#in my chest* i will practice love and kindness and patience *vomits blood* love and compassion is the way *gets kicked in the spleen*

[transmasculinizing]

man

[wolf-and-bard]

Proper Procedures for Wooing Witches

for @littoraly-art because you are amazing and I already said this, but I hope you have an awesome birthday <3

Pairing: Yennefer/Jaskier

Word Count: ~2.2k

Rating: T, some explicit language

„My darling Yennefer,“ Jaskier calls out as he swoops into his Oxenfurt apartment with a flat carton wedged under his arm. It already nicked the lavender mesh overlay of his newest doublet, but for once, he absolutely cannot be bothered by that. It’s too nice of a day. “Hello?” He kicks off his shoes.

High noon’s just gone by and Jaskier doesn’t expect Yen to be up yet – which means she will hex his ass if he wakes her. His giddiness outweighs his fears though, heart warming, as he takes in the cluttered entryway. Several pairs of shoes are strewn about, his and hers mixing on the ground. Yen’s all look like they could double as a lethal weapon and are some variation of black and white (though one pair is tinged brown from blood that crusts the bottom, he doesn’t want to know). It’s awfully domestic, a product of the temporary living situation they are in.

When Yen requested to use his rooms for a week or so, she explicitly asked for Jaskier not to be there, but, well, he is weak, he wants her, he couldn’t have stayed away if he tried. Yen’s been snippy from the moment he welcomed her with open arms and the prospect of sharing a bedroom, snippy to the point of grumpiness. That’s fair, Jaskier supposes. It’s also fair that she slips out at the most random times of day, coming back only when Jaskier’s gone to the academy for lectures or the pub for drinks with his colleagues. All fair and good. He catches her about once a day which is more than he can say for most of the year. Fair, yes. Nice, even though Yen is rarely, if at all, impressed with his affection for her. A bard can dream.

“Yenny,” he shouts again and whistles to himself as he slides through to the main room. To his surprise, she lounges at his dinner table by the window, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other holding up one of his most beloved poetry collections (not only because he wrote several of the entries). Her hair falls in rich raven curls that cover her chest, barely concealed by the sheer black dressing gown she wears. It’s the only thing she wears, Jaskier notices, gulping heavily. Yen doesn’t look up from her reading, her lips are pursed and her tone clipped as she replies.

“For every time you call me that, bard, your balls will grow the tiniest fraction until, one day, they will explode, never to grow back.”

Jaskier considers it. Directs his attention downward. They do feel a bit strange, don’t they? But that’s only because he’s thinking about them. Right.

“I shall not be fooled,” Jaskier says, grinning. “But if you so insist, ‘beloved’ will do just as well. I brought you a gift.” Brushing past his dusty bookshelves and cluttered desk, he struts towards the table and drops the carton on it. It lands with a thud and swirls up more dust – how is it this dusty already, Jaskier could swear he cleaned the place, like, last month?

Yen licks her finger to turn the page which makes Jaskier laugh out loud. He rounds the table to glance over her shoulder, but immediately has to retch. There, catching Yen’s precise attention, is Valdo’s vomit-inducing sonnet about his first time taking a tumble with what Jaskier assumes was a professional. It has to be, no self-respecting person would bed the man free of his coin. Jaskier makes a mental note to spread another rumour about Valdo and various sexual diseases, then plucks the book from her hands and lets it drop to the table. She sighs softly under her breath and allows him to put a hand on her shoulder. Is that… does she lean into him? The tiniest bit? Oh, dear.

“That better not be a dress,” Yen says, reaching out. Her fingertips trace the edge of the carton as if she’s in deep debate on whether to pop it open. This is a game they’ve been playing excessively, him bringing her gifts, her making a show of whether to accept them or not. On the few occasions that Yen invites him for a drink or gives the acoustic properties of his lute a small magical boost, Jaskier fails to reciprocate her cool attitude. He’s too in love to feign indifference and it’s not like she would believe him either.

“If we’re using dress in terms of the precise cut it implies then no, no dress,” he replies, thumb rubbing her skin through the slippery material of the gown mostly to work through the tightness in his throat. It hurts sometimes because this farce makes him think she doesn’t want him. Hell, most things Yen does are aimed at making him think she doesn’t want him. But then there are fractions of admittance like this, like when her gravity shifts towards him or he finds her in his rooms, barely dressed, that make him think there might be more there. Jaskier simply has to practice patience.

“Julian, do I seem like a woman easily impressed with shallow gifts of clothes? In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a very particular style.”

“Oh, I noticed. Trust me, Yenny, you are very much one of a kind,” he replies, mesmerized by her fingers dancing on the cardboard. She loses no time in jabbing back.

“And yet you revert to common courting techniques? That’s pathetic and you know it.”

“Bold of you to assume I am courting you.”

“Bold of you to claim you are not. If I remember correctly, the last time Geralt was with us you got drunk off your ass and asked him for his permission to woo me. Which was sweet but not at all his place to allow. Then you continued to exert yourself into my life on every possible occasion with flowers and picnics and awful love songs. How else am I going to interpret all this?” Yen asks, craning her neck to look up at him from under dark lashes. Gods, she is gorgeous.

“Touché. But do not think I would waste the efforts of my best tailor on just anyone. This is advanced courting, dear.”

“I fail to see its distinguishing qualities.”

“The difference is that these clothes are hardly a gift and more a means to an end.” Jaskier winks which has her eyes narrow, fall back to the carton.

“You want to take me somewhere” Yen asks and, of course, she untangles his intentions immediately.

“Not just somewhere. My cousin’s forwarded me an invitation to a ball put on by some countryside nobleman or other. His work keeps him in Kerack so I’m to go in his stead. That is to say, I’d hoped you would go dancing with me.”

Yen looks up once more and Jaskier starts a little. He will never get used to the vibrance of her violet eyes, how they see through him. Once, she said it took no effort at all to pick at his thoughts, that she always feels as though he’s screaming them right at her. So, he does.

Please, he thinks, mouth twitching into a soft smile. Please, just this once. It would mean the world to me.

Yen huffs a small laugh and shakes her head, then draws the box towards her. Inside, she finds a slim-cut blouse made from the finest black cotton in the city, complete with white lace trim down the front and flaring out at the cuffs and collar. With it, Jaskier had the tailor make a white corset belt and a pair of deep black pants that have applications of the same lace. It would look precarious, almost edgy, on anyone else, but on Yen… the thought alone makes Jaskier’s chest tighten with adoration.

“Jules, this is beautiful,” Yen murmurs as her fingers trace the line of the seams on the blouse. Jaskier puts his other hand to her shoulder and holds on for dear life as his ear twitches. Was that? Did she just? Oh, how he itches to make a quip about the nickname. Because it’s funny, yes, but it also gives him palpitations. He feels like a lovesick puppy trying to befriend a wild cat. Which also means that any violation of trust can ruin what they have. It’s just so fucking precious, this whole affair, and if he were on the outside of it, he would squeal in delight and write a whole novel about it. He still might.

“I’m glad you like it. And it will look absolutely stunning on you. You will look stunning in it. Ah, not implying that you don’t usually look stunning. What I am saying is, the other attendees will be stunned.”

“You’re ridiculous… and stupid too. Are you certain you want to take me to the ball? I’m not exactly popular with the local nobility.”

“Quite the tragedy,” Jaskier says and because he feels daring, he bends down and kisses the top of her head. Then, he saunters over to the stove, pours himself a mug of tea and takes the seat next to her. “And yes, I am certain. In fact, there is nothing I’d love more. Let the people talk.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Yen says on another sigh. “Not about what they say or think or do.”

“Which is part of what makes you so damn sexy.”

Yen rolls her eyes and folds the clothes back into the carton.

“These are lovely, but I will not wear them to the dance,” Yen says. Which means she will go with him at least. It’s not enough, Jaskier is dying to see her wear what he picked out, dying to show the world that such a brilliant woman would choose to spend the evening with him. Most of all, he wants to make her happy. “Trust me on this. You have a reputation to worry about and bringing me along already risks that. Bringing me along in that can and will mess with your career.”

“Trust me, when I say that it won’t matter. I’m already famous and folk love to gossip about famous people. Probably more than they love my songs. I could imagine worse truths to be spread about me. Besides, didn’t you just say you don’t care what people think about you? Why then would you worry about what people think about me?”

"Well I never," she says, but her lips soften into a smile and her hand rises to fiddle with her pendant. Jaskier gently pries it off and brings her knuckles to his lips.

"I don't care either," he whispers. "I just want to go dancing with you."

"I'll portal to my rooms in Kaedwen and get one of my old dresses.” Her face is all smiles, but an edge has stolen into her voice which makes her sound forlorn, sad even, and her eyes flicker over to the folded clothes in the box. Jaskier’s throat tightens.

"Why are you so stubborn? It’s obvious you want to wear them. You don’t need to start giving a fuck now.”

"I'm trying to do something for you here, Julian. I don't usually go out of my way to attend stuck-up parties with peacocks such as yourself."

“Please,” Jaskier says. He still holds her hands in both of his and because he has no shame, and because this really does mean the world to him, he sinks off his chair and onto his knees before her legs. Yen’s eyes widen a fraction. “For me.”

-----

They dance. Oh, how they dance. Jaskier always considered himself a great dancer, he has music in his veins and has flirted and whirled his way through every ball room and banquet hall on the Continent, and it’s clear that Yen is no stranger to this art either. They are exuberant, relentless, they laugh and pirouette and demand their ground, much to the detriment of those with lesser skills. The lack of a dress doesn’t subtract from their flair, if anything, it allows for a broader range of motion

"The only way we could draw more eyes is if we'd brought Geralt along,” Yen giggles. Fuck. She’s so carefree it brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes.

"Gods no," he laughs. "He would ruin all the fun with his growling and brooding. If you're looking for more attention however..."

"Jules-"

Jaskier twirls her and, in that motion, catches her around the waist and dips her low, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips which are parted on a yelp. Before he can tug her up again, her hands come forward to cup his face and she presses into him, grins into the kiss.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” she whispers.

“Admit it,” Jaskier drawls as he brings her back upright and they fall into an easy basic waltz, closer to each other than the dance strictly necessitates. “You love me.”

“That is awfully presumptuous of you.” But she laughs, and kisses his cheek, and Jaskier thinks that maybe one day, she will. “Don’t bet on it, bard.”  

[nurseofren]

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 24

Read on AO3

Read chapter twenty-three

Title: Prove it

Words: 6800

Warnings: Talks of pregnancy, mentions of vomit

Summary: A friend. A foe?

ST Rambles: I look pretty good for a dead bitch.

Okay. In all seriousness. In the five weeks that I have not updated, it has been chaos. School is absolutely kicking my ass this semester and I am not afraid to say it. Maternal-Newborn is a hell I would not wish on my worst enemy. With this said, I know any further updates will be sporadic, BUT - and I say this to snuff out any doubt on the matter - I will never, EVER, abandon this story. However it ends, rest assured that it will, in fact, do just that.

I thank you all for your patience and encouragement. This story is something I care deeply about and it just floors me that others do as well. I love interacting with you all, either on here or tumblr or TikTok (if you've made one and I haven't seen it, please tag me! My fyp does not work in my favor lol).

Be kind. Don't forget to be a person. All you can do is try your best.

[MASTERLIST] | BANNER/@elmidol

Good afternoon,

I can only hope this correspondence finds you safe and well.

The Board of Physicians sympathizes during this time of displacement and potential grieving. There are countless variables to be considered during uncertain times like these, but those of your safety and well-being are of the utmost importance. In an effort to convey the depth of our understanding, a unanimous vote has approved the decision to extend the dates of the trial by seven days. Upon receiving this official communication, you should plan to arrive on Canto Bight a minimum of two days prior to the morning of the initial hearing. An updated outline has been attached at the end of this e-mail for reference and sent to all pertinent parties.

Per the initial correspondence, Commander Ren is to receive a new provider prior to the trial’s start date. This objective has been met with the solemn barrier of the diminished population of approved nurses and physicians which resulted from the recent tragedy of Starkiller Base. There have been additional unforeseen circumstances also working to lengthen and altogether halt this approval process. Rest assured that we are doing everything in our power to ensure the trial proceedings occur in an organized and professional manner.

The emergent provider shortage, along with the unknown – and likely diminished – amount of surveillance retained from Starkiller Base prior to its destruction, has laid the foundation for the discussion of potential and probable employment during your time on Canto Bight. The discussions surrounding this issue are in their infancies. Should it be that you are to assume a care position during your trial, you will receive a further updated and in-depth itinerary. This would include the dates, times, and location you would be expected to work; this information would be accompanied by any specific limitations regarding your scope of practice while on trial.

Though you are encouraged to reach out to discuss any questions or concerns you may have pertaining to these new developments, the current agenda is to be followed with strict compliance. Should there be any changes, as stated previously, I will communicate these to you in a timely and conscious manner.

Respectfully,

Karmen Zag, Esq.,

Head of Communications,

The Board of Physicians

“Yeah, well, you can go fuck yourself Karmen Zag. Stupid ass name anyway.”

Not that anyone could hear you, nor that anyone would care, you could not help the petty jab. Karmen Zag, the faceless mouthpiece of the institution actively seeking your death, had little to do with anything. Karmen Zag was not the one who had carved initials into your body; that person was elusive to you now. Karmen Zag was not the one who kept you from sleep; that person was dead, killed by the trembling hands of the very survivor they’d created. Karmen Zag was not the one you were currently hiding from; that person, achingly kind and too ignorant to know different, still came to pick you up from shift every night.

Cramped in the corner of a supply room, you sat with your knees tucked to your chest and your datapad resting on your thighs, eyeing the vent at the bottom of the door to spy Mason’s tapping foot. In the seven days since waking up in the medbay, six days since returning to work to help with the increased patient population – or, at least that’s what you were telling yourself – you had found yourself with a desperate need to distance yourself from Mason. He was unaware of all that was haunting you, nescient to the fact he was at the epicenter of the majority of it. To see him was to remember the choice you’d made, to hate yourself for regretting it, to be morally ripped in half by the unwavering war in the back of your mind.

The first three days he would always sneak up on you, flurries of white lies leaving while you fumbled away from him and into the nearest room. I’m on call tonight was your favorite. No, you weren’t, though you had been staying in the on-call rooms to hide the fact that you no longer held a residence on this ship. No matter if you had not received official word on your employment status, you felt an unease when thinking of returning to Kylo Ren’s quarters. It felt too broken, like you’d be a stranger somewhere you’d once considered a home.

Eventually, Mason being an inherent creature of habit, you’d picked up on his timing. On the fourth day you’d decided to stake him out, finding he would spend exactly ten minutes waiting, send a message to your commlink, spend another five toying with his own as he waited for a response, eventually asking whoever was nearest to tell you to call him. You never did. It was despicable, watching his hope falter as the days passed and you were never there to leave with him; wretched, but that did not make it any less necessary.

So long as you were away from Mason, you couldn’t hurt him. If you could create a rift between the two of you so great as to discourage any further interaction, you could save him from all the suffering that came along with being associated with you. On the other hand, you couldn’t deny the comfort you felt in deferring any conversation with him. Avoidance may not be a healthy coping mechanism, but all the ones you’d learned of in school were useless to your set of circumstances; there was no talking this through, no way to speak of Snoke or Kylo or Robbie without getting someone else hurt. You were trapped in your own, sole company; whoever you had become recently, you were barely tolerant of them, let alone fond. It was growing increasingly difficult to recognize your own reflection. At some point you figured you might stop looking altogether.

Zag’s update had been present in your inbox ever since returning to work; with each read through – which, now, you’d have read a hundred times – you felt time pass by. Each night you spent time tucked away here, the cold tile permeating the scrub pants you now wore; the uniform you’d had on when you arrived back on the Finalizer had been too tattered to reuse. Not that you wanted to wear it; in those tattered, bloodied threads lay the obvious truth of how entirely you had failed at the only assignment you had ever been trusted with.

Trusted. The thought made you shiver. Yes. Trusted. Past tense. In every sense it could be. Thus, folded into yourself, away from prying eyes or well-meaning friends, you scrolled aimlessly up and down the message. Though its existence annoyed you, knowing full well that there was no empathy or genuine concern behind the decision to delay the trial, it also brought you ease to know this portion of your life was almost over. Again you were embracing the possibility of your death, only this time rooted in hatred for yourself, not Kylo Ren.

“Alright, well, can you tell her-,”

“Tell her to call you. Got it. Do every night.” One of your coworkers had grown exasperated with Mason – or was it with you? Either way, peeking through the vent slats, you spied Mason’s legs drag out of view. It made your heart fall, feeling more disgusted with yourself each day; it was this confusing combination of feeling a pull to run after him, to apologize to him with every breath you had left, only for that initial urgency to be swallowed by the knowledge that the action would be futile.

With tired eyes, not having gotten more than two hours of unbroken sleep since the sixteen you’d woken from, you looked to your left wrist. It was a routine gesture, pointless in the fact you had not worn the watch since finding it on your bedside table. Much like your uniform, only agonizingly amplified, the sight of the gadget inspired a hollowness in your chest. It remained in a pillowcase, hidden atop the bed you’d claimed. Each night you toyed with it, thumbed at the lifeless screen and wondered if it would ever offer another flicker; each night you caught the hazy reflection of two unfamiliar eyes, finding only the remnants of shattered promises staring back at you.

A sigh crept into your lungs when you stood, arms stretching and hands smoothing back your hair before going to activate the door. It hissed open without your indication; before you could question how, two hands pushed you out of the way and sent you flying face first into the storage shelves. Nose first, actually; the collision rang through your ears, pain throbbing in prominence as you stumbled for stability, arms widespread and eyes pinched shut.

“Oh! You have to be kidding!” Copper crept down your upper lip, cascading over your sharp tongue, foggy eyes opening to blood-stained fingers. “Watch where you’re going, jeez!”

Away from you sounded the door as it shut, but that wasn’t the sound that alarmed you. Across the room, near the sink – at least you hoped it was near the sink – came the horrendous retching that could only indicate vomit. The longer you listened, though, all the while blindly searching for a package of gauze, you found it wasn’t vomit, but an attempt towards it; echoes of dry heaves wracked the room, vomit absent even as the stranger continued in their effort toward expulsion.

A spill of winces left you, a grimace following suit when you tipped your head back, blood draining down your throat. You found a box of gauze squares and tore it open, peeling away a layer and rolling it into a cone before pushing it into one nostril. Vessels pounded against the material, injury soaking into it as you caught your breath.

“I’m so sorry,” a familiar voice said, groggy and breathless. “The refresher was occupied, and the occupancy indicator wasn’t on.” She took another breath, gasping back spit. “I figured the sink in here would do.”

Another person you’d been avoiding. Talia. Sick. As she would be, of course. It was something you’d fought thoughts on; it was too confusing, too unnerving to put the pieces you’d been offered together. Hux had left her room, had been so distraught. Talia had seized and ended up in the medbay. Armitage. Stars, how that word haunted you in the way it left her paling lips. She’d been so disoriented, so scared. Glassy eyes and green pallor. And the person she’d asked for was Armitage.

With these thoughts, dizzying as they had become, came the image of the very thing that tied them all together: that square-cut, printed, glossy ultrasound picture. Between nightmares of Robbie and desperately trying to find any amount of sleep, you saw it clear in your head, remembered how you’d lost your ability to stand when you first considered the reality of it. It all made sense clinically; the symptoms, the tangible evidence showing a yolk sac, the patient identifiers framing the monochrome image.

But, when you remembered running into Hux, remembered the ghost in his eyes and felt the rather unsettling demeanor – one not marked with errant hatred – he’d met you with, it all started to blur. Jumble. Your mind rejecting the thought that Talia and Hux-

Talia mewled, your eyes opening to find white knuckles outfitting a vise grip over the sink’s metal edge. The fluorescent lights lining the ceiling made it all too easy to see how sick she really was. Tears glinted down her cheeks, her hair dull in its tousled bun, a string of spit straying from her bottom lip; there was a suggestion of green just below the surface of her skin, exhaustion evident in the lavender drapes below her eyes.

A shaky breath left her before she rested against the sink, elbows bent and fingers rolling over her temples. For a moment there was a deafening silence, one that strangled you and emphasized the throbbing in your nose when you stopped breathing. It dissipated when Talia groaned, her head drooping and stance shifting.

“At least shift is done, right?” She sounded like she was talking to anyone. She didn’t know it was you. She didn’t know you knew.

Swallowing, dropping your hand from your face, you tried to think of anything to say. But nothing would come. And, considering how little time you had left to know her – execution or not – you saw no point in frivolous small talk.

“How far along are you?” It was a low rasp; frail in its existence yet bludgeoning the quiet that had preceded it.

She didn’t look up, but you knew she recognized your voice; her every muscle stalled, hair even stilling as your words sank into her. It was the first thing you’d said to her since she’d seized. In her silent shock it dawned on you that it had not been long since you’d been in a situation similar to this; the two of you, a pitting silence, a mess – obvious and blaring – surrounding you.

Only this mess was not something that could be cleaned. This mess existed outside all you had once thought to consider. Though this room was less gruesome in appearance, it held that same suffocated dread, carried with it the reminder that everything could change without a moment’s notice. Watching the color return to her cheeks, absentmindedly brushing your fingertips across the raised marks atop your thigh, it hit you how true that fact was.

A small sound – a swallow – filled the room, a sigh to accompany it. “Six weeks. I think, at least. Maybe more.” She stood then, crossing her arms and leaning against the sink. A wall stood between you and her, invisible yet so entirely present. “No one knows.” Her jaw fluttered at its hinge. The wall was for her; a façade, a crutch. She was scared.

The door lit cool shivers down your back, hands digging into your pockets, a weak attempt at a smile pulling at your face. “Congratulations,” you offered first, forgetting the circumstances before seeing her eyes fall to the floor. “Or not, I guess.”

She kept her eyes down. “I’m not showing, and I’ve been good about sneaking away to throw up, so…”

“Last week,” you said, her stare coming back to you, “after Starkiller. I fainted after arriving back here, and after I woke up,” I washed the Commander of the First Order’s hair and cried to his comatose body about how my life is falling apart, “I just had to know you were okay, so I visited you.”

“I don’t remember seeing you. I actually… How did you even know I had been admitted to the medbay?”

“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.” You chewed your cheek, recounting any of those 48 hours made your pulse jump. “You weren’t well off when I found you, before they took you to the medbay, so I wouldn’t expect you to remember me being there.”

Her brow dipped for half a second, a crack creeping into that wall. “I didn’t know you found me. It’s difficult for me to even recall most of that day.” Her shoulders dropped, stature less rigid now. “Thank you, though.”

You nodded, not entirely sure why she felt it necessary to thank you. “Yeah. So, you were sleeping and I saw the tests ordered on your board. And then I found your ultrasound on the floor.”

Her eyes were so distant, pupils housing a familiar ghost. “It must have fallen when I was sleeping.” Her lips parted with the whisper, egregious loneliness overwhelming the thought.

It felt like the floor would fall out at any second, the interaction so fragile. Watching her with intent, measuring her reactions, you charged ahead into territory you’d been afraid to enter for so long.

“Talia,” you started, buying more time to think on your phrasing. Her focus startled back from wherever her mind had taken her. “I mean, maybe this is ridiculous, and maybe I’m so far off base in even suggesting it…”

Her arms dropped when a hand reached to tuck a collection of stray hair behind her ear, nose sniffing, teeth pulling at her bottom lip. She took her eyes from yours, breath picking up. That wall she stood behind was wearing.

You couldn’t stand beating around the bush any longer, sick of theorizing about it all. It fled out, no breath to separate any of it. “I’ll just say it: Hux was leaving your room when I came around. And he was being weird. So weird. I mean, he was being… would I say nice? Maybe just, less awful? He complimented me. And it was so weird, but I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt because, you know, he’d just lost a lot of men. But then it was you in the room and I.. he was so distraught? That is barely the right word, but I mean? He just wasn’t General Hux. And then I found the ultrasound and remembered how you’d asked for ‘Armitage’ earlier when I’d found you, and-,”

A weep signaled the destruction of the wall she’d thrown up, hands clawing into her eyes and lungs heaving full of ragged, desperate air. “Oh, please tell me you didn’t tell him! He can’t- I don’t!” Sobs rolled off of her between each exclamation. “I haven’t told him. I don’t know how. I- he’s so evil! I can’t believe I ever slept with him!”

Seeing her come apart, feeling the guilt she did in every word she cried, you could only think to take her into your arms. In your hold you felt her shaking and the pain roll off of her in thick, grating waves. It was familiar, like she, too, had been existing alone; you had not noticed, so buried in your own avoidance that you had not thought to consider hers.

“I’m so sorry! I’m so- I’m so sorry! It makes me so mad that- ugh!”

“Hey, stop. Slow down,” you soothed, hugging her tighter. “You have nothing to apologize to me for. You’ve done nothing wrong, okay?”

“No, I have! I slept with my Master! And got pregnant! And he’s such a fucking jerk! He’s the whole reason you’re losing your career, you know? And I had sex with him! And I feel- felt real things for him!” A breath stuttered into her lungs. “I never meant for it to go any further than that first night, and then… fuck.”

It burned down to your marrow that you had the power to comfort her, knew everything she was feeling even if it wasn’t hatred that left you crying at night. She would be embraced in knowing you had also slept with your Master; it would minimize the guilt she now felt. To tell her you had fallen for Kylo Ren could help her know that she wasn’t alone.

Instead, feeling her tears accumulate on your sleeve, struggling to keep in your own, you kept quiet. She would not learn how you had burned so bright for your commander. It was selfish, but it was necessary. Self-preservation. She would be testifying against you, taking the stand right after Hux. Her not knowing would do no harm; it would keep her from having to consider or commit perjury. Talia now joined Mason, another soul to protect, another person you would lie to.

Several minutes passed before she stopped trembling, another few before the tears stopped staining your uniform. Humanity existed in these moments, and though you would hide how you knew the advice you would offer her, you knew she needed to hear it. A part of you did, too.

Moving your arms from her back and grasping both her shoulders, you locked eyes with her and forced her to see that you somehow understood her pain. “There is nothing to feel guilty about. Not that you slept with him, or that you got pregnant. Not that you felt things for him or that you still do.” Her eyes shut at that, a fresh streamlet dragging into her mouth. “You can still love him even if he has done awful things.”

“Gosh, how can you say that? He’s ruined your life,” she shuddered, grimacing before looking back up to you.

“I made the choice to take that blood. I had a choice,” your throat tightened, not knowing if you were reciting the words from their origin or from your dream, “I made the one I thought was the best at the time. Hux may be an ass in the way he has gone about the issue, but it’s not like he wouldn’t have reported me.”

She sobbed your name, confusion and hurt wrought in her features. “That blood saved that patient. You saved that patient. We both know that. You saved him and you’re suffering for it and I’m the one who wrote the incident report. He made me write it. Such a fucking bastard.”

Just like that, whatever weird internal truce you’d made with Hux disappeared. “Yeah, that is a dick thing to do, I will say that.”

She wiped at her cheeks, shaking her head. “I should have lied on that report.”

“And gotten both of us in trouble? That isn’t a solution.”

“If I had, you would be less alone in this. And I wouldn’t have to testify against you.” Talia’s eyes shot to the ceiling and back, frustration hot on her breath. “It’s just so-,”

“Unfair. I know. I have… I’ve beaten myself up about it too much not to know that.” This conversation was too similar to those you’ve held inwardly. It was becoming repetitive to keep sulking over something you could not change. But Talia, if she wanted, could change her situation. “We went through the same program, got the same schooling, I know you know your options here.”

She chewed her cheek, shaking her head. A long drag of breath found its way into her chest, releasing when your hands fell to your sides. “This is where you find out how stupid I am.”

It pulled at your heart to hear how hard she was being on herself. “You aren’t stupid. And if you are? Could’ve fooled me with your class rank and just general existence.”

A laugh, weak but not acrid. “Academics were easy. Career is easy. This life stuff? Messy. Complicated. I feel like no matter what I do, it will blow up in my face.” That earlier distance glazed over her stare, a glimmer of yearning present in the way her eyebrows pinched. “And what I want…think I want? I’m not sure it’s even possible.”

“What do you want?”

Talia shut her eyes, capitulation and indignance set in her features, jaw flexed. “I haven’t spoken to him since that night,” she whispered. “He watched me fill out that report. I was sobbing in front of him and he said nothing.” A hand smoothed over her hair and clutched into her bun, lips quivering for a moment. “I didn’t even know until last week. I woke up for a few minutes and they started talking about all that had happened – fainting and seizures and blood tests – and they immediately wheeled me down to have an ultrasound to confirm the hCG results and urinalysis.”

She paused, growing in distance the more she shared. “Was it just your electrolytes that caused the seizure?”

“Yeah. Yes.” She blinked back to the present. “Belkar actually said I was severely dehydrated and that my metabolic panel reflected that.” Talia was dancing between two timeframes; gentleness framed her face when revisiting that of the past. Something so delicate in her stare; adoration cusping on hope. “I always told myself I would never have children. It scared me seeing how sick they could become when we had our unit on pediatrics. I’d never wanted to feel so helpless as the parents I saw during clinical.”

It almost winded you to watch a single tear slip down her cheek, allowing her silence during her pause before she looked up at you, desperation drowning her eyes. She couldn’t find – or, maybe, did not want to believe – the words that overwhelmed her. “What changed?” You knew, but she needed to hear it for herself.

Her lips had become puffy, teeth pulling at the bottom one. She reached into the front pocket of her scrub dress, pulling from it that square print, only now with rolled, worn corners. “I know it’s early and there are so many things that can go wrong and I know I had been drinking before I knew, but…” A swallow bobbed her throat, a fond smile forming when she toyed with the scan. “When they handed this to me? Something just, I don’t know, came into view.”

A surge of immense pain coiled into you. In her reverie you saw yourself, realized how fortunate her situation was; she had something she wanted and even though it was complicated, she had a choice in the matter.

Again, her mind had wandered, distraction framing her tone; her brows pinched together for a second, a question sparking from her memories. “Have you ever wanted something so much, and maybe you didn’t fully understand it, but you just knew? For whatever reason, this was the thing you would do everything in your power to make possible? To have what you want, no matter how daunting or nonsensical it seemed?”

“Yeah,” you choked out, coughing against the new strain on your throat, “I think so.” Talia had that ability, though, and it cracked against your skull how helpless you were to go after what you wanted.

“You said that I could still love him if he’s done awful things,” she quoted, her attention returning to you. “I don’t love him. I don’t think I really know him that well. But…” She shook her head, shoulders shrugging and a puff of breath leaving her nose. “I miss him. It’s so dumb, but the bastard is nice to be around when he isn’t buried in politics. When he’s just a person. When he isn’t the General. When he’s just—” another smile, similar to her earlier one “—Armitage.”

“That has to be the strangest part of this whole thing.” A small laugh bubbled past your lips. It had been so long since the last one. “Armitage.”

“It was very odd at first. But I’m not going to cry out General, oh please General! when I’m cumming, so I got over it.”

Dumbfounded, all you could do was gawk at her candor. It warmed you, though, feeling like that first night you’d hung out with her. A good memory. Her cheeks pinked in your silence and the sight pulled you straight into a ruckus of laughter, tears – born in pain, falling from humor – and lightheartedness. It was short lived, but Talia joined in your fit; abashed giggles leaving her smile-tight face.

“I mean, I feel like it would be weirder if you were sleeping with Commander Ren.” Talia jabbed at your shoulder. “Calling him… Kylo? That just feels downright wrong.”

Instantaneously, your high fizzling into nothing before her, you found yourself right where you were when you’d said your first goodbye. Ky. It wilted your heart, shrouded whatever glimpse of happiness you’d just caught. Talia was too lost in the joke to notice you’d backed away from her, face turned so she couldn’t see the suffering rise to the surface.

“Ha, yeah. Wrong. So, so wrong.” You cleared your throat, brushing past the weak attempt at nonchalance, ready to be off this subject. “So you miss him? You miss… Armitage? Yeah, no. I’m gonna stick to Hux, if that’s alright?”

A final laugh lit from her chest, Talia waving you off. “That’s fine, of course. And yeah. I miss him.” Her brow furrowed. “Do you think it could work? Me and him, and—” she gestured down to her abdomen, placing the scan back in her pocket “—this?”

This was none of your business, and you doubted anything you could say would help her, but there was genuine curiosity in her voice. There was respect in how she wanted your insight into something so intimate and personal.

A sigh preceded your reply, unsure if you were speaking to her or yourself. “I think… Just as you said earlier: no matter if its daunting or nonsensical or even completely impossible – if you want it and you are willing to do everything in your power to get it?”

Hope lit behind her eyes, bloomed in her chest at the suggestion. “It could work.”

Struggle hid behind a mask of hope. Of course she did not know how it pained you to offer words that would never exist for yourself, and it wasn’t fair to ruin her moment of clarity with the bitter bite of ill-placed jealousy. There was no part of you that envied her condition, but instead what it entailed; you coveted her ability to choose the life she wanted.

Talia shook her head free, a giggle warm on her breath. “We should get out of here. Night shift is gonna run us off soon. You have the time?”

“Uh, not readily available. But I’m sure it’s way past shift change.” You started toward the door.

“Hey, I noticed you’ve been staying in the on-call rooms?”

“Oh.” It surprised you that she’d noticed. The knowledge warmed you to your core, both from embarrassment and appreciation. “Yeah, I know you guys have been swamped down here with all the fallout from Starkiller, so I just thought I’d stay near to help out.”

She tsked, your name a mocked plead. “You are Starkiller fallout. You need to rest. Especially now that you can. I got an update from Zag about the trial. You’ve got, what? Three or four days before Canto Bight? Seven until the initial hearing?”

She’d done the same math you’d gone over at length. Hearing it from someone else’s mouth made it that much more real. Frightening. “I know. I do, I know. But what’s wrong with spending them here?”

“You know as much as I do that working constantly drains the absolute soul from you. Even just working these past three days I have been dying for my time off.”

“Yeah, but you have a reason to be tired.”

“I’m pregnant. You survived a planet exploding all the while keeping the Commander of the First Order alive. Are you forgetting that?”

Talia, I wish I could forget all of it. “No, I’m just-,”

“And I know you’ve been blowing off that McCarty guy. He’s a physician, right?”

Maybe you’d been less discreet in your efforts toward avoidance than you thought. It felt like being caught; this web of lies was becoming a strain, less of a benefit, a hinderance rather than protection. “He’s… Mason doesn’t know what he’s asking for, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.” Talia strode to your side, stern eyes on your own. “Look,” a breath softened her demeanor, “whatever happened on Starkiller, whatever you saw or felt – it’s affecting you. I don’t know what it is, and I’m not asking you to tell me – though, you can tell me anything – but at some point it becomes a choice to remain stagnant in grief.”

“Hey!” Talia had always been blunt, but her audacity now clawed at your patience.

“Okay, sorry, yes that was very harsh,” she placed a firm hand on your shoulder, “but you are the one who made me realize that. Here. Now.”

Tears threatened but remained stuck in your throat. “Like you said, I’m alone in this. I have to be.”

“The way I see it, you aren’t-,”

“Talia, I am.”

“You aren’t. Me being here and that physician coming here every night is proof of that.” You met her with silence. She shrugged. “You could have left me to deal with my issues alone, but you saw me and knew I couldn’t.” More silence on your part, her stare flicking between your eyes. “I see you. You can’t deal with this alone. I won’t let you.”

You fought to hide them, but one by one fell the tears you had not permitted before. For so long it seemed you had been shielding others from hurt, ensuring a safety they were not aware they needed. Talia was offering that to you, now. Rejection was the first instinct to kick in, feelings of doubt and thoughts of I do not deserve this blaring in urgency.

But then she spoke, naming what you had been too scared to confront. “Choose to not be alone. It doesn’t make you a bad person,” her hand left you, overwhelming assurance in her smile, “You’ve been strong for long enough, for so many others. Let someone be strong for you for once.”

The next breath you took was a million times lighter than any you’d had since seeing Kylo those days ago. She really did see you, more than she could ever know. It was imperfect, of course; you weren’t sure anyone would ever be fully aware of how much pain you were in, there was so much you could never share. It was her offer that brought you solace; it may be superficial for you, but Talia was in your corner, and she believed, knew, that it meant something. In her eyes, pooled with intensity, you heard her loud and clear: that oath, born in blood, was renewed here and now, its strength indelible even in silence.

“Now,” she activated the door, its hiss shivering down your spine, “I think Mason would love it if you caught up with him.” The two of you stepped into the hall, already beginning to part paths. “I’d invite you to stay with me but I, uh…”

“You’ll be otherwise predisposed?”

“…We’ll see,” rose bloomed in her cheeks, “I don’t think I’ll tell him. Not tonight. Not yet.”

“Ah,” you sighed, a yawn slipping past.

“Get some sleep! And maybe just… get some, you know?”

The joke registered too late, her paces halfway down the hall before you called out, “Oh. Oh. No, I’m not with- we aren’t anything more than friends.” Not sure if she even heard you, she waved behind her before turning a corner. Well. That’ll need clarifying.

Heat flared in your cheeks, several pairs of eyes weighing on your shoulders at the outburst. Would there ever be a day when you were not embarrassing yourself on this unit? Given this would be the last shift before going to Canto Bight, probably not. Eyes tracking your steps, deciding to surprise Mason instead of call him, you found your way to the on-call room where your entire world was set up; remnants of a past one, at least.

In it you gathered your belongings – a pair of back up scrubs, a toiletries bag, and the lifeless watch. There was a hesitance before placing the device with the other items. Six nights you had spent staring at its blank face, resenting the stranger you’d come to see. Glancing your face before placing it in the bag, you did a double-take. In the most minute details, barely there, you found a familiarity in the eyes you met; they were less dull, something like life or light peeking through the surface.

You dropped the gadget into your pocket, gathered your uniform into the bag, and took a final glance at the shelter you’d sought amidst a storm that had nearly consumed you. Even though nothing had truly mended, there was comfort in the absence of solitude; in the face of probable death, the explicit knowledge that you were not alone made it less daunting. Less impossible.

A final breath brought the door to a close, footsteps leading you into the vast expanse of the Finalizer. The change in air was nice, lungs welcoming the difference and cluing you into the fact you still had a gauze square shoved up your nose. It took a tug to pull it from its place, a sting pinching at the sudden release of pressure.

“Shit,” you hissed, feeling a new stream of warmth trickle past your lips. Two fingers pressed to your mouth, testing for a mirage but coming back with the real thing, red creaks splintering into the ridges of your fingerprint. Without thinking you wiped it down your scrub top, forgetting you were no longer clothed in camouflaging black, but instead unforgiving grey. “Fuck!”

“Wasn’t this how I left you here the last time?”

The airlock must have snapped, lungs solid, muscles frozen. Tension seized your ribcage, pulse plummeting, blood bounding against tuned ears. Every bit of moisture abandoned your mouth. Every bodily process you could think of stopped.

There was no modulation, each word raw, bare, and clear as the last time you had heard their founder. At least, the last time you’d heard it while awake. It was less haunted now, filled not with insidious rage but rather bone-chilling earnest.

“I suppose not, given it’s your blood tonight.”

He drew nearer, boots heavy and steps paced to perfection, the rhythm of his stride an echo of your heart. Kylo Ren was less than three paces from you and all you could do was endure the sensation of a singular ruby droplet following the line of your artery, dragging past your clavicle, and ghosting the skin over your sternum. The crimson trail began to dry, steps no longer sounding when you forced yourself to look up.

Chaos tore into the base of your spine, every nerve ending firing at the sight of his bare face, no helmet to veil the visage you had memorized. The black strip rested in prominence, striking through his features; in it you found a curious attraction, finding it fit him. The wound was less severe now, healing with time. He wore no helmet, but that by no means meant there was no mask keeping him at a distance only he knew the measure of.

“Where have you been, officer?” Cyanosis was a likely reality, breath still evading you as each word fell in baritone; petrified pupils not knowing where to focus. “Your services finally required, and yet you were nowhere to be found.”

Nothing. No words. No sound. No thoughts. Barren in every aspect of cognizance, you remained silent and still, only knowing to perceive him for what he was: superior.

A twitch at his brow, a narrowing of his eyes. Studying. Testing. “How unfortunate; starved for words when they would actually count.” His injury moved fluidly against his words, a beauty in the way it ebbed with each syllable.

A ping sounded at your waist, commlink buzzing in your pocket.

Languid, Kylo’s eyes dipped toward the sound. “You should get that,” he drawled, eyes twitching before conquering yours once more, “could be important.”

His tone haunted you, demeanor too suggestive. You swallowed against a dry throat, locked in his stare, knuckles brushing your watch when you took out your commlink. It trembled in your grip, shocked muscles heavy with weakness. His concentration had become adamant, palpable, an eyebrow prompting your attention to whatever message had triggered the alarm.

Concerning the defendant,

In the week since the previous correspondence, it has come to be that the defendant is to partake in nursing practice during her time on Canto Bight. This allows the Board of Physicians ease in collecting surveillance imperative to their final judgement.

Commander Ren’s decision to bar the defendant from external practice has been nullified as to not contradict this process.

In permitting the defendant’s practice while on trial, the objective to obtain a new provider has been benched. Due to this, the defendant shall remain assigned to her current Master while residing on Canto Bight…

At last, breath flourished your lungs, an inadvertent gasp thrusting a glutton of oxygen into your airway. Crazed eyes darted over the message for any sign of a mistake that would prove it to be falsified; the only thing you could find was finality, a document containing the proposed schedule attached at the end of the message.

A buzz washed through your brain, overstimulated by the information, everything around you suddenly all too close and bright. Jaw bound shut but still trembling, eyes low and unfocused, a familiar pressure flicked just under your chin. The Force tipped your face upward, pupils strict in their position, passing first over a tense jaw and landing at last on the challenge that lay behind Kylo Ren’s glare.

“I’ll see you on Canto Bight, officer.” A serpentine smirk slithered along his lips, one stride bringing him so his face was hidden, shoulder linked with yours, and fingers jut out to graze at the hidden permanence atop your left thigh. His voice, an onslaught of emptiness, a cold threat, suffocated all that surrounded you. “You wanted to give me more? Prove it.”

[charlieism]

The Horror Of Staying Alive

AU where Owen murders Curt in their final confrontation on that staircase.

Read on AO3!

Excerpt: This is the end result of all Owen's suffering, plotting and patience; this is the ideal outcome; this is the plan gone right. Owen should be celebrating, or fizzing with joy, or at the very least feeling vaguely relieved or successful.

So why does he feel numb, staring at the mess of splayed limbs and the steadily increasing puddle of blood on the floor at the bottom of the stairs?

It's an awfully familiar sight.

--

"Taking your advice," Curt says, and takes a step closer, the barrel of his gun lining up perfectly with the centre of Owen's forehead exactly the way Owen knows he was trained to do. Owen... Owen didn't expect that, actually. For a second he suddenly thinks that perhaps Curt has changed, in those four long, painful, bitter years apart. Owen, it appears, is no longer one step ahead. Curt has taken the lead; his grip is steady on the gun even as his hand trembles, his eyes are staring directly into Owen's as if he's trying to burn their exact shape into his memory (Owen never forgot what Curt's eyes looked like; they haven't changed at all, they're just shining with some unfamiliar emotion now) and Owen barely has time to tense as Curt's fingers tighten on the gun until his knuckles fade to white. Owen prepares himself for the pull of the trigger—for a scarlet flash of blood and brain he won't be alive long enough to see—and keeps his eyes open. He can't bring himself to look away from the American agent. He hates him so much, rage burns like molten rock behind his ribs just at the sight of the man, of the bastard who is responsible for all Owen's pain and suffering and agony these last four years. The scars of old injuries burn and the phantom ache of long-broken bones resurface, just from looking at the person who broke Owen's heart by leaving him equally as broken under that fucking staircase.

Owen thinks there's probably poetry in the fact that their final confrontation is also on a set of stairs. He's probably meant to see it as some grand metaphor, or whatever. Mostly he just hates it. Hates everything. Hates this entire shitty situation. Hates the fact that Curt's about to kill him—is this really how his story ends? He just hates Curt. Hates him more than he's ever hated anything in his soon-to-be-over life. Hates the fact that he can't tear his eyes away from Curt's gaze, even as he hears his shaky inhale, even as the gun trigger practically creaks. Hates the waiting, why the fuck is it taking so long? Owen doesn't want to die, but his brain should've been blown out seconds ago. Curt is hesitating, taking too long to act. Owen knows the other man is four years out of practice, but this is just sloppy.

His eyes flicker down to Curt's grip on the gun of their own accord. It's... shakier, than it was before. Less sure. He looks back up, and Curt's eyes are suddenly brimming with unshed tears.

"Damn it," the American grits out through clenched teeth, and... huh.

It seems that personal history truly does have its benefits.

 Owen's always been the better spy. He sees an opportunity, he snatches it without even having to think about it; that's what MI6 and Chimera have trained him to do. Moments before Curt's resolve can return and his handle on the gun can strengthen, before he can shoot the killing bullet, Owen darts forward. He grapples with the gun, twisting it from Curt's fingers with a cry of pain and shock from the other spy and yanking it towards himself, effortlessly spinning it and levelling it at Curt's head (not his heart, this time. If there was poetry in that one, Owen wants it ripped up, shredded, burned, and never ever read). Owen takes another step back, rising to a higher level than the other spy. There's probably also something metaphorically important there; he couldn't give less of a shit right now. He's too focused on Curt's reaction.

Curt's hand is still outstretched, but he pulls it back to cradle his fingers. He's still staring at Owen, those infuriatingly familiar eyes wide and swirling with emotion. Even after all these years Owen can read him like a book. Curt's surprised, angry, intensely sad (heartbroken, pipes up a little voice in Owen's head that he always ignores), and... something else. Something flat, and tired, and aching.

Acceptance, Owen realises.

Resignation.

"You almost got me, old boy," Owen automatically forces a cocky laugh, trying to recover the situation with blustery bravado and his confident persona. "But, alas, I'm still the better spy."

"You always were," Curt whispers softly, sadly, and— Owen's almost confused. The Curt Mega he knows would never have admitted that.

"Glad to see you finally realise it, at the end of your life," Owen spits. Curt just watches him. Owen frowns, shifts, tightens his grip on the gun. "What, no fancy last words? No last witty retort from the great Agent Curt Mega?" he sneers. He's not— unsettled, he's just... well, the plan is back on track, but the situation was derailed for a moment there and he just needs to get back to grips.

"I kind of already gave my heartfelt speech back there," Curt says, "and it did nothing. And you already got my gun back, so really, what else can I do? How can I convince you to stop?" he asks, and his tone turns pleading, begging. It's satisfying to hear. It's not enough.

"I'll never stop. I'm going to fix this corrupt shithole of a world, and I'm going to start with you." Owen hisses. Curt opens his mouth as if he's about to argue (typical, predictable), but then he just... stops. Closes his mouth. And then closes his eyes.

 Owen doesn't like that at all. It's the first time Curt's broken eye contact since he batted the British man's gun away. Owen doesn't know why but it irks him, tugs something sharp and vicious loose in his chest.

"Don't you get it, you idiot? I'm going to kill you!" he rampages, fury bracing his voice with steel. It works, though, as Curt's eyes flutter open.

Hazel. Tired, gleaming, grieving. Familiar. Owen knows the exact shade, hue, and shape of those old eyes.

"Better you than anybody else," Curt says quietly. Owen is too well-trained to let his grip loosen on the gun; not again. But...

"What?"

"With everything we've been through with one another, with how our history is weaved together... if anyone is going to kill me, Owen, it makes sense that it's you. You're the only person I can see doing it. And I... I don't win here. And it's not okay, but it's. It's how this ends. And it's my fault. And for what it's worth... I'm sorry," Curt says simply, and Owen—

Owen rages. His chest burns with fury, gut roils with disbelief, hand trembles with the amount of pure hatred rushing through his veins. How dare he. How fucking dare he! He's apologising?! After all this time, all this pain, all this— after every 'evil' thing Owen's done, Agent Curt Mega is apologising to him?! Curt Mega is a brash, self-centred brute and he never apologises, because he's never wrong even when he is, so what the hell is this?! Owen can't— Owen hates him.

He hates him, he hates him, he hates him.

Curt is staring at him, but it's not a hopeful look. He doesn't look like he's attempting one last-ditch effort to convince Owen to leave Chimera or, trying to lure him back to Curt's side. No, his gaze is just... wide-eyed and taking Owen in.

Owen is shaking.

This was not a part of the plan.

 Owen has been planning to kill Curt for so long now. He has the final words he'll say to Curt planned out, flowing scripts written in his head, a million options for a million different situations with a million different outcomes. He's learned all his lines over and over, has righteous speeches scratched into his very bones, vicious parting words scorched into what's left of his heart.

And yet, in this moment, he can remember none of them. Points and feelings and words he'd thought had become an essential part of his very being have disappeared, chased out of his head by the man they were planned for himself.

Owen doesn't know what to say, so he pulls the trigger instead.

It means he's watching as Curt's glittering eyes, still staring into his own, lose the vibrancy of life. He sees the spray of crimson blood, white bone, and grey matter explode outwards, watches Curt's corpse tumble backwards and down, rolling and knocking against each step until he's lying at the bottom of the staircase, crumpled and broken and very much dead.

Owen's been waiting four years for this moment. The picture of Curt's death was what he had lived for. His traitor ex-love, his mortal enemy, his arch nemesis, finally beaten and gone. This is the end result of all Owen's suffering, plotting and patience; this is the ideal outcome; this is the plan gone . Owen should be celebrating, or fizzing with joy, or at the very least feeling vaguely relieved or successful.

So why does he feel numb, staring at the mess of splayed limbs and the steadily increasing puddle of blood on the floor below him?

It's an awfully familiar sight.

He rips himself away from the scene and holsters his gun as he stumbles away. He doesn't vomit, but it's a shockingly near thing.

He should finally be happy.

So why does he feel as dead inside as Curt Mega finally truly is?

Chimera wins. They topple the spy agencies, and Owen feels nothing when he should feel elated. He thinks, deep down, that maybe if he gave himself the chance he would feel something, but he's afraid to linger on what those feelings might be. (They'd be the wrong ones.)

Everything is going according to plan, except for Owen.

Curt Mega haunts him, his presence lingering on just as strongly in death as it did in life. Owen can't stop thinking about their final encounter: about how Curt had acted; the things he'd said; the way he'd managed to surprise Owen again and again. There's a horrible, ever-present thought hovering in the furthest back corners of Owen's mind. Had Curt changed? If so, how? What was he truly like, after those four terrible years apart? Owen had thought he was still predictable, and in a way he was, but he'd also seemed... different, somehow.

Owen doesn't like to think too hard about it. He's afraid of the consequences of doing so.

He sees Curt's eyes in his final moments every time his own eyelids slide shut. The way they'd shone and stared and swirled with emotion was imprinted onto Owen's retinas. He tortured himself trying to decipher exactly what Curt had been thinking and feeling in those last moments; he could pick out most of Curt's emotions in those final few minutes, but there had been something strong in his eyes that eluded him, that Owen wasn't able to place. It was frustratingly, painfully, horribly familiar.

(Love, the tiny part of his brain screamed, and Owen screamed hoarsely back at it before boxing it up and forgetting it completely. He refused to think about... he refused.)

Owen followed Curt's lead and began to drink. He drank too much, too often, just because it meant he could forget. Forget that he'd seen Curt Mega die, watched the culmination of all his dreams for four long years come true and have it bring him no joy; forget the way that, despite the numbness, he was still feeling too much. He could forget how he was still hurting. He could forget everything.

In some sick, twisted way, he understands Curt better now.

He wonders what would've happened if Curt had done what he'd been about to and killed Owen right then and there. Wonders what might have happened if neither of them had stuck to the plan, and Curt had arrested Owen instead. He asks Cynthia Houston about it, once they've broken down the United States Secret Service. She spits at him and screams at him and cusses him out; her outrage almost manages to make him feel sad, surprisingly enough. He'd liked her, once.

She names him a traitor and evil and the scum of the earth, and right before he kills her she calls him out for what he did to Curt. Her whip-like tongue cuts into him for all the pain he caused, for how dirty and low-down what he did was, for how long her best agent mourned and ruined himself with grief. That punches through the nothingness encompassing Owen and hurts. It shouldn't, but it does.

Her death brings no satisfaction either.

He shouldn't care about what she says, anyway; she was the head of the United States’ Secret Service, was in control of the entire American spy agency, and Owen knows that the spy agencies are the real enemy.

That makes him wonder, though, on rare occasions, how much of the blame he pinned on the single American spy should've instead been thrown at the spy agencies. If his hate was directed to the wrong target the whole time, if that's why he feels like this. If what he felt had even been hatred.

He drinks so he doesn't have to think like that anymore.

It doesn't work.

Owen Carvour hates Curt Mega. That hatred was his entire existence for four long years, except it wasn't just hatred. Curt had made Owen feel so many different things, bad and good and somewhere in between, for so long that Owen doesn't think the words to describe those experiences even exist.

He hated Curt so violently. He did. But did he really? He was so angry and hurt and betrayed, what else could he have possibly felt towards the other man, after all that had happened?

(Love, the voice cries, and Owen cries with it.)

Owen watches the world burn in a fire his own hands helped spark, and feels tired. He's exhausted, and sad, and can't even dredge up the will to be angry anymore. That anger died with the other spy. After all this time, all this pain, he's been broken.

The realisation that it was Curt goddamn Mega's death that finally broke him is a hideous twist of cosmic irony that makes Owen laugh until he's crying and staring at the bottom of a bottle.

Owen looks at the new, open world; thinks about Curt Mega and their personal history; finally lets himself feel all the conflicted and complicated and strong feelings he has towards the other man; and wonders if Curt would've ever forgiven him.

Then he thinks about the look in Curt's eyes right before Owen shot him and knows, deep in his heart, that the other man already had.

Owen will never see those eyes again, and it's his own fault. He shouldn't crave forgiveness from a man he murdered. He shouldn't hate the world that is the result of his own plans coming to fruition. He shouldn't miss Curt. He should feel good.

But in the end, he just feels heartbroken.

There's probably something symbolic in that; Owen mainly just thinks it's cruel.

[bang-and-a-blintz]

Through the Darkness

CHAPTER THREE - RUDA DE SÂNGE

Fandom: Dracula (2020)  

Relationship: Dracula/Roxana(OFC)  

Rating: Mature  

Warnings: None  

Word Count: 3,114

There was an awkward pause that suspended the room in time. Roxana’s brain was running in overdrive and her nerves were completely shot, but she managed to convince her lungs to return to function and smiled. “My name is Roxana von Hels and welcome to Sanguine.”

Dracula couldn’t believe his eyes. Another Van Helsing? The resemblance was unmistakable and suddenly the image of Zoe’s corpse lying in the morning sun flashed in his mind. However, this woman before him was very much alive. Her cherubic features and rosy cheeks were a vast difference from the pale, waifish complexions of the nun and scientist. The lack of sunshine in both Eastern Europe and England probably attributed to that, but even so, this Roxana had a certain glow that was unlike the others. 

He barely caught her words as she continued on about the dishes placed in front of him and his dinner companions. Not that he cared, because it wasn’t like he was actually going to eat any of it. Dracula didn’t even spare a glance at the food, for the sight before him was too delicious and he wasn’t going to miss a single moment.

As she spoke, he could still hear her heart hammering away inside her chest and his lips quirked, it seemed that she knew exactly who he was. Very curious. A million questions flooded his mind and he was ravenous for answers. 

After everything that happened with Agatha and Zoe, he shouldn’t be surprised to find another descendent of that incessant lineage. Was he doomed to run in circles with these women again and again for all of eternity? 

“Now, I hope you all enjoy, my colleague and I will be preparing the other courses in the kitchen. Should you need anything, Angeline will be happy to assist. Bon appétit!” Roxana clapped her hands and made to turn when Dracula’s deep voice stopped her short.

“Um, pardon me, Miss von Hels, might I have a word-?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Balaur, but this is New Orleans,” She cut him off smoothly with a smile, not knowing what gave her a sudden bout of courage but she was going to roll with it, “And dinner precedes conversation. Please enjoy.”

A breath of a laugh escaped Dracula as his head tilted slightly, the words all too familiar to him and before he could speak again, she turned and fled. The mayor, his wife, and the attorney all chuckled boisterously, digging into their meals and sloppily clinking their glasses of wine, the dark red splashing all over. 

Smiling to himself, Dracula knew she couldn’t hide from him forever and he didn’t mind practicing a little patience. After all, the pawn had finally crossed the board and turned into another queen; the game was afoot.

“So, who is Agatha?” Ah yes, he might have forgotten about the woman next to him.

——

“Who the fuck was that?” Al exploded as soon as the two were out of hearing range, but Roxana could not be bothered with her friend at the moment. Her fingers dug into her hair and nearly ripped handfuls out as she tugged on the strands helplessly. 

This couldn’t be happening. It shouldn’t. But she had known that someday it might. Her grandmother always warned her that he would find her, but Roxana had been skeptical after hearing those folk tales all her life. It’s not like she actually believed any of the bayou voodoo hoopla! Who in their right mind would?

But she could still hear her grandmother’s voice telling her, “Someday when you’re grown, my sweet baby girl, that dirty rotten heathen will find you just like he found your ancestors. He will come in the night. He will try to steal your blood and your soul, but you must never ever give in, you hear me? That nasty vampire ain’t never going to get my grandbaby, no sir, Dracula better steer clear.”

The tales were one thing, as a child growing up around cajun folklore stories, something as laughable as a vampire was just that. A joke. Albeit a pretty fucked up joke, if Roxana was being perfectly honest with herself. But of course, to her misfortune, those myths became reality when two men in suits from the Harker Foundation came knocking on her door. 

As a precaution, they wanted to inform the youngest Van Helsing after certain recent events that involved her not-so-distant relative. They showed her footage of the night he emerged from the ocean outside of London, they showed her the footage of him at the foundation, they showed her photos of his victims strung across London, and they showed her just one image of what looked like herself sprawled out on a table in a pool of blood and a gaping hole in her neck. The last photo was Zoe Van Helsing, as Roxana came to learn, and she was left for the Foundation to find after Dracula vanished. She was very much dead.

All of a sudden it was very, very real. Vampires existed. Supernatural creatures wandered the world and feasted on humans to survive. The world was abruptly tilted and Roxana did not know what to do with this information. Neurons fired far more rapidly than her brain could keep up and she battled the urge to vomit all over their fancy suits.

They assured her that Dracula had no idea who she was or where she lived, that the whole debriefing was purely preliminary, but if she did come in contact with him then she should contact them immediately. They gave her a business card and walked back out of her life. 

As if they hadn’t ripped the metaphorical rug from right under her feet and then just fucked off leaving her with nothing but a small, disappointing rectangle to fight these newfound demons. 

Hands grabbing her shoulders and giving her an almost violent shake brought her back to Earth and she realized where she was. His eyes were nearly bugging out of his head, “Yo what is your problem right now? You look like someone told you they was bout to set a scorpion loose in your snatch, girl, you freaking me the fuck out!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, shit.” Roxana sighed and went over to the bar to pull the bottle of Jameson off the shelf. “It’s nothing, I’m fine, just let’s forget about it and finish this dinner.”

He gaped in disbelief as she threw back a shot and walked back to the grill like nothing happened, “Nothing?! Yeah, okay, and I’m Pope John Paul. First off, Mr. Dark and Stormy straight eye-fucking you back there should have been illegal. Secondly, I haven’t seen you take a shot of jamo in three years - you know why? Because we almost died that night you took me out to the levee and we chugged a bottle and you broke your foot and you vowed never to drink that devil’s juice ever again. That’s how I know you a lying ass hoe!”

She took a deep breath to calm herself and looked back over to her friend with a sincere expression, “Please, Al, let this one go. I cannot and will not explain to you why I acted that way in there and I really need you to just trust me on this.”

Al looked at her for a moment, gaging the severity in her gaze, he’d never seen her so shaken. He did trust her though and when he finally acquiesced, her shoulders sagged in relief. “Well, alright, fine. If you say so.”

“Thank you.” Roxana meant it. The less Al knew about the vampire sitting out in their dining room, the better.

——

Dracula’s gaze slid over to the beauty seated to his left, it lingered on the curve of her neck and he felt slightly disappointed to hear the lack of a pulse. He had easily changed the subject from his misstep of calling their host by the wrong name, to a discussion of the future, specifically their future. 

He had met Keres at a gala months before, she had lured him with her beauty and they both were pleasantly surprised when they each tried to take bites out of each other’s neck. This was a first for Dracula as he had never met anyone else like him; sure he had plenty of failed creations under his belt and he knew of all the unresting souls trapped in their tombs, but never had he seen someone who wasn’t…feral. But apparently, it was a thing. Who would’ve thought?

She was around two centuries old from a small village in Italy, Keres had told him, after years passed by and she had not aged, the townsfolk took to action and chased her away with the classic torches and pitchforks method. Eventually her travels took her to the new world, starting in Massachusetts and making her way down South after the witch hunts started getting a bit too tense for her tastes. Like Dracula, she found a certain comfort, so to speak, in the city of New Orleans…it was a circus and she loved being the star of the freak show. 

As it turned out, the supernatural scene in The Big Easy was actually quite lively and she spent years thoroughly integrating herself into the culture. Time passed on and she started an organization to maintain a sort of order amongst the undead, lest they drink their fill and wipe out the entire population. Rules were set in place and those who failed to comply faced the consequences. 

This was the topic of discussion for the evening. The mayor had a tedious relationship with the supernatural order and so he orchestrated this dinner party as a truce between kinds. He was trying desperately to maintain control of his city, but unfortunately he was unaware that it was no longer his. Keres just allowed him to maintain the illusion.

Dracula took a sip from the glass of blood before him. it was an appreciated effort from Keres to provide them both with a tangy forty-five businessman; quite the fitting vintage for this particular meeting. The attorney was discussing the necessities of making sure the bodies stay down, which was the vampires’ responsibility, and as a rebuttal, Dracula pointed out the nearness of the Mississippi River. 

“Now, Mr. Balaur,” The man in the periwinkle suit smiled like a sleaze, “We can’t have these…animated bodies start floating up in the gulf or elsewhere. This is the twenty-first century and everyone’s been tagged up and geo-located in some way. They can be tracked back here very easily.”

The Count gave a resigned sigh and waved a hand absently, “Fine, fine, the river will be for emergencies only.”

The lawyer sputtered on his drink and Mayor Kendell laughed nervously, not completely sure if Dracula was joking or not. “Good fun, yes, good fun. Now we can agree that the locals are strictly off-limits -”

Dracula couldn’t help his incredulous laugh and Keres shot him a dark look in warning, but he waved her off as well, “What would you have us do, hm? Kindly check their identification before we sink our teeth in, I mean honestly, who has the time for that? It’s ridiculous.”

The mayor’s wife surprisingly nodded along with him and when her husband side-eyed her, she shrugged, “He’s got a point, you know.”

Keres swiftly cut in, her tone left no room for arguments and her eyes leveled the nervous humans. “What we will agree on, Mayor Kendell, is the policy of consent-only or the pre-deposited blood from donors. I have already procured documents of concurrence from the hospitals after a few generous donations from my organization.  Any creature of the supernatural shall have to accept these terms to live in our city, if not they will face exile or the stake. Do we have an accord?” 

The mayor’s face turned almost purple as he struggled to formulate any sort of counterargument. Clearly, he had never been spoken to like that, much less by a woman. His wife sat back with a small smirk on her face and took another generous swig of her gin and tonic. Clearly, she was loving this, and strangely not at all perturbed by the conversation’s subject.

“If I may,” Dracula interjected, dragging his nail around the rim of his glass, “It has been brought to my attention that various members of your esteemed society, Mr. Mayor, have proclivities towards the, oh shall we say, younger generation.”

The tension in the room thickened. Keres’ perfectly-plucked brow rose slightly as this was news to her.

He put his hands up defensively, “Now, I could care less what dirty deeds you aristocrats get yourselves into, and trust me, I have quite the record on just how depraved you people really are. However,” The sound of his clap made the men jump in their seats, “I think that we can come to an agreement here. It would be such a shame if this information fell into the wrong hands, don’t you think?”

At that moment, the kitchen doors swung open again to reveal Roxana and Al carting in the rest of the meal. Dessert could not have come sooner, Dracula mused and downed the rest of his glass, his eyes once more trained only on her.

———

When they walked back in, Roxana was unsurprised to see the dish in front of Dracula hadn’t been touched, but what made her weary was the fact that the same could be said for the woman to his left. Well, that and their matching red-tinged glasses clearly did not have the same consistency as wine. 

“How is everything so far?” 

It was quiet for a beat until the mayor’s wife elbowed him in the side sharply and he coughed, “Very tasty, Miss von Hels, as always. Yes, yes, your filet was superb!”

She didn’t serve them a filet but she figured he was a little preoccupied with dining with vampires to pay attention anyways. Surely he knew what they were.

Still, Roxana smiled brightly, “I’m so pleased to hear, sir. For dessert we have our buttered, brown-sugar bananas flambeaux with a dark rum and a cinnamon vanilla ice cream to top it all off.”

Angeline swiftly gathered the dirty dishes, blushing when Dracula sent a wink her way and disappeared just as quickly back to the kitchens. A timid little thing, he thought detachedly, like a fawn running scared in the woods.

With a whoosh, flames erupted from the pan in Roxana’s hand and took his attention once again. Her brow furrowed, pinching her face in stern concentration as she skillfully flicked her wrist and the contents suspended in the air before snapping back into the pan. The fire rose higher for a moment longer and reflected back at her from the darkness of his eyes, before dissipating into smoke. 

The mayor’s wife ooh’d and aah’d and clapped happily at the performance; four empty glasses were spread out in front of her on the table as a testimony for her belligerence. “Encore!”

Al dished everything out and returned the cart to the back, leaving Roxana so he could begin breaking down the kitchen. No one, except the drunk woman, touched their dessert. Instead, the mayor cleared his throat and looked over to Dracula, “I will agree to your terms, on the condition that we must have a summit dinner with the rest of the order. To break bread, so to speak.”

Roxana’s brow scrunched up again, but this time in confusion. What on Earth were they talking about? The elder vampire smiled almost whimsically at her disorientation. 

Keres noticed how Dracula could not take his eyes off the chef, he seemed to not be able to focus on anything else in the room when she was present, and it was quite intriguing. “That sounds wonderful, Mr. Kendell, might I suggest using the same venue. This is, after all, such a quaint establishment.”

“Wait. What, now?”

“And I would like Mr. Balaur to oversee this event.” Keres nodded decisively and drank the last sip left in her glass, giving Roxana look that said I dare you to oppose.

Dracula grinned devilishly, “I would be delighted!”

“It is settled then. Mr. Kendell, if you’d like to coordinate your guest list with him, please do so when you are ready, and we shall reconvene at a later date. If that is all, I will take my leave.” Her no-nonsense voice left absolutely zero room for discussion and Keres elegantly strutted out of the building. The mayor looked green. He was next to shuffle out the door with his stumbling and giggling wife in tow. The attorney downed the rest of his whiskey and avoided his eyes, making for the exit as well.

“And then there were two.” Dracula’s tone was playful and his eyes were alight with mischief as he poured another glass for himself and licked his lips. He relished the way her heartbeat picked right back up again.

“Look,” Roxana began, giving him a stern look that just tickled him, “I know there are things we need to talk about…but first I need to send my employees home and clean up. I refuse to let them be caught up in whatever this is and I will not have a dirty kitchen.”

In the blink of an eye, he was right up in her personal space and had his hand around her neck. The man towered over her and tilted her head up to look directly into his dark eyes, “And why should I wait?”

He felt her gulp underneath his palm and his teeth habitually elongated, her heart thundered viciously within her chest as she tried desperately to control her breathing.

“Because you’re just as curious as I am, Count Dracula,” she placed her hand on his wrist, “And if you wanted to kill me, you would have done so already.”

 “Perhaps I enjoy playing with my food first.” There was a beat and then he sighed, releasing her. She took a step back immediately and he bent his head towards her, not letting her put too much distance between them. “Don’t take too long, Roxana, we have much to discuss.”

taglist:

@moony691​ @vissidarte213​ @festering-queen​

[legal-graffiti]

A Thousand Phantom Cuts

(TW: panic attacks, ptsd, minor blood, death, dying, vomit mention)

What if I projected my panic attack from two years ago on my fan hunter… just kidding haha… unless

~~~

Ezra had such a gift. Sidonia thought the same thing every time she went to him, no matter how fuzzy her mind was from blood loss or adrenaline. She grit her teeth as her head cleared, and the reality of having a fragile mortal body came crashing down on her. She sat curled up on a chair, her hand pressed firmly to her shoulder in a futile attempt to stop any more bleeding.

Ezra reached for her, his hands and eyes glowing green. Sidonia let herself fall into a trance. Her golden eyes fluttered closed, her mind and body going pliant before him. The warmth of Ezra’s magic flowed into the three bloody cuts that stretched from her shoulder down to her arm. She still wasn't used to this. He healed all sorts of injuries and ailments for many people, but when he did it for her, it was almost too intimate for even lovers. While they both knew that Ezra’s magic could heal remotely, he still brushed his fingers gently against her cheek, his power pouring over her as a waterfall. Ezra felt the breath of her slow sigh against his wrist.

“Better?” he said, quiet as a whisper. Sidonia nodded and held his hand over her face, turning to kiss his palm. With a touch of her lips, his magic fell back to rest.

“You have such a talent, sweet thing,” she said. Her eyes opened, and Ezra could hardly think when he saw her adoring gaze cast in gold. If one were to see the blush on his face, they would be certain this was something new between them.

“Can you stay here tonight?” he asked.

“Do you want me to?” she replied. He insisted with a kiss and that was it.

~~~

Sidonia's body had been patched up just fine. It was nothing she hadn't handled before. In a perfect world, Ezra's healing would've been everything she needed, and the night would pass in silence into the sunrise. Yet somehow, it was always as if some part of her knew the damage should've been there.

Sidonia woke up that night, screaming from a thousand phantom cuts shredding her to pieces without mercy. Every sensation of pain was flashing on her, almost real. There was no warning, and Ezra sprang up from the shrill sound immediately. He pulled her to him and held her tight- held her together, practically. Sidonia couldn't do it alone anymore.

No matter how low she had been before, she always managed to surprise herself. Hunters were destined to be mighty and valiant, humanity's protectors, their saviors- for whom no night would be traversed in fear, and morning would be a promise, not a hope.

"I knew what I signed up for," Sidonia always said with a shrug and an easy smile- but that was a lie. She didn't ask to be turned into a monster, or to become anything like the creatures she kills. She didn't ask to work for an Agency that so readily betrayed her and everyone else who took that oath. And for all the appearances she posed in front of everyone- the beloved hero of Lunaris- Sidonia didn't know how she was supposed to live the rest of her life with this terror and anger branded into her mind.

These were fights she had always won, and wounds she carried when she came crawling out, still alive. She had convinced herself, at some point, that pain was a mere sensation. Horrific then, how blurry memories of battles were now sharp as ever. When she stared into the eyes of the beast, this was what she faced: if she didn't die alone and frightened at that moment, she would someday. Maybe not the next. But Sidonia was a Hunter. This was her fate; she was prey to the creatures before her.

Sidonia's heart was beating painfully, clawing out of her chest with fury. She thought she was safe for so long, until fear captured her. And it swept her away- her head was spinning, the sensation rushing up to her head and making her almost vomit. She was certain she would drown in it; she couldn't breathe. The air wasn’t there anymore. Maybe she was already dead. That was why she couldn't breathe. Her whole body trembled with the effort to keep her alive, even when her logical mind knew there was no monster in front of her.

Ezra could've been crushing her in his arms, and he still wouldn't be holding her tight enough. Every inch of her skin was burning, and his touch only registered on the other side of the fire. Nothing was taking her back to reality. Her whole world was underwater. There was a slight panic to his voice; he sounded as breathless as she felt.

"Sidonia, you're okay, you're okay- just breathe-"

I can't. His words were lost in her deafening thoughts. She clung to him for her life- if she didn't hold on hard enough, she would slip away. Then there would be nothing.

Nothing but this sick, crushing loneliness.

Just as she thought she would die, the moment passed. She felt lighter, still dizzy, still breathless- not at all good, but alive. She was alive, unhurt, and safe. Sidonia didn't realize she had been crying until she pulled her head away from Ezra's shoulder and caught a glimpse of his face- his bright green eyes were blurred together with his dark hair and russet skin. She couldn't see the way his face creased in concern until she had furiously blinked away her tears. A small pang of guilt stabbed into her. She only noticed how badly she was shaking when she released him slowly.

"Sorry," she said in a hoarse whisper, "I- I don't know what that was-" Ezra was more reluctant to let go of her.

"Don't apologize, Sidonia." She fell back into his arms, didn't have the will not to. Sidonia was sobbing in relief when seconds ago it had been terror, all while still gasping for breath. She let herself be surrounded with Ezra's warmth- not the hellfire she had endured, but the real kind. The kind that reminded her she was safe and alive. "You're okay now. You're okay." That was good enough for her, even while she was getting her tears on his shoulder.

When the shaking and crying abated to a manageable degree, Sidonia pulled away slightly, looking at anywhere except Ezra's face. She knew he would never think it of her, but she felt pathetic. Whatever she had suffered was gone. Now it didn't seem like much of anything, except a bad dream and a little dizziness. She could've handled it alone, she thought. Ezra slowly pressed his lips to the crown of her head. The distortion of reality made her relief feel odd, out of place.

"That's never happened to me before," Sidonia lied. "I don't..." He tilted his head down towards her. Being overwhelmed by all the sweetness and affection in his eyes was too good to be true at the moment.

"Don't worry about it, my love." She sighed and rested her forehead against his.

"You have the patience of a saint," she mumbled.

"Anything you need- I would never want you to go through that alone." Ezra's arms pressed around her waist, a comforting weight at her side. She put her arm around his neck.

"Ezra, I love you," she said, both an admission and apology. He kissed her again, just a brush of his lips against hers. Her heart fluttered in her chest- she was alive enough for it to do that.

"I love you too."

[fredheads]

me? trying to shake off the cobwebs by writing pool smut? ending up with different smut instead? its more likely than you think. 

pool smut is coming. i swear. 

don’t click the read more if you don’t want to see exactly what i just described. @fredsythe 

When Fred's seemingly endless search for a summer job had led him to lifeguarding at the town pool, FP had assumed that he would be out of a job again within the month.

It wasn't that he didn't have faith in his best friend’s ability to perform rescues and remove splinters and keep little kids from wiping out on the deck. It was more the question of whether Fred, already mopey because all the lifeguarding slots at the public beach had been full, had the patience to go through with the training once he learned how few babes (his self-professed reason for coveting the position) frequented the small outdoor pool in the centre of town.

Surprisingly, FP couldn't have been more wrong. Fred adored being outside for hours in the sun, and his firm-but-friendly way with the kids meant the denizens of the public pool were happier and more well behaved than FP had seen it in years. He'd also accumulated a gaggle of adoring preteen admirers who served as a kind of miniature pool patrol, snapping at kids to walk, not run, and ensuring Fred had very little to do at work but wave at eight-year-olds and soak up the season.

Not that he didn't take it seriously. It was astonishing - and adorable - to watch Fred treat the position with reverence, wearing his plastic red whistle as seriously as a lieutenant and even snapping at FP for littering once while he was visiting Fred at work. That Fred had once been the most obnoxious, rule-breaking nine-year-old at this exact pool was completely forgotten.

“Man, they love you,” FP comments from the base of the lifeguard tower as he watches a girl of about twelve rush back to her mother's waiting minivan. She'd just presented Fred with a homemade friendship bracelet that he was laboriously tying on his wrist, as importantly as one might perform surgery.

“Who, Stacy?” Fred replies, admiring his wrist. “She's the sweetest kid.” He drops his voice to a whisper, leaning down a bit from his chair toward FP. “And her older sister's a total bombshell.”

Ah, there they were. The babes. FP scowls and stares at the lapping turquoise water. Fred Andrews could find a girl to hit on in the middle of the desert. And she'd want him back. And have an annoying friend for FP, so he couldn't complain.

“When are you off?” He asks, shielding his eyes from the sun and taking the excuse to gaze up at his friend. He never got tired of seeing Fred in uniform - if a tiny pair of red swim trunks that clutched his thighs for dear life could be considered a uniform. There was a matching tank top, but Fred never wore it. His red whistle was nestled snugly against his blond chest hair.

“Right now.” Another lifeguard is approaching them from the changerooms, and FP raises his hand to wave at Sierra. His classmate had no reason to resent her job at the public pool - she and Tom Keller were secretly going steady, and were completely infatuated with one another. That was a load off FP’s mind too - no worries about Fred and Sierra picking up a summer romance while supervising the kiddy pool.

“Get lost, Andrews,” Sierra teases Fred, rattling the base of the lifeguard stand. “My turn up there.” She turns her gaze to FP. “Hi, FP.”

“Hi.”

“Hold your horses.” Fred jumps down as Sierra pops on a pair of huge sleek sunglasses, smoothing her hair down with her free hand. “Bye, Sierra. See you tomorrow!”

She waves from the tower as they head out, Fred stopping at his locker to retrieve his bag and car keys. He tosses his towel around his neck and hops into the beat-up red convertible he and Artie had restored back in June. Fred, rather than being tired of water and sun, was now intending to tear off to the beach to spend the last of the day on the sand. FP eases himself into the passenger seat, along for the ride, and they speed off.

Fred’s talking as they drive, taking the scenic route down the coast, but FP isn’t hearing a word of it. Instead, his gaze is fixed with nuclear intensity on the thin blonde hairs that run along the inside of Fred’s very exposed thighs.

Fred, who would be naked if it wasn’t for those tiny shorts.

His tan is as even and as smooth as butterscotch - his flat stomach against the waistband of his shorts is the same gold as his gangly arms. But it’s the crotch that FP’s zeroed in on - and below that, the tiny crescent moon of pale skin that’s just visible where the leg of his shorts had ridden up an imperceptible millimetre. The shorts were so short that the crescent was almost in line with his -

“FP?” Fred must have realized he’d lost him, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at his friend. “Earth to FP? You okay?”

“Pull over,” FP says, before he can think too much about it, his heart thumping in his throat. He can feel the same pulse beating in the front of his shorts, and his hands are going damp. He unbuckles his seatbelt.

“What? Why?” Fred asks, brow furrowing, but obediently eases the car to a stop at the side of the empty road. “Why?” he asks again, more urgently, probably because the last time FP had asked him to pull over he’d vomited all over the inside of the car.

But that’s not his motive today. FP wastes no time in climbing over the centre console into the drivers’ seat, letting both of his warm hands land on and squeeze the thighs that had been torturing him since they’d sat down.

“Because,” he grunts, feeling his back hit the steering wheel as he maneuvers himself to straddle Fred’s lap, already eyeing the place where the pulse throbs in Fred’s neck, longing to put his mouth there-  “you look fucking scrumptious right now, that’s why.”

“FP!” Fred yelps, surprised, as FP moves his hand to the front of Fred’s swim trunks, grabbing him through the thin fabric. There’s a pop as Fred reaches for the door handle behind him in a panic, the door flying open and Fred tumbling backward out of the car.

FP sits up worriedly, momentarily anxious that he’d gone too far. Fred’s standing tanned and barefoot on the side of the road, clutching his towel in front of him, looking all the more naked for it. His hair is mussed from the fall, and FP barely keeps the urge in check to lunge for his friend and sink his teeth into Fred’s lip.

“Are you serious?” Fred asks, gesturing wildly to the car, and then to the surrounding pavement. He drops the towel, which puddles at his feet. “Right here?! By the side of the road?!”

“Why not?” asks FP plaintively. All the blood is rushing away from his head, and he can’t come up with anything better to say. His tone is insistent, not aggressive. “What the fuck am I supposed to do? You’re sitting there practically naked next to me, you have no idea how good you look-”

“You’re a fucking freak,” Fred replies, and FP’s stomach runs abruptly cold. A thousand apologies bubble up to his lips in the space of a millisecond, but before he can even get one of them out Fred’s climbing back into the car and slamming the door behind him, diving into FP’s lap and wrapping his legs around the back of FP’s knees like a needy octopus.

“Fred?” FP gasps, but that’s all he gets out because then Fred’s kissing him, his mouth and tongue as hot as his sun-warmed skin, one of his hot little hands sneaking down to yank FP’s shirt out of his waistband.

“Backseat,” he whispers against FP’s lips, grinning like a jack-o-lantern on Halloween. “At least we can lie down and no one can see us if they drive past.”

FP doesn’t have to be told twice. He pulls Fred into the backseat with him, laying his friend down on the second-hand upholstery and straddling him again. Fred reaches out and grabs another towel off the floor - in the summer his car became a reservoir for beach equipment - and lifts his hips to lay it out under him.

“New car,” he says, and grins. The Ford may have been new to Fred, but it had probably had about fifty owners before it ended up the heap that he and Artie had pulled from the junkyard. FP laughs and kisses him again.

He knows it’s risky. But he also has a feeling it won’t take long, and that anyone speeding along this road on a day like today is probably in an awful hurry to get to the beach. Besides, they’ll be able to hear approaching cars. Theoretically. One of them would probably notice.

“Tell me again how fucking scrumptious I look,” says Fred urgently, hooking his bare legs around FP’s waist.

“You jerk, I thought you were really mad at me,” FP complains, squeezing one of Fred’s thighs in his hand. Fred had little thighs but they were all muscle - lithe and firm under his palm. His hands are sweating, but his mouth is as dry as the Sahara. With Fred laying down under him like this, he can see the trail of hairs leading down from his navel to below his waistband.

“You’re so stupid,” says Fred teasingly, reaching out and tangling a hand through FP’s hair. His voice drops an octave. “Tell me what you wanna do to me.” It’s a command, not a plea.

“Take those fucking shorts off,” FP replies instantly, bending down to press his hot mouth against Fred’s neck. His hand slides up slowly until he’s fingering the hem of Fred’s swim trunks, torturing himself. With his free hand, he scoops it under Fred and squeezes his ass. “Wanna put my fingers in your ass.” His voice is low and breathy, warm air against Fred’s jugular. He whispers the next one. “Wanna put my tongue in your ass.”

Fred moans, a red flush climbing over his cheeks that has nothing to do with the sun. FP gently slides Fred’s thighs apart, pushing them open with his hand and pulling himself higher against the other boy so that his crotch drags over Fred’s.

“Go on-” Fred pleads, thighs shaking just a little against FP’s hips.

“Wanna taste you,” FP growls, kissing his neck, one hand trailing down to slip under the waistband of Fred’s shorts. “Wanna eat you up.”

Fred moans and lifts his hips up off the backseat, his hands coming to the sides of his swimsuit and helping FP drag them down. The hair on his chest is bleached blonde from the sun, but his pubic hair is darker, brown like his head. There’s a patch of white around his groin where his skin has never seen the sun. Fred gets his swimsuit all the way down to his ankles before he reaches out and grabs FP’s head again, pushing him down toward his crotch. FP wets his lips.

“God,” Fred moans when FP takes him in his mouth, all the way down his throat. FP makes the most of his tongue- he’s talented with it after years of chewing gum in class - lapping at the underside of Fred’s cock, playing with the head. Finally, he readjusts himself, taking Fred further into his mouth, and the stuttered moan that escapes Fred’s lips makes the hairs rise all the way along the back of his spine.

Fred’s ankle scrapes along the back of his hips, his legs crossed above FP’s ass, the two of them pressed so tightly together that FP’s sweating from Fred’s body heat. Fred’s yanking his hair hard enough to hurt, but FP focuses on the task at hand, rolling his tongue around Fred’s cock, hitting all the places he knows from practice Fred likes best.

“FP-” Fred whimpers finally, and FP grabs the hand that’s not holding his hair, squeezes tight. Fred’s ankles dig into the backseat and he arches his back as he comes, straight down FP’s throat. FP swallows, closing his eyes after and trying to commit every detail to memory - the sun on his skin, Fred’s thighs around his hips, Fred’s slick chest underneath him, the heat of the car, the way he tasted, the ache from kneeling, the chlorine on his skin.

Fred’s gone limp beneath him on the backseat, gasping for breath. FP buries his nose into Fred’s neck and breathes in the chlorine smell, sneaking his arms underneath him and helping him sit up. Fred leans against the door and gestures to the bulge at the front of FP’s shorts. “Let me-”

“It’s okay,” says FP, reaching down into his underwear and beginning to stroke himself off, building a rhythm. “Just keep looking at me.”

Fred nods, holding his eye contact with a smirk. The hickey FP had left on his neck is swelling into a red bruise, and something about the thought of Fred going home with a reminder of FP’s mouth on him sends him over the edge in record time.

“Fred,” FP chokes out as he comes into his hand, the name sweet in his mouth, his eyes never straying from his lover’s long eyelashes, the golden skin on his face.

Fred surges forward and kisses him before FP’s even withdrawn his hand, still completely naked in the backseat. He grabs the towel from underneath them and pushes it into FP’s lap, moving his hands to either side of FP’s face so he can kiss him properly.

FP cleans off his hand while Fred holds his shoulders and kisses him over and over on the mouth. When he’s done he sets the towel aside and presses back into the kisses, running his tongue along Fred’s teeth and bumping their foreheads together.

“Let’s go home,” says Fred between kisses, reaching for his abandoned swimsuit, which had fallen under the seat. His arm is too short and he just lets his hand hover, focused more on swapping kisses than getting dressed. His voice is breathy and hoarse. “Get you all cleaned up.”

“You mean shower together?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Love you,” FP murmurs, savouring the taste of Fred’s lips against his. His heart pulses the way it always does when he admits those two words, as though waiting for another shoe to drop.

“Love you.” Fred smiles and their teeth bump. He turns his head away as he finally grabs his swimsuit off the floor, sliding lower in the seat to pull it up over his hips. Cracking another grin, Fred climbs back into the front.

“I’ll drive.”

“Okay,” FP echoes, watching dazedly as Fred slides back into his vacated seat, readjusting the rearview mirror. He moves slowly as he climbs back up into the passenger side, eyes glued to Fred like he’s drinking him in.

Fred steers the convertible casually back on the road, and FP closes his eyes for a moment, letting the clean summer air whip through his hair as they pick up speed.

[mordellestories]

The Graveyard Debacle

(a Beetlejuice drabble) 

by Mordelle & edited by TheArtofSuicide

It is safe to say that pranks are hardly ever any fun for the one being pranked. The argument could be made that this why they’re so funny. The longer the victim of a prank is wound up over the jest, the more hilarious it is. Even more so when there are witnesses. The more the merrier. When the prankster is a poltergeist, however, there are hysterical pros as well as unfortunate cons. For example, there is nothing a ghost who has mastered the manipulation of physical matter can’t accomplish. However, it is almost impossible to take credit for any high jinks unless breathers can see or hear you. It is for this reason that Betelgeuse took to harassing Lydia’s parents primarily.

Delia, although a bit trickier to startle than initially anticipated, would scream so incredibly loud and shrill that it was comparable to nails on a chalkboard. That grew old. Quick. The Maitlands were prone to retaliation- at least Barbra was- and the wicked ghoul knew better than to mess with that sandworm lovin’ bitch. Adam’s reactions were pedestrian, barely worth his time. Lydia, however, was a perfect target. Most of the time, he could hardly get a twitch out of her, which made those times that he was able to scare the unholy hell out of her absolutely delicious.

Betelgeuse usually upped his game in October. The closer to Halloween, the dirtier his tricks became. Every year it became harder and harder to achieve success with his little stoic lover. This time of year inspired something strong and resilient in her, but that never stopped him from trying. Last year's brilliant plan managed to draw some terrified screams from her. The evil bastard had feigned an exorcism, putting on a great show too. Fading from sight, mouthing silent pleas and professions of love as his poor dark-haired saint cried and sobbed from utter fear and grief. This earned him an entire month’s banishment. Betelgeuse would not be trying anything like that again. No, tonight he would stick to a practical plan and go for surprise rather than trauma factor.

Lydia had mentioned something about buying feminine products at the pharmacy and maybe taking some pictures on the way back. There was no way he would follow her to get her intimate unmentionables and she knew that. It was perfect. He knew he could catch her unawares on the way back home and he would bet his afterlife that she would go through the cemetery. And so, there is where Betelgeuse lied in wait; non-corporeal, sleazing around the graveyard with a perfect vantage point from his position in a bushy tree. It took a while, but his patience was rewarded when the sound of a bicycle on gravel ground its way through the dirt path she always took.

He knew he couldn’t get too close or she would sense him so. He refrained from movement and kept his stare slightly askance on the off chance she might feel his gaze. Excitement bubbled within when he noticed her stop and dismount. The bike fell to the ground and Lydia crouched hurriedly to retrieve a plastic bag from the basket. Something was off.

For one thing, Betelgeuse knew she would never treat her delicate vintage so callously. She was always careful with it, treating it like a sentient being with feelings. It was also odd how frantically she tore the bag apart. Curiosity piqued, the ghost put his plans aside in order to see what had his demure lover in such a state. When Lydia finally stood, she had a small box in one hand and what appeared to be a folded up piece of paper in the other.

What are you up to, babe, the creeper wondered, unable to discern too much from where he was hiding. In seconds, Lydia was unfolding the paper until it completely obscured her face. That was a big instruction manual for something that came in such a tiny box. The plot thickened when his lover dropped the paper to the ground, revealing her worried face and heaving shoulders. Betelgeuse swore to himself when she disappeared into the woods with the evidence, leaving him to sit and wait for her return.

Only a few minutes before Lydia emerged from the thicket, anxiously approaching a tall gravestone. She dropped the paper and the box to the ground, very gently laid a small white stick on the head of the stone, and checked her watch. She started to pace in front the grave with her arms crossed over her midsection, muttering under her breath, but it was not until she sobbed aloud that everything finally clicked for the Ghost with the Most.

Holy fuckin’ shit , he thought as his eyes widened in surprise. Is she… pregnant?! His mind raced with other excuses and possibilities but always returned to the same obvious conclusion. Lydia thought she might be pregnant. That thing lying so innocently on the gravestone was a goddamn pregnancy test! It was impossible to decipher which intense feeling came first for the poltergeist. At one point he had settled on something close to adoration for the woman until he realized very suddenly and horrifically that he… could not be the father.

It was not often that Betelgeuse experienced anything close to feeling sick, but in this moment, he had the distinctive urge to vomit as his dead heart plummeted into his gut.

No, he reeled, no, she couldn’t… would never… A familiar sensation started to crawl up his spine and into his muddled brain. Rage. A snake of jealousy slithered through his mind in the form of visions of his beautiful, innocent soulmate in the arms of another. Blinding hatred began to boil his long-drained blood when he imagined her face touched with pleasure as she writhed beneath another man. A man . A mortal, living, breathing, man. That thought, which should have only fueled his fury, diminished it into utter despair.

This is where he would always fail. This is where he was lacking. The subject of his inability to procreate was a topic which he always expertly avoided when she tried to bring it up in the past. Now the colossal problem was biting him in the ass in the shittiest, most epic way possible. How could he blame her for betraying him? She had been so young when he had attached himself to her, his greed and ego stealing away any kind of normalcy from her promising life. Still, this truth did nothing to quell his aching fucking heart.  He wanted to cry, rip into his chest, throw himself at her feet and demand to know why she had done this to him. Why she couldn’t have just told him she’d grown bored of him, didn’t love him anymore, wanted to live her life . Unless, he thought with a sliver of hope, she was just experimentin’. That was something he could understand. He would still be incredibly pissed and feel a pressing need to extract some form of revenge but ... a young woman, hormonal, wanting to experiment before making her final choice? Hell, he had experimented plenty when he was alive and even more so when he was dead! Who was he to deny that to her, the woman he loved more than anything on any plane of existence? So long as she chose him in the end. He had been around long enough to know that she was the only one for him. All he needed to do was convince her that he was the only one for her! It would not take him six hundred years to do that. Oh, no sir! All he needed to do was up his ante and decimate the breather that dared touch what was undoubtedly his. But first… first, Betelgeuse needed to know what in the flying fuck that test was going to read.

If ghosts could sweat, he would have been soaking through his clothes. Still frozen up in the tree, Betelgeuse waited on unnecessarily bated breath while Lydia checked her watch for the zillionth time, nearly exhuming the unfortunate corpse beneath her incessant pacing. How long had it been? A minute? Ten seconds? An eternity? Jesus fuckin’ Christ on crutches! How long do these fuckin’ things take?!

Finally, Lydia launched herself at the test and hovered over it. Rooted to the ground, wide-eyed with flared nostrils, she let out a breath and squeaked…

“Oh no.”

Oh no, his inner voice mimicked. Oh god, no.

“What the fuck,” she breathed, barely a whisper. “Oh my god. What the fuck?!” She yelled, frenzy taking over.

“YEAH, WHAT THE FUCK?!” Betelgeuse bellowed back, no longer able to keep his composure.

Upon sighting him, Lydia whitened to a ghostly shade that he didn't know she was capable of producing. He dropped from the tree and physically charged right for her, not bothering with manifestation. Instinctively, the adulteress backpedaled and cowered before him as he lunged for the damning white stick. Lydia brought her hands behind her back, denying him access to the answer he needed to see with his own eyes.

“GIVE THAT FUCKIN’ THING OVER RIGHT-THE-FUCK NOW, LYDIA or I- swear -on-ma-own-goddamn GRAVE IN WALES! IMMA FIND THE PRICK WHO KNOCKED YOU UP, and make sure he ends up in that forsaken waitin’ room WITH HIS OWN COCK DOWN HIS THROAT!!”

A small sob escaped her as she collapsed at his feet. The pregnancy test was offered up with trembling hands. He ripped it out of her grasp and brought it close to his face, eyes hungry and full of wrath only to find black letters scribbled across it in dark permanent marker…

GOTCHA

Frigid and expressionless, he stared unblinkingly at the offending piece of plastic. How long he stood there was a mystery but when he finally heard a click and a puff , his eyes slowly met his wife’s. Lydia was leaning casually against the gravestone, smoking a cigarette, face blank, giving nothing away. For a long moment they stared at one another, both unspeaking. Then, she stubbed out the cherry without once breaking eye contact and, very suavely, picked up her bike and walked away. When she reached the threshold of the cemetery gates, she gazed over her shoulder, right at him. The slightest of smirks twitched at the corner of her evil little mouth before she mounted her bike and pedaled away.

The comical, dumbfounded look etched into his features morphed into relief before settling onto one of pure awe. They were definitely made for each other. Of that, Betelgeuse was certain.

If you liked this drabble, you might like my longer fic of the same fandom. Read it here.