites - not fit to serve to guests, but more than good enough for them.

They eat them in a stairwell in a hall just off the ballroom, where they’re close enough to the action and can keep from being late.

“That was the performance of a lifetime.” She continues, reaching for another brownie. Dick smiles quietly at her around a mouthful of dessert. He’s a bit of an oddball, if she’s honest, but then again so was she at that age. He’s good company, she’ll say that much. “You get dragged to a lot of these fundraisers?”

Dick nods. “D’you ever mind?” Aspen asks again. She knows she would have. She’d been a sullen fucking kid.

“No, it’s what’s right, for me to do this. It’s important work. There’s no point in catching - like, having the police catch criminals without making sure there are ways for people to survive without having to become criminals in the first place.”

Aspen’s surprise must show, because Dick glances away, like he’s embarrassed. “At least, that’s what Calum says.”

“Nah, man, that’s such an intelligent way to look at it. You’re very- see, I was going to say mature, but that makes it sound like all adults think like that, and we both know that’s not true. Dick Grayson, I’m honoured to be your partner in crime.”

Aspen had been joking, but he almost falls down the stairs laughing at that. She didn’t know it was that funny, but she’ll take it.

It’s not nearly long enough before she gets a text from Calum Hood telling her to bring Dick and come to the ballroom, the guests are showing up. He does not remember putting in his number under anything other than “Work”, so she’s confused immediately. “I didn’t know your dad had this number,” she frowns, and when Dick avoids her eyes she assumes it’s because of how she addressed Calum. “I mean your guardian, I guess. Your parental unit. Hey, look at me, need you to check me for crumbs.”

They make sure they have no chocolate in the corners of their mouths before they head back into the fray. The room looks a little less intimidating with a lower concentration of cops in, and what she can only imagine is Gotham’s hottest string quartet is playing something that sounds like Rachmaninoff. It’s not so bad.

As soon as she sees Dick head across the ballroom to Calum, she slides back to her table with the stoic police officer she met before. Officer Montoya, she remembers. “I miss anything good?” She asks cheerfully, and as Montoya shakes her head Aspen slides a bit of brownie wrapped in a napkin over to her.

They get along a lot better after that.

Donations start to trickle in. Well, not exactly trickle, since the men and women visiting her little table are giving money to the orders of thousands. Aspen had been prepared for that, she thought, but watching people put down a year’s rent in one go in making her lightheaded. Still, she nods and smiles, and no one looks too long at her, which is exactly what she wanted.

Still, it’s almost five thirty, and she’s getting antsy like this. The champagne being passed around looks more and more inviting each time a waiter passes by their table. Calum looks distracted, so she snags a flute off a tray while he’s talking to some other couple dripping with money, and after she takes a sip she places it on the floor by the leg of her chair. Just so none of the guests think they’re giving their money to some lush. Watever. Mr. Hood is drinking, so she’s probably allowed to have just a little, right?

Plus, Aspen never feels more extravagant than when she’s day drinking. She deserves to have a little fun at this thing, just a bit.

Things have been relatively quiet so far, but as Calum steps up to a podium to give his talk she sits up a little straighter. People are undoubtedly going to be inspired by whatever he has to say, so she’s got to be prepared. She takes a more substantial sip of bubbly as he starts to speak, since she’s sure she’ll have her hands full in just a second.

(Sidenote: Aspen loves champagne.)

It turns out that Calum is an eloquent guy, when he wants to be. Aspen’s about two minutes away from digging a five out of her own purse as he waxes poetic about the kids who have to go to school hungry, work to keep a roof over their family’s heads, or beg in alleys. She’s encouraged to see how many diamond earrings are bobbing along to this, how many people look pleased with how generous he’s says they could be. Everyone wants to be good, she thinks, somewhere deep down, even if it’s just to them and theirs. And these people, they’re powerful, they think Gotham is theirs.

Sometimes, when he snaps at her, Aspen forgets how smart Calum Hood is. Right now, as he’s gently wrapping Gotham’s one percent around his finger, she can’t forget it.

She really wants more champagne, as if that would help anything, but she resists as he starts to close his speech. “Gotham’s present may seem… brutal,” He says, with just the right amount of sorrow in his voice, “but together you and I can assure its bright future. When you have a moment, my assistant is waiting to take your donations right after she takes mine. Any amount is welcome, and please, for the kids’ sake, be generous. Enjoy the music!” He adds, and as he soon as he steps aside he makes a beeline for the table.

Aspen golf-claps politely for him as he comes over, and she sees him smile, like he’s bashful, as if he didn’t know he had the whole room in a bind. His guests are still applauding for him as he steps over to her, for fuck’s sake. “I’m truly moved, sir.” She says, starting to type his information into the tablet.

“You’re sweet,” He says, and Aspen misspells his last name just from that.

She corrects herself quickly enough. “I’m honest.” She shrugs, and fixes her eyes back on him. “And how much would you like to donate today, sir?”

“Match it.”

“What?”

“Whatever amount is there. Match it.”

Aspen can be a little dramatic, she says she’s going to go into convulsions or have a heart attack all the time, but this time she actually almost falls out of her chair. “That’s-”

“Match it.”

His look at her leaves no room for argument, so Aspen bites back her response. She knows he’ll see her look and that always seems to speak volumes, between them. “Cash or cheque?” She jokes- thankfully, since he pulls out a chequebook and not a bag of notes like some cartoon bank robber.

Aspen doesn’t watch as he writes out all the zeros on the cheque, she knows she’ll get nauseous. Montoya’s got a damn good poker face, she’ll say that much. When Calum’s done he draws back, but he doesn’t move to leave just yet. “You’re drinking?”

“What?” Aspen blinks. Calum taps his foot against the leg of the table, right next to her flute of champagne. Oh. Suppose she’s caught, then. “You’re drinking.” She says, instead, and fixes her gaze on him. She has to curl her hand into a fist under the desk to maintain it, but he doesn’t know it.

For once, for fucking once, he breaks first. “Fair enough.”

It’s better than champagne, this feeling, but Aspen tries not to show it. “I’m done for now, anyways, I just wanted to taste.” She shrugs. “Gotta stay sharp.”

Calum smiles. “I’ll check in before the dinner.” He says, but doesn’t sound like a warning. It doesn’t sound like just business, either. Aspen doesn’t think about what that leaves.

She focuses on her job, after that. I mean, she was focusing before, but now she’s- fuck. Whatever. She takes the money, she says thank you in her sweetest voice, she makes the donors feel good for what they’ve done. Maybe they deserve it. Aspen doesn’t know if she trusts the rich, not right now, but she can be kind for an afternoon.

She’s aching for another drink by the time guests start to filter out from the ballroom, but she keeps her hands on the table and her smile on her face while she puts down another Drake’s name. Some family, goddamn. When she finally finds time to look around, the room is almost empty. Thank god.

She stands up and stretches, arms about her head. Her back cracks, and Montoya jumps, swears beside her. “Sorry,” Aspen says, as she sits back down and they start to count up the cheques. Aspen has to make a note of someone who said they'd offer $5000 but only wrote a cheque for $500, but it still says “five thousand” on that one line, but that's all that's wrong and Aspen is elated. She expected a robbery or something, anything to justify the security, but this is good too. Now she's confident that the guests have all climbed into their limos and gone to the second leg of the gala, and she's almost - almost! - free to go.

“I'm gonna find Mr. Hood and tell him how much we made so we can go home.” She announces, standing up and trekking across the ballroom. He doesn’t seem to be anywhere, at first glance, and Aspen has to ask two waiters and some unrelated bodyguard until she gets directed towards an office. The door is open a crack and Calum’s there, he’s talking to T. Giordano (Aspen read the nameplate). When she explains that she’s only there to bring Mr. Hood up to speed, T. Giordano lets them use her office while she oversees the end of the event. Aspen’s so pleased about this; she hasn’t slouched in hours, her back feels all sort of wrong.

Calum’s had some rough days, but he looks genuinely happy as Aspen steps into the office. He’s not smiling, but there’s a lightness in his shoulders she hasn’t seen for days. “I think it’s good news, sir.” She says carefully, holding out the tablet in front of her. “I mean, it’s more than you raised last year, so that’s something.”

He takes the tablet from her and looks it over, smiling just a little. “What’s this category, the one just-”

She steps over to his side to look. “Oh, I did a column of all the amounts we actually got from the people, just to make sure there were no problems with the cheques - actually, if you see-”

“I’ll deal with it.” He says. “Thank you for your help today, Aspen, I couldn’t have pulled this off without you.”

He is sweet, but flattery isn’t something Aspen is likely to fall for. “I just watched people write cheques, sir. This was always your event,” and maybe it’s the champagne that’s made her brave but she bumps him with her hip - maybe it’s just because this is the first time she’d been close enough to do it.

Whatever the reason, that’s what sets it off.

Calum’s head snaps over to look at her. They’re leaning against the edge of T. Giordano’s desk, but when Aspen sees the look in his eyes she straightens up a little. Maybe she shouldn’t have done that. He’s putting down the tablet as she starts to apologize. “Sorry if that was inappropriate, it’s been a long day.” She shrugs.

He’s standing right in front of her. “Don’t worry about it.” He says, and when the absence of any scolding in his voice makes her look up he’s giving her this look she’s never seen, like he’s trying to set her soul on fire. His brows are creased, like it hurts, and he huffs out a little breath she doesn’t dare try to interpret. “Can I just-” He says, and reaches out and puts one hand on her waist.

Her eyes are locked on his, but she can feel her chest heave with shallow breaths, feels his hand shift a little with each one. “Yes,” is all she can say, even though there was no question.

Slowly, Calum uses his hold on her hip to drag himself in, and he lowers his head. Before Aspen can remember why she shouldn’t - he’s your boss he’s insane he’s a player and you’re just - he fits his mouth to hers and they are kissing.

There’s nothing rough about this. No teeth. Nothing tears. Just the soft press of his lips against hers and the deep sign he lets out against her cheek. He’s testing again, to see how where she’ll let this go. Yes, she thinks, yes, and she lets him pull himself so close she can feel the heat off his body, and cup her chin gently. He turns her head, just a little, as their lips move against each other like whispers.

Aspen isn’t usually pliant, but she moves with him. His lips are soft against hers, and the way he feels against her- she’d follow that fucking anywhere. This feels like everything she wanted, and she reaches out and finds the back of his neck, pulls him closer, to kiss him deeper, and-

It sounds like a gasp as he pulls away and grabs her wrist, tearing her hand off his skin before she’s even opened her eyes. They’re both panting, blinking in the light, and Aspen won’t be mad about this as long as he lets her kiss him again, she swears, just- “What?”

He’s not looking at her when he says “We can’t do this. You’re drunk.”

A different kind of burning settles into her chest. “I’ve had half a glass of champagne, I’m not-”

“Then I’m drunk.” He interrupts her, though his hand is still on her waist. Aspen tries to tug her wrist out of his grip, but he’s holding tight to that, too.

Aspen wasn’t looking for this and she knows how it goes, when some secretary falls for their boss. She’s the one in danger, not him, and if he says he doesn’t want- if that’s what he wants, then… “If you say so.”

The room seems dead silent, now, so that every word she says almost echoes around the room. Calum feels it too. He shudders a little and lets go of her, all of her, and draws back.

They collect themselves. The kiss only lasted a few seconds, but they find things to adjust and fix so they don’t have to look at each other. Aspen straightens out her cardigan, moves away from the desk like it’s a trap. She watches Mr. Hood smooth imaginary wrinkles out of his jacket, and when he turns to face her again it’s like a door has closed somewhere inside of him. Whatever light had been in his face is gone.

She doesn’t want to let it scare her, but - her job, his kiss, there’s so much she needs from him.

She waits for him to speak.

“We should put this behind us.” He says, finally. Aspen didn’t expect anything less, but hearing it out loud - it stings. “This was a mistake.”

That’s worse. There’s a lot Aspen can take, but right now, while she’s still got the taste of him in her mouth… She feels white-hot angry, just for a second, and then she collects herself. “Don’t worry about it.” She says, in a voice that’s way too sweet. She turns to the tablet, so she doesn’t have to see how he reacts. “‘S only a mistake if you let it happen again, right?”

“What?”

She hates the idea of looking at him right now, so she stays facing the desk. “Like - it’s only a mistake if you don’t learn from it, if you let it happen again, so don’t worry about it, I’ll see you Monday, I’m gonna-”

He spins her around in one movement and this time when he kisses her it is rough, but she’s angry too and she tangles her fingers in his hair as soon as she knows what’s happening. He’s pressed his tongue into her mouth and his hands are tight around her hips, strong enough to hold her there. He’s pressed right up against her, crowding her against the desk, and she kisses him back like she wants the air out of his lungs. His teeth catch at her lower lip and she opens her mouth a little wider for him, just so he please won’t stop.

It’s so good, but it’s too intense, and after a long moment they break apart and rest their foreheads together, still panting into each other’s mouths. They’ve still got their nails dug into each other, but Aspen can feel something more than lust and chemicals between them, and as he meets her eyes-

He steps back, like he’s been shoved. “There.” He says, but his usual sureness has melted and she can see his eyes flicker, like he’s nervous. “Now it’s a mistake.”

He’s gone before she can reply.

Aspen doesn’t remember too much, after that. She knows what she did, mostly, to get herself out of the botanical gardens and into a cab, but it’s a blur of smiling and excuses when she tries to think back to who she talked to or what she said. It doesn’t matter, really. She doesn’t scream and she doesn’t cry and she gets in a taxi and really that’s all she needs.

When she has to tell the driver to take her to Hood Enterprises, she almost stutters over Calum’s last name. It hurts, a little, because she wanted this, even though she knew this would happen. Did she think she could handle it? She didn’t love this job, but she was good at it and it payed damn well, and- she might have to quit. Fuck, she hadn’t started this with the intention of leaving before a month was up, but-

Before she can finish that thought they’re at Hood Enterprises headquarters. All she wants is to go in, listen to a few phone calls, and go home, but as soon as she enters the lobby-

“Aspen!”

Shit.

“What do you want.” She says to Liam, too tired to hide her anger. She doesn’t need this right now.

“Is Mr. Hood coming back tonight?”

Aspen doesn’t flinch when she hears his name, but it’s a near thing. “No, he’s not. Now, please, get out of my way, Liam, I just want to go home.” When she tries to push past him, Liam moves to block her, and when she looks at him properly she sees that he’s got what are very near tears in his eyes. “Wait, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Liam runs a hand through his hair and doesn’t meet her gaze. “Aspen… I really, really fucked up. I dunno if I can fix it. In sales, I- can you come? Please? I need-” He breaks off, his voice about to crack.

“How’m I supposed to help you out with sales, Liam, I’m not-” She shakes her head. Liam just gave her his biggest saddest eyes he’s got.

Well, shit. Aspen is mad at Liam for everything he did, but that doesn’t mean she can just turn her back on him. She doesn’t want to be the reason he’s fired, after all. They used to be friends, and she guesses some part of her misses that. After a long moment she sighs and checks the time on her phone. “I can’t stay long.” She says quietly.

Liam almosts lifts off the ground, he’s so relieved. “Thank you so much.” He says, stepping aside so he can lead her towards the elevator.

“I don’t know what you expect me to be able to do, Liam, you know I’m useless when it comes to econ.” She’s been through enough today, she’s not gonna let herself get carried away.

“I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Really. Aspen, you’re - thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Aspen mumbles as he presses the button and the doors close. They start moving down - wait, down? “Why are we headed to the parking garage?” She glances at him, reaching for the panel of buttons. “What floor do you work on aga-”

The attack is sudden, and it feels so brutal that years later it’s still one of her nightmares.

Liam grabs her arm before she can finish her sentence, sliding around her so it twists behind her back all in one move, pushing her front up against the wall of the elevator in one smooth move. She gasps, but before she can panic properly she remembers to fight back. Even as Liam’s weight crushes her lungs, she jerks back with her free elbow, hitting some soft part of Liam’s torso behind her. She feels his breath on her neck as she strikes out again, again.

There’s one thought running through her head; she’s not gonna die like this. She’s not.

Liam presses her arm further up her back, sending enough pain through her shoulder to make her whole body buckle. But he’s backed off a little, out of elbow range, so as soon as Aspen hears the door open she pushes off the wall with her whole body to get out of his grip.

She must surprise him, because it works. She pushes him off enough to shake out of his grip, runs for the grey concrete of the parking lot. Liam’s footsteps echo behind her, but she’s fast, she can-

Liam tackles her with his full weight. As Aspen hits the ground she skids, palms stinging. Shit. She tries to get her knees under herself, but Liam’s got her pinned and he flips her over to her back easy - he’s twice her fucking size! She tries to punch him, but he catches her wrist slams it to the grounds about her head. The other one follows.

Aspen’s gasping for air and trying to take stock. Liam is straddling her, he’s got her wrists pinned above her head and even now he moves so that he’s got both of them in one hand. He’s reaching into a pocket for something and she doesn’t want to know what. “Liam,” she says, “don’t, Liam, I- help!”

Liam swears, and she feels him ruck up one side of her cardigan, bunching it up past her elbow. Her blood goes cold. She screams again, but this time she can’t find any words for this.. She looks around as best she can, but the lot is empty of cars.

It’s just her. She’s alone.

A scraping sound catches her attention, and when she looks back at Liam he’s pulling the plastic cover off a syringe with his teeth. She struggles against his grip. What else can she do? “Fuck, Liam, don’t- what are you doing-”

“Please stay still, please, okay, I don’t want to hurt you.” He says.

Then he plunges the needle into her arm.

Aspen fucking wails, and yes, she knows its undignified, but she can feel whatever was in that syringe flow through her bicep and it’s a living horror. Liam throws the weapon away and rolls off her, but by the time she drags herself up on her elbows she can guess what he shot into her veins. Everything feels heavy - her head is too much for her neck, and she almost collapses before Liam gathers her into his arms.

She hates him.

He’s murmuring something - it takes effort to tune in, like the world is a radio. Something… he’s sorry? “Fuck you,” Aspen murmurs. She’s too tired for this. She just needs to- for a second- just-

She closes her eyes.

[thirdhostage]

Cared for

(( gif not mine ))

(A/n): lowkey hate myself

JACKSEPTICEYE x FEM!READER

Request:  I don't know if you do smut but...Sean (Jack) were you're a youtuber that focuses on more filmy arty type of stuff but you're somehow affiliated with his yt friends? & you've both been kinda flirty between each other for awhile , but recently you've been super tired & sad because you work so hard & there's bad rumours going around about you. So he tries to talk to talk to you but it doesn't work so he starts touching you & he tells you he can look after her tonight? So kinda fluff but still hot?

Warnings: THIS IS NOT SMUT only at the end does it get a bit frisky but no actual sex guys this is PG 13

Listened to: this

_____

“NO.” she screamed as her canvas tumbled to the floor for the ninth time in one set.

(Y/n) crammed both her hands onto her head, tightly gripping her grease slicked locks. They sighed sharply, eyes widening in spite.

Dropping both arms with lame joints, the girl’s head shot back to glare at the roof.

“Lord, go fu--”

Her anxious mumbling was cut off by a stray voice of the opposite gender. It radiated from down the stairs.

“The fuck was that? Ye’ alright, (Y/n)?” it asked. Of course, the voice belonged to none other than Sean.

(Y/n) fought back the urge to cuss him out and yell ‘no’ once more. She instead offered the voice a not-so-convincing ‘yes’ and pushed some hair behind her ears.

“Ugh..” she groaned grossly, smudging around hair grease between her pointer finger and thumb “I need to shower... again..”

The thought seemed to tax (Y/n)’s mind while she hesitantly snatched a towel from her mess of a bed. The (h/c) girl yelled out her door that she was about to shower- informing Sean. Her heavy steps led her to the in suite bathroom.

Her cramped hand shut and locked the door.

Jack, from in the kitchen, was confused and worried. He knew what (Y/n)’s ‘sad’ voice sounded like. And that’s what bothered him; what he heard wasn’t her sad voice..

In the bathroom, the girl stripped and ran the water, slowing stepping under it.

“My camera died, my canvas keeps falling, I haven’t uploaded in weeks- I don’t think I can get this done....” she talked herself out, hands pawing gently at her scalp.

“Maybe I can go on a hiatus.. and like...” biting her tongue and tightening her face- she groaned.

“I don’t fucking know...”

After the events of the shower, (Y/n) stepped out once more.

Tenderly, she placed a towel on her head and was about the begin drying her damp hair... but she was stuck staring at the floor, towel pulling over her face as well.

The soft buzzes of (Y/n)’s phone charmed the hollow sounding bathroom walls. It lulled (Y/n)’s mind into a daze until it was clear her phone wished to be looked at.

Its screen showed off many messages when she finally turned it over. At first from her friends. Mark inviting (Y/n) to a late lunch, Tyler asking how her day was treating her thus far.

You scoffed at the very thought.

Tolling down more, she viewed several twitter notifications. Arguments that were about her.

Snide comments, directed at (Y/n).

Insults, for (Y/n).

Rumours, that centered around (Y/n)..

“Jesus Christ..” she whispered, not being able to tear her eyes away from her phone screen.

From the people on the other side that called her clickbait, for knowing Mark. A fake, for talking to Tyler. A distraction, for laughing with Ethan.

A gold digger, for dating Sean.

“..Jesus Christ.....” she said again, weaker this time.

⟵     🢞   🢞   🢞   🢞   🢞     ⟶

(Y/n) slipped from the bathroom, towel around her neck and clad in nothing but a shirt and underwear.

Did she care? Yes. Should she care? No.

No, they shouldn’t be able to say anything like that. They should be forced to be kinder. No one could be that rude and mean it.

But they had their rights. They had the freedom to express anything they’d like online or in person. They had the choice to be rude or malicious or harmful.

The contradicting thoughts set (Y/n)’s mind ablaze.

The girl fell harshly on her bed. Head aching, eyes aching, chest and back tight. Why?

“(Y/n)?”

Sean’s voice came as a surprise. It’s naturally soft and caring base flooding the room, bringing a quiet warmth.

“Sean?” (Y/n) mocked sadly, (e/c) eyes flushing with salty tears.

The boy gently sat himself next to her on the bed..

“What’s bugging you...” the male pried. He rubbed a reassuring hand along “(Y/n)’s knee “..can I help?”

She shot up wearily, glaring at her boyfriend with a pained expression. Several times, (Y/n) opened and shut her quivering mouth.

“II’m confused... and I’m hurt.” (Y/n) relished bitterly, leaving her mouth hang open at the end- like she had something to defend.

Sean’s eyes hardened with spite then flashed back to understanding; his hand tightened on (Y/n)’s knee a little as he talked.

“Well, maybe if you just.. rest it out. Have a long nap, you know?”

His suggestion was genuine, but the brunette harboured more ideas.

“I can’t do that.” she denied sourly “I have too much pent up energy. If I-I slept, I would wake up exhausted..”

Something about (Y/n)’s oblivious demure costed a wave through Jack’s body. At this moment, it might have been obvious to some others what his intentions were. Not to (Y/n), of course.

Sean took a moment, allowing a smirk to tug at his lips. He dropped it and removed his hand from her.

(Y/n) missed it’s promising warmth.

“(Y/n)...” Sean spoke lowly.

The Irishman, facing the youtuber, leaned in slightly. His eyes drooped to her lap and remained there.

“Can I help?” he opted to repeat his line from earlier.

In a needy fashion, Jack twisted one of his large hands to take (Y/n)’s smaller ones and place them by her sides.

He now would not be able to see she tightly gripping the bed set.

“I’m quite caring if you let me be such...”

Sean’s voice sounded menacing, his accent soundly wrapping each syllable of his enduring speech.

The male’s mouth briefly hovered over her neck, offering it a ghost of a kiss. The simple contact left the girl’s skin feeling overly warm.

“I really can..” the male youtuber continued, placing a similar kiss above the last. He made his tedious way up.

After reaching her jaw, Jack pulled back slowly and passed her conflicted face to attack the opposite side of her neck.

One kiss to slide half way down her tender neck before he bit down painfully slow.

The (e/c) eyed girl froze and consciously compressed her throat. Her hooded eyes blurred for a second.

“Don’t keep your moans from me, love.”

(Y/n) had something to retaliate with, but didn’t care to say it.

“Look, darling, see...” finally the boy leaning back, pushing forth to (Y/n) a blessed smile paired with polite eyes.

In some moment, when (Y/n) peered into his eyes, stress and rapid build up melted like warm wax. Something in her gut fluttered wildly, but something different was beneath it.

“I care about you, deeply,” Sean’s words were more than genuine, honesty bleeding through them.

He loved (Y/n) and had no idea what was going on with her. He knew, he had to do something to make his girlfriend feel better. Otherwise guilt would kill him. 

“So let me care for you.”

_____

(A/n): LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE GUNNA WAKE UP EXHAUSTED EITHER WAY

[peopleandrhythm]

S2E8: Look What You’ve Done

This episode contains a musical cue. When you come upon the hyperlinked phrase, please click the link to be taken to a YouTube video that will play a song chosen to accompany that scene.

“Alright, focus.”

Hope looks up from the candle, glowering at her uncle. “I am focusing.” She retrains her attention on the flame. She tries to keep her body as still as possible, but her leg is starting to fall asleep, and her nose itches. And then, of course, there are the voices.

Kol watches, unimpressed. “You’re not focusing.”

She lets out a strangled groan and flops back onto the floor of the attic. “This is pointless.”

“It isn’t pointless,” Kol insists. “If you’d like not to go crazy before you’re old enough to drink the alcohol you keep slipping, you’d best devote your energies to keeping those ancestors at bay.”

Hope narrows her eyes. “Have you ever fought off hundreds of the most opinionated dead witches in history?”

“Yes, actually, I have.”

“Oh.”

Kol squats down, hovering just above his niece’s head. “I know this is no fun. I know you have a thousand other things you’d rather be doing, but you didn’t see what I saw in Côte d’Ivoire. There was a girl, barely older than you, her life an unending stream of misery because of the duties thrust upon her. I refuse to let that be you.”

Despite herself, Hope quirks a small smile. “And here I was thinking you didn’t like me.”

“I mean, you’re alright.”

Hope rolls her eyes and sits up. “Okay. I’m focusing.”

“Right. Let the flame consume your every sense. Watch it flicker, cast shadows on the walls. Smell the wax melting and pooling. Feel the heat warm your skin.”

Hope starts to feel floaty, as if the tenuous link between her mind and her body is stretching. The candle looms larger in field of view as the outside world falls away. Her skin feels hot as the flame burns brighter, brighter—

—not over—

They’re coming.

—dumb boy can’t find my grimoire where I left it—

Did you see what that Tremé witch did?

—It’s not over—

—out in the bayou, can you believe this—

You tell Vincent this, he should know where to go—

It’s not over—

A hot flash of pain sears across Hope’s skull, and she cries out, clutching at her head. Kol’s immediately kneeling in front of her, hands on her face. “Are you alright?”

Hope nods, despite the throbbing still sending stars behind her eyes. “I don’t think focusing is working, Uncle Kol.”

Kol stays silent for a moment before saying tentatively, “You know, another witch might have a better chance of helping you block out those voices. Another witch like, say, your aunt—”

“No.” Hope stands up, pushing Kol’s hands away. “I don’t want her help. I’ve had enough of her help.”

“Hope—”

“She’s done enough,” Hope insists. She paces for a minute, working each of her hands with the fingers of the other. After a while, she shakes out all of her limbs. “Okay, let’s try again.”

Kol sighs, and then moves out of the way so Hope can settle cross-legged in front of the candle once more. “Okay, now, focus on the flame…”

The sun beams happily on the tiny patio of Mama Rae’s. An untouched coffee and danish on the table before her, Freya ignores the hordes of passersby, mostly eager tourists traveling to their next tour through historic New Orleans. Instead, she stares at the phone in her hand, difficult to see in the bright midmorning light.

“You gonna call her?”

Freya looks up to see Mama Rae hovering over her shoulder, looking significantly at her phone. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve been starin’ at that girl’s contact for five minutes now. Are you gonna call her?”

Freya looks back down. Amaya’s contact entry stares right back at her, the black of the numbers seeming to grow bolder by the second. She shakes her head and clicks the phone off. “Maybe later.”

Mama Rae tuts. “Ain’t gonna win her back with that attitude,” she chides, and then wanders off to check on another table.

Freya regards the phone on the table warily, as if it might spontaneously explode, before picking up her coffee and taking a long, scalding sip.

As a gesture of good faith, Hope goes to them, walking into the vampires’ favorite daytime hangout cautiously. All heads snap to her as soon as she creaks open the door. “Close that,” someone snaps. “You’re letting all the light in.”

Hope sneaks inside as unobtrusively as possible, clicking the door closed behind her. “Hi.” Silence. “So, I have good news.”

“You lettin’ Ricky and them outta the Penitentiary?”

“Um, no. They terrorized some witches and did thousands of dollars’ worth of property damage. They are exactly where they’re supposed to be.”

“Those witches’re killin’ us!” someone else shouts.

“But they’re not! That’s the news.” Hope takes a deep breath. “For the past few weeks, there has been a vampire hunter in New Orleans. He was the one killing your friends, and he was the one causing these rifts in our communities. I came here to tell you that he is dead, and that you’re safe again.”

The vampires in the bar eye each other, unsure if they believe her. “What if you’re wrong?”

“This sounds like a convenient story.”

“How do we know you’re not just tryin’ to defend the witches?”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Hope says, “I got to my uncle Elijah seconds before he and his sire line were killed for good. I understand why you might not trust my motives, but trust that I love my family, and I don’t mess around when it comes to keeping them safe. There was a hunter. He is dead. It’s over.”

There’s a light mumbling through the crowd, and Hope can tell there’s a general atmosphere of assent. Still contemplating the sudden revelation of a hunter in their midst, the vampires return to their drinking and darts. Hope’s shoulders sag in relief; they believe her, and maybe the tension in this city can finally ease.

“So, a hunter, huh?”

Hope turns to see Josh off to the side, leaning against the wall. She half-shrugs. “He’d been here since the end of summer. If I had known, I would have told you much sooner.”

“I believe you. These guys will too, once they stop being afraid they’re going to die every time they go out after dark.”

“You know, I’m trusting you to be the one to help them see that the witches aren’t their enemies.”

Shaking his head, Josh begins, “No, that’s Marcel’s job—”

“You’re good at this, Josh. They respect you.”

“They respect Marcel.”

Hope throws up her hands in a shrug. “I’m not saying you should depose him as…whatever he calls himself. King of the vampires. I’m just saying…don’t diminish your sway over them. They listen to you.” With that, she slips back out of the bar into the bright New Orleans sun.

When Elijah wakes up, the sun is already high in the sky. He can’t remember the last time he slept so late, but then, nearly being murdered tends to take it out of a man. His eyes still closed, he doesn’t have to look over to know when he’s being watched. “Are you staring at me?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

There is a soft pair of lips on the bare skin of his shoulder. “I resent the accusation.”

“I’m sure you do.” He turns his head to look at Hayley, who’s looking back with soft eyes. “There’s a face I worried I’d never see again.”

Hayley brings a hand up to rest against his cheek, lets her thumb explore the warmth of his skin. “Fifteen years, I forgot how much loving someone can feel like dying.”

Elijah slides his hand up her arm, takes hers and presses its palm to his lips. “I forgot how much dying can feel like dying.”

Hayley breathes a laugh. Then she shakes her head. “I knew. I knew there was something I missed with Joel. River told us that the man who shot Hope had a scar on his neck, and I missed it.”

“Now I know that I didn’t fall in love with a woman foolish enough to blame herself for the actions of terrible men.”

She lets her head tip to the side to rest against his arm. “Fifteen years I fought to get you back, and I almost lost you.”

Elijah kisses the top of her head. “I am more thankful than ever the gift that is your daughter.”

Hayley hums in agreement, and they lay there, warm in the New Orleans sun.

Hope trudges up a rickety wooden staircase, on her way back up into the attic for some more training with Kol. She stops when she hears a voice behind her say, “Hope?”

She turns, and frowns when she spies Freya at the bottom of the stairs. “I can’t talk right now.”

“Kol told me of your efforts to keep the ancestors at bay. Perhaps I can be of some help—”

“Let me be clear.” Hope descends to stand a few steps above the bottom, so she’s staring down at Freya. “I don’t need your help, and I don’t want your help. You had your chance to help me and this city and you shot it down.”

“I made a mistake, Hope, and I am begging for your forgiveness.”

“It’s not mine to give!” Hope cries. “I was asked to defend New Orleans, to speak for the people who live here and who died here! They are the ones who suffered because of what you did, they are the ones who nearly saw war in their streets because you kept this a secret! My forgiveness doesn’t matter, theirs does.”

Freya shakes her head. “I didn’t do it to hurt you, or New Orleans. I did it to protect her.”

“I really, really wish that were enough.” Hope spins around and dashes up the stairs, leaving her distraught aunt behind.

Freya knocks on the apartment door, her fist shaking ever-so-slightly. She has to wait nearly a full minute before the door swings in, revealing Amaya’s face, swollen and red. Freya stares at her, crestfallen. “I wanted to stop by. I…heard about your brother.”

Amaya stares at her. First, it’s as if her gaze slices right through Freya, as if she’s focused on a spot on the wall behind her. Then Amaya’s eyes focus on her, and she croaks, “Come on in.”

Amaya spins and walks away, leaving Freya in the open doorway. Cautiously, Freya steps inside, pressing the door shut behind her. The apartment is littered with tissues, and Joel’s leather jacket, the collar hard and sticky with blood, lays across the couch. Amaya sits next to it, runs her hand over the leather. “I’ve been sitting with my phone since the cops left. I figured…I figured I should tell people that he’s dead. But we don’t have anyone left to tell. He’s got…he’s got some friends, I don’t know them too well. Don’t know how to tell them that he’s—” She barks out a sob, and claps a hand over her mouth.

Freya settles next to her and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

Hope and River walk through the Quarter, side-by-side, people-watching. Hope’s quiet, lost in her own head, so River gently nudges her with her elbow and says, “Thinking about Freya?”

Hope works her jaw tightly. “I’m trying to understand where she’s coming from, I really am. But she knew what was going on in this city and she chose to stay quiet about it.”

Nodding, River points out, “From what I’ve heard, Freya’s always been the big sister. She’s always put her family first. Maybe…maybe this time she wanted something for herself.”

“But it wasn’t just her family that got hurt. It wasn’t just me, or Uncle Elijah, or my mom. It was every vampire, every witch in New Orleans. I mean, god, four nightwalkers are dead, and the Penitentiary is full of people who got caught up in a mess they didn’t even understand.”

“That’s true.” River sighs. “I just…I don’t know. I just can’t help but think about how you defended me when your dad found out that my venom was the key to curing your uncles.”

Hope side-eyes her girlfriend. “Are you taking her side?”

“Hey, no.” River hooks her arm through Hope’s. “I am on your side, all day every day.”

“But.”

“But…you can be stubborn sometimes.”

Rolling her eyes, Hope argues, “Have you met my family?”

“Yeah, the headstrong apple doesn’t fall far from the ornery tree, point taken. But still. Freya screwed up, and you have every right to be mad at her, but maybe…maybe there are worse crimes in the world than falling in love with someone with a complicated family. I mean, look at me. If I didn’t love you, I would be trying to run the hell away from your crazy-ass relatives.”

Hope wrinkles her nose. “That’s fair.” She pouts. “I hate when you’re right.”

River laughs. “Better get used to it.”

Freya passes Amaya a cup of tea, and Amaya takes it with shaking hands. “They wouldn’t let me see him,” she says, voice quiet. “They told me…when they told me it was a hit-and-run, I wanted to go see him, but they said it was too…too bad.”

Freya keeps her expression as schooled as possible. Hit-and-run was what she asked Rebekah to compel the police to tell her, but the lie still hurts all the same. She runs a hand up and down her back. “It’s best you didn’t see it. You should remember him as you saw him last.”

Amaya sniffs. “I wish I knew where he was going.”

“What do you mean?”

“When he left, he seemed…excited. Like he was going to do something big.” She shrugs. “I don’t know what it was, or if he did it. But as least…at least the last memory I have of his face, he was smiling.”

On his way to murder my brother, Freya thinks. She smiles softly. “That’s good. Hold onto that.”

Amaya side-eyes Freya. “Why are you here?”

Startled, Freya starts to answered, “I told you, I heard about your brother—”

“No, I mean—” She takes a deep breath. “When you walked away from me in the farmer’s market the other day, I thought I was never going to see you again.”

Freya swallows thickly. “So did I. But then I thought about you, alone, mourning this most horrible loss, and I knew…I knew that staying away from you wasn’t an option. Not anymore. Not after…not after everything.”

“I don’t…I don’t know what that means.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just…just know that I’m sorry. For Joel, for the way I treated you, for…everything. I’m sorry and, if you’d like, I could…be here for you. In whatever capacity you need. A—a friend, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen—or, if you’d rather, I can leave you be. Whatever makes things easier for you.”

Amaya stays silent for a long time, studying the whorls of the wood grain of the coffee table. Then she says, “My parents are dead. My brother is dead. I’m living in a city of strangers.” She looks up at Freya. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”

And then she tips her head onto Freya’s shoulder, and Freya, heart heavy, rests her own head on top of hers.

Klaus finds his elder brother in the dining room, alone at the long table, a glass of bourbon in hand. Elijah sips casually as his brother pours a glass of his own. “How are you feeling, brother?” Klaus asks, settling in a seat across from Elijah.

“Oh, I can’t complain. I could very well be dead right now, were it not for your daughter.”

“I imagine we shall all get used to Hope saving us before long.” Klaus smirks devilishly. “From what I could hear, Hayley was quite relieved that you returned to us safe and sound last night. She was relieved several times, in fact.”

“Niklaus…” Elijah groans with a put-upon sigh.

Klaus waves him off with a laugh. “Fine, fine. I suppose you’ve earned a day or two of respite from your bastard brother’s reign of terror.”

“If only I knew it took nearly dying for you to behave yourself.”

After a few more sips of bourbon, Klaus asks, “Have you spoken with our sister?”

Elijah stares into his glass. “I assume you’re referring to Freya.” He looks up at Klaus. “I’m not angry with her.”

Klaus seems surprised. “You were moments from death, Elijah. And Freya knew—”

“Freya owes us nothing, brother. Since she was rejoined with our family all those years ago, Freya has sought only to put her siblings before herself, a dedication to the Mikaelson name that rivals even my own. I do not begrudge her the choice of putting someone else’s wellbeing above ours for once. After all…” He raises his glass to his lips once more. “…I know the peculiar madness of being in love.” He takes a long sip.

Klaus makes a face. “We don’t know that Freya loves this girl.”

Elijah just smiles. “Yes, we do.”

Amaya’s curled up on her couch, her brother’s jacket clutched tightly to her chest. Something thumps her ankle, and she looks down and sees a lump in the jacket. After rooting around in the pocket, she pulls out her brother’s phone. It flickers to life, and her eyes well up at his background image, a photo of the two of them at the county fair when they were teenagers. She blinks rapidly and unlocks the phone—it only takes her two guesses to figure out that his passcode is the year he was born; he never was particularly clever—so that she can search through his contacts. She sees a name scattered throughout his recent calls list: Sebastian Sharpe. She decides to give it a go, and presses the phone to her ear. “Hi, is this Sebastian? My name is Amaya Ruiz. I’m Joel’s sister. I, um. I have some bad news.”

Steptoe, Nevada

Standing in his kitchen, Sebastian Sharpe hangs up the phone. He strokes a tired hand over his gray-flecked beard, and then makes his way down the hall. He wrenches open a door to reveal a set of stairs descending into darkness below. He flips on a light switch and makes his way down into a half-finished basement. Once there, he gropes around the wall for another switch, and suddenly the entire space is flooded with light. He passes the table heavy with weapons—crossbows, handguns, knives, expertly-carved stakes—and shoves the shoulder of a man on a cot. “Wake up.”

The man groans. “Go away. I’ve only been down an hour.”

“Wake up. Joel’s dead.”

The man sits up, stunned. “Joel’s dead?”

“His sister just called. Hit-and-run.”

They’re silent for a moment. Then, “I knew that harebrained plan of his was going to get him killed.”

“Get up, Jordan, and call the others.” Sebastian walks back over to the table, selects a gun, and slides it into the back of his jeans. “We’re going to New Orleans.”

[nightships]

“Extras” Request Fic: Surfer AU

I finally got to the first of my “extras” requests/dusted off my writing hands, so here you are, @evil--isnt--born, an extra from my Surfer Killian AU! Side note, she wrote one in this universe for me and it is genuinely too good for me to handle, so be on the lookout for that if she chooses to post it.

The full morning sun is unrelenting, especially where the interior of her car is concerned. Every shard of light that cuts through the tangled trees lining the winding road flickers across her face, her arms, her thighs, warning her of the heat to come, but it’s a warning Emma finds herself easily distracted from. Thoughts of the day ahead of her are more than enough to drag her focus away.

She ran out of excuses a week ago. Her bills were paid, patient treatment plans written, apartment clean as it was ever going to be. Work’s slowing down, too — at least half of her patients are out of state for work conferences or vacations, and even Regina is beginning to get annoyed with her restlessness. Killian, on the other hand, has been waiting patiently for her to admit she’s ready for her first lesson. She can feel it every time a good morning text greets her when she wakes, every time he drops by her desk with the lunch she forgot to pack, every time they sit on the beach and watch the ocean swallow the sun.

He’d given her the choice between sunrise and the hour after her last appointment ended. Emma picked the latter, tricking herself into believing the extra time would help her prepare. Like the few wispy clouds that had greeted her from her bedroom window when she woke up, time slipped away. Now she’s parked in the beach access lot, no clouds to be seen, and she’s more nervous than ever.

The air is dense, filled with a wet smokiness left over from last week’s wildfire, and the sand pricks fire into her ankles the moment she steps off the salt-bleached stairs. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, jogging in place as she considers the line of beach that spreads to her right. Several beachgoers are already setting up for the afternoon, burying umbrella stands and positioning chairs and running kites into the sky. Seagulls pick at the shoreline, chasing sandpipers into the wettest part of the sand and squawking whenever a jogger passes too close. Further down the beach is the pier, empty of all but the most stubborn fishermen. She spots a head of dark hair just beyond it, lurking where the beachgoers are the most sparse, and chuckles to herself.

He’s already shirtless, of course — she swears he’s solar-powered on some days —and totally focused on the board resting in front of him. The muscles in his arm flex and relax in a steady rhythm as he draws patterns of wax on the surfboard, and for a minute she just watches him. Then he smiles, and she realizes she’s been caught.

“Did you even bring sunscreen today?” She asks him, taking note of the many freckles that span his shoulders and course down his spine. If he’s not careful, he’ll turn out as red as the surfboard wax he’s using. He smiles and turns his head up before her eyes really make it to his face, and she’s caught again.

“I did, but I was hoping you would be willing to assist me with mine,” he flirts back, dropping his eyes to her bag. “Unless you were planning to set up camp.”

“I came prepared,” she tells him, mild accusation in her voice. His keys are clipped to his water bottle, sitting next to a neatly folded towel, but other than that it’s just him and his board. Emma dumps her things next to his as she sits, trying to pay attention to what he’s doing in case the lesson’s already begun. “You’re putting a lot of that on the board.”

“It keeps your feet from slipping,” he explains, showing off his handiwork. “It’ll give you a better grip.”

“You’re assuming I can stay upright on this thing for more than a second,” she says warily, casting her eyes down to the nonsense patterns he’s coated into the board. The waves looked small when she first got to the beach, but she’s not sure calm waters will make a difference.

As if he can hear her thoughts, Killian nudges her knee with his.

“If you could get me back onto my surfboard, love, I’m certain I can get you standing on this one at least once today.” He punctuates the soft promise with a teasing smile, throwing a little challenge her way. It’s taken time to get here, to the place where he can be lighthearted about his fears and his injury, and that progress feels much more apparent now that they’re getting ready to surf on a public beach. It occurs to her just how far out of his own comfort zone he’s willing to go for her, how much he gives for her to freely take if she wants it.

Open hopefulness sits in his eyes, promising her she’ll be secure at his side, and Emma can’t find in her to do anything but nod and reach for the sunscreen.

He takes her waist-high into the water first, holding the surfboard at his side as it bobs smoothly in the water around them. The waves are throwing diamonds of sunlight into their eyes, and the water is clearer than it’s been in days. Emma can almost see her toenail polish from where she stands, her feet comically pale compared to his own.

“The winds are favoring us today,” he tells her, pointing out a flag on the end of the pier, “but the current is still strong. It’ll try push us down the beach once we go deeper.”

“I don’t know if I’m going down the beach.”

“We’ll see. Let’s start with your pop-up.”

Emma’s exceedingly grateful that this was part of his therapy. Having even a little practice with the motions makes her feel more competent as she climbs onto the surfboard, steadying herself as best she can. He’s worked hard with her, taking her advice and instruction at face value, so it’s the least she can do in return even if she feels like everyone on the beach is watching her. After two tries, she finds herself standing upright on the board, looking down at him as he beams up at her.

“Well done, lass. Just like before,” he says, an almost ridiculous amount of pride in his voice.

“I still think we should have brought the floaties,” Emma teases back, holding her arms outstretched to keep from falling again as a wave rolls beneath her. He braces the board before it can knock her over, though, and a sudden certainty blooms in her chest. Killian came back home to the ocean because he trusted her to help him recover from his accident. He’s standing here now, eyes shining up at her with all the sunlight in the sky, because he believes in her. Instead of feeling heavy with the burden of it, she feels light, and suddenly it’s easy to let that same trust steer her forward.

Hours pass in the blink of an eye again, except this time she’s enjoying herself without restraint. Emma is by no means a quick learner, but Killian has more than enough patience to make up for it, so they make it into deeper water eventually. He teaches her how to paddle into the waves, how to dive with and without the surfboard beneath. He’s by her side the whole time, coaching and encouraging and teasing when the moment calls for it, convincing her she’s doing a decent job even when she chickens out of taking what would have been a perfect starter wave.

“Can’t you get up here and show me?” Emma asks exasperatedly, tugging down her rash guard of a shirt as she climbs onto the board once more. It’s like the thing can smell fear, the way it falters when she attempts to control it.

“And give up my view from down here?” Killian grins at the color that rolls up her cheeks, triumphant any time he gets a rise out of her. He treads closer, laying his arm across the board to keep her still and gently curling his fingers around her ankle. His thumb sweeps over her skin, chasing away salt water and an errant clump of wax in a soothing rhythm. “You’re doing fine. I didn’t get it on my first day either.”

“I doubt that,” she tells him, strangely self-conscious with his focus trained on her the way it is. “You’re a natural.”

“Even naturals need to start somewhere,” he says softly.

Emma remembers the first time she met him, how small they had started, and how far they’d managed to come since then — in more ways than one, she admits to herself, thinking of that morning on his front porch. They’ve had quiet moments since, but they’ve been rare, busy as she was with work. The quiet way he’s touching her now makes her wonder if he’s thought of it as often as she has since.

“I promise that you are making great progress,” he continues, pulling her out of her thoughts with words she’s said to him on days when he’s the one who’s unsure. “Give it another few days and you’ll get the basics down, just as I did. A good foundation takes time.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” His smile is tender, but only for a moment. It turns mischievous, a second’s warning before he yanks her ankle, tugging her down off the board and into the water in front of him. Emma yelps with surprise, sliding forward and almost taking him down with her.

“How is that helping?” She asks moments later, blinking water out of her eyes and splashing him in protest. The surfboard floats nearby, tugging at her ankle leash and bumping into her shoulder, but Killian’s clearly abandoned lessons for now. In fact, he’s pulled her closer, his arm around her waist keeping her above water. It’s easy to blame her racing heart on the surprise, but it’s not entirely true.

“Sorry,” he answers unapologetically, brushing hair out of her eyes and off of her cheek. Emma realizes he’s holding her steady with the arm that was injured in the attack, not hesitating to put skin to skin. “I thought it might be easier if you came down here instead.”

“Easier for what?”

“For this,” he replies, sealing the last of the distance between them. The last of her annoyance melts as he kisses her, as he holds her to his chest, as she feels him trying his damnedest to keep a smile at bay. The press of his arm at her back steadies her as his stubble scratches against her chin, and she answers by dragging her nails through his hair, teasing him even now. For all the times she’s recounted that brief kiss on his porch, this is better, more playful and sure.

It’s like they aren’t even on a public beach. This kiss, the one that seems to have waited days to find its way to them, has found them in a moment free of insecurity and doubt, and she’s reluctant to do anything but press closer to him as the sun turns the sea into gold.

“You’re right,” she tells him as they break apart to breathe, not quite opening her eyes. “This would’ve been a little harder on the board.”

His answering laugh tastes even better than it sounds. “We’ll have to get a bigger one next time, then.”

Even teasing, she can hear the promise. Emma grins and hooks her foot behind his leg, tugging him under water this time, and they play-fight like two children in the water, their laughter trailing down the beach on the wind. It’s evening before they climb back onto the sand, fingers pruned from so much exposure to the ocean, but she can feel something’s shifted before they make it to the dry part of the sand. She feels it whisper to her as they walk up the beach and he talks about paddle board rentals. It lingers in the air as they dry off, his fingers twining with hers, their towels pressed together. It settles into her chest as they watch the sunset, warm wind tangling her hair and tickling those freckles on his back. She sees a future with him in the orange-pink of the clouds, in the first few stars blinking awake in the twilight, and it’s not nearly as terrifying as she thought it would be.