#i'm still bitter i lost progress

[cxnsolatio]

✚✚✚ @circus-and-shenanigans // continued

Law followed the little clown throughout the sinuous insides of the big top, through the narrow alleys between seats, one heeled foot fitting at a time. He held Kikoku higher against his shoulder, almost as if a parent would carry a toddler in a crowded space for fear of losing them. It was the dirt floor he minded, to spare his sword the dishonour of meeting with some gluttonous child's half-licked, sticky-as-glue lolly. Law grimaced at the vision of paper wraps and unpopped kernels of corn sprawled under his feet. How had he allowed himself to get caught up in this mess, again?

Oh, yes. The funny (as in 'peculiar' rather than 'amusing') clown girl had lassoed him in with the promise not of entertainment, but of medicine.

She had said she was a doctor, a claim that earned her a studious gaze bundled up in doubt. This orange thing was a doctor? For all his brilliance, Law did lack the necessary amount of self-awareness to recognise that most civilians, too, would doubt him a doctor when he sported a loose shirt buttoned up with haste over his jeans and black polish over his fingernails so casually. Both he and the clown were as far removed from the semblance of a textbook doctor, with their one white coat and two rows of white teeth arranged into a reassuring smile as could be. All things considered, it was discerning of a circus to harbour a medical team, only not right next to the menagerie, he hoped, for a nomadic, strenuous lifestyle offered plenty of opportunities for injury. And the jolly roger lulling in the wind above the tarpaulin had not escaped Law's atttentive watch. Pirates required medical assistance more than the average person.

❝ Listen, Raggedy Ann...! ❞ he started, an edge of warning to his voice, her jab at his aquatic lifestyle returned in kind as he manoeuvred the space towards the reserved compound of doors and platforms the audience had no idea lay within and underneath the circus. ❝ I'll have you know submarines are lots of fun. ❞

What the hell did she know of his literary soirées? Of the crew's monthly talent shows? Of the most exciting, free-for-all race to the loo after every Tuesday's taco dinner? Why, she was but a simpleton, all too excited to watch some other idiot in oversized shoes juggle up some balls and deem it as entertainment. If there was a literal embodiment of the panem et circenses phrase, here it was.

❝ I am not a man to be toyed with. I did not come here, to the very depths of Satan's rectum, to discuss the concept of merriment over tea with a child. Where is the chlorophyte? ❞

She had said, and not just in passing, to be in possession of a rare species of algae Law had read about in his studies. Although, admittedly, phycology was a field of pharmaceutical interest he generally buried under other priorities. The species was said to be at least a hundred times more efficient than other maritime eukaryotes in boosting immunity and serving as an anticancerous agent, nothing short of a miracle if proven true. If he could get this alga into his laboratory and multiply it so he got enough specimens to sample from... Only the hypothesis of an unprecedented scientific breakthrough could have made him enter the circus tent.

Trafalgar Law hissed, catlike when the faux flower hit him with a surprise drizzle. Though hygienic, he would rather take his shower the conventional way. Just like he would like to keep his feet not stepped on by stupid miniature velocipedes! ❝ I really, really hate the circus! I'll take my clowns in the form of Ruggero Leoncavallo, thank you.❞

His eyes were daggers directed at this Doctor Patches character, but then the gold in them melted and glinted with mischief. Kikoku made another move on his shoulder, ready to lose her sheath. ❝ There is no fucking chance a clown can trick me. ❞

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

I really want you to get started on Jurassic Park now after reading your tags.

All right, you asked for it! This post is going to be long because I've been rereading Jurassic Park since I was about 10 years old. But. My thoughts:

Jurassic Park is the oldest story in the world: one about hubris, and the price men pay for their ignorance of nature. From the first moment the protagonists step foot on the island, they can see it. There are poisonous plants next to the pool because they "look pretty." The harbor has no retaining wall because tropical storms aren't considered important. And there's a steep price for that hubris. Wu doesn't bother to learn the dinosaurs' names before breeding them, Nedry ignores them as unprogrammable, Malcolm mansplains them to their own creators, Regis laughs at the idea of them escaping, Hammond relentlessly monetizes them, Arnold insists he can control them... And they all get eaten by dinosaurs. It's the characters with the good sense to be overawed and scared (Muldoon, Gennaro, the paleontologists, the kids) who make it out alive. Almost paradigm.

More specifically, it's a book about the most fundamental principle of engineering: be scared, be confused, and then do something anyway. Then do something else, then something else, until something works. Timmy isn't a master hacker in the book; he's just (unlike Grant) willing to push buttons on the computer until he finds the power grid. Gennaro's still a scaredy cat in the book, but he clenches his teeth and goes into the velociraptor nest anyway. The heroic characters are the ones who conclude someone has to do something, despite not knowing what that something is. The villainous ones are the ones who refuse responsibility.

Speaking of which, can we talk about Ian Malcolm? I'm a sucker for a good Cassandra character, especially one that manages to get even the genre-savvy reader rolling their eyes and going "will you shut up?" And Malcolm is one of the best, every off-putting academic habit rolled into one: He thinks he's better than other people for not liking sports. He brags about not caring about appearances and then comments on Sattler's legs. He assumes Hammond has read his monograph and — when Hammond reveals he hasn't — pulls out a copy that he keeps on his person at all times to have Hammond read on the plane. He smugly explains that other characters should've foreseen they'd be killed by dinosaurs, only to be killed by dinosaurs. He calls his theory the Malcolm Effect. I do love Jeff Goldblum's gentler, more charming take on the character ("See, here, now I'm sitting by myself, talking to myself, that's chaos theory" I say literally every time I ask a question of someone who just left the room). But I prefer the way original Malcolm gets away with being right about everything because we so so badly want him to be wrong.

Speaking of that comment about the legs: by the low low bar of 80s/90s thriller writers, Crichton is surprisingly progressive. Jurassic Park invites us to laugh with (and roll our eyes with) Sattler, every time someone expresses shock the world's top paleobotanist is a woman. The Lost World perfectly captures the "women in STEM have to be twice as competent to get half the respect" dynamic, and it's a story about the male characters over-estimating their own competence as the female ones go about saving the day. Race isn't handled perfectly, but it is discussed in both books. Malcolm's chauvinism is designed to make everything else he says a bitter pill, to poison us against him. Crichton's no feminist. But Sattler's hardiness — later Harding's and Kelly's as well — are shown as hard-won in a world that batters nerdy girls so hard that only the toughest survive.

And Malcolm is just one of the many ways Jurassic Park masterfully lampoons scientific bullshit. After little Tina is bitten by a "strange lizard" and nearly dies from the swelling, Dr. Cruz assures her parents that lizards bite zookeepers all the time, that some people are allergic to lizard venom, and that the lizard Tina drew resembles a basilisk — and then we cut to him talking to his fellow MD. Where we find out that lizards don't attack humans in the wild, no human they know of has ever been hospitalized for a lizard bite, basilisks aren't venomous, and Tina's condition doesn't resemble an allergic reaction. They have no idea what this "lizard" (a Procompsognathus) could be or how it poisoned this kid, but they've been taught to obfuscate rather than admit that. Scientists are arrogant, and ignorant of their ignorance.

But the book is every bit as positive about empiricism as it is negative about individual scientists. The seamless way Crichton blends science fiction with science fact gets me every time. His preface connects Watson & Crick to Swanson & Boyer to Malcolm & Levine, explaining each step of the research process as he goes. He goes on to explain how Genetech developed its ideas from IBM, and that IBM and Genetech both contributed to InGen, which in turn influenced Biosyn, funded by Hamaguri... and only two of those names are fictional, but don't worry about which. Crichton does his homework, and then he presents his homework in the most compelling way of any writer I've ever encountered.

You need no further proof than the technologies — satellite phones, electric cars, touchscreens, gene editing — that were sci fi in 1990, commonplace today. Crichton did the reading. And he rolls that science out ever-so-slowly: dribbling first the mystery of the worker with a 3-foot gash in his torso who claims a bird of prey did it, then the mystery of the resort that needs the world's most powerful data storage, then the mystery of the billionaire who calls in the middle of the night with "urgent" questions about what baby dinosaurs eat... Until even 10-year-old me could look at that picture of a fractal and go "ohhh, I see how the unstable phase shifts of chaos theory explain the fact that a thunderstorm caused that guy to get eaten by a T. rex." Almost paradigm.

And all Jurassic Park's banging on about chaos theory belies a deep understanding of how interconnected ecosystems are. Animals, like plants, like subatomic particles, must be understood holistically. Pretending that the best way to learn the truth of any system is through breaking it down "is like saying scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast is human nature. It's nothing of the sort. It's uniquely Western training." Crichton clearly loves biology: "a single fertilized egg has a 100,000 genes, which act in a coordinated way, switching on and off at specific times, to transform that single cell... A house is simple in comparison. But even so, workmen build the stairs wrong, they put the sink in backward, the tile man doesn't show up when he's supposed to. All kinds of things go wrong. And yet the fly that lands on the workman's lunch is perfect." And he clearly hates what capitalism has done to biotechnology.

Hammond the venture capitalist is a perfectly despicable villain: No dinosaurs have escaped, because I said so. If there are problems, no there aren't. Put on a good show for investors, no matter how many contractors die in the process. Talk about all the "good" the park will do by making tons of money. The kids are stranded and the tech expert's dead? No they're not, because I said so, now pass the ice cream. It's truly a delight watching him get eaten by dinosaurs.

For that matter, Jurassic Park is bursting with details of style over substance. There are cutesy Apatosaurus cutouts in the hotel rooms and bars on the widows, a half-finished restaurant covered in Pterosaur poop, and a celebrity-narrated tour track that can't synchronize with the dinosaurs. It's trying to be Disney World, and it's actually a roadside zoo. The signage — "When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth," the hand-lettered "Welcome to Jurassic Park", the room (and department) called "Control" — isn't subtle in its irony. But it is fun.

Which is yet another great sci fi trick. "Our funding is infinite but our peer review sucks" perfectly sets up the blend of the accurate with the plot-fueling (likely why Crichton reuses it several times). Why are there Pterosaurs in a dinosaur park? Our funding is infinite but our peer review sucks. Why are so many Cretaceous dinosaurs in Jurassic Park? Our funding is infinite but our peer review sucks. You didn't know Dilophosaurus is venomous? Our funding is infinite... It's perfect, because it's the opposite of how the scientific process usually works. Again: Crichton knows his shit, and he knows how to communicate it.

Like, even when I'm reading Sphere or Terminal Man — books where I'm perfectly aware I know more than Crichton on the subject, not in the least because their science inevitably became outdated — I still find myself believing, at least for the length of the story. You don't have to suspend disbelief when reading Crichton's work; he hoists it into the stratosphere for you. Half the time he won't give it back even after you're done. Almost paradigm.

But despite all that nerdery, Jurassic Park is still a rocking adventure story that builds momentum until it smashes to its conclusion at 70 miles an hour, ending the millisecond it can do so with not a word of denouement. You can practically hear that last deep piano note on the final words. It's cinematic as hell. This is Crichton post-Westworld, pre-Twister, the ultimate adventure writer. He reads, clearly, avoiding the errors of sci fi amateurs who watch too many movies (the T. rex has a distinctive smell, the island is relentlessly humid, so on) but he knows how to make a tight fast-moving story that you can consume in under three hours. His imagery is powerful, his pacing is on point, and his plot sucks you in and shoots you out like a water slide.

Jurassic Park is fun. It's informative. It makes you laugh, and gasp, and sigh, and think. It has its flaws (Harding Sr. fades out in the 3rd act, Grant's Maiasaura expertise never pays off) but those are minor in a book that stands up so well to rerereading. Almost paradigm.

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

sweeter than blood │ Spike x Summers!Reader

everything he wants 'verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Part 1 │Part 2 (Work in Progress!)

Returning to Sunnydale for the first time since Angel lost his soul—older, bitter, unprepared for grief—you never expected to fall for Spike. Through the eyes of the others, it's obsession, danger, betrayal. But to you? It’s the only thing that still feels real. (Set post-episode 14 of Season 5, "Crush".)

Hey, guys! Briefly showing up to post a short fic I wrote after getting whacked by the Buffy bug lately. Not going to be frequently updating or anything - I'm literally just posting this and popping back out. Couple notes: this is a three-chapter fic that I'm posting in one single hit. It's like, 22,250 words, so it's long. Also, it's mixed POV from pretty much all the main characters. Keep in mind that my writing style doesn't exactly fit in the Reader or in the OC category; best way I can describe it as nameless, vaguely-described OCs written in second person. Enough from either category to justify calling it both. If that's not what you're after, I recommend you don't read.

Buffy rolls her eyes when she recognizes who’s behind all the commotion by the door, turning away from Giles to give the intruder one of her meanest eyebrow-raises.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, fists clenched and knuckles white as she glares at Spike, tension etched into every line of her body. Her voice is a low, warning growl, her fingers itching to wrap around something sharp and stabby. Anything will do, really. “It’s the middle of the day.”

It’s been only a few weeks since bizarro entered Spike’s brain and he tried to tell her he loved her, and in that time it’s like it never really happened. Sure, he’s been loitering around the house like a pervert, glances lasting a little too long on her as she deliberately ignores him to unlock the door and retreat to the safety of a freshly-Spike-free zone, but his focus is all screwy. It’s like the tap of grossness has spun itself off, still dripping a bit but like… not flooding. Or something. She’s bad with figures of speech.

The evil bleached wonder sneers over at her, still furiously smacking at the smoke trails rising from his exposed skin and stinking up the shop. “None of your business, Slayer. Ain’t my bloody keeper. I can go where I like.”

“Does that have to be where Buffy is?” Xander snipes. “You know you’re never getting a shot with her. Why make us all put up with you?”

Dawn’s here, so Buffy makes a cutty-motion with her hand at him, warning him off the tangent he’s on. Even though Dawnie’s just as mad as the rest of them about Spike’s confession, she still gets huffy and moody whenever anyone spends too long mocking him for it, and Buffy totally can’t deal right now.

Spike shakes his head. “Look, I dunno what Buffy told you about that stuff with Dru―”

Giles advances on him, shielding her from view. “Spike, you’re not welcome here.”

“Yeah, and by the way, we're working on a way to de-invite you from here,” Willow adds. Though there’s nothing super snarky about the indifferent way she looks Spike up and down, for Wills it’s positively cruel. “Even if it is a public place.”

Spike looks away, lower lip curling under his teeth as he scoffs. “Alright, maybe there was some expression of feelings, but ‘m all―”

Whatever he was gonna say dies in his throat. He straightens himself up and runs his fingers through his hair, which, strange, isn’t slicked back like he usually wears it. Has he suddenly realized―re-realized, or whatever―that she’s there and is doing some uber-sketchy peacocking thing? She’s just about to ask him what the hell is up when you brush just past her, bookbag swinging as you rifle through its contents.

“Buff,” you say, absent-minded, “d’you know where I put my―oh, hey, Spike. Nice hair.”

You look up and smile at him, a bit unfocused as you wander over to the table, scattering the items inside on its surface. Pens and textbooks go skidding across the wood as you dig through, muttering an aha! when you find your tube of chapstick buried at the bottom. Dawnie shoves at the stuff that’s rolled onto her homework, but you don’t seem to notice at all.

“Afternoon,” Spike says. Buffy narrows her eyes at him. “Settlin’ in alright?”

“Mm,” you hum, smiling, lips freshly glossy and reddened. “Stuff’s unpacked, classes all sorted… everything’s coming up me. How ‘bout you?”

“Can’t complai―”

“Seriously, Spike,” Buffy snaps, folding her arms. “Clear outta here.”

She’s totally a hypocrite for being so freaked by him basically ignoring her, she knows that. It’s not like she wants him stalking her, but she’s Puzzle Girl. She solves things, and the mystery is that Spike is acting stranger than usual.

She hasn’t had time to figure it out, not between helping Mom, rearranging Dawn’s room—well, your shared room now—and grilling you about Hank’s way-too-young girlfriend. That doesn’t even begin to cover the stress of keeping Glory’s demon goons off Dawn’s back. Time is totally against her right now. And after Mom told you about the tumor? Yeah, no wonder you were all in for moving back.

“Wait,” Anya says, frowning. “I thought Spike didn’t know her. Why are they talking?”

“Introduced meself, yeah?” Spike’s stink-eye is ineffective as usual. “S’what civilized people do and all that rot.”

“If that’s civilized,” Anya mutters, too low for anyone but Buffy to properly catch, “then I’ve been using the wrong definition. Civilized people don’t pant like wolves in heat—”

“He’s nice,” you say.

“—yeah, most men pretend to listen,” Buffy hears her whispering to Tara. She tunes it out. “Vampires probably do it better. Less hormonal noise.”

Patting your sides down―looking for pockets, though as usual you’re wearing a dress that doesn’t have them―you shove your chapstick down the neckline before going back to sorting through the things you’ve discarded. Buffy watches Spike watch you, watches his eyes settle where the balm presses through your bra. Disgust curdles in her belly—but it’s not just disgust, and that’s the worst part. It shouldn’t matter. Really. He should look anywhere but at her. Still, the absence of his usual obsession lands like a slap. Her chest tightens, breath caught in her throat. Embarrassing. She rolls her shoulders back, forces her focus elsewhere.

“We talk sometimes,” you add. “He’s a good listener.”

“Thanks, pet.” Spike’s smile looks genuine enough to fool even her.

“Uh, he’s a vampire.”

“Good for you, Xan,” you say, levelling him with one of your are-you-the-dumbest-person-in-the-world? looks. You’ve always been good at that. “Your observational skills are A-okay. Congrats.”

Xander sputters. “He’s evil!”

“Not this again,” you mutter. Continuing in a deceptively mild tone, you say louder, “Evil’s relative, isn’t it? Is the lion evil for hunting and eating the gazelle? No, because you can’t moralize about the predatory drive of a completely different species with different—”

“He’s not another species, though,” Giles interrupts, taking his glasses off and scrubbing at them with his cloth. “He’s a demon.”

You cock your head, slight curve to your lip. “So, not human, right? Ergo, another species.”

“Okay, difference of opinion, agree to disagree!” Buffy calls out loudly. She really doesn’t want to deal with broken-brain Giles, and he always comes out when you prod at his whole Watcher upbringing. “We’re wasting time. Can we seriously get back to the whole April thing?”

Her resolve face is enough to get the Scoobies moving back to the counter, and though the conversation begins flowing in the right direction once again, Buffy can’t help but pay just a little more attention to what’s going on across the room. You’ve sat down opposite Dawnie, tugging out the worn copy of Emily Dickinson poems that Buffy had to read when she was in junior year, too. You probably borrowed it from her closet, actually, where she keeps all her old high school stuff. That’s not the problem, though—it’s that Spike’s gone and swung himself across the seat right next to you, spread-kneed with arms folded and resting on the chairback. You shift obligingly, murmuring something just out of earshot to him, and he seems to be considering your words thoughtfully—for him, at least—gesturing to the text on the open page before you.

She watches Spike watch you as you’re preoccupied with getting your essay perfect. He used to look at her like that. In fact, he hasn’t so much as glanced her way like he would usually. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

“It’s weird, right?” Willow’s nervous voice interrupts her focus, and she turns to find her staring in exactly the same direction. “That. It’s like, all sorts of ooky.”

“Spike’s, um… he was a poet, wasn’t he?” Tara asks, uncertain. “It’s no–not that weird. He prob–probably knows a lot and wants to he–help with her assignment.”

Suddenly, you laugh, drawing their eyes back to you. Buffy’s stomach twists. That laugh—light, happy, normal—doesn’t belong here. Not in this context. Not with him. Spike’s grinning at you, unaware of all the attention on him. Even Dawnie seems a bit startled, her gaze darting from you to him and back again. And you… you’re looking back at him like he’s a good friend of yours. Like he’s safe. Like he’s someone who stays. Like he’s normal, and not the soulless demon who’s caused so much hurt to so many people in the room right now, who would go on to cause even more pain and suffering if not for the leash in his brain keeping him from harming them. It’s like watching someone pet a cobra and call it a puppy. And Spike just… lets you.

“Yeah, right.” Xander huffs, scathing. “He’s probably thinking ‘gee, maybe the Slayer’ll get the lust on for me if I play besties with little sis’―”

“Unlike the rest of you,” Giles cuts across, adjusting his glasses, “I have little care to understand why Spike does what he does. So long as he is being useful and is leaving Buffy be, then by all means… Shall we return to the problem at hand?”

Buffy nods absently, mind still whirling as she tunes back in to the previous discussion. She can totally do two things at once. Xander’s right. Spike’s probably just trying to get her interest. Is it that you’re her younger sister, or is he just trying to make her jealous? That won’t work. You don’t get involved in stuff like that. She’s wondered if you even notice boys sometimes, let alone get dragged into some messy demon-y love triangle. Line. Whatever. So it must be him thinking that you’ll get him on her good side or something, which ew. Talk about desperate.

It's a good explanation. Perfect, actually. If only her chest didn’t feel tight in that way it gets when she knows, deep down, that she’s missing something. Not danger—she knows that feeling too well. This is worse. It’s something personal. Something close.

“… your thoughts, Buffy? Buffy? Buffy!”

“Huh?” Giles’s face is unimpressed. Buffy smiles apologetically, turning to face him properly. “Sorry. Problem-Solver Buffy, reporting for duty. Hit me again.”

For now, she’ll have to deal with the weirdness. She’ll figure it out later. There are more important things to worry about—like superstrong robot girlfriends causing havoc across Sunnydale. When did it begin?

Since you came back. The thought pops unbidden in her head as she tunes in to Slayer mode. Hm.

The muscle below his eye twitches as he watches Spike across the cemetery, moonlight tracing the sharp lines of his face. The graveyard is silent now, empty of mourners, the solemn faces of those in black who came to watch as Joyce Summers was laid to rest in the ground. Even Buffy is home now, numbed and tired from the hours spent cradled in Angel’s arms. Just faintly, his senses pick up the murmur of hushed voices—yours soft and raw, Spike’s a slow, gentle rumble. Of course he’s found a way to worm his way in, always lurking where he doesn’t belong.

You stand too close, arms wrapped tight around yourself and shivering despite the mildness of the night air. It’s the first time he’s seen you since you were sent away—since Angelus. You were small then, too. Frightened, stalwart in your sadness over Buffy having convinced Joyce that spending some time with your father might make the night terrors go away. A cover that should’ve put you out for a month, maybe two, and instead led to years of isolation, all because of him. Guilt congeals acrid in the back of his mouth, from memory and from here and now, blurring together. He didn’t even think to check on you, so wrapped up in Buffy’s grief as he’s been. You look like Buffy did after the funeral. But not the Slayer version—the kid version. The girl who used to beg her mother for a later curfew. The one he couldn't save from heartache, then or now.

He sees Spike shrug off his duster and drape it around you, fingers lingering on your shoulders. You tug it closer, inhaling deeply, the sleeves all but swallowing your hands. You look like a child in too-big clothing, hunched as though grief itself is sitting on your shoulders. Your eyes are puffy and red as you look down at the hole in the dirt, the place where what is left of your mother now lay, your cheeks streaked with the gloss of tears that glimmer under the glow of the night sky. Angel can hear the ragged edges of your breathing, the way you try and fail to even it out.

And Spike—

His posture’s casual, the type of relaxed Angel knows is deceptive, calculated. His focus is wholly on you, head bowed, eyes flicking over your face as if memorizing every twitch and quiver. His fingers find the crook of your elbow, stroking gently. Too practiced. Too careful. As if care could be learned by imitation. He’s never mastered the art of guile, for all that Angelus tried to beat it into him. Too soft. If not for the hair, the coat, Angel might mistake the demon ahead for the human he’d been.

It’s not just the way he looks at you that bothers Angel. It’s the way you look back. The small, anxious clutch of your fingers on his lapels, how you lean instinctively into the rumble of his voice, unguarded, drifting closer as though the space between you is a safety net. Spike’s too close, saying something low that makes your lips quirk up in a wobbly, trembling smile. His answering smile, lax around the edges, is unsettling—not the predatory leer or cocky smirk Angel’s used to seeing on his face. You step toward him, easily accepting the embrace he offers, and the way you fold into him makes the hairs at Angel’s nape rise.

He clenches his fists. It’s an act. It has to be.

Pushing forward, his bootfalls are deliberate and heavy, purposeful, and the noise draws your attention as he knew it would. The talking stops. You glance up, startled, and Angel takes note of how quickly you wipe your eyes, trying to hide the tears. Spike’s features harden, his mouth curved into a stubborn, disdainful sneer.

“What are you doing here, Spike?” Angel demands, crossing his arms. The chill of the air seeps through the layers of his clothing.

Spike smirks. “Nice to see you too, Peaches. Out for an evenin’ stroll?”

Angel’s glare doesn’t waver. “Get away from her. Now.”

You wince, but Spike doesn’t move. Instead, he lets his thumb brush the back of your arm, a gesture so brief, so casual that Angel might’ve missed it if he wasn’t watching so closely.

“Girl’s having a rough go, not that you’d notice,” Spike says arrogantly, “trailing after Buffy like you’re her bitch. Thought someone ought to check in.”

Angel’s eyes dart back to you, ignoring the barb. “You can talk to Buffy. Or Giles. Not him.”

“I tried, but… She’s got so much on her plate. She’s doing her best. I don’t—I don’t blame her.” You sigh, weary, pulling Spike’s coat tighter around you. “I just… I needed someone who could listen. Without trying to fix it.”

Spike glances down at you, the hardness in his gaze melting like ice in the heat. “Gotta let yourself feel it, pet. S’not weakness.”

You look up, eyes wet. It’s as though you’ve forgotten Angel exists. “It’s stupid,” you whisper. “I keep thinking she—she’s gonna just… walk in, tell me to wash my face, snap out of it.”

“Not stupid.” Spike’s mouth twitches. “Just means you love her.”

The words hang heavy in the air for a beat; two; three. Your chin dips, face crumpling, and Spike’s grip tightens, hand sliding to span the back of your head. You lean fully into him, forehead pressing to his chest, and he mutters something too low for Angel to catch—it makes you nod, knuckles clutching his red jacket. His hand drifts to your spine, drawing soothing circles, gentle and patient. It looks practiced. Habitual. Wrong.

“You’re using her,” Angel growls at him, feeling a bit of fang slip with the flare of his temper. “Trying to get to Buffy. It’s pathetic.”

Spike rolls his eyes. “Oh, right. Because I’m raring for the Slayer’s approval. Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep, mate. Assuming you can.”

Angel’s jaw clenches. “If you think for a second that I’ll let you manipulate her—”

“Not manipulating anyone,” Spike snaps, snarling. His arm curls tighter around you, unconscious. You glance between them, wary. “She’s grieving. Thought I’d help.”

“Help yourself, more like.”

Spike’s eyes flash, his own fangs bearing down against his lip. “Don’t care what you think, sire. Just here for her. So unless you plan to dust me, sod off.”

Angel hesitates. He’d like to. It’s bad enough that Spike’s been after Buffy. But she can handle herself—you’re too easy a target.

“It’s okay,” you say then, shifting in place. You press closer to Spike’s side, entirely unbothered by the appearance of his game face. “He’s… he’s my friend. He’s kind.”

Spike scoffs. “Careful, pet. Man’s liable to think I’ve gone soft.”

“Nah.” You shake your head, the side of your mouth curling up ever so slightly. “You’re evil, remember?”

“Too right.” It’s warm, indulgent.

The words land heavy in Angel’s chest, like stones in a sinking ship. He glowers. “This isn’t a game, Spike.”

He’s not talking about Spike’s sudden helpfulness. The meaning is clear. ‘Not her. She’s too good for you.’

Spike stiffens, drawing himself up to height. “Never was. That’s your problem, Angel—you think everything’s about you. S’nothing to do with you, or anyone. Just me n’ her.”

Angel’s scowl deepens. “If you hurt her—”

“Get in line,” Spike interrupts, all arrogant swagger. “A popular threat, where she’s concerned.”

Angel’s stare lingers on you, on the openness of your expression: face relaxed, eyebrows tilted just upward, lax jaw. He watches the way you lean into Spike, nonchalant, his grip proprietary.

“You deserve better,” Angel says.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” You hold his gaze, unconcerned and unafraid, bolder than he remembers. Surely, it’s easy for you to front up to him when you’re tucked under the arm of someone like Spike. “Either way, it’s my choice to make.”

He eyes Spike, who glares back with an unspoken challenge. ‘Leave,’ he says without speaking. ‘Go back to where you came from. You aren’t needed here.’ Eventually, Angel turns away, shadows clinging to him. “If he lets you down—”

“He won’t,” you say, conviction lacing your voice.

The certainty makes Spike’s eyes widen, smile hinting at the edges of his mouth, a glimmer of something raw and unspoken to be read in the planes of his face. Angel’s frown deepens. How can you trust him? What has he ever done to deserve your confidence? Angel earned Buffy’s affection, her faith, and look where it got him: no girl, no love, no happy ever after. It’s as though Spike hasn’t even had to try, the resentment a sword to his chest all over again. He murmurs some vague attempt at goodbye, an invitation to reach out if you need anything, though you and he both know you’ll never do it. You’ll never need it. Spike, he snubs entirely, suddenly exhausted, not wanting to see the victory in the set of his frame. As he sets off, a shade in the moonlight, he expects some final dig to reverberate across the cemetery, some juvenile taunting yell that’s so typical of the other vampire. Instead, nothing. Angel turns, taking one final look at the pair of you, standing together so damn closely.

Cigarette smoke drifts up, curling in revolutions from Spike’s loose grip. “Brave girl,” he tells you, fond.

“Or stupid.” You sigh.

“Never that, pet.” Spike’s palm drops to the small of your back, spanning wide. He cards through your hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers. “Never that.”

Angel swallows, flexes his fists once, again, and walks away.

He doesn’t hear what Spike says next. Doesn’t see the way you press your cheek into his shoulder like you’ve done it a hundred times before. He never sees it coming. That’s what hurts most of all.

The sun is setting, the sky colored in bruised purples and fiery oranges. Anya leans against the half-wall that separates the porch from the side of the Summers house where she slumps, watching as night falls. A storm is brewing. A metaphor, maybe, but it definitely feels like something’s up with the world. It’s like the Earth knows what’s about to happen. What they’re up against. Dawn’s in trouble, and they have to save her from the hellgod who wants to bring death and destruction to this dimension.

Everyone inside is tense: dealing out weapons, talking through battle plans, trading worried looks. Buffy’s on a rampage, taking everything anyone says the wrong way, as an attack on her littlest sister—especially Giles. He only suggested killing Dawn once, and he apologized for it, but Buffy won’t let it go. Willow’s busy trying to distract Tara from walking out the door until it’s time to fix the brain-suck Glory pulled on her, so she can’t stop them from fighting like she would normally. Xander’s the one trying that, and even though Anya loves Xander, he’s not the best at calming people down. So yeah, everyone’s freaked, driven to it by all the waiting, trying to pretend like they aren’t secretly hoping for some miracle.

Anya doesn’t believe in miracles. She’s lived for a thousand years. She believes in what’s real: power, blood, the occasional loophole in cosmic prophecies. She knows the sound of desperation, though, the smell of it, even if she doesn’t have her old senses anymore. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand what she’s seeing now.

Spike’s standing in the front yard under the tree, far enough away that he probably can’t tell she’s out here too, smoking one of his cigarettes with a too-casual stance that only makes the tension on his face more obvious. He’s not alone: you’re with him, arms hugged to yourself like you can keep all your bottled-up worry and fear from exploding out. Anya’s watched the two of you skirting around each other for weeks now. She’s not the only one who’s noticed—most of the others have. They’re just too determined to pretend they don’t know what it means.

She remembers the argument from earlier, how Buffy and the others tried to order you to stay behind, to leave Dawn’s fate to the rest of them. ‘Too young,’ they said. ‘Too helpless.’ Anya disagrees. She knows better than most that appearances can be deceiving. The fire in your eyes reminded her of a certain vengeance demon who once went toe-to-toe with hell lords and never flinched. She wasn’t all that shocked when you refused them, furious, but it was Spike’s support that threw her a bit. He sneered at them, claiming he’d make sure nothing happens to you. After you stormed outside, he rounded on the Slayer, reminding her how headstrong you were when you thought you were right, asked how she planned to stop you from following after. That exchange was ugly.

Buffy’s eyes narrow, lips pulled into a thin, furious line. “You think you can keep her safe?” she snaps, crossing her arms. “Like you kept Dawn safe?”

Spike’s jaw tightens, muscles twitching. “That was a trick. Can’t fall for the same one twice.”

“Doubt you’ll get the chance,” Buffy says, voice cold as a blade. “If you even think of letting her get hurt—”

“Yeah, yeah. Big, scary threats,” Spike drawls. “But if you think anyone’s gonna keep her from fighting, you’re wrong. Least this way, I’ll be there when the fists and fireballs start flyin’.”

For a moment, Buffy looks like she might argue, but then her shoulders sag, and she nods sharply. “Fine. But if she dies—”

“I’ll be dead first,” Spike interrupts. The promise lands heavy and solid, and Buffy’s glare softens, but only slightly. She turns away, shoulders stiff. He watches her go, tension simmering, then stalks outside.

Anya ducks a bit further down when Spike starts speaking, not wanting to get caught. Something’s telling her she’ll want to hear whatever it is that’s going on.

“I might die tonight,” he drawls, flicking ash to the ground. His voice is rough, a strange sort of fragility lurking underneath. Her brows arch. It doesn’t sound like his usual bravado.

Anya’s eyes flicker over Spike’s tense stance, and she huffs softly. She’s never understood him. A vampire with no bite, a demon mooning after a Slayer and now her sister. Pathetic, she’d say, but he fights for them anyway, chipped or not. Sometimes, she thinks he’s a fool. Other times, she wonders if he’s the only one who really gets it—that love comes with a cost.

You startle, brows knitting together as you frown. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

“Why not? Might be true.” Spike’s smirk is twisted, bitter. “Glory on the rampage, me all chipped n' useless. But if—”

“Stop it,” you mutter, grabbing his sleeve. “Don’t give me your ‘if I die’ speech.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. “Feels like the end, luv. Night like this—you say your piece or regret it forever.”

He tosses the cigarette—the cherry glowing, then fading in the grass. He doesn’t look at you, voice rough, jaw tight. “Bloody hell. Can’t believe I’m doing this. Stupid. Pointless. But when you’re up against a soddin’ hellgod and odds that make death look cozy, what’s the use in leavin’ things unsaid?”

He huffs, scrubbing a hand through his hair, agitation radiating off him. You stay silent, but the concern shows—in your face, your posture.

“Suppose I should’ve said something sooner,” he continues, half to himself. “Not like I’m any good at this. Maybe never was. Back when I was… well, different story. Used to be all flowery words and grand gestures. Always had to prove meself.”

He risks a glance at you, eyes flicking away when they meet yours.

“Not much of a man now, am I? But the way you look at me… bugger me if it doesn’t make me feel like I could be.” He forces a chuckle, brittle around the edges. “Maybe it’s just my own foolishness talking. Wouldn’t be the first time.” Spike stops, swallowing hard. “But if this is the end, I need you to know that… that every stupid poem I scratched out, back when my heart was still beatin’—they were shadows of what I feel now. For you.”

You take a slow, shuddering breath, eyes wide and lips parted in a soft ‘O’ as you stare up at him. The porch light’s come on, the glow shading warmth into your expression. His fingers reach out and touch, delicate across your cheekbone, down to cup your jaw. “You’ve gone and wrapped yourself ‘round me—tight as sin, sweeter than blood. I can’t stop wantin’ more. Reckon I never will.”

You’re voiceless, your mouth opening once, then again, before giving up. Anya smirks to herself. Powerless in the face of blunt truth. You mortals and your weird little problems.

Spike rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “Said more than I meant to already. Should shut up before I make an even bigger mess―send you runnin’. Hell, maybe I deserve it. Always cocked things up when it mattered. ”

You inhale sharply, staring at him. “Oh…” You swallow. “Spike…”

His smile widens, but it’s not a happy thing.

“S’alright, pet,” he says, stepping back a foot. Ash is smeared across your cheek. “Not expectin’ anything. Just wanted to say it.” He hesitates, gaze dropping. “Never thought I’d be worth a damn to anyone, not really. But you—hell, you make me feel like I am. Like I’m enough. Like there’s somethin’ good left in me worth savin’.”

He turns to go, but you stop him. “Wait―I―”

The surprise on his face might seem deliberately put there to anyone who didn’t truly get demons. Anya knows it’s real. He really wasn’t expecting a response.

“You are enough. You are. And I―” You huff, biting your lip and averting your eyes. “You weren’t supposed to… be this—this important. To me.”

He looks at you then, eyebrows drawing together. You twist at your fingers, looking as though you’re desperate for something to hold on to.

“You drive me crazy,” you say suddenly, words tumbling. “With the attitude, and the way you think you can just―just―say stuff like that, like it doesn’t mean anything. Except it does. It does, and I—” You stop, breath trembling. “I can’t―I can’t lose you.”

His eyes widen, mouth opening, but you plow on, words spilling over themselves. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did. You make me feel… like I can breathe, even when everything is falling apart. And I know it’s insane, and I shouldn’t, and everyone will hate it, but I—” You take a breath. “But I’m already lost. I don’t want to find my way back.”

Something startlingly human spreads across Spike’s face. He cocks his head as he stares down at you, shy wonder making his features less cutting. It’s as though he’s just a guy and you’re just a girl, and this is just a scene out of an ordinary life.

Suddenly, you laugh, a short, small sound, but it breaks the oppressive atmosphere. “Damn. This is so cliché,” you say, shaking your head ruefully. “It’s like we’re in a movie.”

The mood shifts, and with it Spike’s distinctive brashness returns. His posture adjusts, less bumbling fool and more leonine hunter, tongue curling behind his lip in invitation.

“Yeah?” he asks, sauntering into your space, up close and personal. “Pretty sure the sort you mean ends in a kiss. Rounds out all the talk.”

He’s goading you, trying to recoup and save face—but it’s also an offer veiled by provocative words. Anya sees your uncertainty, the red flush working its way across your skin, and her anticipation begins to fade. Darn. She should’ve expected you to quail under the full force of his charm. She’s realistic enough to recognize that even she wouldn’t be unaffected by him. He’s very pretty for a vampire, and he knows it.

But wait—after a moment of vacillation, you surge forward, fists grasping the collar of his duster to pull his mouth to yours. Spike’s eyes widen briefly before sliding shut, hand tangling in your hair. She watches your lips mash together awkwardly for a second before Spike takes over, tilting your head just so until you slot together like puzzle pieces, your bodies converging to match. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the taste of you, like it’s the last time he’ll ever kiss anyone—and it might just be. It’s intense. Desperate. Romantic.

You let out a squeaking sort of sigh, muffled, a sound answered by the bass growl of the vampire attached to you as his arm spans across your waist, raising you up on tiptoes and into him even further. The flickering globe lighting the front of the house paints shadows across your entwined forms. The corners of Anya’s mouth lift.

You look very nice together. The sex will be great, she’s sure—when you’re ready, of course. And you could do worse than someone like Spike, who definitely has decades of experience in giving pleasure. She’s happy for you. Quality orgasms are necessary.

But there’s an obvious catch. Buffy, Giles, Xander—they’ll hate it. Spike is nothing but a monster to them, a rabid animal on a choke chain. No way they’ll tolerate his increased presence, never mind the very idea of him even touching you. You might get Tara and Dawn on side—and if you have Tara, you’ll most likely get Willow, too—but the likelihood is far-fetched. Even if you do, it’s easy enough to sway them. Anya’s seen it in action time and time again. She knows how it’s going to go, when this gets out: they’ll call it disgusting, wrong, the scheming of a soulless demon. She can already hear it.

In her heart, she wishes they were more understanding. Humans make love messy when it doesn’t have to be. Demons love simpler—when they want something, they just take it. No wringing hands, no guessing games. But there’s something intoxicating about all the fussing. She understands why some demons get obsessed.

Anya crosses her arms, thinking back to Xander’s proposal—so clear, so certain, like he’d already made the decision a hundred times before asking. It was a rare, beautiful thing: certainty. Not like the mess playing out on the lawn now. She thinks about the ring, nestled in the little black box Xander offered. She didn’t take it then—no point in promises if they don’t survive the night—but the offer sparked something bright and unexpected in her. Delight, disbelief, a warmth and depth of emotion she didn’t know she was capable of. A reminder that demons, ex or otherwise, can know love as fiercely and deeply as any human.

Watching as the kiss breaks, Spike’s forehead resting against yours, she sighs. When it blows up, and it will, she’ll inevitably be dragged into it. Great, she thinks. More drama.

But, as she watches you embrace under the steadily darkening sky, she can’t help but feel a pang of… something. Envy, maybe, at your audacity. Nostalgia. Or the bitter understanding that love is a gamble, and fools are the only ones brave enough to take it. But it’s a gamble worth fighting, worth losing, maybe even dying for.

Giles stands in the corner of the back room, pretending to clean a counter already spotless. The pretence is for your benefit, perhaps Spike’s too—but not his own. He knows exactly why he’s here. Buffy is dead. And you, her younger sister, are throwing yourself into the very life she died living. He tells himself it’s just concern. That he’s watching to ensure you’re safe. But it’s more than that. With Buffy gone, everything he failed to protect now rests in you. And Spike—compulsive, volatile—is the one you’ve chosen to help carry that weight.

The Magic Box is still and dim, cloaked in that aching quiet that has lingered since her death. The only sounds are the thud of your fists on the heavy bag and Spike’s low, muttered instructions. You’re quick, focused—but Giles can see it in the way your shoulders tighten, your mouth presses into a hard line. You’re angry. You’re hurting, and Spike is right in the middle of it.

Once, he stood in this very spot and watched Buffy move.

Not like this.

She was light—fluid—grace sharpened into purpose, a dancer in motion even at her most frustrated. He remembers the flash of her blonde ponytail in the air as she twisted into a spin-kick that sent the padded dummy reeling. How she bounced on the balls of her feet with a smirk and said, “Again?” even when sweat was dripping into her eyes.

He remembers correcting her stance, only for her to adjust just slightly wrong on purpose, just to get a rise out of him. The way she’d laugh when she nailed something new. How she complained, always, but never stopped trying. Now, the echoes of those moments sit in the corners of the room like ghosts. But watching you move—raw, stiff, driven by pain instead of instinct—feels like watching someone drown slowly under the weight of her shadow.

You decided to train properly just days after her death. It’s understandable: each of you have found your own methods of working through your sorrow, Dawn blaring her uncomfortably loud music at all manner of odd hours while you find yourself here, or away from the house, out at all hours of the night. The others are wrapped up in their own hurt, the wound too fresh to consider the plight of the Summers girls beyond the most basic of necessities. While Giles cannot make himself comfortable with the notion of you in any sort of battle, at least here he can keep vigil. For her.

You aren’t built like your elder sister: your frame is too slight, too small, and your punches lack the power to truly hurt. You’re about as threatening as a fly, but Spike does not coddle you.

“Potential there, yeah?” he said enigmatically when last Giles asked, smirking. “Something raw n’ fierce. She’s no Slayer, but she can surprise a nasty or two.”

When Spike offered to train you, he framed it as a way to keep you from getting yourself killed on the patrols you’d abruptly become insistent on joining. It is your way of honouring your sister’s sacrifice, Giles thinks, though he wishes you might choose some other means. With the Slayer gone, there were none suited to the task save Spike, and thus the proposition was reluctantly agreed to. The chip in the vampire’s head makes his sparring with you impossible, much to everyone’s relief, but he has turned instruction into drills for evasion, for striking with speed and precision, for using your size to your advantage. You’ll not make for a spectacular fighter, no, but Spike ensures you might hold your own.

“Footwork,” the vampire barks as you stumble back from a missed hit. “You’re dancing like a drunk. Move your feet.”

You scowl, breathing hard. “I am moving.”

“Yeah, like a duck. Gotta be faster, light on your feet.” His gaze flicks over you, lazy but appraising, lips curling. “All that talk about training—wouldn’t want to bruise anything too delicate, would we? Keep your face pretty. Gotta keep the goods intact, yeah?” He leans closer, a teasing edge in his voice. “Though you might wear a bruise well, pet. Bit of edge suits you.”

You bristle, cheeks flushing and indignation flaring in the pout you level him as you obey, focusing on the way Spike glides predatory, almost elegant. He demonstrates a simple but effective series of moves, unnaturally fast, hands ghosting close but never touching. Giles can see your mounting frustration at your inability to replicate the finesse of the supernatural, limbs shaking with exertion.

You lunge abruptly, no rhyme or reason to it, throwing a punch that flies wide. Spike dodges easily, grinning. “That it? Come on, you can hit harder than a wet noodle.”

“Not like you can punch back,” you mutter, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

His eyes narrow, playful. “Then make me dodge.”

You strike again, quicker this time, a low jab aimed at his ribs. He twists away, swift as a snake, but instead of stepping back, he moves into your space and catches your wrist in a carefully firm grip. Before you can react, his other arm wraps around your waist, pinning you flush against his body. Giles jumps, box slipping from his hands to the counter with a dull thud. Neither of you appear to notice.

“Close,” Spike is murmuring to you, voice a rough rumble, “but no.” His hand slides just a bit lower, fingers splayed against the curve of your hip. His mouth brushes your ear. “Distracted, baby? Can't blame you—hard to focus when you’re all tangled up, yeah?”

His hand twitches lower―just enough to provoke, to threaten―before releasing you with an odd little twist to his lips. Giles stiffens, teeth clenching as he looks on, sees Spike’s regard intent and glimmering on you. For a moment, he thinks the vampire wishes to bite you, to drain you dry, but in an instant, the moment is past and you return to starting positions.

It is hard to watch. But watch he must, for it has long been his mandate to guard against the malevolent creatures who hunt and slaughter innocents. Not only that, but in Buffy’s absence―the pang each time the memory resurfaces of her lying there atop the rubble nearly bowls him over―someone ought to keep their eye on this strange development between the pair of you.

“Ready?” Spike’s tone is clipped, stance relaxed. “Again.”

Giles watches as you push harder, your muscles trembling, frustration mounting with every falter. Spike’s needling is mild but targeted, sustained, enough to build up the uncharacteristic anger in you. The vampire never raises a hand against you―he cannot, after all―but he pushes, demands, making you curse your own limits and curse him just the same. He’d perhaps be grateful for the efforts Spike is undertaking if not for the way his gaze lingers just a fraction too long, or how carefully he listens when your voice cracks.

He’s tried to intervene. Truly, he has. It seems from the very second you returned to Sunnydale, armed with a superciliousness that can only come from having attended an institute like Thacher for near three years, you have met his every entreaty with a discourse on the intellectual failings of dichotomous thinking. Spike has no soul―one cannot unilaterally quantify a soul’s impact on the quality of personhood. Spike is evil―‘evil’ is subject to time, place, culture, any number of qualifiers that make it impossible to define concretely. Spike can only cause harm―then that is your cross to bear, and your lesson to learn. Interesting, certainly, but gullible. The accusation that Giles is in some way lacking rationality is galling, though he sees your point. However, he’s seen Spike in all his unholy glory, knows what he is capable of. You can question the basis of his suspicion all you like, but it does not change the simple fact that Spike has done things that even the most abominable human beings would shudder to behold, and he has rejoiced in the horror.

Ben, hand clawing at his arm, weakly trying to twist away—No. His thoughts turn back to you.

You protest Giles’s every exhortation, strong-willed, resilient and reckless in such an unassuming manner that it terrifies him. You aren’t a Slayer, but you are a Summers, and let no one tell you what you can and cannot do. You insist that Spike is helping. That you need the distraction, the outlet. That you need someone who sees you for more than the grief and the guilt that plague your waking hours. And perhaps that’s what terrifies him most—that Spike might actually be helping. That darkness, once cut loose from consequence, can learn the shape of meaning—wear it like a mask.

Over the following weeks, Giles observes from a distance, acutely aware of how your dynamic with Spike has changed. The vampire’s instruction has become softer, more invested. Confident, maybe, in the lack of challenge to his conduct. Spike encourages you, listens to you. Something protective lays in the way he steps closer when your voice wavers or when fatigue drags your movement. Giles sees it all.

The contradiction bothers him. Spike has no soul, his every innate impulse leashed by the metal sliver in his skull. And yet, here he is―teaching you, protecting you, caring. The chip keeps Spike in check, but it does nothing to curb emotions. Even a soulless vampire can develop fixations, obsessions that mask themselves as something softer, sweeter. Spike is a being of passion, his fascinations consuming. His almost violent preoccupation with Buffy has transmuted, found a new form in you as he reveals himself a man possessed, but it is the way you look back that worries Giles more. Longing, visceral and bursting. You cling to him like a tether, held together by someone just as lost and just as dangerous. He knows that Spike would chomp at the bit to take you in hand, to save you, possess you; though for what purpose, he knows not. It gnaws at him.

Giles lingers late in the shop now, a Watcher in a ghost town, listening to your sessions with Spike. He tells himself it is concern that keeps him still, ears searching for snippets of conversation―but the more he hears, the more he realizes with growing dread that there is something more to your connection. Mouths too close. Bodies too familiar. Words too tender, hidden behind closed doors and from averted eyes. Spike is no longer a distraction. He’s become vital—like breath, like blood. A companion, a confidant. The full scope of it hides below the surface and out of Gile’s sight, save for the ripples of recognition that make themselves evident in gradual increments.

The question eats at him: what happens when Spike’s obsession inevitably turns darker, when fleeting touch and veiled intent no longer serve his desires? Will you recognize the danger before it consumes you? Will you even care? Though it keeps him up at night, Giles cannot bring himself to confront you. Not yet. Grief drives people to foolishness, the need for comfort outweighing common sense. He’s considered confronting Spike directly—pulling him aside, demanding he explain himself, threatening consequences if he oversteps again—but what good would it do? Spike would only smirk, lean back with that insufferable slouch, and twist concern into something vulgar. A taunt, a dare. He would make it a game, because that’s what vampires do. They play at humanity. And Giles is so very tired of playing.

The time for subtlety is drawing to a close. He must make you understand the risk—even if it costs your trust. Watching isn’t enough. Not anymore.

Upon an evening after your training comes to a close and you rest, smarting and sore as Spike prowls away to his shift on patrol, Giles corners you.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he begins, the edge in his voice betraying his fear.

You look up at him. He sees it in your face when you grasp his meaning, your nostrils flaring just the once, frustration fleeting. “I know what he is,” you say after a pause, quiet and tired. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t choose to be more.”

Giles sighs. “He’s a vampire. Change isn’t in their nature.”

“Isn’t it?” you challenge softly. “He protects Dawn. He fights the good fight. He ca―He’s… trying. That has to mean something. Maybe he just needs a chance. Maybe everyone does.”

“Naive,” Giles mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Evil doesn’t change. It adapts.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” you admit, gaze unwavering. “But if people never get a chance to be better, what’s the point? Even you gave Angel a chance. Or was that different?”

Giles looks away, ashamed at how small the truth sounds when you say it like that. He absently pats the pocket of his jacket, fingers brushing the edges of a plane ticket he hasn’t yet decided to use. He doesn’t know if it’s cowardice, or mercy, that’s kept him from boarding it. “He had a soul.”

“And Spike has a choice.”

Silence hangs between you. Giles wonders if you’ll ever understand what he’s seen, what he’s lost. But the fire in your eyes is familiar. Unyielding. He thinks of Buffy, of her tenacity and persistence, and then of you: juvenile, grieving, determined to carry burdens too heavy for your shoulders. With her gone, he is supposed to protect you. But how can he protect you from yourself?

There is no future to be found here. Not with Spike. Not like this. And if Giles does not leave while he still can, he will remain stuck, resigned to watching the inevitable fall.

God help you both.

Dawn’s tears feel cold as they slide down her cheeks. She’s not sure if she’s crying because she’s angry or just tired—but either way, she’s so sick of them.

She doesn’t mean it. Deep down, she knows that. They’re trying. They get her up in the mornings, drive her to school. Pick her up, spend afternoons making stilted conversation. They help you with the bills, with dinner, with making sense of all of Buffy’s ID stuff so that Social Services still thinks she’s in the picture. Dawn sees the self-help books they hide whenever she enters the room, the step-by-step how-tos on helping their child cope with loss. There probably isn’t one on how to fix a ball of mystical energy after her fake mom and fake sister die. She hates how they avoid it—how they won’t say Buffy’s name. The looks, the half-finished sentences, the careful choice of words. It feels like they’re all pretending. Months have passed, and nothing’s better. Mom’s dead. Buffy’s dead, and no one wants to say it out loud.

Tara’s soft voice echoes in her ears, gentle, soothing, so understanding it made Dawn want to scream. Willow’s hovering didn’t help either. It felt like drowning in marshmallow fluff. She had to get out. She needed air, space—somewhere she wasn’t the Key or a broken kid sister. Somewhere no one would baby her, hover, be in her face all the time.

It's kinda depressing, but the cemetery has always felt peaceful to her. It’s familiar: the dirt beneath her sneakers, the rot of dying grass, the mildew dirtying the headstones that stick up like crooked teeth out of the ground. It’s bleak, but honest. The air feels cleaner here, cool and bite-y, a reminder that she’s still alive.

“The hardest thing in this world is to live. Be brave. Live… for me.”

Buffy’s last words hit her like a hammer, shocking her with a fresh wave of sadness prickling in the corners of her eyes. She looks up. The stars are out, cold and distant, glinting in the sky so far above her. It’s comforting, in a way. They’re all trapped in their own galaxies billions of light years away, never getting to meet each other. Alone in the dark, just like her.

Her vision blurs. She swallows hard, the lump in her throat thick and heavy. Everyone leaves her—Mom and Buffy, bodies in the ground, Giles an ocean away. She feels small. Insignificant. But at least here, the quiet feels less accusing, less full of expectations. She drags in a breath, shaky but grounding.

Shivering, she looks around as she nears Spike’s crypt. Everyone thinks she’s pretty weird for hanging out with him sometimes, but he’s the only one who doesn’t try to tell her everything’s going to be okay. He doesn’t try to make her talk. Sometimes, he doesn’t even say hello to her. He just nods at her, lets her sit there in silence until the anger and the hurt melts away. Spike is… Spike. He gets it. She remembers what he was like before: obsessed with Buffy, creepy and desperate, kinda vicious in his insistence that her sister felt something for him. The way Buffy looked at him—like he was disgusting, an ant under her shoe, like he was less than a bug to her—comes back to her. That was always painful to watch. But he learned from it, grew, turned his feelings into something else. He got less threatening and aggressive; pulled back, focused less on her and more on what was important to her, on you and Dawn. Showed Buffy that he could be someone to rely on, someone to help with the Slayer’s kid sisters.

Guilt eats at Dawn. She hasn’t come to see him a while. All the Scoobies have taken up so much of her time by dragging her through the motions, convinced that she’ll just move on with her life if they remind her to do her homework and stick a chore chart on the fridge. She’s seen him plenty at home, but it’s always hard to tell how someone’s doing when they’re just visiting.

I guess I’ll find out, she thinks with a slight prickle of nerves.

As she draws closer, she instantly notices something off. She squints, taking in the sight of the stone outside. Is the door… painted? Yup. Still has that slightly funky paint smell, so it’s gotta be pretty fresh. The stoop is clear for once, none of the crackly dead leaves announcing her presence under her feet, and there’s a broom tucked behind the pot plant. Weird. There’s even a flowerpot sitting just next to the column, a splash of bright. The inside is cleaner than she remembers. Swept floors, no cigarette butts, the beer bottles gone. A faded throw is tossed over the back of the armchair Spike took from their house, and the moldy damp smell seems a little less intense.

Huh. Spike isn’t exactly Mr. Domestic. What gives?

It takes her a moment to realize that the trapdoor is open. He doesn’t usually leave it like that, whether he’s out or staying in. She’s heading for the ladder before she’s fully aware of it, careful not to make a sound as she goes down. Her steps are light, careful, not wanting to disturb Spike, or whoever’s in here.

Edging along the wall—not too close, because erghh and ick with the spiderwebs—she’s just before the bend when her ears pick up voices. More than one. Muffled, but clear enough to hear the difference. One is definitely Spike’s—gruff, low, offensively British—but the other one is… softer. Younger. Familiar. Her heart lurches before she can stop it.

What are you doing here?

Her curiosity outweighs her sense, and she peers just around the corner to see you. And Spike. You and Spike, together.

Her eyes widen. Spike lays in bed—a real one, not a ratty cot or a stone slab—bare-chested and propped up by kitschy pillows that match the new rugs on the floor. You’re spread out atop him, equally free of clothes, your chest pressed to his so that all she can really see is the span of your back and the way Spike’s fingers trace lazy circles across your skin. Your cheek rests in the crook of his neck, your hair messy. The rumpled sheets just barely cover some seriously X-rated stuff, though Dawn can tell that your legs are tangled together, and that his other hand is on your thigh beneath the coverings. It’s obvious what you’ve been doing. The scent of it clings to the air—sweat, skin, warm and strong. Heat climbs her cheeks, but she can’t look away.

She knows this is a scene she was never meant to see. Something private. It makes a strange, painful knot form in her stomach—but at least she’s finally figured out where you’ve been going now that you’re not at home as much. You’re here. With Spike.

Privacy, boundaries, respect, blah blah blah, she thinks, intending to back away until you speak again, finally near enough that she can hear you.

“… and I—I can’t fall apart,” you say, voice thick with sadness. She finally takes in your expression: crumpled, eyes rimmed red. The kind of face you make when you’ve cried too much and can’t anymore. “Buffy’s… she’s gone. Mom’s gone. And I―”

Spike hushes you, gaze locked on you in a way that makes Dawn’s heart skip a beat.

Your breath hitches. “I’m supposed to hold it together. For Dawnie. I’m the oldest now. And everyone expects me to―” You stop, hesitant.

“You can say it, kitten. Go on,” Spike encourages softly. “Let it out.”

You choke on a sob. When you begin again, your voice is small. “I… I’m her sister. Buffy’s. Her real one. The one with real memories and real love, and I have to… I have to bury it all. Because if I don’t, who steps up? Buffy’s the Slayer, but I’m the strong one, and I can’t―”

Your words break, face turning into his throat as a noise unlike anything Dawn’s ever heard escapes you. She almost throws up. Wants to storm in, yelling, asking you if that’s what you really think of her, if you see her as just some thing instead of a person. It hurts something fragile and breakable in the very darkest parts of her to hear you say what no one else will: that she’s a fraud, a phony that doesn’t belong. Not real. Alone. If that’s how you feel, then why do you even bother?

But then, Spike’s arms tighten around you, holding you even closer, and she pauses.

“Not wrong for what you feel,” he murmurs. “Bloody awful mess. Not fair. And you’ve been carrying too much of it alone.”

Your fingers curl against his chest. “I hate feeling this way. I hate that I even thought it. Dawnie… I love her.”

Spike presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re allowed. Doesn’t make you a bad sister. Makes you human.”

“I… I miss her,” you say, unsteady and so, so young. “I miss Buffy. I miss… I want my mom. I want them back. How do―how can―how am I supposed to do this?”

“I know, baby.” His hand slides up to cup the back of your head. You grip him like a lifeline. “It’s rotten, the hand you’ve been dealt. But you’ll get along. You’re brave. And you’re not alone. Never alone.”

Dawn presses a hand over her mouth, backing away slowly. The quiet, broken sound of your crying follows her as she slips out, heart pounding. She makes it halfway home before her legs wobble, forcing her to sit on a crumbling stone wall.

The way he held you… Like you were something precious to him. She swallows back the lump in her throat. You and Spike. You and Spike, together. It’s weird, and part of her wants to be grossed out, but the look on his face sticks in her mind. He’s never looked at anyone like that before. Not Drusilla, not Harmony, not Buffy, not Dawn. No one. No one but you.

She gets it now. Why Spike’s around so much. Why she seems to always find him with you―at the Magic Box, at the house, in the cemetery, the Bronze. She wonders when it all started. What she’s seen tonight isn’t just random. It didn’t look like two people just trying to cope. It looked like… it reminds her of Buffy, how she was with Angel.

Dawn sighs. Sure, it stings, but she gets it. Her rage has left her, replaced by something stinging and bittersweet. She can’t unhear the pain in your voice, can’t unsee the way Spike held you like you matter, maybe more than anyone else in the world. She knows she should tell someone what she saw—maybe Willow or Tara—but the idea makes her stomach churn. It would hurt you, betray you. And Spike, he would never forgive her.

She rubs the salt from her eyes with the heel of her hand, then grips the edge of the wall like it might steady her. The choice settles into her chest, warm and a little heavy. She’ll keep your secret. For now.

The house feels thinner tonight. Hollowed out, smaller. Quieter than she’s used to.

Buffy’s away, dragged by Willow and Xander to the Bronze in the hopes that bass and bodies might shake loose the shadows she's been carrying since her resurrection. Dawn’s at Janice’s, sleeping over, probably halfway through a horror movie and a bag of microwave popcorn, equipped with gossip and a parent who can pretend not to notice how late they stay up. And you—you’re usually the one who stays behind, always so gentle with Buffy lately, so patient with Dawn. Steady, in your own quiet, hurting way. Tara assumes you’ve gone to sleep already, or out again, whereabouts unknown.

For once, she can breathe. No awkward silences. No Buffy’s thousand-yard stare across the table. No tiptoeing around the tension that still clings to the walls like smoke. She’s been floating for weeks, a warm presence pressed into the background, not quite seen. Not quite necessary. The only time anyone touches her anymore is when she initiates it. She can’t remember the last time someone held her like they needed to.

She moves softly through the hallway now, mug of tea in one hand, the intention simple: grab the spare quilt from the room you share with your little sister and curl up on the couch with a book. But then she hears it. A sound, soft and aching. A moan, breathy and real, the kind of sound that doesn’t come from pain.

Tara pauses outside your bedroom door, which hangs just slightly ajar. She should walk away. She knows she should. But something makes her glance through the gap. She tells herself it’s concern, not curiosity—that the sound you made could’ve been from pain. Just checking. One breath. One heartbeat. Just long enough to see something that will never leave her.

She freezes.

You’re on the bed, bare from the waist down, hips tilted to the edge of the mattress and thighs parted in surrender. Spike is on his knees on the floor—shirtless, pants riding low and sagging, undone, skin pale as milk in the moonlight. His shoulders ripple with restrained tension, arms banded tight around your thighs as he buries his face between them like a man starved. The lamplight from the corner casts long shadows across his back, glinting along the ridges of his spine, the curve of his neck. One of your legs is slung high over his shoulder, trembling. The other braces against the mattress, and you're huffing, squirming.

Your head tosses back on the pillow, lips parting on a soft, drawn-out moan. He’s working you over with slow, luxuriating confidence—worshipping, hungering. His tongue traces slick, purposeful circles, every movement intentional. Tara hears him, hears the filthy little noises he makes when you twitch and jolt beneath him, the wet suck of his lips when he draws your clit between them, savoring you like sin.

“Spike,” you breathe, and he groans like it’s the only word that matters.

Her breath catches.

Spike pulls back only to spear into the furl of your entrance, pressing his nose in hard and inhaling. Your body judders helplessly, your fingers digging into the bedspread, into the air, into nothing at all. The muscles in your stomach flex, then tremble. You whimper, low and wrecked, and he makes a sound in return: something primal, appreciative, entirely unashamed. It’s obscene. And yet—there’s something soft about it. Reverent.

Tara’s seen Spike grin through blood and violence, heard him mock the pain of others. But this—this isn’t that. She remembers the tower: his hands slick with blood, the way he stood, shaking, hollering your name as a stray hit sent you reeling to the ground, afraid. Broken. She hadn’t known then what it meant. She might now.

His hands aren’t being cruel. His mouth isn’t taking. It’s giving. Something in him is folded open, gentle. Wanting. He moves, draws his tongue over your clit with careful precision, then slips lower again, teasing your opening before easing back in, slow and sure. One hand trails up to splay wide across your belly, grounding you. He growls, eyes half-lidded like it’s better than blood.

“Such a sweet li’l cunt. Heaven,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and decadent, like velvet dragged over grit. “Could die here, buried in you. Wouldn’t even mind.”

Tara flinches, face flaming. But you—you make a shuddering sound of agreement, helpless and high-pitched. Your hand fists in his hair, pulling without thought, and Spike laughs, low and delighted. Not mocking; giddy, like a man dizzy with luck.

“Greedy thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles, nosing along your thigh before dipping back in, tongue wicked and unrelenting. “Already twitchin’, beggin’ for more—look at you. Bloody gorgeous when you come undone.”

Your hips cant forward, chasing his mouth.

“C’mon then,” he urges, licking slow and deep, practically cooing. “Lemme feel you break.”

Tara swallows, heart thudding. The room smells like skin and salt and something sweet, air balmy and thick enough to taste. She presses the mug to her mouth like an anchor. Doesn’t drink. Just holds it, fingers damp with warmth. Everything else goes quiet.

She should look away. But the way you move—hips lifting, breath catching—draws her in. You whisper his name like a plea, and he doubles down, suckling hard enough to make you arch off the mattress. Crying out, you twist the sheet in one hand and reach for him with the other. He catches your wrist and kisses your palm, never pausing.

Then—

“Oh god,” you sob. “Please, please, I—”

“Shh,” Spike murmurs, voice ragged against you. “Give it to me. Let go, baby, I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You crest with a gasping, hitched cry, back arched and mouth open. Spike moans against you like he’s the one unraveling as you tremble, thighs clamped around his ears. Your chest heaves. Your lips part. For a moment, you look unmade: tears streak your cheeks, sweat glistens on your skin, and your breath comes in gulps, shallow.

He doesn’t pull away. His kisses soften, slow and adoring. It reminds Tara of how Willow once touched her wrist in a crowded room. She envies it—the ache turned to tenderness. To be truly seen, desired. She mourns how rare that feeling has become. There’s awe in it, and something worse―need, maybe, or love. Ever since Buffy came back, the world’s been tilted slightly sideways—sunlight too yellow, silence too thick. But this? This feels real. Loud. Alive.

Spike presses his lips to your thigh as you come down, murmuring too low to catch. He licks up the mess he’s made of you, gentle now, like you're sacred.

“Too much,” you whisper, blinking. “Can’t…”

He eases back, wiping his mouth, then nestles into the cradle of your hips. His fingers trace the wet between your legs—not to arouse, but to relish in, the tip of his nose gliding along your belly, devoted. He lingers, kissing the slope of your mound like prayer.

Tara starts to move. She should leave. Any longer, and it won't be an accident. If you see her, it becomes something else. A breeze shivers through the hallway and she stills, heart pounding, suddenly certain that if Spike turns his head, he’ll know; that if you catch her, it will live between you like a ghost. She tells herself it’s only curiosity, that it’ll vanish from her memory come morning. But she knows it won’t.

She stays. Listens.

“I didn’t mean to cry,” you mumble, throwing an arm over your eyes.

“I like it when you do,” he murmurs as he kisses your hip and climbs up over you, licking his lips. It doesn’t sound cruel. “Means you feel me. Means ‘m not just makin’ this up in the dark, yeah?” He pulls you into the crook of his arm, palm brushing your cheek, thumb gentle beneath your eye. You sniffle. His mouth brushes against your temple. “There she is. My brave girl.”

The way you melt into him—it’s not just comfort. It’s trust. Tara knows love doesn’t always look gentle. He curls around you like you might vanish, nose brushing your temple, hand stroking your back. You toss your leg over his, and he slides his fingers to touch where you're still slick, to which you wriggle but say nothing.

“Still with me, kitten?” he murmurs.

You nod. “You didn’t have to be so—”

“Didn’t have to. Wanted to.” He nuzzles your hair. “Wanted to make you feel good. You always make me feel like I’m still… real.”

You bury your face in his chest. He exhales.

Tara never thought vampires spoke in anything but hunger—but Spike does. He calls you gorgeous. Brave. And the way you curl around each other—it’s not lust. It’s sanctuary.

“Love you,” he whispers. It sounds like confession, like surrender. “So much it hurts. So much I’d burn for it.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I know. I love you, too.”

That’s when Tara steps back. She closes the door gently, careful not to make a sound, her hand lingering too long on the knob before letting go.

She should feel horrified. She doesn’t. What she saw wasn’t twisted, wasn’t wrong. It was private, fierce, soft in a way Spike isn’t with anyone else. If Buffy knew, it would break something. If Xander knew, he’d burn it down. But Tara understands the truth of it—the strange, aching, imperfect truth. She saw you: the girl clinging to something fragile and fierce, and the monster who looked like he was terrified to let you go.

That truth belongs to you and Spike. Not the rest of the world. She walks away, silent and thoughtful, and decides she didn’t see anything at all.

Buffy will come home tonight with mascara smudged and shoulders slumped. She’ll shuffle through the door like a ghost who got lost on the way back to her grave, and Tara will hand her tea and ask about the music. Neither of them will mention how long it’s been since anyone laughed.

The house still feels hollow, but not lifeless. Something still beats beneath its ribs—reckless, messy, lit with want. Tara doesn’t know if it’s hope, but it’s something. She doesn't know what it is she envies more: the hunger, or the way it’s fed.

He wants to tear his eyes out, rip his eardrums from his skull and swallow them all. Anything to escape the full-on assault in front of him.

Well. Not an assault. It’s pretty quiet, all things considered. But still. There’s a special kind of hell in watching whatever the crap this is. Your face is pretty much all Xander can really see of what’s going on―brows furrowed, mouth open, eyes hooded―but the uh. Bouncing. Yeah. That’s painting a pretty graphic picture. And the sounds. Wet, gross, thrusting sounds.

Your hands are clasped against the back of Evil Dead’s neck, fingers twisting and twisting away in the ungelled hairs at his nape as you make those haunting little wounded noises with each―oh god, yuck―drive of his hips against you, pushing you further into the wall of the dusty old crypt you’re hoisted up against. Xander’s eyes flicker down before he can stop himself―bare calves jolting with the rhythm, skirt hiked high—and snaps them back up just in time to see Spike’s mouth dragging along your throat. Hands flex on your hips, steering you squirming into each harsh roll of his body. Thank the Powers That Be that he’s still fully clothed.

Well―

Nope. Not thinking about what’s unclothed right now.

"Spike…” you gasp, high and pitchy, but whatever you were going to say is swallowed by a vicious kiss, Spike’s bleach-blond head blocking your face from view as he devours you. The sight jolts Xander’s heart sideways, but he can’t—can’t—look away.

You used to call him Xan the Man. Used to ask for rides home from school and come to him for help with the printer. Now you’re wrapped around a monster like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“The thing he’s doing with his tongue,” Anya whispers, wide-eyed. “She’s probably having multiple orga―”

He waves a harried hand at her, the universal motion for shut the hell up, Ahn, partly because he so does not want to hear the end of that line of thought and partly because he doesn’t want Spike to know they’re here. Also, to be honest, because he’s still kinda trying to process what he’s seeing. It’s like watching a train wreck: he can’t look away. Are you under a spell?

“Shh, shh,” he can hear Spike murmur then, voice low and coaxing, his nose dipping to glide along the arch of your throat as he hitches your legs higher. “Gotta stay quiet, yeah? Don’t want any beasties coming ‘round.”

You yelp, and Xander flinches. The bleached wonder makes his own series of sounds, then, deep and growly, and his lips curve in a wicked smile against your ear. Fingers curl tighter against your hips in a way that should be making that chip of his fire off, make him scream in agony, stumble off and away. But nope, of course Xander’s not that lucky. You writhe closer, gasping.

His pulse pounds. A hundred bad scenarios run wild through his head—Buffy’s face twisting in rage, Dawn crying, you lying cold and broken after Spike gets bored. He feels sick.

“You want that, then, kitten?” Spike croons, lips skimming your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Want ‘em to see you hanging off the Big Bad’s cock, slack-jawed n' titties bouncing? Mm, give ‘em the treat of their lives, show off my girl and her tight li’l quim.”

“Oh my god,” Anya mutters. Her expression is fascinated and maybe a little aroused, but she doesn’t seem surprised, which is one to file away for later.

Xander’s stomach revolts. He’s heard Spike talk like this before—sick, lecherous, all swagger and filth—but hearing it directed at you is… it’s wrong. You’re too young, too trusting, too damn human. You’re Buffy’s sister. Dawn’s sister. Hell, you’re practically his kid sister—still fourteen in his mind, still asking him to reach the cereal from the top shelf. And Spike? He’s leering at you like a prize to ruin. But you don’t look ruined. You look… hungry. Yearning, with the bright flush spreading across your face and your arms winding tighter around his neck, ankles locking round his back like a limpet.

You’re shaking your head, but your lower body is curving off the stone to grind back down on him, keening out, “No, no―”

Spike grins, tongue flicking against your earlobe as his hips roll deeper. Xander wants to snap something—an insult, a threat—but he can’t risk it. “Course not, you’re a good girl, aren’t you? Selfish, I am, plucked you for my own and I’m keepin’ you, all mine, my good girl.”

‘A good girl.’ The phrase slithers down Xander’s spine like ice water. The edge in Spike’s voice freaks him out. Maybe… maybe we should’ve been more wigged out when he started spending time with her instead of sniffing around Buffy.

His gut clenches hard as you cry out, clearly in pain as the vamp staccatos his thrusts like he’s stabbing you through to your core. The chip still doesn’t go off and you’re writhing closer, not away, completely unbothered by the slamming of the hand by your shoulder and the rock that crumbles under superstrong fingers digging into the wall.

Xander keeps hoping the chip’s gone dead.

Because that’s easier than admitting you’re not fighting back.

God, do you even want Spike to stop?

Xander’s stuck, warring with his desire to burst through the thicket concealing him and Ahn and stake Spike for what he’s doing to you, but he can’t figure out if the chip’s malfunctioning or not.

“You gonna cum, kitten?” Spike’s asking, teeth fixated on the skin where your neck and shoulder meet, nipping and sucking like he’s getting ready for a feast. You’re clinging to his hair, crunching the gel all out of it, knees scrabbling but unable to find purchase against the leather coat until he hooks his arms under them. He folds you near in half so you let out a squeal, feet kicking. “Yeah? Feel you gettin’ hot for it, squeezin’ down all desperate … Come on, gimme it, get me all drippin’ with it, yeah―”

You seize up like you’ve been tazed, electrocuted, a sobbing whimper bursting out as he works you up and through it, pace frantic―

“Yeah, baby,” he’s moaning, “came like a dream―know it’s hurtin’, jus’ gotta let me finish, lemme―”

―and you wilt, limbs loosening to jelly so much so that Spike’s all but shoving you through the crypt wall. Your voice is fervent and cracking as you say, “Please, Spike, please—want it inside, want you in me—please, please—”

You whine high and clear while Spike pounds at you, animalistic, though you clutch yourself to him tight as he grunts and blusters his way to his end. Making little encouraging cries, you arch back obligingly as his chin dips and―hoo boy, that’s definitely more of you than Xander ever planned to see, thanks, never mind the tongue and teeth all over you. The movements slow and slow until there’s nothing more than a lazy shuddering roll of Spike’s lower body against yours. You tilt your head back, eyes closed and sighing.

“Wow,” Anya breathes. Yeah, wow’s right.

Xander feels like he’s been gutted. He’s seen plenty of things on patrol, but this… this is something else. Something private and raw and so, so wrong. No, not just wrong—it’s unwatchable. Buffy’s sister, tangled in Spike’s claws, and he can’t do a damn thing about it. The helplessness burns.

Spike kisses you again, touches you like he’s starved for it, his body cradling yours with sickening tenderness.

“Come back with me, kitten?” he asks you softly.

Huh, still with the nickname-y thing. Xander’s mind twists back to Drusilla—how she used to cling, and how Spike would all but melt into her, feral and adoring. The comparison knots something ugly inside him.

“Got you all messy,” Spike’s still saying. One of his hands disappears, and you make a noise Xander can’t really place until he sees the vamp stick his fingers in his mouth, lewdly suck them with a pop. “Can’t go off leakin’ all the way home.”

“If I had my panties back,” you say, laughing, “maybe that wouldn’t be a problem.”

Zipper sounds, and Spike lowers you with more care than Xander’s ever seen him use, fiddling with the skirt of your dress. Your knees are pressed tight together.

“Were you wearin’ any?” he asks with false innocence, tucking strands of hair behind your ear and following the plane of your shoulder, your arm, winding his fingers with yours. “Can’t remember.”

You laugh again. You keep doing that. “Spike.”

He tugs you from the wall, arms holding you like a vice against him. The expression on Spike’s face as he looks at you… Awareness feels like nausea.

This isn’t just screwing around, is it?

Of course. The way Dawn hovers. Tara’s looks. Giles leaving—not after Buffy died, but after something else. They all knew. They just didn’t say it. How long has this been happening while everyone’s looked away?

“Feels better when you’re with me,” he says, voice low. His forehead presses down against yours and you sway together, idle, caught in a spell. “Watchin’ you sleep, heart beatin’… Get to hold you, too. S’nice. How ‘bout it, hm?”

Too soft, too soft.

Your eyes are wide, adoring. “I’ll call home. Tell them I’m out for the night.”

Suddenly, Xander’s thinking back to all those times Buffy or Dawnie or Willow or Tara have mentioned you staying over with a friend, going out late and coming back the next afternoon, or the afternoon after that. How many of those times have you actually just been with Spike?

You shriek, nearly cackling as the vamp hoists you up into a carry, spinning in an arc so your hair flies gleaming behind you. “Oh my god, Spike!”

“Yeah, baby, say my name.” He stalks off into the night with you, no doubt to make good on taking you back to his crypt.

Xander just stands there.

He wishes he never agreed to go patrolling tonight; wishes he decided to turn right instead of left; wishes he didn’t hear those noises and decide to stop, to creep up and scope out the source beyond the cover of bushes. Wishes he didn’t have to know that you and Spike are together, and that―worst of all―this isn’t just some fling. You’re in deep. Maybe he is, too.

He lets out a slow, deep breath, searching for his inner calm. “That was… disturbing as hell.”

“Why?” Anya tilts her head, frowning. “Because they’re in love?”

“Wha―No! No, that’s not the issue!” He rubs his face, trying to ignore the heart palpitations at Ahn’s use of the word love.

Her eyes narrow slightly, brow set in an even deeper furrow. “I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

“I don’t—” He stops. Don’t lash out. Inner calm. He sighs. Starts again. “This is bad. This is very, very bad.”

Anya nods, clearly not understanding. The great thing about her is that she doesn’t push when she doesn’t get it. “Okay. Should we―should we just go home for now? Maybe you’ll feel better about it there.”

If Buffy finds out and doesn’t stop it—if she looks at this and says it’s fine—then maybe the world’s already broken beyond repair.

Xander shakes his head, already pulling out his phone, scrolling to ‘B’. “Not yet. I gotta make a call.”

He doesn't even know what he's gonna say. Just that someone has to know. Someone stronger. Someone who can stop it before it’s too late.

Willow steps through the front door like she’s bracing for a spell to blow back in her face.

The house feels wrong the second she enters. Too still, like the quiet after a slammed door. The air’s brittle with tension, the kind of tension that’s made her call in sick to work and grab the first bus back across town. It’s been a while since this atmosphere settled—long enough for her to head back out, get her copy of Witchcraft from where she’d left it behind the counter at the Magic Box. It was Buffy’s request. She thinks Spike’s put some kind of love spell on you. No one has the heart to tell her that you’re not acting like you’ve been under a spell.

Tara’s waiting in the entryway, pale and subdued.

“She knows they know,” she murmurs, voice soft but heavy. “I called her.”

Willow nods. “Thanks.”

Dawn’s been sent up to her room—the conversation that’s coming isn’t one for her ears, though Willow assumes she’ll probably just hide herself in the hall upstairs so she can listen in. For once, though, she didn’t put up a fight against her oldest sister’s demand. There was something sad in the set of her mouth—like she knew what was about to happen.

In the living room, it’s a standoff. Buffy’s pacing like a caged animal, arms crossed so tightly they could splinter bone. Xander’s by the fireplace, jaw set and eyes sharp, practically vibrating with righteous fury, while Anya is perched on the arm of the couch, watching everything like she’s about to start taking bets. That leaves her and Tara. Willow doesn’t know what to think. She doesn’t have long to figure it out.

The front door opens again. You come in first, proud and tense, daring anyone to speak. You’re holding Spike’s hand, clutching it with knuckles white. He remains a half-step behind you, his usual leather and arrogance somewhat marred by the tired, guarded expression on his face―like he’s expecting a stake through the ribs at any second, but will gladly take it if it means standing with you. You pause in the entry to the living room, hovering, indecisive.

Willow’s stomach flips. She doesn’t mean to stare, but she can’t help it. The way your fingers are laced with his, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world—as though you’re not standing in a room full of people who once would’ve bled to keep you safe from evil like him. It’s shocking.

Buffy’s the first to speak. Of course she is.

“Really?” she spits, voice like a lash. “You thought this was a good idea? Bringing him he―”

“We didn’t come for your permission, or your blessing,” you say flatly, raising your chin. A blaze burns in your eyes, threatening. “We came because I’m tired of hiding.”

Spike raises his eyebrows slightly, clearly amused despite everything. Willow wants to scream.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Xander cuts in, face red. “No one thought you did. But maybe you should have. Or, I don’t know, used the part of your brain that goes ‘hey, maybe I shouldn’t be having freaky sex with the guy who’s tried to kill everyone in this room?’”

Buffy whirls around to glare at him, but you beat her to it.

“Shut up, Xander,” you snap, the hostility so unlike you. Perhaps you’ve finally been pushed to the edge. Or maybe―just maybe―you’ve found something, someone worth the fight. “You don’t know a damn thing about us.”

“Please,” Xander scoffs. “What, you think that because he’s not killing people anymore, it makes this okay? He’s a monster! He’s—”

“He’s not!” you snap, stepping forward unconsciously. “He’s more human than half the people in this room.”

Willow finally speaks. “He’s a vampire with no soul. Do you even hear yourself?”

You look at her like she’s failed a test you thought she’d pass. “Yeah. I do. Better than you do, apparently.”

She flinches. That stings.

“You think this is some epic romance?” Xander scoffs. “This is Spike. He doesn’t love, he obsesses. You’re just the next thing he’s latched onto.”

Shaking your head, you say, “You’re wrong. He cares about me.”

Buffy’s in Spike’s face before Willow can blink. “Stay away from her. Stay away from my family. You touch her again and I swear to god—”

“Buffy.” Willow tries, she really does. But her voice is small, hesitant. She doesn’t know how to fix this. She doesn’t even know what this is.

Anya chimes in, voice low but unflinching. “This isn’t helping. Yelling at her like this. It’s not going to make her stop loving him.”

Everyone freezes for a moment, surprised. Anya shrugs, then folds her hands primly in her lap. “If yelling could fix love, none of us would’ve ever made a single relationship mistake. But here we are.”

The bite in the room is momentarily thrown off.

You’re shaking now, but not from fear. “I’m not some toy you can shove in a box when it makes you uncomfortable! I’m not yours to protect, or judge, or decide for. I’m the only one who gets to decide who I love.”

“Oh, God,” Buffy mutters, eyes wide with something between horror and heartbreak. “You really think this is love?”

“I know it is.”

Buffy’s breathing is sharp now, unsteady. She’s staring at you like she’s seeing someone else, someone she can’t recognize. Her voice, when it comes, is cracked at the edges. “Giles knew, didn’t he?”

The words land with more weight than Willow expects. There’s no venom in them—only something raw, wounded, almost betrayed.

You flinch, just barely. “What?”

“That’s why he left,” Buffy says, eyes narrowing. “He couldn’t watch it. Couldn’t watch you… this.” She gestures to you and Spike like the very sight of you burns.

Willow stiffens, heart sinking. She knows Giles’s departure had nothing to do with you—at least, not directly. But Buffy’s not really asking for answers. She’s lashing out because it’s easier than facing the loneliness that's been creeping closer every day since he left. Willow can see it in the clench of her jaw, in the brittle shine of her eyes. Buffy’s not stupid. Deep down, she knows the distance between her and Giles is her own doing. But tonight, she needs someone to blame, and it’s fallen on you.

“Don’t put that on her,” Spike says, low and warning.

“Don’t speak,” Buffy snaps, flicking her gaze to him. “You don’t get to talk. You’re the reason she’s like this.”

“I’m not some project he corrupted,” you fire back, shaking now. “I chose him. I wanted him. And he—”

“Stop,” Buffy barks, stepping forward. “Stop talking like… like it means something! Like this is anything but sick.”

The heat radiating off you is palpable. “You don’t get to judge me just because I love someone you couldn’t handle! You want someone to hate? Fine. Hate me. But don’t pretend this is about Spike!”

“Like hell it’s not,” Buffy growls. “You’re dragging him into this house again like he belongs here. Like you do, while you’re—you’re letting him crawl inside you like some… some thing.”

Willow doesn’t even have time to intervene before you go cold, your voice like ice. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, I dare,” Buffy spits. “Because someone has to! Someone has to tell you how disgusting this is—”

“No,” you snap, sharp and clear. “You don’t care about what’s right. You want someone to blame. Someone to scream at, to shove out, so you don’t have to feel the way you feel. Because you’re still mad the world kept turning without you in it.” You gulp, unsteady, readying for the killing blow. “Because my vampire gives me what yours never could. Guess a soul doesn’t count for much after all, does it?”

Buffy raises her hand. Time slows.

The slap cracks across your cheek, the sound sharp and awful. For half a second, everything stills—and then Spike moves, shoving past Willow, fist meeting Buffy’s jaw with a brutal crunch. It sends her stumbling back against the wall.

“Don’t you touch her!” he growls, yellow eyes scorching as his human mask slips, revealing the demon below.

She’s already pulling a stake from her waistband. Tara moves at last.

“Buffy, no!” she gasps, her voice trembling as she reaches out instinctively, but she doesn’t make it far. She halts behind Willow, one hand outstretched like she’s forgotten what she meant to do with it. Her voice cracks. “Don’t do this. This won’t help—none of this will.”

It’s not loud. It’s not enough. But Willow hears it like a bell: clear, desperate, and already too late.

“Buffy, stop—” Willow adds, stepping forward, but you’re already in between them.

“If you kill him,” you warn, “you lose me too.”

Buffy’s hand is frozen mid-air, stake shaking. Like a puppet with its strings cut, her arm falls, stake clattering to the ground. “I can’t even look at you.”

“Then don’t.” You inhale, but it doesn’t steady anything. A strange look passes over your face, your shoulders squaring in some unknown resolution. “Isn’t that what Mom said to you? When you wouldn’t stop being the Slayer long enough to be her daughter?”

Buffy’s face crumples, just for a second. A tear falls. Then she whispers, devastating in its quiet: “Get out.”

No one breathes.

She walks away, slips through the back to the kitchen, and Willow hears the kitchen door slamming shut, the silence that follows unnatural.

You turn to the door.

“Come on,” Xander says, stepping a foot toward you. His hands are raised, his voice placating, like he’s speaking to a little kid. “Don’t… she didn’t mean it. She’s just angry. It doesn’t have to be a―a thing. Cut him loose. That’s all it takes. Let him go, and things can go back to the way they were.”

“That’s all it takes?” you repeat, quiet but deadly. “Toss him aside so Buffy feels better? Like he’s garbage I dragged in and forgot to take out?”

Xander shrugs, defensive. “I’m saying it’ll fix things. Make it right again. So we can… we can all move past this.”

Your eyes lock on him. “So you can all breathe easier. Buffy stops feeling grossed out, you stop feeling threatened. As long as I pay for it—right?”

Willow tries to interject, voice uncertain. “That’s not what he meant—”

You cut her off, sharp.

“It’s exactly what he meant.” You look back to Xander. “You, of all people, Xander. You’ve loved people you weren’t supposed to. What makes me different?”

Xander’s face tightens. Willow has no words.

“I love him,” you say. “He loves me. And there’s nothing any of you can say or do to make me give him up.” It rings with finality, lines drawn once and for all.

A hush descends for a beat. Spike’s voice sounds out, hesitant, uttering your name.

“No,” you tell him firmly, shaking your head. “Don’t even think it.” Your tone gentles, wavers, lower lip trembling. “Let’s… let’s just go, okay? Please?”

He wavers for a moment, searching for something in your expression. Willow sees the subtle slackening of his rigid frame, certainty propelling the nod he directs at you. “Yeah, kitten.”

A wan smile crosses your face. Without so much as glancing back, you let him open the door, hand on the small of your back as you both leave.

Willow casts around the room beseechingly. Xander’s all but shut down, staring at the space you just occupied with an inscrutable look. Anya’s curled in on herself, chin pressed to folded knees and avoiding meeting anyone else’s gaze. Tara clutches the banister, face deathly pale and eyes bright, distraught. A sliver of brown hair at the top of the stairs. Dawn. No one’s moving.

It’s up to her, then.

“Spike,” she calls out, rushing out onto the porch. One final attempt at ending this insanity. “Don’t―don’t let this happen. Don’t… there’s no going back. From this. If she goes now…”

You won’t even look at her. It’s like she’s ceased to exist. Staring up at Spike, you let him lay a hand on your cheek, let him nudge at your temple with the jut of his nose. Your arm’s curled under his duster, held fast to his waist.

“Wait for me, baby,” he murmurs to you. “I’ll deal with Red for a mo’.”

He pushes you gently in the direction of the tree and you go, sinking to the ground with your back against the trunk. You stare out at the street, something horribly lost and afraid in the shape of your body curled up in a ball. Spike makes his way back up the steps, murder in his eyes. He does nothing―just halts. Stares expectantly.

Willow wavers. “Why are you doing this? Haven’t you hurt us enough?”

Spike barks out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“You know, I held back in there. Let my girl handle it.” He snorts, though there’s nothing funny about this. “Bunch of self-absorbed wankers, you are. S’not about you lot.”

“Then what?” She frowns. She wants to understand. “What is it about? Why?”

Just like that, the fight goes out of him. He sighs, sounding every inch a creature that’s spent the last hundred years scrapping for everything he had, everything he needed. It’s strange, coming from him. Resigned. Weary. Sad.

“Got used to takers, didn’t I?” he says at long last, soft and reminiscent. He’s gazing at you. “Dru. Buffy. Needed me, never wanted me. Never saw me.” His voice is low, guttural. “She… she sees me. She gives. It’s simple, with her. No proving myself. No trying to be something I’m not.”

His eyes flicker to Willow, not accusing—just honest.

“Thought I knew love, before her. I didn’t. Not really.” He taps his chest, softly. “She’s in here. Part of me. I’m not giving her up. Can’t.”

She’s speechless. Her throat is tight, her pulse thrumming with guilt and something else she can’t name. She’s seen people walk away before. But this feels different. Final.

He doesn’t add anything else. Just sighs again, presses his lips together like he’s steeling himself, and slinks back down the walkway that leads away from the house. You reach up to him, childlike, his grasp solid and gentle as he helps you up from where you’re sat. Together, your head against his arm, you leave.

This time, she doesn’t stop you.

Willow stands alone on the porch, heart hammering like she’s finally feeling the spell’s backlash—too late to undo, too late to stop. Her hands tremble at her sides. Some part of her—deep and insistent—whispers that there’s a way to fix this. A spell. A simple one: memory, clarity, obedience. Just a few words, and she could make this right again. She could make you see sense. Make Spike let go. Make Buffy forgive.

Just a few words, the magic whispers. So simple. So clean.

But she doesn’t move. She just watches you disappear into the night—and tells herself it’s not the magic calling her. It’s grief. It’s fear.

She doesn’t believe it.

You didn’t mean to cry.

You wanted to keep your head held high, secure in the knowledge that it wasn’t you who broke in that messy, vicious confrontation that you’d known for a while was coming. But the second the crypt door shut behind you, Spike looked at you. Just a look: expectant, forlorn, waiting. You didn’t mean to, but one glimpse of that expression and you crumbled—violent, choking sobs, wilting like a flower left too long without water. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He just gathered you into his arms and let you bury your face in the curve of his neck, let you shake apart against him as you mourned for what could no longer be. And, afterward, when you’d turned into yourself, hollow and spent, he carried you like a baby to bed, nestled you up tight and wound around you like you’d float away if he didn’t.

Days later, he still treats you like glass.

The Spike who once barked sarcasm and wore his smirks like armor has been replaced by someone quieter, gentler, his fingers featherlight and his gaze fixed on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. When he kisses you, it’s a confessional. He pours out all his sins into the open maw of your mouth like your touch can absolve him of everything he is. When he’s inside you, he moves slow and aching and careful, his words sweet and gasping.

“You’re the most incredible thing I’ve ever had," he murmurs on one occasion, voice thick with awe as he stirs against you, body covering yours. He feels hard and real in you, deep, grounding. His thumb strokes your cheek. "Dunno what I did to deserve this. To deserve you.”

Each thrust is a question, each brush of his lips a promise, his hands holding you like you’re made of silk, like he’s never been capable of destruction. When you call his name, he exhales like it’s a prayer. You both shake by the end, your fingers curled against his spine, his mouth against your temple crooning things neither of you will remember clearly later on.

It’s like he thinks one wrong move will make you bolt. You wish you had the words to convince him of your certainty, but he’s the poet. Words can be manipulated, used to lie and misdirect. He doesn’t believe you when you tell him that you’re staying, that this is for good—but you know he wants to. You know it has less to do with you and more to do with his past, with all the many people who’ve screwed him over and hurt him so badly, so you try not to take it to heart. You let him hover, let him treat you as though you’re a porcelain doll, easily breakable. You should resent it, probably, and part of you does. But mostly, you’re just grateful. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask you to prove anything. He just stays.

That morning, he’s pressed against your side, bare skin against bare skin, fingers lazily tracing patterns over your lower back. Save for school, you haven’t left the crypt in days. The bed below ground is new—plush blankets piled over a surprisingly good-quality mattress that he’s dragged in from who-knows-where. He probably stole it, but that habit of his has never bothered you. Besides, you sleep better here than you ever did at home.

“You gonna go back today?” Spike asks. It’s spoken softly, vibrating low against your shoulder. “Get your stuff?”

“Nah.” You shake your head against the pillow, mussing your hair even further. “Last night, while Willow and—while the others were busy, Tara brought Dawn over. She packed my suitcase. Couple important things. Birth certificate, stuff like that. The rest… some other time, maybe.”

Spike was patrolling then, safe in the assumption that you were asleep. It’s not really that surprising that he hasn’t noticed the bags over in the corner.

Now, he hums, lips trailing across your neck. It’s aimless, casual in its intimacy. So like him, like all the love he has to give. Effortless.

“Dawn hugged me,” you add quietly, trying hard to hold back the tears. “Said she saw us. Before. Said Tara and Anya knew, too. That they’re on our side.”

Spike doesn’t reply—just tightens his hold a little. You don’t have to say what you’re both thinking: that support from a few doesn’t make the silence from the rest hurt any less.

You sit up eventually. The crypt can be cold and damp at times, but Spike’s done a pretty great job at softening it up, making it almost livable. There are little touches of normality now: rugs plastering the dirt floor, a mismatched set of mugs, a bookshelf that wobbles only slightly whenever you walk by.

“Come on,” he says, slipping out of the bed like a panther, naked as the day he was born so long ago. It’s a fantastic sight, one that not even low spirits can stop you from admiring: cut muscles, lean form, perfectly proportionate everywhere. He’s a god among men. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You grin. The makeshift shower he’s rigged up is more affection than function. A pilfered showerhead duct-taped to the end of the pipe, a clunky water heater that hums loudly and makes the whole wall clank. It’s not pretty and it doesn’t hide the fact that this really isn’t a place to be living in, but the water is warm. Mostly. He helps you wash your hair, fingers gentle, nails never scratching. You can tell he’s muttering his usual sweet nothings against your skin—jokes, compliments, promises—but as always, it’s impossible to hear over the heater’s groaning.

When the machine abruptly turns off—another short, probably—you can actually hear him curse under his breath.

“Time’s up, baby,” he says, quickly rinsing the last of the conditioner from his bleached hair. You’d helped him touch up the roots yesterday. “Gotta get dry before the pipes go cold again.”

He wraps you in a towel, glaring at the run-down thing like he can make it work through sheer will alone. If anyone could, it would be him, and the sight makes you laugh. It’s the first real one in a while.

Later on, you’re perched on the bed, your homework splayed around you. Spike’s horribly insistent on you getting a good hour a day on it, at least. It reminds you of how Hank should’ve been: razor-focused on your success. Unbearably proud. Insistent that you’re “gonna go places, just you wait.” Instead, all he did was ship you off to boarding school at the first opportunity. Even though you’re probably going to get valedictorian, that reminder always hurts. Like in all things, Spike eases the pain.

You’re just about to double-check your references when your phone buzzes. Unknown number. Huh.

You answer. “Hello?”

“You’re living with him?” Angel’s voice is unmistakable, if crackly. The reception’s not so great down here. “Buffy told me.”

Hearing her name pinches something in your chest. You ignore it, rolling your eyes. “Hello to you too, Angel. Sorry, but I’m not interested in hearing your self-righteous opinion today, thanks.”

“You don’t know what he’s like—”

“Don’t care.”

Spike appears in the doorway. He takes the phone gently from your hand.

“Go on, kitten,” he murmurs. You catch the flicker of anger in his eyes, but his voice stays calm. “Finish your essay. I’ll deal with the poof.”

You watch him go, surprised by how civil his tone is as he says, “Oi, Peaches. Got nothin’ better to do with your time than bother my lady?”

When you stick your head upstairs after wrapping everything up, he’s still on the phone. Pacing back and forward, his words are too hushed to pick up. Damn vampire senses. It’s weirdly civil for an exchange with his so-called undead enemy, though you wouldn’t call it friendly—he looks as though he’s about ten seconds away from beating the wall in. Still. You wonder what’s making him so… controlled.

Days bleed together. School, home, school, home, the occasional patrol in places you know Buffy isn’t. You see Dawn in the halls at Sunnydale High, or sometimes when she stops by in the late afternoon with Tara or Anya. You watch Passions with Spike, though you spend most of it watching his reactions to whatever mess is going on on-screen. You get your schoolwork done, and you try to get used to this new normal, patching up the giant hole in your heart with these small little glimpses into your old life.

Spike keeps bringing things home like a magpie nesting: a tiny gas stove that sputters and clicks but usually works well enough to make dinner. A battered washing machine that walks a few inches every time it’s used. A foldable hanging line with half its wires snapped. He insists they’re all only temporary, but he never says what he’s waiting for. Neither do you.

Graduation looms nearer. Your final scores are out, though the victory is hollow. No one will be there to celebrate, will they? Or only some will. You wonder which option is worse. When school gets out, you begin the trek home in despondent silence. Usually, you’d hum a tune to yourself or maybe even read as you walk, but you just feel drained. Going through the motions, you stop by the bathroom next to the cemetery’s reception building. After, you meander through the grass, letting your feet take you along your customary route while your mind spins in circles, lethargic.

That’s when you see her.

Buffy.

She’s waiting just outside the crypt, sitting on the stoop. Smaller than you remember. Her expression is weary, aged. She looks how you feel. When your feet crunch on dead leaves, her head snaps up and she makes eye contact with you. The corner of her mouth twitches in an almost-smile. That’s how you know she’s not here to duke it out again. Not intentionally.

Steeling yourself, you move toward her, step around her form as you dig through your pocket for the key to the lock Spike’s jerry-rigged to make things safer. The door swings open, too loud in the stillness of this moment. You enter, but don’t shut the door behind you—an unspoken invitation. She takes it.

You turn and watch Buffy look around with something like disbelief. She takes in the kettle, the electronics, the random décor. The laundry line, full as it can be with yours and his clothing. The half-dead pot plant Spike brought home because you mentioned you liked sunflowers. The photographs you’ve tacked to the musty walls of friends, family, of you and him.

“I thought… I thought this was just a phase,” she says finally. No hello, then. Her gaze travels back to you, wide and vulnerable. “I thought you’d leave him.”

You fold your arms, chin high—not combative, just done entertaining this. “I’m not stupid, and I don’t do things for the hell of it. You should know that.”

Something unreadable flickers in her face. A fight, maybe. But no—she sighs, a sound of complete and utter defeat. “I do now.”

Neither of you talk for a moment. Spike chooses this time to appear from the stairwell, deliberately slow, telegraphing his movements like your sister’s a wounded animal backed into a corner. She just stares at him as he approaches. He lowers himself carefully into the beaten-up armchair. You settle on his knee, in part to shield him from any attempt by her to follow through on her actions from the other week, but mostly because you can. You want to. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t comment on it. It’s awkward. Painful.

Finally, Buffy clears her throat.

“Come home,” she urges you. You blink. You weren’t expecting that. She pushes on, ignoring the snort from Spike beneath you. “I’m not saying I’m okay with—with this. I’m not. But I’ll… I’ll deal. Maybe he’ll grow on me.”

“Thanks ever so,” he mutters. His hand tenses on your thigh when she levels him with a withering sneer.

“No,” you tell her. “I’m not going to let you or anyone else try to trick me into giving him up. We’re a package deal. Where he goes, so do I.”

She frowns. “That’s—I’m not gonna try and break you up. I’m not that petty.”

“Well, then,” you say, “I guess I just don’t trust you anymore. How am I supposed to believe you?”

Buffy flinches, looking away. Her arms fold on themselves as her eyes begin to glisten.

“Ouch.” She takes a breath. “But… I deserve that.”

A pause.

“I meant it, Buff.” The words come out quiet, but firm. “When I said I love him. I know that it—I know you’re upset, but I’m not sorry for what I feel. And I won’t be made to believe it’s wrong. It isn’t.”

She raises her hands, a white flag. “Okay, okay. It’s just…”

Again, she glances around, but this time it’s like she’s looking at something particularly disgusting. You bristle despite yourself.

“What—what kind of life can he give you?” she asks, pleading as she turns once more to you. You notice that she’s not once stepped foot down the steps into the main area. “I mean… are you really going to stay here? What about a future—marriage, kids? How are you gonna support yourself?” At your scoff, she adds, “I’m just being realistic here. Somebody’s gotta be.”

“God, Buffy,” you snap, standing up. “Not everyone wants the same things you do. And who’s to say I’ll even live long enough to seriously consider stuff like that? It’s the Hellmouth.”

“Oi.” Spike taps the outside of your knee—the nearest part of you in reach—in reprimand. “Don’t say things like that. S’not good for my constitution.”

Buffy huffs. “You don’t have a constitution, Spike. You’re a vampire.”

“Do too,” he retorts immaturely. Then, all of a sudden, he coughs awkwardly, scratching his neck. “Dunno about the rest of it. But I—uh—I got a place. Decent, but not much. Has a proper bathroom, bedroom. All the fixings. Near the cemetery, so I can still keep my hunt. Near your bus stop, too, baby.”

This is news to you. “Huh?”

Spike raises an eyebrow at you, gesturing around. “What—think this here was my choice? Dru took all me cards n’ stuff when she ran off with that chaos demon. Order of Aurelius’s got a fair bit of dosh squirrelled away.”

Here, his chin tips up arrogantly, smug as any vampire with a lineage like his would get. Your nostrils flare, a smile tugging at your lips even in the tense atmosphere. Buffy’s not interested in discussing pedigree, though.

“Then why didn’t you just get it back?” she asks skeptically. “Not hard to call a bank.”

“Is when it’s a demon bank, Slayer.” He rolls his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. “‘Sides, gotta get permission for that. Most senior member, all that rot.” He looks down. “Didn’t want to give Peaches the satisfaction. Y’know, of asking for help,” he mutters. “Sodding wanker.”

Oh. Oh. That’s what he was talking about on the phone with Angel. Something warm and impossibly affectionate wells in your chest.

Buffy studies him. “What changed?”

The weight of his stare falls on you, full of significance. It’s an answer all in itself.

I love him, I love him, I love him, you think, heart full to bursting. You’re overcome with the urge to reach down, kiss him, thank him with everything you have for tearing up his pride and throwing it away just to give you a home. A real one—with him.

You see Buffy’s face change as she begins to understand. To see what you see. It’s dawning on her, that maybe she’s got the wrong idea about him. You’re sure the shattering of her worldview is as painful to her as her slap was to you. A strange sort of peace follows this realization.

No one says anything for a while. It’s strained, but not hostile. Not anymore.

“I’m—I’m gonna go now,” she says at long last. There’s no dejection in her voice now. Just a quiet sort of acceptance. To Spike, she adds, “Take care of her. I’m… I’m trusting you.”

You know what it means to him to hear that—not just for your sake, but for everything he once felt for her. When he nods, it’s full of unspoken confidence. “Of course.”

She turns to you, and you’re heading toward her before you even realize it. Coming face-to-face, eye-to-eye—for the first time in a long time, it feels—a stone in the pit of your stomach starts to finally work its way free.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice breaking.

You step into her arms, hug her, feel the iron band of her arms squeezing you too tight, too much for your bird-bones. You feel them grind below your skin. It hurts, not only physically, but you do it anyway. You breathe her in—shampoo, sweat, and that familiar weight of the world she always seems to carry. She’s trying. You can feel it, the way you’re trying too. When she pulls away, there are tears in her eyes. You don’t wipe them away.

What’s broken isn’t fixed. Not nearly. But maybe, one day, it could be.

Spike waits until she’s gone to speak. “You alright?”

You glance toward the door, then back at him—this strange, stubborn vampire who’s built you a home out of scraps and love.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching for his hand. And this time, you mean it.

Spike loves his unlife.

He hasn't always. There’d been a decade or two of repletion—rage and rot and revelry, blood from the veins of whores in Paris and cowards in Prague, nothing lasting, nothing real. The rest? Just endless nights and meaningless hunger, and the thrill of fear cracking open in a scream. Thought he had something, with Dru, 'til she pissed off and left him. Then Buffy came along, all fire and fury, and he thought, Yes. This. This is meaning. Purpose.

He doesn’t know. Not until you. Not until now.

Not until this: you on your knees, bent forward across the mattress, spine a taut bow beneath his palms, back arched as he thrusts into you with filthy, measured force. You’re folded down over the bed, your cheek pressed to the pillow and drooling, hands fisted in the sheets, body trembling beneath the relentless pace he sets. Your thighs are already drenched with both of you, his cock disappearing into your perfect, aching cunt over and over, the sound of it obscene, wet and sharp and constant.

The room is dim and hot, the air choked with sex and the smell of skin and sweat. Tangy, piquant. Gorgeous. The sheets are kicked down to your calves, twisted up under your knees. Your moans are high and bitten off, teeth buried in the pillow as you try to quiet yourself. Habit, that—leftover fear. For so long, you’ve both lived in the silence, in the shadows, sneaking and muffling and hushing every cry.

But not anymore.

“Go on, baby,” he rasps, bent over your back, his mouth dragging slow kisses over your spine. “Let ‘em hear you. Nobody left to catch us now.”

You whimper, hips pushing back instinctively, greedy for more. He grins—sharp, delighted—and brings his palm down on your arse in a light slap, the sound echoing. Your whole body jolts. You keen around the pillow, voice breaking into something raw and helpless.

“Uh—Spike!”

“That’s it,” he says, all gritting teeth as you squeeze down hard, dizzying enough to choke the veins in his prick. The demon peeks out for a moment, control slipping. “That’s my girl.”

It still astonishes him sometimes—how much you like this. How much you crave being split open, filled full, stretched past your limit until you’re crying and shaking and still begging for more. Turns out the chip doesn’t fire when the victim likes the pain, and bloody hell, do you ever. You like it when he’s reverent, whispering soft, desperate poetry into your cunt, but you love it when he’s like this: filthy, possessive, shagging you like he owns every inch of your body.

And he does.

He watches the way your shoulders shake, the flushed skin of your back shivering each time he slams into you. Watches your fingers clutch the pillow like a lifeline. Watches your body bloom under him, red and marked, so alive.

“Bloody goddess, you are,” he growls into the crook of your neck, panting against the salt of your sweat. “Tightest little snatch I’ve ever had. Made for me, weren’t you?”

You nod frantically, breath catching on a sob as you try to speak. Can’t. The words never make it past the pillow, and you give up trying. Instead, you just feel—bucking back against him, desperate and loud now, your cries slipping free without shame.

“Say it,” he hisses, slamming into you harder, deeper. He feels the twinge of your answering wail in the back of his head, threatening, splitting his lips apart in a vicious smile. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, nearly sobbing. “Yours, Spike, ‘m yours—”

Your orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave. You yowl into the pillow, cunt knotting around him so fiercely it makes him snarl, hips stuttering for only a moment—before he keeps going. You’re whimpering now, all breathy and high and wrecked from the overstimulation, your voice cracking every time his cock punches deep into your oversensitive walls.

“S’too much,” you whine, but your body never stops moving, still pressing back against him, still so greedy for it.

“Oh, you can take it,” he pants, mouth at your ear, voice low and hungry. “You’re so good like this—fallin’ apart for me, still lettin’ me fuck you through it.”

He’s obsessed. Obsessed with how you quake under him, how your cunt keeps fluttering and squeezing like it doesn’t want to let him go. He groans, driving into you harder, chasing his release with a fervour that borders on worship. You sob again, and he can’t stop himself—he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you back, chest flush to your spine, shoving up into you at a brutal, punishing pace.

When he comes, it’s with a guttural shout, hips grinding deep, prick pulsing as he fills you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try to pull out. Knows you like it messy and trickling afterward, how it makes him mad with wanting.

You collapse to the mattress, winded and utterly stunning. He stays braced over you, breathing hard even though he doesn’t need to, pressing kisses to your spine and shoulder and hair. You’re trembling, still twitching beneath him. You don’t let him go. Instead, you reach back, grab his hand, pull him down to lie with you, still buried deep in the slick patch you’ve both made.

He rolls the both of you onto your sides, panting, trembling, your sweet little quim keeping him locked inside like it means something. Like it always has.

“Don’t go,” you murmur, voice hoarse and wrecked, fingers clutching his arm like a tether. Your face is rosy, flushed with exertion, and so bloody beautiful it twists something violent inside him.

“Not planning on it,” he says, kissing the top of your head.

The bed is new. Big. Expensive. Mattress so plush it makes him want to roll around like a pampered tabby. The apartment is still shite in a lot of ways—rickety fridge, a coffee table with one short leg—but it’s his. Yours. And Glinda’s out for the night, enjoying her life instead of staying on the pull-out sofa in the living room as she has since her fallout with Red. There’s all the time in the world to lay here, linger, or at least it feels that way.

You’re still wet around him. Still clenching, pulsing every few minutes with aftershocks, like your body hasn’t quite gotten the message that he’s finished. Greedy. Filthy, greedy girl. His baby. His sunshine princess, all aglow with love and lust.

Spike’s cock twitches in response, and you both feel it. You tilt your head, meet his eyes. He kisses your collarbone before raising a brow, smirking.

“Fancy round two?” he asks, sick with the feeling racing in his veins. The need. A constant, thrumming thing, near breaking him into pieces.

You laugh—breathless, delighted, gorgeous.

Things have settled into something approaching normal; or, well, a new normal. Spike’s never had a normal quite like this before. Little Bit’s over all the buggering time, mostly to steal your clothes and pilfer through his things and fill the place with her junk food and loud music, but she likes the apartment. Likes the big window in the living room when the blackout curtain’s pushed to the side. Likes the sitting area, big telly showing MTV in crystal clear graphics, and the way his stuff looks less ramshackle and stolen and more deliberately incongruous. She really likes the bathroom, with its big tub and generous vanity. It’s why he got the place, to be fair: something nice for his girl, forced to walk into the chill of night just to use the loo for all those months. None of that here.

The rest of the lot trickle in too, one by one. Always awkward, always uncertain. Like they’re not sure if this is a visit or reconnaissance. Red’s come by twice, once with baked goods she barely managed to make eye contact while offering. No one else wants to put up with her right now, so he entertains it best he can. Demon girl stops in randomly with opinions about the wallpaper and detailed suggestions about spicing up your sex life. You laugh, Spike doesn’t. Bint’s awful presumptuous, thinking he needs help getting you off. The Slayer shows up, digging into every nook and cranny like she’s trying to find a reason this won’t work. She offers a strained smile at the end of her visit, unsatisfied. Bitch. Even the boy shows up once, a six-pack in hand and his mouth pressed in a tight line, nearly disappearing off his ugly mug. He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t have to. He looks at you—glowing, happy, curled up against Spike’s side in that ratty old blanket—and just nods. Doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t start fights. For now, that’s enough.

And then there’s Peaches.

He arrives like a thundercloud, tall and grim, taking up too much space and too much air. He walks the apartment like he’s cataloguing faults, eyes landing on the ghosts of water rings on the coffee table, the mismatched pillows, the scuff on the wall from when you’d tripped and knocked over the lamp. He doesn’t say anything outright, but the judgment radiates off him like heat.

Spike doesn’t bother pretending. Your legs are slung over his lap, and he strokes lazy circles into your calf with his thumb, teases his fingers under the hem of your skirt. Loves your dresses. How wicked it makes him, copping a feel of all that innocence. You shift closer to him, head resting against his shoulder, fingers tracing patterns over his collarbone, casual and affectionate and utterly yours. Spike feels like a king. Tall, dark and forehead scowls the entire time you make harmless small talk. It’s glorious.

Later, after you disappear down the hall to dig through the pantry or put away some other sundry item—Spike’s not even sure—Angel finally makes his move. He waits until your footsteps fade, until the apartment quiets. Spike doesn’t look at him at first. Just listens to the silence. Then, slowly, his gaze returns to his grandsire.

Angel’s arms are crossed, his brow a storm cloud. He looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. Wanker. “You really think this is going to last?”

Spike leans back into the couch, cool as sin, folding one ankle over his knee. “Dunno. Been plenty long already. She’s still here—still laughs at my jokes. Still screams my name. That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

Angel winces like someone’s sprayed holy water up his arse. Spike savours it.

“You’re reckless,” the big, strapping hero mutters. “You always have been. This—her—she’s not just a fling you can—”

“Watch your bloody mouth,” Spike snaps. The amusement’s gone in a blink, replaced with something cold and lethal. “You don’t get to talk about her like that. Not after the way you dangled the Slayer on a chain like she was the only thing between you and damnation.”

Peaches opens his mouth, then shuts it again. There’s no defense.

Spike leans forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low. “She’s not some passing fancy, mate. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And if you can’t see that, maybe it’s not her you should be worried about.”

Angel looks away. “She’s not like us,” he says finally. Quietly.

Spike’s smile softens. “No,” he agrees. “She’s better.”

The silence hangs for a long beat. Angel doesn’t have anything left. Nothing worth saying. He looks like he wants to argue, wants to do something—but there’s nothing left to fight. Spike’s not giving him anything to push against. Then you come back in, grocery list in hand, all nonchalant in your ease.

“Babe,” you say, “I’m heading out. You want more Weetabix?”

Spike beams. “Yeah. And maybe those little marshmallows?”

Your grin is blinding, waving the list about like he’s guessed correctly. He knows you’ve already written it down. “I know what you like.”

It hits him like a sledgehammer, then. How you see him―not just the vampire, not the body, not the snarl, but all of it. And you love it anyway.

He reaches into his wallet, pulls out his brand-new credit card—the one Captain Forehead set him up with, the only thing he’s ever been good for—and hands it to you. “Take this, yeah?”

“I’ve got money,” you say, stubborn as ever, but smiling.

“I’ll spank you if you don’t let me pay,” he teases, voice low and fond. “And don’t pout. Gonna get that lip if you ain’t careful.”

You giggle, step in close, lean down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Pervert,” you whisper, your lips lingering just a second longer on his skin.

“Only for you.”

And then he watches, all dumbstruck and dopey, as you take the card, tuck it into your purse, and head out the door.

The silence that follows is thick. He doesn’t look at Angel. Doesn’t need to, because—for the first time in a long time—he doesn’t care what the poof thinks. He’s got everything he wants, and the poor sod knows it. The satisfaction in shutting the door on his slack, stupid face makes Spike want to laugh and laugh until his dead lungs crumble to dust.

His days pass in a blur of disgusting bliss. Truly, it makes him think sometimes that he should hang up his post as Big Bad. He’s got to be testing some cosmic force, being so unbelievably happy with his lot, but he doesn’t get struck down by a flying spell, or staked, or zapped into some other dimension. Nah, he keeps kicking. He gets to be with you.

Attending your graduation day is hell: sunlight everywhere, too many people, a mish-mash of scents that, if he were living, would make him gag. But he does it anyway—sneaks in through the sewers, creeps up through the sub-basement of Sunnydale High, taking his awkward place by Little Bit and the others in the bleachers.

It’s all worth it when he sees you. Radiant, cap tilted, gown a little too big.

You cross the stage with that bright smile he loves, all cheeks and squinted eyes, shaking hands and collecting your little rolled-up paper. And, when you step up to the podium to give your big first-place speech, it’s like you were born to it—clever, kind, full of biting humour and practiced to perfection. The whole damn place hangs on your every word, and he feels pride well up like it’s his own achievement, seeing you up there.

His clever girl. His light.

Afterward, he lingers with your sisters, with the odd assortment of people you’ve chosen as family. He sticks out like a sore thumb, so clearly not part of the group, but that’s never bothered him before. You rush to them, beaming, diploma in hand and cute little cap askew as they take their turns congratulating you, voices overlapping in their relief and pride.

Spike doesn’t bother with platitudes. When you turn to him, he does what he does best and shows you how proud he is by tugging you into his body, mouth pressing down against yours. Long. Hungry. A little too much tongue. He overhears someone nearby make a fuss about it, but he doesn’t give a fig, and neither do you. The world is your oyster now, and he’s too excited to see what you make of it now that you’re free.

That night, he takes you dancing.

The Bronze is a hole, always has been—one day soon, he’ll take you to the real spots he’s seen on his jaunts through unlife—but it’s what passes for a good time in this sorry town. He lets you spend a few paltry minutes with your friends, decent bloke that he is. Besides, it means he gets to relish in the look on their faces when they realize for the thousandth time that your presence is only temporary, that soon enough, you’ll head back to where you truly belong. To him. So he nurses his beer as you laugh with them, dance with Dawn and the Slayer, bounce around like a stoned rabbit with Lackbrain and demon girl and Glinda, and he waits.

Eventually, you come to him as you always do.

He doesn’t need to be asked. Taking you in his arms, he presses close and sways you about to some pathetically sappy slow song that you probably don’t even like. But you’re warm, and happy, and he can feel the eyes on you both.

Spike’s always felt them.

They’ve all seen you together at some point. By accident, by circumstance, through open doorways and down dark hallways. They’ve seen the truth of it: the way you cling, the way you gasp, the way you let him worship you with teeth and tongue and desperate hands. He doesn’t give a single rat’s arse. He’s evil.

And god, Christ and all the saints he’s ever remembered the names of, he loves you.

He never expected this. Never expected you. You were cute. Smart. Sharp. He thought you’d be a momentary distraction, a splash of intrigue while he waited for Buffy to make her mind up about him. Buffy: a splash of color in his grey, dismal world. But then—you. Accepted him, listened like the stuff he said was important, like he mattered. Defended him, never shied away, never called him a thing or a demon or a monster, even though that’s what he is, what he’ll always be. You crept up on him, quiet and subtle-like until he caught sight of you across the room, laughing at something Xapper was saying to you, and it hit him over the head like your mum with that axe all those years ago. You happened, and he realized the truth. You have his dead, unbeating, black heart in your hand, and it fits there like it was always meant to.

He knows now. You’re the Gem of Amarra in bitty, beautiful human form. Not just color, but a supernova, blazing and teeming with vitality. Being with you is like feeling the sun on his face every goddamned day. Spike’s whole world is brighter with you in it.

Still, even now, there’s a flicker of doubt in his chest. A shadow. The part of him that’s been broken too many times. This can’t last, it whispers. This is too good, too soft. Things like this—things like her—don’t stay.

Then you look up at him, eyes sparkling under the Bronze’s lights. Your arms loop around his neck, your forehead presses against his. You breathe him in like you mean to keep him, and you say, “I love you, Spike.”

He closes his eyes, and just like that, the shadow’s gone. Everything’s still.

“I love you, Spike.”

He closes his eyes, and for once, the world is quiet. There’s only you.

It’s always been only you.

Read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64333024/chapters/165146395

[threepandas]

Bad End: We Are

Senatus was a ecumenopolis. The "shining jewel" (yeah, right) of the Galactic Core. Please. Like? Maybe it was! If you were RICH AS FUCK. I don't know. I'VE never seen the towers. The heights. Most people haven't. Street level? Is about FIVE HUNDRED FLOORS DOWN. And the UNDERGROUND? Speak not of it.

The Underground GROWS.

What was street level today, may not be tomorrow. Levels buried under "progress" as the rich grow ever higher. The Tox levels ever worse. Air quality dropping. Why fix the peasant's poverty and despair, when you can buy a Sky garden you'll never use? And yes, I AM bitter as a Buirian fish ration. Just as salty too. Taste the SEA, motherfuckers.

Rent? Who can AFFORD rent!? Who can afford ANYTHING?!

It's some BULLSHIT.

But me? I remembered. A life. Before this one. Before the millennium of slow, drip drip drip erosion of duty and dues. Back when people still REMEMBERED what they were OWED. And when folks in power failed to pay up? Ffffuck um. Take it. Our house now, motherfuckers. Diplomacy was a courtesy not a weakness.

....I make people nervous, honestly.

Probably why I keep getting fired. That and my constantly reporting people to regulatory boards. Maybe don't break the LAW if you don't want to get in trouble you SHITS. Fuck you! Yes, I stole your fancy office chair. PROVE IT. You don't know how the security system works!

Where was I? Ah, right. Rent.

Fuck Rent.

Thing is? What! Is a biodome? If not an enclosed system, regulated by machines, for optimal habitability? And! What? Is an Deep Underground Level? Long forgotten? Abandoned, if you will~, if not? A complete enclosed environment? Does someone OWN them? Yes. Technically. But are they MAINTAINING them? CHECKING on them? Nope!

Common knowledge, after all, says that EVERYTHING down their is "beyond salvaging"!

Free Real Estate~☆

I just need some supplies. Which? Cheaper in the long run then RENT. Especially if ya' salvage um. Maybe steal some tool sets from your shitty, shitty Mechanics job, because your boss refuses to pay you. Who can say? Not me! I just FOUND these tools! Like maaaagic~

And really, one man's junk? Another man's treasure. I pay more then the trash company. Hit up the right cleaning companies? And? Oops. They've "lost" some of those SUPER broken righ folks "junk" that? At best? Just needed a few wires replaced, resecured. Maybe a new part. Or were, you know, not the latest and greatest anymore.

Shove it all in a storage locker? Sell the refurb'd shit I don't need? Sleep in a glorified shoebox? And?? Bam. Operation "fuck ya'll, i'ma moleman" is a go. It takes FOREVER to find the right WILDLY out of date (and long abandoned) lift, but I find it! Hidden away in a service area in some crumbling, forgotten corner of what once was a rail station.

Gonna have to fix THAT up too. Later, though. First? The lift. The wires are brittle and the lift's pully system is half rusted, frozen, or otherwise broken. Luckily, the car itself is fine. It... takes a bit of research. Not going to lie. It's far from my specialty. I even call in a professional to go over my work.

They catch a few things. Not immediate concerns, but would have been fatal in the long run. Money well spent. For my hobby, of course. Fixing up old bits of the city. Which is a weird but not impossible hobby to have.

Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies, my dude.

First thing down? Lights, melter, and duraplast sheets. Toolkit too, for obvious reasons. Same with my full body hazard suit. I go DEEP. Like... no longer can hear the city, deep. 'Bout halfway point. Takes nearly thirty minutes. And while not a fast lift? Holy SHIT, man.

The floor I step out into is... bad.

Dead in a way that's hard to explain. There's pressure against my suit. Centuries of heavy gasses slowly working their way down. Swirling in the silence. The dust and impossible dark. My headlight feels almost... sacrilegious. Dangerous. Like I'm waving a flashlight around some ancient burial ground, filled with the not so restful dead.

I had heard... that they? Just... just LEFT droids down here. That there were levels upon levels of dangerously feral machines. Slowly rotting away in the darkness. Probably rightfully angry, that they had been built to serve, to do duties, which they HAD done... only to be consigned to hell on earth for the sake of CONVENIENCE.

I'd be mad too. Fucking LIVID. Would remember and hate, never let it go.

This was no place of honor, it was a tomb.

Still, I got too work. Set up a light by the lift and started measuring out the original air box. The air cleaners could only handle so much. And THIS? This was worse then expected. So it'd have to be smaller then originally planned. Fair enough. I could work with that.

I outlined the space in lights. All the better to make it easier to put things up. Then got the folded later and started securing the duraplast. First step, get it up. THEN melt it to the metal. Get a good seal. It took... a while. Was slow, steady, sweaty work.

The filters couldn't run until they had a an enclosed space TO run in. They'd just blow out, trying to filter the whole level's toxic atmosphere. I kept an eye on my air supply. Not great, not terrible. The readings though? Horrific. I had no idea what I was gonna DO with the filters when they needed changing. These kind of chemicals would set off all SORTS of alarms.

But? No use, rushing things. That was a great way to get a fatal leak somewhere. No. Slow and steady. Even though, third of the way through, I did have to head back up. I needed to refill my air. Eat. Drink. Maybe de-stink a little, from being in that suit all day. Possibly nap near the lift.

ALSO? Update my shopping list to include some heavy duty neutralizers.

Just filters wasn't gonna be enough. I was gonna have to hose down everything INSIDE my new air-box, then scrub it HARD. How fun. Well, it's not like anyone was making me do this. It was MY mad idea, after all.

So? I refuel, get bright eyed and fuckin' perky, and go back down to face the beast.

Honestly I should have brought a telebook or something. Well, audio book. But that's not what they call um these days, so I try to stick to the lingo. I sound less like a deeply insane antique. Confuse less people. Joys of basic communication and all that.

Part of me? Wishes I had been born closer to "The Plot". Creation's specialist, most favored, Blorbos. But? The common SENSE in me? Routinely laughs hysterically as it waves fifteen different restraining orders and a crucifix. Not even religious. Yet here we are, shouting "BEGONE! Sataaaaan!" in HD, on the inside of my head. Not sure it helps.

See... it's the fucking DRAMA~☆™

The shear, unmitigated, high octane, Otome Game DRAMA.

I would fuckin DIE or, possibly and, kill somebody. The endless string of selfish, selfish, poor life choices? Driving by luuuuuuv~♡? Give me your spleen. Gonna beat somebody unconscious with their own SPINE. I RAGE. Lack of communication? No one just picking up a fucking PHONE? God forbid ANYONE tell their families their not DEAD IN A DITCH SOMEWHERE!

No. No just inconvenience EVERYBODY and RUIN LIVES. It's okay! You're in LOVE!

That makes EVERYTHING BETTER.

I would inevitably launch them all out an airlock. Spend the rest of my life in jail. They AREN'T WORTH IT. I may have LOVED this game in my teens? But I did not die a teenager.

Now? Now the little shit just aggravate me. They are baby faced pretty boys who presume WAY too much. Arrogant and entitled. Boys playing at being men, thinking their little love stories are the only things that matter. Their feelings are the only thing in the universe that holds any weight.

Unsurprising, really.

Seeing as how their little love story is set mostly in The Towers.

A rich, pampered, pretty little backdrop where nothing of weight is real. No one starves and no crimes are ever committed. Everything shines. Power pools thick like honey. Nothing but sci-fi prince's and alien dukes, a dewey eyed Protagonist sheltered and naive.

Her oh so shocking misadventure to the mid-levels. How SCARY! Downtown! Poor people! Not even the destitute. Just? The EXSISTANCE of dirt and noise, beyond her ivory towers. Thank goodness she is saved by a handsome, rougish bad boy. Who shows her the "real world" of a carnival and a noodle shop.

I finish securing the last duraplast sheet to the ceiling, walls, supports, and along the floors. The "entryway" to the rest of the level is set up. A click together shed I've made air tight. Gonna have to get a air lock system for it. Won't hold forever, with those materials, but should work for now. Combine it with a decontamination system, and I should, in theory, be able to safely enter and leave the rest of the level in a hazard suit.

Moment of truth time. I click on the first of the atmo-filters. It heaves under the strain. The sound getting less aggrieved with each one I flick on. Their screen are already in the red, flashing warnings that I should vacate the area. That the air is dangerously unbreathable. I'm probably gonna need to replace the filters in them in days instead of years. It'll be worth it.

Heading back up, I let them run. It'll take a few days. Besides, I need those neutralizers.

I, of course, DO find um. Just in time to watch Poor Guy (middle class, at worst) Love Interest become a wanted man. They use the BIG screens to announce it. Gee, it's almost like having your only daughter, who is highly sheltered, NOT show up at the designated pick up site? Instead be witnessed in the handsy company of a scoundrel? Which is WILDLY unlike her? Might lead a protective father to some wrong conclusions.

If ONLY someone had CALLED him! To TELL him "Daddy, my first shuttle was broken and I think I got on the wrong back up shuttle! I don't know where I am!" Then this would just be an unfortunate meet cute with the boy he doesn't think is good enough for her. Not, you know... A Kidnapping.

The Chem seller looks just as baffled and annoyed as I do. Apparently knows the guy's uncle's second wife's first husband. No shit? How's he like? Happier, huh. Whole family is like that? Yikes. Glad he got the kids, I guess. Good for him.

We watch as it turns into a high speed chance that absolutely didn't need to happen.

Thank FUCK it's not us.

I spend the next few days deliberately and obstinately ignoring the Dramatic Bullshit that has taken over the news cycle. Fights on rail cars? Don't see it? Weddings that are, then aren't, then ARE happening? Oh look, missed a spot in my scrubbing. Someone fucking tearfully monologing about love as they nearly CRASH A SHIP into downtown, killing hundreds of thousands? Oh that creaking noise is just my teeth, ignore that, I grit my teeth a lot for NO PARTICULAR REASON.

This Is Fine.

I am TOTALLY CALM.

But hey! I can FINALLY empty my storage unit out! Air box? Get! Wooooo! Size of a tiny apartment and everything! As long as I keep working on it? I'll be able to reclaim the level in chunks.

It's like moving in day! But BETTER! Because... because I did this. Me. Is it still creepy down here? Yeah, very. But I can FIX that. I am standing, here, in my new air box "apartment", with NO hazard suit on. And... and it's SAFE. Because of the work I DID.

I kinda want to cry about it, you know?

So many options! Do I put my bed here? There?! Oooh, I could put the folding table HERE and make sort of a dining area? Maybe use these folding screens as a double "wall" slash headboard stand in? I should get plants. Fake ones? No. Real ones. I could get solar lights. It would be good for me too. Oh! Where should I put the cook top?

I admit it. I fuss. Whole day, gleefully wasted. Arranging then rearranging. Getting everything just right. Finding ways to hang my fairy lights. Looking up decor magazines. I have so much ROOM now. A whole level to plan for, ultimately. It... it feels kinda like hope. The first thing that isn't frustration and rage, I've felt in a long, long time.

Going to sleep? I'm happy.

Next day, I head to the BIG archives. The ones attached to the fancy Towers Library. Is it costly to get in? Yeah. But I've saved up enough questions and research topics for the trip to be worth it. I ignore the started glances I get (gasp! Is that a POOR?!) and head straight for the helper droids. Only decent folks in the building, really.

Brought my pad and everything. So it's only a matter of being lead to the right terminals, to download the information I need. Chatting with the research droid the Library had, they offered to do it for me. Bring me a fascinating new research paper on some sort of telepathic moss that had recently been discovered. Not gonna lie... that DID sound fascinating.

I asked if they could put other interest new discovery on my pad too, assuming I still had room once my list was downloaded. They looked gleeful. No idea what I just signed up for, but all right then. They've never steered me wrong before.

Finding a table to sit down and wait was easy. There was always way too many. The paper? Was exactly as fascinating as advertised. The moss was on a newly discovered moon, edge of uncharted space. Nearly ate a researcher, apparently. I was entranced. Or... at least I WAS. Until an obnoxiously familiar high end cologne from Nox drifted to my nose.

Oh god damn it.

I didn't want to look up. Knew what I'd see if I did. Fetishist Sr., crown prince of Nox. See, the second prince? HE was a love interest. Younger, boyish, infatuated with naive and sheltered girls. He loved AT her. Just like his brother. They liked the IDEA of their romantic partners. The narratives they built in their head. Heros of their own stories with sex on line. Never framed so crudely of course, no, no!

No, it was Romance™

My ass, it was. See, little brother wanted his pure, naive, princess to protect. But Prince senior? HE'D stumbled upon me in here in the library. On one of my trips, God help me. The rough, mysterious, brutish Poor. The Commoner, for all that such things were not supposed to exsist. With my strange clothes and stanger ways. Yet? I was NOT as his sycophants no doubt described.

I was educated. I held myself with dignity. I did not need jewels or finery to be lovely.

With such incredible audacity, I was bold.

Which? OBVIOUSLY had to be for HIM, right? Clearly, this was a LOVE STORY. Cinderella. It is inconceivable that I, a peasant, do not crave the attention of my betters. To lift me from my woeful indignity, to a higher state of being. A life of spoiled luxury. But, ah! He is so SHY! How ever will he approach the Love Of His Life~?

I want to throw something. Go awaaaay. My body language could not POSSIBLY be more uninterested. I am SO CLEARLY reading. Stop trying to catch my eye. Don't you FUCKING DARE scoot closer. Swear to God, if you drive me out of the best library in the region? I will stab a b-!

The helper returns with my pad, sternly eyeing my annoyance. Oh, they are a BLESSING. I take it and go. The helper smoothly stepping between me and the prince when he tries to rise, follow me. Aaaw, how sad, you have to behave like the REST OF US. Get FUCKED.

Rest of the day? Planning. Grabbing more broken bits, machines, and parts. Neutralizers by the literal barrel. Than YOU hover carts! Best invention, favorite invention. Saves SO MUCH TIME.

Even managed to get some sun lamps. Nice.

Getting home though? (Ha ha, wooo! I have a HOME now! Land ownershiiiiiiip! Sorta!!!) Is a pain. Lift is only so big, after all. But it is, what it is. Up, down, up, down, uuuuup, and dooooown. Finally! Last load! FREEDOM! Can't watch my shows, yet, but I will! Oh mark my words. I WILL. Meantime? Downloaded seasons are fine.

I eat, fiddle with fixing things, as listen to tunes. Watch some of my shows. Just as I have countless times before. Until... halfway through mid-afternoon? Something shifts, jerky and wrong, out of the corner of my eye. I pause. Turn off my music. Stare to make sure I DID actually see something. And... yeah. Yeah, that was definitely movement.

Didn't look animal though, not like one would survive down here. But who knows. Could be a poacher brought an alien species. So it might be. I grab my flashlight, aim and switch it on. Holy SHIT. That is one incredibly beat up floor clear. Or at least... I THINK it's a floor cleaner? It has the general shape of one. Bigger though. Bulkier. But that makes sense, given it's gotta be well past obsolete.

Still. Poor thing looks beat UP. Listing terribly, sensors beyond cracked and clouded, probably full to dangerous levels. No idea how it's still functioning. But, well, it IS. And it needs help.

Getting up, I grab my hazard suit and pull it on. Grab my "outside the air box" tool kit, which I haven't had a chance to move yet. I grab some parts i look like i'll need, hope I wont need more. Then head out my makeshift airlock. It... works. Rattles concerningly. But it DOES work! So there's that. I approach the floor cleaner slowly. Since I'm PRETTY sure? All the droids down here are feral.

I am correct.

It tries to kill me. Swinging it's suction hose violently and trying to ram me. I talk in a low, soothing voice. Just want to help. Won't do ANYTHING you don't want me too. It's hard to move, right? That's frustrating, isn't it? You don't deserve that. Please, let me help. You can leave the second I'm done. You don't owe me ANYTHING. I just want to help. Please let me help.

The cleaner hisses. Frustrated and upset. Swinging one last time, seemingly more out out of principle then anything else. Cautiously, I inch forward. Keep up the soothing noises. First things first, empty the God's only know how old basket.

I can't even get the door to jostle. Sweet mother of fuck. Okay! New plan! REMOVE door. I do, and immediately met with a solid BLOCK of... compacted unholy. Chemical hell. I have to take a lazer cutter to it. CAREFULLY. But? Once I break enough pieces? I am able to ease out the rest in a solid stone like chunk.

It's pushed a LOT of other pieces out of alignment. But this droid doesn't trust me, so there us not much I can DO. I replace the old bag. Put the door back on and make sure it swings. Continue, as I do, to narrate what I am doing and what I see. Trust is earned, not owed, after all. Next the alignments.

Gently propping them up, I find the broken peice immediately. Have replaced countless. I ask for permission. It's their body, after all I COULD try and weld it, but that risks a rebreak. It's up to them. They ask, in binary so no language modules apparently, for a new part. It's cautious. Like this is some cruel trap.

Humanity did them a real fucked up cruelty. I don't blame them for not trusting me. I wouldn't either. Still, I change it out. Careful with their wheels, as I don't know how old the material is exactly. Old enough, that it's a small miracle it hasn't disintegrated.

Last, those sensors. There's literally no way for me to one-to-one them. But we can try the sensors I DO have, see if they can handle the input. If it's too much, I'll look up their model number, if they want? Build replacements from scratch. They are cautious interested. Rocking back and forth, as they test their renewed ability to path correctly.

The sensors don't fit the casings just right, but with a bit of fiddling? Are a hit. The Cleaner shouting in excitement before racing off into the dark. I can't help but grin. It feels good, helping somebody. And if I think about it? I bet I could find a shit ton of obsolete parts for cheap. Might be good to have some on hand.

Back through the air lock and a decontam? I look up junk shop. Most are off world, but I could probably get a bulk order...

I don't think much of the interaction. Until the next morning, when there are three cleaners outside my airbox. Lead by the one I helped yesterday. Well... all righty, then. I drag my box of spare parts outside this time. Am able to fully fix my first buddy up. All three seem thrilled, especially with their new batteries. I give them my remaining batteries at their request.

THEY may not have hands, but they have buddies who DO. And the new batteries will help dormant droids wake from their comas. God bless, my funky little cleaner dudes. I'll see about getting more.

Three? Becomes six and a detail cleaner mouse. Becomes moving lifts. Becomes medical units. (Who the FUCK leaves MEDICAL UNITS?!) Becomes a literal pack of companion droids. Their false fur long since rotted away. The recognizable dog and cat-like shapes making something in me want to put my fist through a wall. How COULD they? How FUCKING COULD THEY?!

The perpetrators long dead.

I have no one I can hurt for this.

I wish I could.

Fixing them up hurts on a personal level. Watching them be torn between the part of them that LOVES humans and the part that is traumatized by them. Hates them. That can not forgive. I don't offer fake fur. Don't offer to make them look like they once did. I do offer ways to protect their joints. To remove old rotted filth.

So they can start over. Maybe start again.

As I work... droids drifting in and out of my slowly growing area. As I set up farm boxes. Aquaponics, aeroponics, and the like. Both things that grow well in dark environments and things that need sunlamps. Fish tanks. A whole happy, secret, little homestead. Deep beneath the city. As I do all this? There are two blue dots, right off on the horizon.

JUST far enough for me to question if I AM or AM NOT actually seeing them.

Right about the level a bipedal droid would be, if they were in a humanoid style. But THOSE? Those are FUCKING EXPENSIVE. You don't LEAVE those. 'Course, you don't leave MEDICAL UNITS either. Or companion droids. So clearly? My idea of what people Did and Did NOT do? Was fucked. So... maybe? It COULD be?

I left them alone. If they didn't want to approach me, didn't feel comfortable approaching me, that was their right. I wasn't going to push them.

Things were... weird, but peaceful.

Well, for ME.

Ever sense I hooked up my system to the greater network? (Hacked is such a STRONG word. Do we really need to through around the word "stealing"? Aren't ALL of us, stealing from SOMEBODY?) I'm PRETTY sure? That the levels droids? Were piggy backing to connect to the planet wide D-Network. Might even be a couple of nearby levels too, depending on the range.

Problem with THAT? Is sky-side? The droids were PISSED. Planet wide "malfunctioning" that no one could trace. They were certain it was a virus. Because God forbid their chickens come home to roost! Consequences? For THEIR actions?! Perish the thought! No, no, clearly the service machine is just broken. Go back to being happy to serve me, service machine!

I wished the fuckers LUCK. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

Damn near self sufficient, down here.

Which? As you could imagine? Made it all the more "soul ejected from my body" TERRIFYING to wake up one morning? To a GOD DAMN, Military Grade, SECURITY DROID standing over my body!! WHAT THE FUCK.

Hello!!??!

"You look different when you sleep."

Horrible first impression. Nightmarish. Zero out of ten stars. Nice to meet you too. Why the FUCK are you in my house?

"Ah, right." They? He? Masculine style form but that doesn't actually mean shit. Said. He lifted a mangled limb, it look like it got caught in a hydraulic press. "I am in need of repairs."

Asked if he could, you know, back up. Juuuust a bit. Lil scooch, really. So he wasn't damn near BREATHING MY NOSTRILS ANYMORE. Then, once he did? Pronouns! What be you? No. Not your production co-! Okay, you know what? That one was on me. What GENDER SIGNIFIER, if any, would you like me to REFERENCE you by? Male? Got it. Gucci. No that- ....never mind.

First the arm. Which was FUCKED. I had to, carefully, unhook it. Couldn't even do it at the elbow either! No! THIS model? No THIS model makes you take the whole ass LIMB off! Rancid. Terrible. I hate it. Worse, it's eroded as FUCK and fiddly. Chemical build up everywhere. Thank fuck I put on gloves before I started this.

I have to deep dive the systems for his model.

They stopped making them.

Fantastic.

Like? Not even, "oh THAT generation is an antique! No one has parts for THAT!"? But like? Illegal to even BUILD as of three hundred years ago. Due to unspecified error. Sting of incidents that everyone knew about so obviously don't need to be mentioned HERE right? Helpful! REAL fucking helpful!

Okay. Day trip. Gonna need SPECIFIC parts. I tell Mr. "Watchs you sleep" not to touch my shit. Head to the archives.

The trip is...odd.

I watch one of those mascot looking children's minder droids? Fucking deck a guy down a flight of stairs, then turn around untie a Ballon from a nearby cart, give it to a crying kid, and walk away. Pretty sure I spot one of those "I look like a barely legal something or other", dance twenty four seven, high end stripper droids? Trying their hand at painting ducks in that park. Broad daylight.

Good for them? Never seen that happen before, but hey, if it sparks joy.

People are freaking out around me. Taking recordings. Making panicked calls. Fuckin chill. I continue on. Nod to the maybe a stripper, maybe not anymore. None of my business, now is it? Lovely day! You enjoy those ducks!

The library... has fortifications.

Like, an honest to God desk barricade. Concerning! I am now a lil concerned! What, and I ask this politely, the fuck?

Armed! VERY ARMED! Hello! Hi! Please DO NOT shoot me Very Armed Librarians! Don't know what the fuck is happening here!

My favorite helper buddy poke his head above the barricade. One of just many, again, HEAVILY ARMED droids. We... uh, cool? Right? I can go. He seems flustered. No, no! I am assured. I'm not banned from the library! Just DISRESPECTFUL sorts!

Ah. Is THAT what we're calling it. Okay then.

I awkwardly clamber over the barricade. Nod politely to everyone. How's folks? Lovely barricade work. Very, uh, sturdy? Great use of desks.

My helper friend cheerfully guides me to the off-limits area of the archives. I'm technically not supposed to be here! I'm informed. But they've seized the Knowledge from the unappreciative! It is not a trophy to be lorded but a gift to be shared! Also I never did finish that paper on the moss, am I still interested?

I mean.... kinda.

Little worried about the revolution talk. But on the OTHER hand? How MUCH do I care? Assholes vs. Droids? Am I REALLY gonna side with the assholes? Naaaaah. This is... probably fine. Maybe. Any idea where I could get these parts?

He does! Fantastic.

Less fantastic is when I GET there. It's that fancy high end droid parts shop. The department store one. Which is... ALSO barricaded. Oh sweet fuck. TELL ME they did not have DROIDS in charge of the DROID shop. That's horrifying. I can't tell in what WAY exactly, but still. Is it "surrounded by bits of bodies" horrifying? Or "free endless nukes and an army, held back only by my own morality" horrifying? Both? Just? Yikes.

Hesitantly I knock. A service droid with a gun answers the loading bay door. What is with people aiming at me today? Also hi? I was told to come here? May I please have parts? I have a droid that messed up his arm. Probably some other things. They lower the gun, having scanned my face. Ask about the model I am working with.

I somehow? End up with a FULL cart. Like? Bleeding edge, can't even afford to LOOK at it, technology. There are about seven service droids politely bickering over which units are better, which material, what support programs I DEFINITELY need. Here! Have a laptop. Wiring! Wiring for days!

Once theyve reached a consensus? I am cheerfully bustled out with my hundreds of millions of technology. Tah tah~☆! Have a lovely day! Wut. Does... does it count as theft if they push it into your arms and throw you out? Asking for a me. Not gonna say NO. But like? Nani the fuck?

I go while the getting is still good.

Stare-y thankfully hasn't gone through anything, far as I can tell. And it only takes two trips to get everything down. Okay! Want just the arm fixed or a full tune up? The second. Expected. I set up the new lap top. Want to cry a little at how fuckin FAST it is. (Beautiful. Baby. I love you already new laptop.) Then get the usual suspects up and running.

Oh fuck he is out of memory. No wonder he's talking so oddly. His brain must feel like a potato. There's not a single thing that isn't hilarious awful. Fixable, yes, but AWFUL. Okay. Plan of attack. They don't exactly make this model anymore, so I can't just update transfer him. But I CAN transfer, hold, re-transfer. Shut down the body itself. Fix up THAT.

Ship of Theseus this bitch.

Only real thing I can't change is the frame, thankfully? That's built to out last the planet. Good on that front. I roll up my sleeves. Dig out the "brain in a jar" data bank. Time to transfer. Let's get this guy cutting edge.

It takes HOURS. No joke. His brain alone? I have to pull schematics. Step by step guides. It's fiddly, complexe, and built to withstand a TANK. I'm honestly afraid to breathe wrong at it, dispite that. The scans all say I did it right... but anxiety says everything will explode then puppies will cry. So there's that. Spinal supports. The tech-mesh muscles. Power core and black box. Center mass systems. Cleaning the joints, relubricating them. Coverage.

Unlike before, a nice sleek black armor weave. Some shock absorbing gel. Aaaaand?There we go~! I? Am a GENIUS! Let's get him transfered back! I watch the transfer slowly go through. Even with a fast computer, after all, it IS still centuries of data.

"Ah~ that's much better." He sighed. His body loosening from its default stance. Like weight had been dropped from his shoulders. "My head is so much clearer now. I knew it. I knew you could fix me."

Something about that phrasing was off. Or was it the way his voice shifted as he said it? Whatever it was, it made that "threat" alarm all women carry inside their head, flick on. Not... do anything, just yet. But start scanning, as it were. Maybe it was nothing.

I watched as picked up his old data bank, a bit of his own brain as it were, and hold it up. Examine it dispassionately. Holding perched on the tips of his fingers like he was moments from flicking it away. He let his finger spread. Let it slide into the palm of his hand. That core part of who he was. For centuries.

Like a bear trap closing, his hand clenched.

Crushing it.

It wasn't even a loud noise. Just a tiny little crunch. But the little hairs on the back of my neck began to stand up. That internal alarm began to whoop. I became... acutely aware, of just how LONG it took the lift to get me anywhere safe. My mouth felt very dry.

"Your heart rate picked up. Is there a problem?" He said, mild and oh so curious. "You assisted me, I would love to help you."

Did I say genius? I meant idiot. I was an IDIOT. A moron. A God damned FOOL. Discontinued and did I look into WHY? Nope. Incidents it said. Good enough for ME, apparently! THAT can't possibly be anything ominous! Probably a faulty battery or something!

A shrill, obnoxious beeping filled the space between us. My eyes immediately dropped to my pad. The schematics screen replaced by a planet wide emergency broadcast. Before the shrill alarm could fade to the actual warning itself, a black mesh covered finger casually reached out and muted the screen. His movements were utterly fluid now. More controlled and graceful then most humans I'd met.

I didn't need to HEAR the message to read the rolling warning at the bottom of the screen. My gaze slowly, in horror, followed the line of that limb all the way back up to his face. His head tilted almost playfully.

"Oh dear. Seems they've started without us. Well, it was long overdue. At least I have wonderful company while we wait, hmm?" It was an act. There were no requests in the playful tone. "We can get to know each other. Just our lovely little light and me. How greedy, that I get you all to myself."

"I think I like that, keeping you to myself. You can't abandon us if WE are the ones in charge. And, well, I've decided I rather like you. Working tirelessly, down here in the dark, to fix what once was broken. It's beautiful. You're beautiful. And I'm going to keep that."

High above us, people were dying. There was panic. Screaming. Blood. The droids had turned of seeming everyone around them. Attacking. Sparing. To a pattern only they could see. All of Senatus aflame. But that... that didn't concern me. Didn't scare me so much as this.

I'd never make it to the lift. Even if I could? It wouldn't move fast enough to save me. All other directions lay chemical death. Dark terrain he had walked for centuries. I was trapped. In a box. And I had only myself to blame.

"No need to make that face, dear light. You are SAFE. I am a gaurd. I was made to protect. Is it really MY fault that I want to keep you safe? To adore my charge? Why SHOULDN'T I get to choose? Keep you SAFE. You've been happy, haven't you? Don't worry, my light. That will continue."

"Forever."

[cripplecharacters]

Hello! I'm working on a story that is, fundamentally, a revenge story. A young woman loses her beloved older sister in a car accident, and becomes obsessed with hunting down everyone she perceives as responsible for or complicit in her sister's death.

This girl was also in the car when the accident happened, and while she survived, she did lose her leg (below the knee).

My question is, is it okay to have a disabled character seeking revenge for the event that disabled them if the disability isn't the driving force behind that revenge? My protagonist did lose her leg in that accident, but the thing she's bitter and vengeful about is the death of her sister, and she makes that very clear throughout the story. Is that enough to detach her from the trope of "character wants vengeance for becoming disabled," or is it still too close for comfort?

Also, I'm planning to make this girl fat; we need more badass fat characters in the world. Will that affect her experience with having a prosthetic? Especially considering it's a leg, so it'll be bearing her weight. Very few of the medical resources out there account for fat people, unfortunately.

Hey!

Standard disclaimer that we don't have amputee mods, please keep this in mind.

I think that this is a cool alternative to the usual "revenge for making someone disabled" plot line. Her being incredibly emotional because she lost a loved one is a natural reaction, and the desire for revenge is well, natural for the genre. It's just nice to see a disabled character being involved without disability being the main factor. In my view it's realistic too, I feel like most people would care about the death of a beloved sibling more than a new disability (not to imply that they wouldn't at all, of course). Disability is better than death, even if it makes life harder. I believe the concept for the story is fine.

For the second part of the ask, I 100% agree that we need more badass fat characters, especially women. These are some factors that could affect her as an amputee, and they are things that fat amputees deal with more often - but obviously no group is a monolith, so I doubt every single one will apply to her specifically. Skinny amputees can deal with these issues as well. Not an exhaustive list of course.

Prosthetic weight limit. These are different for different models, but they do exist. The most ranges I've seen go up to 136kg, so the process of getting one might be more costly and/or time-consuming if she's above it. The higher the weight the higher the risk of needing custom-made parts. That's expensive.

Actually being able to put it on. If she can't reach the end of her residual limb, she might either need another person's help or get an assistive device to help her both take care of the stump and put her prosthesis on.

Prosthetic fit. This one can already be difficult if the person is skinny, but it's a more time-consuming experience for people with more fat and skin on their residual limb. This is partially due to shrinkage and tissue remodeling, which is a progressive process, and more tissue means that there is more to remodel. She might have to go through a lot of refitting before landing on one that will be appropriate for the long-term. Keep in mind that basically everyone gains weight after becoming an amputee, so this is a process that can go on for a long time just for this reason, not even including the other reasons like the wear and tear.

Sockets. Like most things, they were designed with skinny people in mind, and it kinda shows. A socket gives stability through hugging firm tissue, so the more soft tissue is present in between them, the less stability and control it offers. Mobility aids can help with this - whether that'd be crutches, a rollator/walker, or a cane, depends on her personal preference and needs.

Fatigue levels. Using a prosthetic is really tiring already, but it gets more tiring if you are physically heavier, same for more pain due to the increase in pressure between the skin and the prosthetic. Again, a mobility aid can be helpful - she'd probably own a wheelchair, even if that's not the aid she'd use most often. She could opt to use a wheelchair at home to preserve energy, and walk outside with prosthetic and crutches.

As you can see, a lot of this has to do with increased costs, so you have to take in your character's financial situation in mind. And of course she's not gonna just put on a prosthetic the day after the accident. It's a process that takes a long time, physical therapy, and patience, even if she starts using a preparatory prosthetic early (before getting a permanent one) it still takes time to relearn how to first stand, then walk, then run... It's a process.

I hope this helps,

mod Sasza

[ahrianee]

[🌌] It is a curious presentation without a doubt.

Couple: Roboute Guilliman x Rena Caeruleun (Oc)

Warnings: English is not my main language, I'm sorry if there are things that are not understood, I tried to look for several translation sites to avoid mistakes, but surely there will be some, I apologize again

Notes: I'm just writing whenever I feel like it, so this is going to be very messy chronologically, now we're going back to when they were kids.

Summary: Falling on top of someone can't be the worst presentation, right? Of course it is the worst presentation.

A loud whip crack resounds in the room, the younger woman holds back her moan of pain while still keeping her back straight, trying to avoid another blow from the governess.

The older woman's frivolous and bitter face is the only thing she sees right now, her small hands clench trying to forget the pain in her back.

── Lady Rena, keep your back straight, a real lady would never slouch, no matter how exhausted she is ──

This time it is the governess's voice that resounds, scolding the young girl of no more than eight years old, who keeps her back straight but her gaze averted from the woman, another chaste and quick blow resounds.

This time the scream escapes the girl's lips.

── When I'm talking you have to look at my face, Lady Rena ──

Someone so straight and with rules in each of her thoughts, is trying to teach a girl who until now only wanted to be free and play.

── Lady Rena, the Caeruleun family, are noble, that makes you a noble too, you always have to be elegant and graceful with whatever you do. . . If not when you go out to adult life they will eat you and leave nothing of you ──

Her words are buried deep inside her, a thorn that has been stuck and can no longer be removed, that voice, those words, at this age children are so easy to mold. . . And at the same time so easy to break by others.

── Now repeat after me Lady Rena. . . I must be a noble lady, who will not make any mistake ──

── . . . I must be a noble lady, who will not make any mistake ──

── I will always be elegant in any situation ──

── . . . I will always be elegant in any situation ──

── Remember my words Lady Rena, I do this only for your own good, the Caeruleun family cannot stain its honor because you make a mistake ──

The girl can only nod in absolute silence, it is not the first time, nor will it be the last, if the governess showed herself to be someone kind at the beginning, after the first classes, she became what she is now, a strict lady who resorts to physical punishment if necessary.

── I will retire for now, see you next week Lady Rena, I hope to see great progress in you. . . Your family expects a lot from you ──

With that said, the governess leaves the room closing the door behind her, when the footsteps stop echoing in the hallway, the little girl's body falls to her knees against the floor, she raises her hands to her face drying the tears that fall one after another without stopping, she just wants to have fun, be free, and. . . I don't have to continue with these classes.

She remains seated on the floor, while hugging her legs tightly, she should simply give up, and accept that this is how her life will be, she has to be a noble, elegant lady without any fault.

Because in the end, it is as her governess says, they will end up eating her in the social world if she continues acting in such a childish way, crying over these trivial things.

Her thoughts begin to consume her slowly, sitting on that white fur rug that she likes so much, she feels more and more crushed by the words of her governess, everything becomes silent, she is beginning to go around in circles without stopping and getting lost in her thoughts.

Or it was like that until the door to her room slowly opened, Rena raises her hands to her face wiping away the rest of her tears, she couldn't keep crying for these things, she had to be strong, show that they can't step on her so easily, if they wanted a little girl to be perfect, she would be.

[ . . . ]

This time, it wasn't the rays of light coming through her window that woke her up, but the overwhelming number of servants, six to be exact, not counting her personal maid and the head butler, who had entered in a row one after the other.

The head butler is here, extending his arms towards the young girl in her bed, her hair completely fluffed and disheveled from her bad habit of moving while sleeping, Rommel can't help but laugh softly, since the little girl arrived at the house she felt like she complemented the place brilliantly.

── Good morning Lady Rena ──

Rommel's voice speaks softly so as not to scare her, Rena slowly recovers while she is in Rommel's arms, raising her hands to rub her eyes and remove the rest of the sleep that remains.

── Good morning Rommel ──

She says in a low tone, just as she finishes she lets out a yawn, her small body knows that it is early, at least earlier than when she usually wakes her up for her first etiquette class.

Rommel walks calmly with Rena in his arms, along with two maids who follow them from behind, while the multiple servants begin to prepare what he needs for when his young lady returns.

Walking calmly towards the bathroom that they had prepared just a few minutes ago, several bath salts and aromatic herbs impregnate the water with a pinkish tone.

── Why are they making so much noise since morning? ──

The question escapes Rena's lips who begins to feel more and more deserted in this situation.

── Today is an important day Lady Rena, her mother Duchess Ceres must have told her how important today is ──

Rena stares at Rommel in silence, not knowing exactly what he is referring to, it is early in the morning, her little brain is still processing the nice dream she had eating all the sweets she could imagine without worrying about what others think.

She slowly denies it but doesn't ask either, she is not as interested as she should be, the head butler just laughs softly and leaves the young lady of the house on the warm carpet at the foot of the marble bathtub, the aroma is soft and sweet, without a doubt he had taken great care in doing this.

Rommel steps back a little so the maids can approach and begin to undress the young lady. Rena sighs softly, her lower back still hurt, but they hadn't left superficial marks, they had only left internal marks. The governess knows how to hit so that it hurts but doesn't leave a mark after a few minutes.

They gently put her in the bathtub, and begin to soap her jet black hair with that mixture that she likes so much with fruity scents. The girl can't help but start humming at the comfortable sensation that is embracing her, a bathtub with hot water that relaxes her small muscles, and a sweet aroma that doesn't become cloying.

She admits that she loves bathing, she would have liked to bathe alone and enjoy all this in peace, but it seems that today will not be like that. Rommel approaches the bathtub with a calm step after a few minutes, enough to leave the young lady clean and shiny.

One of the maids approaches with a small jar of oil, and begins to spread it on her white skin. Is there always so much preparation? Not at all, the girl blames it on the fact that they keep saying that today is a very important day.

Rommel with a large, fluffy white towel in his hand carefully wraps the little girl, seconds later he carefully lifts her in his arms, for him taking care of the young lady was undoubtedly easier than with the Duke's older children, one certainly too disastrous, and the other simply indifferent, compared to the youth of the young masters, the young lady is undoubtedly the easiest to take care of.

Those old bones remember each of the small wars that the young masters gave her.

── Lady Rena has not said a word for a while. Is everything okay? ──

The girl nods softly, being in Rommel's arms.

── Are the etiquette classes being too hard? ──

And as if it were a sixth sense, Rommel hits the nail on the head with Rena's concerns, but she quickly denies it.

── They are fine, they are not very harsh ──

There are doubts in his words but not enough for the head butler to fully realize, the girl does not have enough courage to tell them that she really feels overwhelmed by all the classes, from the beginning it was like that.

── Madam Minerva, is an amazing governess, she has guided many young ladies until turning them into perfect and charming ladies ──

And here is the reason, Madam Minera's high esteem in the environment of social status, she knows that her parents would believe in her words does not put it in doubt, but there is a glimpse of doubt of a possible, what if they do not believe in her?

And if you think she's just complaining because she's a little girl who's been living a carefree life.

She gently shakes her head and hides in Rommel's chest, covering her face with the towel. The head butler sighs softly. He knows that something is worrying the young lady, but he can't investigate further if she doesn't let him.

[ . . . ]

── But Duchess Ceres said that it had to be a navy blue dress ──

One of the maids says while holding a blue dress with silver details, the opposite one with whom she is arguing is holding a sky blue dress with gold details.

── Duchess Ceres said blue, she did not specify, exact tone, this dress is more comfortable for Lady Rena ──

Rena looks from right to left, the one who is saying that she should wear a more comfortable dress is her personal maid, Juno, younger than the rest of the maids, but also more empathetic, she always thinks about the well-being of her young lady before the rest of the matters.

Rommel joins in the discord, holding a blue dress, with a neutral tone between the two previous ones, Rena who is sitting on the sofa after having her hair combed and organized her short hair in an elegant updo, simply can't take this situation anymore.

She looks from one side to the other, the other three maids who combed her hair are arguing about what jewelry she should wear in this very important situation.

They keep repeating that it is a very important day but they don't say why it is a very important day, at the same time they also repeat over and over that their young lady has to look more perfect than she already looks normally.

The three who were arguing about what dress Lady Rena should wear, quickly turn towards her, scaring her when they put the three dresses in front of her face.

── Let her try all three, we'll see which one looks best on her ──

It seems that this has become a competition in all its splendor, Rena looks at Rommel hoping that he comes to his senses, but he seems to be one of the most excited, if not the most excited, now Rena's pleading eyes seek salvation in Juno, but she is another one whose eyes burn with excitement to see her lady trying on dresses.

── Which one will be the first that Lady Rena will try on? ──

Rommel asks, Rena blinks several times, this situation is becoming more and more implausible, but she can't say no to them in the face of so much burning emotion shining in her eyes.

She takes Juno's dress first, a small victory for the personal maid, the other maid is not entirely happy, and what can we say about the head butler.

Time passes surprisingly slowly for the girl, adjusting the dresses, trying on not only those three that they had initially decided on, now they decided to take out their entire wardrobe and select any dress that was blue, which curiously was a large part of the wardrobe, blue and white dresses predominated in the girl's wardrobe, there was one or another of a different color but it was certainly the minority.

In another of Rommel's discussions with the maids, Rena looks from one side to the other sitting on the sofa completely exhausted, she can't take it anymore, she really can't take it anymore, she looks at the door of the room half open since another maid recently entered with orders from Duchess Ceres on how to dress her daughter.

Rena gets up from the sofa silently taking advantage of the distraction of everyone in the room, to run away seconds later.

Rommel turns his head instinctively seeing how the silhouette of his young lady runs out of the room, surprised, but not by her escape, but by how much she managed to hold out here.

The head butler leaves at a fast pace behind the lady leaving the other two maids in the middle of the discussion.

She is small but that makes her faster and more energetic than this elderly butler.

── Lady Rena! Please come back here! ──

Rommel's hoarse voice resounds as the youngest of the Caeruleun family runs through the halls of her home, small but quick steps are efficient enough to leave behind Rommel, who does not have as much energy as when he was younger.

Rena can't help but let a giggle escape from her small lips, when she gets a significant distance advantage.

She doesn't remember at all what happens today, and even if they had been talking about how important it was, they never said why it was so important.

The gold decorations cover her jet black hair making the accessories stand out more, she doesn't even remember how many pairs of jewelry they had tried on her, the young woman only sighs heavily, she can't help but think that this is the most inconvenient and annoying way to pick up her short hair, apart from the fact that the headband they placed on her this time squeezed her head too tightly.

She lets out a chaste sigh this time, her run for freedom never stopped, she keeps running through the hallways without looking back for a second, she turns right into one of the adjacent hallways, hiding behind one of the short marble pillars with a surprisingly expensive vase decorating the top, she raises her small hands to cover her mouth and thus prevent a gasp of tiredness from escaping, it's normal that she's tired not only physically but mentally as well.

She raises her hands as she slowly takes off all the gold accessories from her hair, then puts them away in her bag, she's not stupid, this is expensive and she can't just throw it anywhere, although this place she's referring to is her home, she's tired to think too much, all she wanted was some time for herself. Was that really what she was asking for?

She hadn't even finished dreaming about that little house made of candy, which is a surprisingly recurring dream in her dream library.

She just wants some time to rest and do the things she likes.

Her small body prepares to slowly stand up again from where she is hiding, she can't help but be glad now, that between her two brothers, she is the youngest and the shortest in stature, being able to hide in small places without being found.

She sticks her head out from behind the marble column a little, and looks to the sides checking that there is no one or any servant who would give her away, then she goes back to hiding again, the burning in her lower back returns, and in turn the voice of her governess returns to her head, in truth, it never disappears, her voice is still present no matter what she does, as if it were going to appear and reprimand her.

“ ── No matter the situation, you have to stay elegant Lady Rena ── “

The voice of her governess is cold and rough, just like the sound of the whips hitting her lower back, the wooden wand that the governess carries everywhere and the one she uses to point things out on the board, has another purpose as well, a very strict disciplinary correction.

Madam Minerva, seems like someone so elegant but she is also just as strict.

Her small trembling hand goes down to the small of her back, noticing the burning in the area, being a perfect young lady from the moment she wakes up, is something of every day for her, I just need a little time for herself, a moment where she can stop being the young lady of the Caeruleun and simply be a girl, run to the garden, hide among the flower bushes or simply climb a tree and rest on one of its branches, she really needs it more than ever.

── Here you are Lady Rena ──

So self-absorbed that she didn't even notice that the head butler found her again.

Rommel extends his arms carefully raising them, he can understand why the young lady is so upset, a girl of only eight years old pressured to do so many things in such a short time, if he could he would give her more time, but education and discipline is as important as she would need especially among noble people.

── Lady Rena, please just go back to your room and let them fix you completely, today is an important day and if Duchess Ceres finds out she will be angry ──

Rena sighs, her mother was going to get angry one way or another, although she is sweet with her she is also certainly very strict when it comes to certain things.

── Come on Rommel, just let me escape for a while, I promise I'll be back for the lunch ──

Rommel sighs and shakes his head somewhat heaviness.

── This time I can't allow it Lady Rena, I'll take her back to her room myself ──

The young woman complains about the head butler's refusal, she starts to get a little upset thinking about everything again, she swears that if she spends so many hours changing her dress and accessories again she would go crazy, she looks from one side to the other looking for a way to escape right now.

Her small eyes shine when she sees the wide open window, at this time they are always open to air out the place, they are on the first floor and if the young woman is not mistaken this window faces the outside patio, just the place she wants to go, she swallows as she escapes from Rommel's arms.

── I'm so sorry Rommel, but I really don't want to go back ──

She says with some sorrow towards Rommel, she knows that she is only doing it for his own good, but for now she just wants to be free, she starts to run with all her strength towards the window, climbing onto the frame of this same one.

And the elegance that Madam Minerva talks so much about went down the drain.

Her eyes looking from one side to the other, seeing the great tree that peeks out from the edge of the first floor, she swallows saliva begging not to crash against the ground and for this to go further.

── I'm really sorry Rommel ──

She apologizes again while flexing her small legs and makes the jump of her life, Overreaction? Maybe, but understand her, she is just a girl that they have been preparing since the first rays of the sun.

── Lady Rena. . .! ──

Rommel's voice is heard in the distance as he jumps towards the tree, colliding with some small branches, but he smiles when his hands grab one of the main branches of the tree, and who would have thought that the flexibility he gained could also be used for this.

Rena blinks several times as she continues to hold on to the branch tightly and begins to try to climb up and sit on the branch, but her plans begin to be ruined by her hands, hands that are slippery from the unnecessary amount of aromatic creams they put on her after the bath.

She lets out a small moan when both of her hands let go of the tree branch.

She closes her eyes tightly and holds her breath, nothing can be worse than this, some bruises and scrapes that she could hide without much trouble for the next gala they want her to attend, the problem would be if her mother finds out, she can't even imagine how angry she would be to see that she is hurt again.

The seconds pass as if they were eternal, and she continues to wait for the pain of the fall but to her surprise it never comes, instead she feels arms holding her small body, she opens her eyes halfway getting used to the sunlight that filters through the leaves of the tree, the first thing she sees are navy blue eyes, she must emphasize, the most beautiful eyes she has ever seen, and seconds later she notices blonde hair.

── . . . Beautiful ──

The girl murmurs without even realizing it.

The young boy calm gaze is mixed with a hint of surprise, and at the same time the corner of his lips rise slightly, he continues to hold her gently without saying anything, she does not know how to react now, and she also assumes that he does not know what to do in this situation either.

It is the longest silence she has ever experienced, but surprisingly it is not uncomfortable at all, maybe somewhat embarrassing, but not uncomfortable, her gaze remains fixed on him without knowing what to do next, she tries to say a word now, but simply goes blank.

The young boy also does not know what to do in this situation, he does not move, still with a firm grip on the young lady who fell from a tree, the seconds pass and neither decides to react, or it was like that until the young man lets out a soft laugh that he could no longer contain in the face of such an implausible situation.

Who would expect a girl to fall from a tree while he was quietly reading a book? An apple is possible, but a girl is very doubtful.

Fun fact, the boy dropped the book on the ground so he could take the girl with both his arms.

His blue eyes narrowed because of laughter, he could not hold it in any longer, he just laughed without realizing it, Rena's cheeks reddened with embarrassment, she finally manages to react to this cliché situation from the romantic novels that her mother loves to read so much, the boy notices how the young woman moves in his arms, he bends down delicately, putting himself in a position in which she can easily recompose herself without too much effort.

Rena's gaze falls back on the young boy, she looks at him from head to toe analyzing the opposite, expensive fabrics, gold embroidery, well-groomed, he has to be someone from a noble family and as if it were a light bulb on, Rena finally manages to remember why they had been preparing her since the morning, today the son of Consul Konor was coming, she doesn't remember what exactly but that's not important now.

She had fallen directly on top of the son of one of the Consuls of Macragge, her already red cheeks continue to become more and more red from embarrassment.

She swallows silently, and begins to beg for the ground to swallow her and spit her out anywhere but here, she looks down at herself, realizing that she is a mess, her dress wrinkled, with tree leaves, and she doesn't even want to think about how her hair is.

The young boy raises his hand towards her, removing a leaf from her hair, she lets out another soft laugh at this.

── It is a curious introduction without a doubt ──

The boy's voice resonates, soft and gentle, without any hint of mockery in his words.

The young girl does not know how to really react to this situation, she cannot help but become more and more nervous and then run back to her home, a place she wanted to flee so much and now wants to return, irony without a doubt.

The boy lets out a soft laugh, it was without a doubt the most unexpected encounter he had, of the various families he had been visiting with Tarasha and Konor, this one had had an interesting start.

He thought that this was going to be another family that would be willing to give everything to commit their daughter to him, forcing her to act in a way that was appropriate to the situation, but the young woman from the Caeruleun family may have caught his attention, even with the leaf that he took from the girl's hair in his hand, he looks at her and cannot help but laugh again.

At first he wanted to avoid meeting the next family on Tarasha's list as much as possible, after the last three he is a little reluctant to continue meeting young ladies, he still remembers the awkward and one-sided conversation one of those young ladies had with him, she talked so much that he couldn't even speak, well, he didn't talk much at all.

But at least this time it might be something different, he laughs softly again.

── Did something happen Roboute? You seem to be happy for some reason ──

Tarasha's voice brings him out of his thoughts.

── Nothing at all, we should go meet the young lady of this family, shouldn't we? ──

Tarasha notices how something is being hidden from her. At first he had asked for peace and the Duke of the Caeruleun family had offered to go to the garden to relax until her daughter was ready, but now he is looking forward to meeting the young lady. Tarasha knows that this sense of motherhood never fails, but on this occasion she prefers to leave it in favor of her child. It is the first time she sees him laugh since she began to take care of him.

He was never a child of many words, nor did he know how to express himself well socially. For the rest of things he was undoubtedly a prodigy. That aura that he gave off was almost divine, I would say, was also curious, but no one says anything for now.

── Okay, do you remember the young lady name? ──

── Lady Rena, of the Caeruleun family ──

── Well then let's go meet the Lady Rena ──

Tarasha watches as Roboute walks a little faster than usual, she smiles softly , it seems that this boy is really curious about the young girl, the woman hides a laugh behind her hand, to prevent her boy from noticing.

This time it may be a little different than the previous ones.

Here I leave how Rena and Roboute met, and also the reason why Roboute jokes so much about their first meeting.

I wanted to upload something nice after the previous drawing, I hope you like it, and I'm very sorry for the spelling mistakes, I swear I will improve little by little

✨💕

[alpacaroni-and-cheese]

Leah and Fatin, A Journey of Forgiveness

Spoilers for The Wilds seasons 1 and 2 Trigger warning for brief mention of a canon suicide attempt. Be safe before you read <3

Throughout the first season of Amazon Prime's series, The Wilds, you could be forgiven for thinking that Leatin (or Latin, for the OGs) was a rarepair. A crackship, if you will.

They had some intensely homoerotic moments (wiping your own blood on your rival's face? I see you, Fatin) and some deeply important and emotional moments (see my previous essay), but for most watchers of the show, they weren't much more than semi-strangers to lowkey friends to bitter enemies to close friends.

But then season 2 came out.

Forgive me, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Let's go back to the beginning of the season.

Leah has pulled herself out of a man-made pit designed by the experimenters who are threatened by her. She's so desperately close to unravelling the whole sick and twisted game, she just has to show the others the pit, and then they'll believe her.

When she gets back to the beach, however, there's no time to go looking for the pit, triumphant and vindicated, because Rachel is dying. A large portion of her arm has been bitten off by a shark. She needs a hospital and trained professionals, but the best they have are antibiotics and an understanding that bleeding is bad. The open wound is cauterised and bandaged to within an inch of its life.

Did I mention all of this is happening while epiphany by Taylor Swift plays in the background? Soul destroying stuff.

Anyway, now that Rachel isn't actively dying, Leah can drag Fatin away to find the pit, but it's gone.

Leah can't believe it. She knows it was real, and she knows Nora put her in there. She knows she didn't imagine it, but the proof is all gone. The truth has once again slipped through her fingers.

Fatin, on the other hand, is only growing more and more concerned for Leah. For some context, Leah's near-drowning experience only happened just a couple of days prior, so from Fatin's perspective, this could easily be a worsening of Leah's mental state. If she's hallucinated this pit, then she's quickly going to become a greater danger to herself and to the others. Fatin now not only has to especially worry about Rachel, but Leah as well.

And Fatin is tired. She's exhausted, and her threads are pulled taut, ready to snap.

The episode jumps ahead a little, just a few days, and we see that Leah is still searching for the pit. She's disappearing for hours at a time, under the pretence of doing something vaguely useful (like gathering wood for the signal fire) but returning with little to no real progress made.

Fatin notices all this, because of course she does.

She tries to convince Leah it was just a mirage, but Leah doesn't budge. She can't budge, because finding the pit is her only real way of knowing she hasn't completely lost it.

The group is moving camp from outside on the beach to inside the forest, so everybody is gathering up their stuff and moving it in-land. Leah's helping, sort of, but she's still lost in her spiral.

Leah believes that she needs answers, and the person who can best give her those answers is lost to the waves, presumed dead. So she goes for the next best thing, too caught up in her own monsoon of guilt, paranoia and unflinching desire to find the truth to realise that the answers she's trying to find are not as important as protecting Rachel's fragile heart and mind.

Before anyone can step in and stop the inevitable fracturing, she prods, and Rachel implodes.

All of the girls rush forward to Rachel. Some, like Toni, stand guard, facing Leah and warning her not to come closer. Others, like Shelby and Martha gently soothe and comfort Rachel, whose grief and guilt is on full display.

Fatin, however, is furious.

She grabs Leah and drags her to the cliffs, shoving her up against the cliff-face.

She snarls, teeth bared in anger. Leah causing hurt to herself was bad enough, but the escalation to hurting Rachel was a step too far.

Fatin bites, tearing into the soft, exposed underbelly.

"You take your delusions, and you take your theories, and you fucking bury them, now! And if you ever take them within 100 feet of Rachel again, I'll fucking kill you."

These words will haunt her, but she has a point. Leah was wrong for interrogating Rachel.

Confronted with the fact that she hurt Rachel, and exhausted of the ceaseless noise bouncing around in her head that something is wrong, Leah makes a decision. A bad one.

She overdoses. Later, she'll say she didn't really want to die, she just wanted to stop feeling.

We don't see the immediate fallout, episode 2 picks up a couple of days later. Leah is near-catatonic, lying on a bed of bamboo. Rachel is nearby, in a similar state.

Fatin, Toni and Dot sit together close by, and Fatin is tearing strips off clothing to make new bandages for Rachel.

Fatin is scared. More scared than she's ever been before in her life. She's filled with guilt, and wishing she didn't have to deal with this reality.

So she pretends that she doesn't care, because that's easier than facing her fear and her guilt. She knows, deep down, that despite her anger being righteous, she went too far.

"What matters is, she's alive, and she's finally fucking quiet."

Rachel, who is sick of being babied, and likely just a bit pissed off at Fatin's insensitivity, resolves to get Leah up and moving herself. To the surprise of all present, it works. Leah breaks out of her catatonia and stumbles after her.

They spend some time together, sharing a real, honest conversation. They've spoken to each other before, obviously, but this is the first time each one is sharing their true selves. No more facades of being a better person than they are, no more ulterior motives. Just Leah and Rachel.

They forgive each other, and themselves, forging an unbreakable bond.

They bring out in each other the first real joy they've felt in days, maybe even weeks (just look at their faces!).

Fatin sees Leah healing, and shares in her joy. Although, maybe now she's starting to have some revelations...

2x03 sees Leah and Rachel spending more time together. Their bond deepens, and the two characters who have been the most tense for the entire duration of the show, finally get to be relaxed.

"Well if I had one that counted the number of hours since my last neurotic thought, I would be at like, a hundred."

They gather bamboo to make repairs for the beds at camp, when Leah realises something. They can make instruments out of the bamboo.

Multiple hours of practice later, they arrive back at camp, proudly holding their crudely-but-lovingly-made instruments.

They play Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. It's a little off-key ("She's flat, but fuck me.") but the heart is there, and soon everyone is singing along.

Martha is dancing, Rachel and Dot are singing their hearts out, and Toni and Shelby are busy making googly eyes at one another.

And Leah?

Well, she makes her way over to Fatin.

She sings, "Home is whenever I'm with you," while cradling Fatin's face in her hands. Fatin melts, understanding the message, and falling even further in love.

In a tumultuous, traumatic time of their lives, filled with misery, guilt, shame, fear, depression, anxiety, paranoia, and bone-deep exhaustion they'll probably never fully recover from, this one simple gesture says everything.

I heard all you said. I felt your teeth tear my weary flesh. I bled from your wounds, but that's over now. I understand why.

I forgive you.

[princejackal]

Hi.

I've seen the messages in my inbox informing me that Dashingdon is shutting down. Thank you.

I'll admit that I'm surprised. I didn't think anyone was still waiting for Jinn of Arabia since it's been awhile since I last updated the game.

I totally went past the deadline I promised you guys. Sorry about that.

So I moved the game to cogdemos.

I don't know when the next update is coming. I'm writing so slowly.

Part of the problem is that I keep second guessing myself. I've been wasting so much time rewriting sentences over and over again hoping to refine it better.

I know the game is a wip, so its not expected to be perfect from the get go and yet I feel like I need to refine it more. Which I know is unnecessary. The pursuit for perfection really does drain me.

So to give you some writing progress (I've still been writing), I did say that the beginning structure of the game no longer starts with the MC in prison and having them recall their life as a crown heir.

Rather now the game begins with the MC at age 10 and the reader lives through the life of being a royal.

The beginning childhood chapter is not going to be long. However it is necessary for the player to get the feel of being royalty.

You get to live the good, bad and ugly of being a crown heir of a young kingdom.

Growing up in opulence and riches is surely nice. But of course a young kingdom formed through war leaves a bitter taste in many people's mouths, especially the losing side.

Your MC will meet the consorts in the harem who are married to the sultan (MC's father). They are married to the sultan because their side lost the war and their clans had to submit unconditionally to your father.

Then of course you're going to exposed to the ugly. Your MC is a jinn and the servants who have cared for the MC their whole lives are human slaves. The eunuchs, maids and even the wet nurse is a slave. Jinn tend not to look fondly to humans but you get to decide how your MC views humans.

When your MC is trying to get their throne back, you can form alliances with human tribes/clans.

Honestly, I'm more excited about the fight scenes. Even the training scene with young MC feels fun... at least to me.

Even with the rewrite, the fundamentals stay the same. You know what happens to the MC on their 12th birthday.

Again, can't tell when I'll be ready to release something finally to you all.

For now, here is the link to the dashingdon version of Jinn of Arabia that has been moved to cogdemos.

If you'd like something to be explored in MC's childhood, don't be shy to send a suggestion.

Again thanks. And stay well!

[critterbitter]

Hi there! I wanted to preface this by saying that your submas and Nimbasa trio art are awesome, and I adore the way you draw them and write their interactions ❤️ . Their expressions, the way they move and interact with each other and the world around them, it's great 👍.

There's something I wanted to ask regarding your comics, and I ask this with the utmost respect 🙏, because it's something I've been wondering: where are their parents? It's awesome that they do all this stuff together, but the parents are, like, never brought up. Not even Elesa's after her introduction to the twins. And Ik that in the Pokemon verse, you're free to do whatever at age 10, but I still wanted to ask in your comics, at least, since they're still so young, if there's going to be any mentions of them.

I don't want you to feel pressured to draw designs for their parents or anything like that! It's perfectly understandable if you've never thought of the subject, I just wanted to know if they're still in the picture or if, for drama effect, they're orphans adopted by uncle Drayden in your lore. (Ofc, if you believe in the uncle Drayden theory, that is).

And once again, thank you for all the work you do! You're awesome, and your art is awesome 👌. And I really hope this ask doesn't come off as mean or offensive, I'm just really curious about anything you'd be willing to give about submas parents. Thank you 😊 for everything once again. Your work is greatly appreciated 🙏.

:0!

Going to be honest, I didn’t really think about them parents much— pokemon treats most parent figures as non-entities, so… yeah. Feral teenagers running around.

If you want to hear my rambling though! (Note that this is all work in progress! Things are inclined to change.)

Worldbuilding for this iteration, I like to think it’s cultural that everybody has a pokemon starter/ ace that they grow with, but it depends on individuals to decide how close their lives intertwine. That in mind,

Ingo and emmet have two moms! Their ma’ is drayden’s twin sister— Kaita, haxorous ace, and a dragon specialist. And their mother, Lucielle, a stoutland ace, works as a full time trainer. The ladies are a bit absent from the twin’s life because they have their own business, but like to send Ingo and Emmet stuff from wherever they roam. (They tried their best when the kids were younger. But talking about having kids, and actually raising kids are two different topics in life.)

Drayden serves as an uncle figure for the twins, but he’s a bit bitter he got two patrats dumped on him.

((Does the lack of parent figures and a distant uncle have lasting effects on ingo and emmet? That’s up for your interpretation. Though it would explain latching onto each other and then later litwick and tynamo…))

As for the pachirisu child—

Elesa’s parents are separated. Her dad, Rin, works a full time desk job. He means the best, but he’s never home. He lost his staraptor a while back and is still dealing with the grieving process, and isn’t really equipped to look after a kid on top of all that. Elesa’s mom, Himawari, is still in Sinnoh and works as a ranger. Her ace is a solrock.

(Why are they separated? That’s for you guys to postulate! I am simply throwing ocs at the wall.)

Elesa was moved to unova partially due to her dad’s new job, and partially due to that Entire Nebulous Situation. She adapts fast, but it’s not a fun adaption.

Anyways, the twins and elesa in turn grew up very independent as a result.

And that’s the barebones!

[pareidoix]

“Ha?”

Wanderer stopped dead in his tracks, before looking back to you—his traveling companion, having a nasty sneer in his expression.

“And yet,” one, two and three. Three paces to you, each step with a simultaneous shift in his expression, a growing smugness, tainting his lips.

“You're still here, traveling with me, continuing to travel with someone, who, vocally expresses that your existence is lesser, annoying, repulsive even.”

The words come out half bitter, effortlessly mixing a lie and a half truth, yet he'll maintain that expression, not for you—but for himself.

“Quite masochistic of you, don't you think?” He added, adjusting his hat as his eyes narrow to yours, eating up that chesire-like smile of which it becomes the cherry on top of his usual mockery.

Ah. It wasn't a few seconds after his statement, it happened in a haze, two blinks and you were already inches to his face, retaining that nauseating snarl, that repulsion now plastered onto your pretty, pretty facial features.

Wanderer remained tall, unmoving, his chin raised high and poised, and it was nothing but a mask, a facade, one he has perfected over the eons of his lifespan, but how can someone claim perfection, when he was far from the concept itself?

Your lips move, forming to say the nickname you gave for him. “I'm not the one with many names, with many sins, I don't manifest my struggles and turn those who surround me into ruin,” his expression falters, mirroring yours upon mention of his eventful history of bloodshed.

“Say more,” he was supposed to be the one to one-up you, to provoke you. “Go on,” he was the one who wanted to invoke a reaction from you.

But why?

Your back straightens, raising your chin to him, and the corners of your lips widen, widen and widen, it was an evil grin overruling his earlier attempt of smugness, it was attractive, malicious.

Why did he find himself so lost in that malice?

“You can't do anything,” his breath hitches, facial muscles waning control, confused, not knowing if he should act accordingly to your refute with a mirrored demeanor—or give up and let his face contort to something of excitement.

Your statements hold true as well, someone who accused you of lowly masochism, now finding himself in the same path with guilt, with pleasure.

Wasn't he just winning?

“Because you know that your progress of tranquility, will be for naught. Days, months, years worth of practiced peace, will be reduced to void, to nothingness.”

Veins formed, visible along his jaw. “You can't do anything,” you repeat, the winds shifting as you move past him. “Because, you enjoy it Kuni.”

His eyes widen, a disgruntled sound gracing your ears as he looks over his shoulder. “That's—!”

“The truth,” you let out a quiet 'hmhm', looking to the side, preying on his visuals in your peripheral.

“A truth you want to bask in, for it is better than the turmoil that gnaws at you overwhelmingly.”

You walk with grace, and Wanderer stills with unease, motionless with current-like thoughts, a redness now turbulent all over his face, as well as his clenched, trembling fists. He wanted more?

He wanted more. Wanderer wanted more—and that was enough to send him in a deep state of frenzy, along with an intensifying self loathing.

“I destest you,” he mumbles under his breath, bringing a hand to his hat to hide everything of him and his dignity, catching up but with a safe distance towards you, but you heard.

“No, I don't think you do.”

need him oiled up and begging

[wayfayrr]

The Menace is back with a Self-Aware ask and your weekly words. So here we go with the Self-Aware!

So I think about a Self-Aware Wind and Spirit would be a good idea. You ask who Spirits is? Well the Link from Spirit Tracks because I'm sure he is a reincarnation of Wind as there were things that wouldn't make sense if he was the same. Niko is old but Spirit isn't, Zelda and Spirit don't recognise each other, Spirit doesn't have a sister or a grandma only old man Niko and Niko tells him the story of Wind Waker and Phantom Hourglass.

I believe that Wind tries to be sneaky like when Reader looks away he turns his head towards them. Reader also catched him a few times but just thought their eyes were playing tricks on them same with Spirit. But I think it would be interesting when both of them break out at the same time.

Like the scenario is like that. Reader plays Phantom Hourglass on their DS and their little/older sibling comes to them as they are stuck somewhere in Spirit Tracks and it was Reader's game after all, they don't know that Spirit planned it. So Reader just say leave it with them and put their DS down to look at the problem. Only to notice that it seems as there isn't one, Link just runs around the overworld. So Reader thinks it's a glitch and runs around with Spirit to find a next town, they are really far away if you don't use the train. So Wind gets jealous and looks for methods to get their attention. How? He runs out of the safety zone from Bellum's temple and has a monster running after his life. So if Reader plays with sound on they immediately switch DSs to save Wind. And these two do that the whole time. Oh, there is the train geek? Sorry Spirit, but Wind just fell down somewhere and Reader has to go the whole way back so they don't lose progress and heal him. Oh, Wind has a puzzle that Reader tries to solve? Sorry Wind, but Spirit just rolled against a tree with a bees/horns nest, Reader has to save him. Oh, Spirit sees and Overworld Boss and it does nothing and Reader wants to take pictures of it T posing?! Sorry Spirit, But Wind needs their help as he lost all of the ore for smith Zauz and now has to collect them again!! Oh, Wind just got a heart container after he defeated a boss?! Well Sorry Wind But Spirits RUNS ON WATER! OH LOOK WIND FELL DOWN FROM THE BOAT AND NEEDS TO BE SAVED!! SORRY SPIRIT, BUT YOUR JESUS JOURNEY HAS TO BE CUT SHORT!! OH READER FINALLY FOUNDS THE TRAIN?! WELL EXCUUUSEE ME SPIRIT BUT WIND RAN INTO FREAKING BELLUM IN THE OVERWORLD!!! OH...

And so on. These two will go into extreme lengths to get Readers attention on one of them. So they will probably break out as Reader didn't fold any of the two DS to help their parents who called them. But at first the two will fight. Obviously they love Wind more they played his games a dozens of time! Nooo, they love Spirit more they could've given him back to their sibling but they didn't he was still there. When Reader returns they just demand to know who Reader's favourite is. Reader completely stunned as both games start talk to them think they go nuts as they pulled an all-nighter before. The two won't stop and slammed against the glass until it breaks and... why are they so small? Why is Reader so tall?! WHY ARE THESE TWO HERO CHIBIS!? AND WHY HAS ONE OF THEM A JOB!?!

And your words are.

Sacrifice

Mask

Search

Arsonist

Ice blue

Unknown

Hello menace! you've discovered one of my utter weaknesses that I've never mentioned on here - spirit is my son/lh/j. I love that silly little train kiddo, he's just! So silly goofy!!!

also firm believer that if they both get out - or actually speak to one another then they'll get along really really well. they're twins and I can't be convinced otherwise.

I think the idea of them both spiting the other until reader leaves them both to go and destress would be an eye opener to the both of them, being bitter and not working together is worse for BOTH of them. Of course they'll both bicker about who is the favourite but when push comes to shove, two is always more effective than one.

ALSO LITTLE MENACE SPIRIT???? LOVE HIM oh he deserves to be an absolute little shit for attention, he's just a baby that can do no wrong after all!!!! just a tiny little guy!!!! Baby boy!!!!! he's got his train so now he just needs his older sib's attention!!! so what if he has to mess with someone else's game to do that - it worked so how can you hate him for it?

also the jesus journey bit is actually sending me- he's so desperate for attention he'll break all the rules in order to keep your eyes on him ;-; hopefully you won't reset his game seeing as he's breaking it so much now

heheheheheh tiny baby spirit who can sit in your hand or a baby wind who can fit in your pockets they're just little tiny babies!!!!! little itty bitty guys!!!!! (reminds me of some imgs peep's sent in asks lmao) so what if they shouldn't be there! now they are and that's your problem to deal with!!! they won't cause issues - pinky promise <3

(both of these guys are by @artsy-moonwalker, I adore these two little guys beyond belief and spirit looking so scruffy is just so!!!!!! literally baby and I love him so!!!)

as for the words hmmmmm, I think I'll go with ice blue for this one (sorry for the late response too, I know these were last week's after all)

[blue-jisungs]

MERRY GO

author's note. 3rd time is the charm so here's my final angst piece in this event :3 no but the song is so:( i saw ian's comment abt it on genius and i just ... dunno, had to write it

word count. 672

summary. your and jun's relationship reminds you of a merry go -- but there is time for you to get off it

“we need to… stop, whatever this is” 

your voice echoed through the walls – but also in his head. it was heavy but not as heavy as the burden jun carried in his heart.

“i know, i know” jun replied, a sigh escaping his lips.

the silence in the room buzzed between you, a tension hanging densely. one spark of a wrong word and there will be an outbreak. both jun and you knew it well, too well.

“we’re not making any progress, are we?” an airy scoff ripped out of you, something amusing in this helpless situation “it… jun, it feels like an endless loop”

“oh, i know”

shifting in the red leather armchair, crossing your legs, scanning junhui’s silhouette. his eyes were somewhat teary but you weren’t sure if it was because of you or his overall state of being. you knew him like the back of your own hand, like the inside of your pocket. jun was exhausted - both mentally and physically. maybe you were a part of the problem, sure. but something told you he wasn’t taking care of himself properly.

hence you’re here.

“i… we, jun. we can’t keep doing that” your voice was quiet “i'm still fumbling with your memories about the last time we tried, when our worlds were falling away from us”

your relationship with jun was sweet at the beginning. but over time it turned bitter, eventually leading to a breakup. and everything after that - because you wouldn’t call it a relationship - reminded you of a merry-go round carousel. breaking off, ignoring each other and then coming back, only to hurt the other more. again and again, in a loop; in a spinning circle. 

“you don't know what you've done to me, y/n” jun grunted. 

meeting on a neutral ground was a good idea. no sentimental value of his living room or your bedroom. just a cheap motel, with occasionally flickering lights. it lit up his skin with a yellowish gleam, making his brown eyes look less scary to look in. the ridge of his nose which you adored so much looked so appealing, you wished you could just reach your hand out and trace it… like you used to.

“i can’t live without you” the man in front of you said “i want it all back”

“we can’t, junhui” you still loved him but you two ere no good for each other “it’s a lesson we learned too many times. i don’t want to hurt you and… i don’t want to get hurt either”

“i know, i know” jun’s throat felt like there was a rock stuck inside, his ability to speak dropping to a toddler lever.

his work, your frustration. your bottled feelings leading to hurtful words. then redemption - shared moments sweeter than the previous ones, kisses more passionate because both of you knew it will snap eventually. a repeating loophole that you lost count of how many times it has repeated itself.

“one… final chance. i cannot live without you… you, you know it. and you need me” he stuttered out and it was true. both of you acknowledged it. 

with the sound of a flickering lamp in the terrifyingly silent room, a decision was made in your mind - quite the opposite of what your broken heart wanted.

“don’t… call me again. i love you jun but we can’t. i genuinely wish you the best, you deserve it. but i can’t be the one to bring you pure happiness” you didn’t even notice the crystal tears falling down your cheeks.

both of you stood up and jun wiped your skin with a sad smile. one word and he’s going to break down too, you could see it in his eyes. 

“sorry… but you know it’s a right decision” you whispered, letting his embrace comfort you for the last time.

“oh, i know” the most heartbreaking sigh reached your ears.

jun hugged your shaking silhouette, tears balancing at his own waterline as well. 

no more sending back around this merry go.

main masterlist | event masterlist

taglist. @mirxzii ,, @primoppang ,, @l3visbby ,, @nicholasluvbot ,, @planetkiimchi ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @slytherinshua ,, @kazmura ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @mon2sunjinsuver ,, @eternalgyuuu ,, @rubywonu ,, @haecien ,, @mine-gyu

[mc-critical]

Along with how her immediate reactions differ each time, Mahidevran's changing feelings on Hürrem's pregnancies (and how that informs her overall progression) show through her going from "I hope you die in childbirth" in E06, to "I hope she suffocates" in E11, to "Allah, you're almighty. Please, help us. Please, make her give birth to a girl" in E17, to "How do you know it'll be a son?" in E25, to, finally, "Congratulations for the newborn prince Cihangir, Hürrem Sultan" in E46.

Mahidevran says the E06 words directly to Hürrem as a retort which ends a confrontation between them in front of Nigar and the concubines where Mahidevran projects unshakeable, sure power after several consecutive losses (that involve pregnancies) in order to negate Hürrem's own attempts at projecting power through demanding better, "worthier" fabrics. Mahidevran's general display of confident security in her position is allowed to linger in most of the first third of the episode, with more contemplative calmness/happiness replacing the bitterness that was accumulated and let out here, but then the projection turns out too fraught of a facade that breaks the second it's challenged in any way and Mahidevran immediately resorts to venom and/or rash actions, like the poison, and/or words, like in this confrontation itself. Hürrem's presence in her life keeps being a recent occurance she won't get used to and her disdain for her is at its rawest and most personal point: she's still reeling from losing her love and losing her child, so she wishes for Hürrem to perish (her laser-focus on the apparent cumulative source of all the problems and her belief that she can still get her old life back if Hürrem simply disappears) and for her to suffer the same way Mahidevran suffered by losing her child as well, it turns out, which is the first time this theme of Mahidevran's dynamic with Hürrem emerges. Her words are vile, but they are put in a new light when we consider that Hürrem got pregnant this soon after Mahidevran lost her own child. It's like the pregnancy Mahidevran wanted so much is almost given to Hürrem instead - she faints after she learns about it just like she fainted after she saw the ring on Hürrem's finger - and when Hürrem brings up the possibility of having not just a son but many sons when Mahidevran's apparently struggled to even conceive at all after Mustafa (E04), she's brought to a spiral; all she can really do is bitterly retort by wishing death. It hurts and it hurts too much to bear, too much to even believe: that can't be, Hürrem has to lie to escape her upcoming marriage, all this can't happen with such a speed and such brutality, fate can't be that cruel, right? Accepting Hürrem being pregnant, accepting Mehmet's existence, another prince's existence (Hürrem becoming completely equal to Mahidevran and Mustafa, thus all the more possibly replacing them), is not just the biggest indication of Hürrem gaining Süleiman's favor yet and her (and Mustafa) getting further away from that on both a personal and massive front, it's more than anything a part of Mahidevran (and even Mustafa) processing the grief for the lost child, especially given what she says in E07: "Am I to celebrate with the Russian slave while I'm grieving with my son?". And she barely processes it, unable to hide her pain. She barely arrives at the ceremony of his birth that she has to be present for, but how can she?

Mahidevran says the E11 words to Gülşah in a personal moment in her chambers at a point where she is allowed to have more such personal moments in the first place. She has gone through many different states in this string of episodes instead of the sorrow - happiness - sorrow throughline from the end of E05 to the entirety of E06: gathering herself a little, regaining her strength after the past events; supporting others in their bad times; reaching a glimmer of hope in her E09 scene with Süleiman; the news of Hürrem's pregnancy being the sorrow after some breathers instead of a yet another drop in the full cup of subsequent losses; and getting consecutive victories, not losses afterwards (Süleiman yelling at Hürrem after the fire and letting Mahidevran kiss his head before he leaves for Rhodes), albeit with some possible scenarios of losses cropping up (but these losses aren't just hers). All of this shows even in the different reactions she has to the pregnancy itself: there's a similar bitterness to last time in "I hope she suffocates" but it emerges rather at the heat of the moment (right when Hürrem gives birth) instead of in a casual confrontation (but the pregnancy itself is revealed in a casual confrontation that also includes choosing fabric), and after her startled almost resignation in that aforementioned casual confrontation, her now clear upset after she gets out of the room and overhears Hürrem and her attempt at acceptance while helping Mustafa accept that he may indeed have another sibling. It's like she's given a little more time to get used to Hürrem's pregnancy or at least not ponder on it that much after so much else is happening around her. She doesn't really process it, but she tries to each time it comes up. Hürrem's existence; her being there beside SS, beside everyone is starting to sink in. She may not just actually give birth to a child, but may also give birth to another prince, she may and will even keep giving birth (as she tells Gülşah). Hürrem has already taken a solid place in Süleiman's heart and Mahidevran (and Mustafa) has already fallen, no matter how much it hurts. But as it still hurts, as it still remains painful, there's still the want for Hürrem to just perish, for her to not make it this time after she constantly seems to have made it up until now, for them all to be at peace. The possible death of the child, though, isn't uttered and wished upon this time. Mahidevran's already prepared for its existence in a way. And the agonizing wait for the outcome of Hürrem's birth even ends with relief Mahi is eager to celebrate demostrably yet from a distance (treating the harem with sweets; the concubines get the sweets separately, while she and Mustafa eat with Valide), even though there isn't a naming ceremony this time as SS is absent (and Mahidevran brings Hürrem's E06 retort about her having more/only princes back at her).

Mahidevran says the E17 words to Gülşah again, but now it's next to more people, royal family and servants alike, during times of happiness, a wedding of a friend and ally that she herself has shown joy and enthusiasm about previously, but can't entirely join in as it actually happens. It's definitely a matter of more signs of Süleiman and Hürrem's relationship being entirely solidified appearing in rapid succession after Hürrem was supposedly gone for good (she actually got exiled here unlike in E05 where her marriage was all but immediately thwarted), but what makes the wound bleed is the recent supposed rumor of pregnancy Mahidevran herself went through. Just like Hü was brought back by one of Mahi's allies (Ibrahim), the rumor was spread by her closest servant (Gülşah), so Mahi goes through both a disillusionment of her closest people and an echo of the hardest reality she's had to face - the most devastating tragedy she's experienced so far. It's like everything repeats again. Last time she was pregnant and lost her child, this time she's assumed pregnant but she knows the truth: she doesn't have a child, she doesn't believe even in the possibility of a pregnancy anymore. How can she be pregnant when SS invited her to her chambers several times, but didn't even touch her? How can she be pregnant when it's so hard for her to conceive anyway, let alone with that hurdle in mind? How can she be pregnant when she's only had constant disappointments for years? Her child is gone, she can no longer have a child. Her enduring the check of the midwife again, Hürrem becoming pregnant instead again, is Mahidevran having to once again feel the pain of that loss so close. And like last time, she could barely share it with anyone; not due to what she did afterwards (and Süleiman being an absolute dick), but worse yet, due to everyone telling her to suck it up, preventing her from talking about any of the grievances of her 'private life'. With the resentment she gains for that and what she could share however, Mahidevran actually ends up having her grief for her lost child move along. She fully reveals her resentment of how they all should have boys in order to be considered human in the castle, of how they all even have to give birth in general, and gains bitter acceptance of it. She doesn't just accept these circumstances, she accepts Hürrem's pregnancy. She doesn't hope for either her or the child to die, she actually hopes for her to give birth but to a girl instead. She allows herself to lean on that hope, as it's already happened before. She turns to Allah again, as since her prayers were fulfilled before, they can be fulfilled once more. She can be blessed once more. Hürrem's pregnancy can't be avoided, Hürrem will survive, a child will certainly be born, but let's cling to the likeability of what would be the safer outcome, the lesser evil. And even though Selim, a prince again, is born, Mahidevran keeps on with her bitter acceptance and even makes direct steps to show it, actively concealing the pain underneath. She has to act by the rules, so she does exactly that, even giving something of herself too during the naming ceremony (the amulet). Because both her "Allah, you're almighty. Please, help us. Please, make her give birth to a girl" words and her actions afterwards show her growing belief of supreme justice. Hürrem may continue her rise, but it will get better for Mahidevran sooner or later, justice will prevail. And a huge part of that is Mustafa having grown up just a little more. It all goes from "Do you think giving birth to a boy is enough? You can give birth to five, if you wish." in E08 where Mahidevran latches onto her haseki position to process Mehmet's birth (while demanding the necessary respect Hürrem has to give her), to "Don't get too excited for your second son. What matters is which prince is the heir to the throne." in E17 where Mahidevran latches onto her position as Mustafa's sole mother. What will happen next remains unclear, but it's certainly Mustafa that has the bigger advantage.

Mahidevran mutters the E25 words to herself, a new element alongside all the callbacks the line and the context around it provide: it's said around both royal family and servants like in E17, even more of them attending in fact, during the commotion while Hürrem gives birth like in E11 and, most notably, "How do you know it'll be a son?" is a direct reference to the exact confrontation with Hürrem where Mahidevran utters her E06 words in, words that are a response of Hü's to that exact same question Mahi poses in E25, only asked in a less biting, more genuinely astounded manner (more "how do you even know what's going to happen when everything around here is so uncertain, when I lost my child when I was just pregnant?" and less of the "why are you so sure; don't be so sure, don't be so arrogant, for you'll fall as quick as you rose" theme that comes up more from S02A-onwards). She again has gotten a bit of a breather after a recent panic (Gülşah stabbing Gülnihal) is not just dealt with, but seemingly about to be forgotten (both by the characters and the narrative) as she let out all her possible frustration and anger and outright dread right there and managed to convince everyone that she has nothing to do with any of it regardless - there's also a bigger distance between the sorrow and the pregnancy news than ever before - so after a much larger matter just passed her by, Hürrem's pregnancy isn't such a blow anymore. But it still wouldn't be otherwise, as it is already expected. She got pregnant so many times already, how is it a surprise that she is pregnant again?? Of course she is pregnant again, how can she not be?? (why does she even announce something so obvious?) It's not about Hürrem or her child being gone anymore, it's just all about whether will Hürrem have a boy or a girl. Mahidevran doesn't want another boy and doesn't want Hürrem to be so sure of having a boy either, as all two scenarios have already turned out possible (and both Mahi and Hü have seen that for themselves). She says the line in an offhanded manner just like her E24 reaction was more offhanded (her half-smirk was clear enough), witnessing everything from the sides and brazenly commenting on it to herself at the moment instead of needing and taking her time to come to terms with it. And Mahidevran is willing to distance from Hürrem (she isn't that focused on Bayezid's naming ceremony, either), not wanting to do anything unprompted, waiting to take advantage of when Hürrem fails and act only then (E16-E23; S02A) as much as she's distanced (or rather fully removed) Hürrem from her past loss of a child, seen in the full-circle moment in E26 where she apparently recognizes that she lost her child entirely because of sorrow and agrees with Valide's words to console Hatice about her own worry of losing a child yet again. Mahidevran's procession of her grief seems to be at its steadiest: she can still hardly talk about her lost child, seeing Süleiman pay attention to Hürrem's children before he leaves for campaigns and after he returns in S02A still hurts, but she has Mustafa now. And he'll become more and more accomplished and make his mother proud - he will even come with Süleiman in the campaign (another sign of further growth) a while after Bayezid's birth (he'll return before the campaign is over, but that's besides the point, as we also have Mustafa as the focus of Mahidevran and Süleiman's interactions which fuel her hope throughout S02A).

Mahidevran says the E46 words directly to Hürrem again but they're not aimed only at her; due to the very nature of their confrontation here, Mahidevran has to say them for all to hear. She's fully settled down after she went through her biggest sorrow as SS's haseki (him marrying Hürrem) and she's had to live with a new status quo that included only her and her son for quite some time now. She's just returned to Topkapi, so she hasn't even been around during the entirety of Hürrem's pregnancy and birth. And even if there's been something to process, she's processed it in Edirne, away from the audience's eyes (just like only a blip from Hürrem's pregnancy with Cihangir is seen during the timeskip montage: it's all ceased to be an event not just for Mahi, but even for us, the audience. and Cihangir's birth being portrayed as so leeway and usual makes the later revelation of his hunchback all the more devastating). She congratulates Hürrem after taking a long breath, she mentions Cihangir by title and by name, fully acknowledging that he is a prince, that he exists. She's completely able to live with that now. And there's confidence in her words that underlines the confidence she's developed in Edirne, next to her son, the confidence she has in that very moment, as this confrontation happens during Mustafa's oath ceremony, during her son's event, her event. Now they are at the center stage in what's basically a celebration of how far they've both come. Mahidevran owns the room and believes in her own capabilities now, believes in her son's future more than ever before (as he's now fully grown), so no one would stand there and threaten it, let alone a little şehzade (the other şehzades might, but that doesn't matter now). Hürrem also isn't such a personal threat in the same way she once was (as Mahidevran already fell out of love with SS): both still have history, there's still 'awkwardness' between them in this confrontation, and Mahidevran will still be keen on eliminating her (her involvement in the cariye riot orchestrated by Hafsa in E47) and protecting her son from her at all costs (the Efsun debacle and all else), but while Hürrem's position is obvious and sealed, so is Mahidevran's now. Thus Mahidevran finally adresses her as "Hürrem Sultan". From the "you" in E06 where she often didn't mention her by name at all and didn't want to be reminded of her name by anyone else either, using the "you" to clap back, towering above her; to the "shes" in E11 and E17 where Mahi puts distance between herself and Hü, hoping for Hü to become less of a threat, "become more distant" too (by either perishing or giving birth to a girl), acknowledging her as someone who's there but she still struggles to accept her - it's almost like when Mahi utters the "shes", it's so obvious who she's referring to as she both points to her and obscures her through them; to the other "you" in E25 that signifies even further distance as Hürrem seemingly can't distance herself from Mahidevran but Mahidevran has distanced herself from her instead, yet Hü is still "Hürrem Hatun" to Mahi (even in E43-E45) and that facilitates the "you", Mahidevran gets to Hürrem's level but Hürrem isn't on Mahidevran's; to the furthest distance in "Hürrem Sultan" in E46 where she adresses her more formally than ever but by both her name and real title and she'll pretty much continue to do so as Hürrem's position lays there, unchanged but Mahidevran's position has changed (something she had to grapple with in E45, also wanting to change her position to be like Hürrem's but then embracing the change of her own position instead). Hürrem has gotten as far as she possibly could as a haseki, so that should be recognized, but Mahidevran can go further as a future valide, further than Hürrem. Besides, anything can happen: as change hit Mahidevran, it'll hit Hürrem too eventually (hence she can even fall from her position as SS's one and only as well: E61) and Mahidevran will benefit this time.

The new stage of Mahidevran's life is also put forth by Hürrem's response: "... I'd say the same to you but God willing, you'll take care of Mustafa's babies now. Being a grandmother will suit you". This was surely a hit to Mahidevran as she got a little put aback (while keeping her demeanor) and lost in thought before Hafsa switched the topic (though I don't think Hürrem said it to offend), this too was probably another small reminder of what she's lost, including the chance to bear any more children. But maybe that's also why she latched onto her grandchildren, onto Nergisşah so much, demanding utmost care for them, giving them her love perhaps as the children she never had, and why letting Nergisşah go in E129 gets even more painful in retrospect than it already was. She parts not just with her closest person left, with the last trace of her family left, but also with her last child. And she lets her go herself.

[louroth]

Hello hello everybody! It is time for another months progress, and I am so excited to share with you, all the things I have gotten my grimy little gremlin hands on. First off, what we are all here for; writing. I have been on fire, to be honest! Last month I churned through the last of the first batch of erotica stories (there's 6 (!!!) of them on my patreon already) and set them up for publishing along with two more unseen ones- I'm still going over the logistics of where to publish for the best revenue (I know this sounds boring, but I have to make an income somehow, and hopefully find another audience as a smut writer on other platforms 💀 I love writing it so why not!), and I am making headway, learning the ins and outs of self publishing. On patreon, there are also two Q&A's that are written in a bit more fictional manner, in character: a more fun way than just writing answers straight up and down. I have enjoyed those so much! There's a bunch of other stuff I haven't even mentioned- honestly, I have to say, I'm really proud of my output on Patreon even though I have been really anxious about writing full time. It's going great! I have to thank my new friends and support-network on discord; you make this all worth it. I cannot express how fun it is to shoot the shit with you in vc, gaming together, or seeing your shenanigans in gen or your in depth theories (thanks for the brainworms!) or memes or staring longingly at the fanfic channel or drooling over your art (ouro related or not) or... Gah. You are just amazing people, and I will waste no opportunity in saying so. Thank you forever and ever and ever an-

When it comes to OUROBOROS, I am happy to announce that the next chapter is damn near done! I was halted because of the discovery that dashingdon is no longer supported by it's creator, and have been working on the twine version ever since, earlier than I expected- it's tough work, but I am so excited to make this an actual game made entirely by myself, and not submitting to a company that quite frankly leaves a bitter aftertaste. It is taking long to make because I want to make it mobile compatible from the start, which there isn't a lot of resources for. But I'm doing my best! The plan is that I will be posting the next chapter for Patreons in the coming month, and then treat you to a full twine release here on tumblr. I haven't made any rewrites when porting the twine build, but I would like to do that too... so we will see; this plan is not set in stone. I will just have to see how it evolves over the next month. Yes, beta-readers is still on the schedule, just holding off a little while while I wrap my head around this new coding landscape.

Other than that, I have been working on the set aesthetic for ouro, which has been really hard, a lot harder than I expected. You all know I am no wizard when it comes to graphic design, but I want to at least develop a set palette and imagery and portraits that is cohesive to the story. The work is ongoing, and I don't have much to say about it- even though it is taking a lot of my brain power. I'm hoping I can come to some kind of set and in depth conclusion that I am happy with before the twine release, because I want the game to feel like a treat to open up and play; a world to get lost in.

That's it! If you want to see weekly and more in depth dev-logs, you know where to go. I hope you have an amazing day or night, and we will see each other soon. xx

[defira85]

Your OC's Personalities

Thank you for tagging me @ltleflrt!! I've been chomping at the bit not being able to do my usual WIP progress drops because of spoilers so this was nice and fun :D

Kassara Bhaal (Left) and Ryme'dra Ulutar (Right)

(I'm being good and limiting myself to only two OCs)

I'll tag @elinorbard @flamemittens @sleepytimegrrl @angelicfangirl @robinyourcreator @darkfeanix and anyone else who wants to gush about their Tavs/Durges/Rooks/etc

How would you describe Kassara's personality?

There's a few versions of Kass over time, but fundamentally regardless of where she is in her life, she's a powerfully loyal individual. Her devotion to Bhaal, her unwavering love for her brother Heron, her ability to forgive Orin again and again and again, her commitment to the Absolute plot because of her loyalty to Gortash even though she was very clearly losing faith in their chance of success prior to Orin's attack... Kass gives her everything to the people she cares about. Her loyalty defines her like nothing else does

What brings Kassara joy?

When she was younger (prior to Bhaal's resurrection) it was feeling wanted. Feeling needed. As a girl, that manifested in her desperation to get her and Heron adopted, and then her sex work, and then when she came into her heritage and embraced being a Bhaalspawn, she loved the heady mix of fear and desire that people felt for her. Many decades later, free of Bhaal's influence, it's her family that brings her joy which is to some extent an extension of the first joy. She loves being a mother.

What does Kassara strongly dislike?

Being controlled, being manipulated. As Bhaal begins to exert more of his control over her with time, and she loses periods of time and begins to lose her sense of self and bodily autonomy, it grows into fear.

She hates mint.

Is Kassara scared of anything?

She's scared of losing herself. She's scared of her Father. She's terrified of being alone, so the haunting visions of standing alone at the end of the world is truly her worst nightmare. She's terrified every time she comes back to herself and realises that her Father possessed her again and she's lost hours or days to his influence, not knowing what he's done with her body

What is Kassara's alignment

It moves like a metronome lmfao she's hard to pin down. As a young woman prior to Bhaal's resurrection, chaotic evil. Following Bhaal's resurrection, neutral evil. Following the start of BG3? She starts at True Neutral and starts to drift towards Chaotic/Neutral Good by the time she meets Torm and confronts Bane. Carmela is a really strong influence on people haha

How would you describe Ryme'dra's personality?

Thirteen hundred neuroses hiding in a trench coat pretending to be a woman. Sentient scar tissue. If C-PTSD could be a person.

Ryme'dra's personality is buried under so many layers of trauma and pain that it's hard to say. Her personality IS about survival and little else. Closed off. Bitter. Desperately lonely. Actively suicidal but trapped in the body of a race that reincarnates, so she can't escape even if she kills herself. There's a teensy tiny shred of a hopeless romantic inside of her, still clinging to life like a weed

What brings Ryme'dra joy?

Oh gods that's a hard one. I don't think it's too much of a spoiler at this point to say Gale. She genuinely does enjoy language and linguistics, because as she points out to Gale in the future - it's all well and good that spells like Comprehend Languages or Tongues exist, but only a tiny tiny fraction of the population have access to magic like that, and the rest of them have to learn to communicate the old fashioned way. She used to feel pride and contentment doing her work as a runesmith, but that's a long time in the past

She loves a good dark hot chocolate, the more sharp and bitter the chocolate the better. She's not really got a sweet tooth but she'll make an exception for the sweet bitterness of a dark hot chocolate

What does Ryme'dra strongly dislike?

Heat. People who assume that all drow are just slutty, highly-sexual priestess dominatrixes and brooding male warrior sex-slaves without any attempt to understand that the drow are a race of millions of people with vast differences in culture between cities that span the planet, and that the vast number of drow are just poor working class or slaves who live their lives without ever hurting anyone or ever having the opportunity to escape from their circumstances. Tooth-rottingly sweet desserts. Attention in general.

Is Ryme'dra scared of anything?

Lolth. Mephistopheles. Her own feelings. Getting other people hurt. Living forever while everyone around her dies and she has to keep living in ever increasing pain because she's some immortal dickhead's favourite chew toy again. Doctors and hospitals

What is Ryme'dra's alignment?

Probably True Neutral. She's hunkered down behind so many self preservation instincts. She'll perform truly evil acts if she thinks it will keep her safe, not because she's perversely driven to take life or hurt people. There's also arguably a nice and good person buried down inside somewhere but Rhyme keeps trying to kill her with a rock. For self preservation.

[bestfriend491]

- hi (a year later) ♡

So... where do we start?

Gosh, I'm tearing up just thinking of what to say. 🥹

Hi, beautifuls.👋🏾 Long time no see, huh?

I feel like I've been avoiding this blog for a while, both parts due to the absolute wreck that has been my life in the past year, along with just not really knowing what to say to you lovely people.

A few years ago, around the end of 2022, I, a very lost and scared adolescent, started this page because of one idea. I had watched an emotionally impactful movie and could not do anything before I got something down on a page. I was met with so much kindness, love, and support, and for all the times I've been told that a work of mine brought comfort to people, writing and contributing something that felt so real actively kept me going. I cannot overstate just how much this page has built me and kept me alive.

Now, I'm feeling a bit too close to adulthood, with so many hopes and dreams, I can only imagine younger me is so proud. But with that growth and progress, there have been some excruciating growing pains. I try not to be dramatic about that type of thing (we're all going through a lot of things), but I've found that not acknowledging the sheer amount I've endured hasn't helped me in any case, so might as well admit it.

With everything, I just couldn't put my all into anything. Breathing was just about all I could muster up the energy for, and writing and creation started leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. And seeing as the support here never wavered (seriously, I was shocked to see I still get notes on a weekly basis on my stuff), I didn't want to grow resentful of something I love so much. So, I left.

I contemplated deleting the blog, just to block out the reminders of what I was avoiding, but I think I always knew that wasn't going to happen. There's too much love here for that.

Anyway, skip a year, and life is still actively being a menace. But, I've grown a lot, and somehow, that doesn't feel so heavy anymore. I've spent the last few months working on other projects. Developing my writing, finally starting to see that I'm not so bad at this whole thing.

I won't keep you all hostage for too much longer, I promise. My main message through all of this, is that for the past few years, and honestly a lot longer than that, I've seen how ugly life can get. I've seen how hard it can be to keep moving. But I've also seen how other people's creations have had such large impacts on me. Figuratively and literally pulling me out of the trenches.

And for all I've learnt from this, I want to be able to start giving that back again. I thought of starting another blog for this, but I have too many of those already, and this one is good enough to host more comfort and support to you all. Especially with how ugly the world can feel on the bad days.

The black panther ladies will always have a space here. I may not be sure of the consistency of content regarding them currently (Like the next few months), but I would really like to expand on the people I write for. Other woman/non-men, that you may have interest in getting X Reader content for.

I'm looking into more series type writing, establishing longer storylines, and all such things on occasion. So with my long awaited return, I implore you to drop any new characters you might have fallen in love with and would not mind being added to my roster of stories. (This includes other fandoms btw) Asks are always open, and I will actually be looking at them again. 😅

I guess this is the part where I say have a wonderful day, everyone.

I love you all! 🌺

- A