#in scenes where the weight of the institution is pressing down on them

[sollucets]

rowan's eclipse anniversary celebration

week five: relationship

[glittering-snowfall]

In her article "Blood and Guts in High School," written for Criterion in 2023, Farihah Zaman writes:

"Leaning into her supernatural power rather than fearing its consequences, Ginger now wants to get more out of life than she has ever been offered. In a culture in which it was—and still is—rare to see women who are justifiably angry in mainstream theaters, Ginger has finally found an outlet for her creative, dark, weird, emotional spirit, and for her righteous rage. Perhaps becoming a werewolf hasn’t changed her so much as draw out the innate parts of her that were previously quashed. This makes her turn to violence less of an indictment of her character than a logical foregone conclusion: she was offered a portal to another world, a world where she might live deliciously, and she took it, come what may."

I would like to unpack what I disagree with about this statement, while also highlighting aspects of Zaman's article with which I agree.

First of all, if Ginger can be said to have "righteous rage," then that rage is misdirected. Ginger recognizes the boxes that the patriarchy imposes upon girls and women ("A girl can only be a slut, bitch, tease, or... the virgin next door") but she doesn't want to dismantle those boxes or the system that puts them in place. Her goal is to "coast on how the world works." She cannot see a way out, for lack of a better word. The promise of "out by sixteen" still replicates the power dynamics of "the way it has always been" for the sisters - and is, from the start, overshadowed by the second option of "dead on this scene." Indeed, death feels like the only way out that's actually a way out. It stops someone from taking part in the hierarchies into which they have been born, but it also leaves them... well... dead. The "ultimate fuck you," as Ginger puts it, but as Brigitte points out, the very forces Ginger would be "defying" by suicide would still be in place, and the people still alive could just... laugh. Could just... ignore or absorb the gesture to make into something it isn't. And, as the film goes on, "out by sixteen" decays into "going way, way out there, way, way far from where you live" - turning on Brigitte because Ginger has given up on "fixing" the problem of lycanthropy. It's just more shit the world has thrown at her that she didn't ask for and, in her mind, "you can't fix this" so she tries to adapt to the (new) status quo.

But adapting to the status quo is what Ginger has always done, for all her defiant bravado. Her declaration that she is the one who is going to make it out and not Brigitte masks a heartbreaking sense of hopelessness. She's using the language of escape, but it's clear a part of her thinks she's already dead, and has maybe always thought that.

The lashing out at Brigitte also highlights that Ginger's "rage" only targets those she has some degree of power over, or are "small-scale" targets that do not actually disrupt the status quo.

I agree with Zaman when she writes:

"And here, in high school, is a volatile population with burgeoning intellect and opinions, yet very little agency or experience to help them find an outlet for that inner life; with all the complex emotions of adults but lacking the same tools to process them. This powder keg of feeling is bundled up and shoehorned into a claustrophobically enclosed, chronically underfunded institution, where seemingly arbitrary indicators of superiority determine the level of satisfaction or even survival that a human being will experience for years at a time. And who feels the weight of this system, with all of global patriarchy pressing down above and through it, more than teenage girls?"

But killing Mr. Wayne doesn't make a dent in any of that - and Ginger knows that, she already thinks it's impossible to make a dent, she's just trying to take a little bit of power for herself, but she's not actually taking power. Killing a few cogs in the system does nothing to relieve the weight still pressing down on her, but it gives an illusion of power. Likewise, killing the janitor is less a grand gesture regarding abuse in the institution of high school and more an effort to maintain control over Brigitte by a) forcing Brigitte to share in her guilt and b) deflecting from Ginger's own predatory intentions toward Brigitte.

Ginger does have "very little agency or experience" and because of that lack of agency, she targets who she can. She doesn't have the power (or even the desire, really) to undermine "all of global patriarchy," but she does have power over Brigitte. She cannot reshape the forces that afflict her - whether they be the hierarchies of high school or the sexual violence metaphorically depicted through the lycanthrope attack - but she can reshape Brigitte. She can curtail Brigitte's agency as hers has been curtailed. She can influence Brigitte's identity, first by whispering in her ear and then by trying to persuade her to turn. That is the opiate that distracts Ginger from all the things she is aware afflict her, but that she cannot touch.

In the past, I’ve characterized Ginger as a victim of the patriarchy who ends up emulating the patriarchy in an effort to lash out at it, citing Karen Walton’s statements that Ginger’s is “a story of self-destruction. Which is the antithesis of a feminist story” and that she sees Ginger as “mimicking a gluttonous, cartoon-like existence that at least in my own writing I associate with the tradition of the white male. The idea that, hey if I am powerful I get to do what I want” – and I stand by that assessment. Ginger feels the weight of the patriarchy pressing down on her, as Zaman suggests, but because she cannot attack the nebulous systems and structures crushing her down, she tries to use their assumptions to her advantage (“A girl can only be a slut, bitch, tease, or . . . the virgin next door.”) and to exert control over the few people she can in order to not feel completely powerless.

And it’s tragic because we see how much Ginger and Brigitte have in common – both still kids, both trying to carve out individual identities in a world that stacks the deck against them – and we see how they have loved and supported one another for years (Karen Walton, in the same interview where she tells how the film is about a “relationship that becomes unhealthy and deadly” still highlights how, before the breaking point, they “took strength from each other, nourished and informed each other for a long time” – and so it’s heartbreaking to watch that relationship get broken down by systems of power – but in a world of hierarchies, where the only hierarchy Ginger finds herself at the top of is the hierarchy of her and Brigitte (older sister over younger sister), she uses what she can to her advantage – because that is what she has been taught by the world that you have to do in order to survive.

She doesn’t survive in the end, of course, because the forces that pit her against others like her keep power for themselves. And besides, she's never really believed there's been a way out anyway.

[leaderoffestivals]

Poltergeist Chapter 15

The Neverland of Grudges Ch 7

Arashi: It’s just like Neverland, isn’t it? An island of dreams one has to leave once they grow up. 

Scenario Writer: Akira Season: Winter Characters: Mikejima Madara, Narukami Arashi Content warning: Murder/Death, child labour

Arashi: Well, let’s not dwell on that. The pressing matter here is that the children of Dancing Cranes Home still bear the traumatic scars of that terrible fire.

That’s why when the scene in Snow White was read to them—the one where the evil Queen was forced to dance on the red-hot iron plate—

It triggered flashbacks to the fire that day, causing them to cry or throw up uncontrollably.

Madara: It hasn’t been that many years since the fire, after all. The children who witnessed the fire wouldn’t have had time to heal their emotional scars yet.

Arashi: That’s right... Moreover, only the older children have experienced the fire; the younger ones moved in after the incident, so they don’t share the same psychological trauma.

Madara: That narrows the group of affected kids down to the ages of ten to fourteen years old. 

Apparently, when the kids here turn fifteen, they’re forced to relocate to other facilities that focus on training and labour support skills.

Arashi: It’s just like Neverland, isn’t it? An island of dreams one has to leave once they grow up. 

Madara: Well, not quite. Dancing Cranes Home may have set the age for children to leave at fifteen in their charter, but the reality seems to be that the children are regularly sent off to the other facilities once they turn ten years old.

Arashi: That’s indeed the case. Dancing Cranes Home is fundamentally an institution dedicated to the providing of care for children—

However—“We want these kids to pull their own weight and fend for themselves as soon as possible”—is the wretched truth of what the adults here really think, deep down inside.

That’s why the children are turned out to those other facilities for labour training as early as they can, all so they can earn their keep as soon as possible.

That's why there’s only one child of middle-school age (1) still remaining in my Rafflesia Group, and one other in your Kaijuu Group—

—meaning there are only two such children in the entire facility right now.

Madara: That does seem to be the case. It’s possible the terrible experience with the fire caused the older kids at Dancing Cranes Home to evolve into such troublesome characters—

—with twisted personalities and violent streaks a mile wide.

In that Kaijuu Group of mine, all of them are older kids except one, and they exude such terrifying auras of killing intent for their age that it shocks even me!

They’re really out for blood. 

Arashi: I don’t believe the children’s hearts were distorted to such an extreme because of that one tragic experience alone. 

These children absolutely loathe adults. 

… … I’ve heard it said that lo~ng ago, there used to be a girl who was dearly beloved by all the children in Dancing Cranes Home, like she was a goddess, or perhaps a princess. 

Madara: Yes, I’ve heard about her as well. She was the centre of their universe; an existence akin to a leader for them all.

The eldest boy in my Kaijuu Group said something to that effect as well. “I’m just a stand-in for The Boss”—those were his words—

—and it’s only because “That Person” isn’t here anymore that he had no choice but to step up as the acting leader.

Arashi: That’s so. The identity of that person who seemed such a central figure to them all remains unknown. All the records have been meticulously erased, and not a single photograph remains.

She’s such an enigmatic figure, you know? It seems she simply appeared in Dancing Cranes Home out of the blue one day. Also, she’d been living at Dancing Cranes Home longer than any of the staff or children.

She was given incredibly preferential treatment, with specially prepared meals and everything.

Madara: Fufu. It aaall makes her sound as if she’s the illegitimate child of some aristocratic family. From what I’ve heard though, despite the special treatment, she was an ordinary child through and through.

In fact, it should be said she intensely despised the special treatment, and feeling isolated, actively strove to get along with the other children here—

Even going so far as to share the fancy sweets she alone received with everyone.

It may sound off-putting to liken what she did to setting out lures to entice the others closer, but that's how everyone came to love and accept her.

In the beginning, the kids probably saw her as someone who would hand out the occasional treat and their grateful feelings towards her started from that. 

Arashi: Even if that’s how it started, genuine bonds formed between her and the other children over time.

She would make use her position to resolve disputes within the facility for them as well.

For some reason, she had a lot of authority. She would get the staff who mistreated the children fired and bring about the construction of facilities which the children wanted.

Madara: Haha! She removed the unpleasant things from their lives and gave them joyful delights. If so, it's no wonder she was revered like a God—

—or perhaps, like a beloved hero, whom all boys aspire to be. 

Arashi: Yes, indeed… ... To this day, all the children who’ve interacted with her still speak very highly of her.

She was a dearly beloved friend to everyone in Dancing Cranes Home, and their fondly cherished princess too.  

Arashi: … … But then one day, that child suddenly passed away.

No, she was murdered, in a fire made to look like an accident.

Not only did the adults declare it a mere accident, but for some reason, they insisted that such a girl never existed in the first place.

They silenced the staff and children, destroying every single record that could be associated to her—

So they could erase every trace of a forsaken child from the world.

That's the reason why all the children who loved her are still enraged, to this very day—

—at the adults who tore their beloved person away from them and tried to erase all traces of her.

Madara: ——Murdered in a fire, and the death made to look like an accident... ...

Would Anzu-san have any idea of who that pitiful child might be? 

Well, no need for that. I think anyone who’s been a student at Yumenosaki Academy would recognize that child’s name immediately.

Arashi: That’s right. It seems no one knew about that child’s real name; she was always going by a nickname—

And that nickname, apparently, was "NEGI."

The child who was beloved by everyone at Dancing Cranes Home, and is now deceased, was Anzu-chan's friend, NEGI-chan. (2)

—————-To be continued——————

Chapter 14 / Chapter 16

Translator’s Notes: 

Middle school age in Japan is 12-15 years old. So Madara’s Kaijuu kids are made of one 12-14 year old, four 10-11 year olds and one <10 years old?

A new character who appeared in EnStars Main Story 1.5, together with the character, Hitsugi. Arashi interacted with NEGI/Hitsugi during the Seven Bridges Tour.

This chapter isn't proofed, so if you've any feedback, please get back to me.

[bluejayblueskies]

for the kiss prompts series? 67+jontim (or really Tim+anyone?) 🥺

67 - When One Stops The Kiss To Whisper “I’m Sorry, Are You Sure You-” And They Answer By Kissing Them More

i stuck with jontim! takes place pre-canon when jon and tim worked together in research, featuring mutual pining <3

cw for alcohol

.

“Okay, that was hands down the worst holiday party I’ve ever been to,” Tim says as soon as they’re outside the Institute, tugging on the tie around his neck to loosen it. It’s adorned with little reindeer and it lights up. As Tim had so eagerly demonstrated the moment he’d met up with Sasha and Jon.

 Jon doesn’t like parties in general, so he doesn’t think he’s the best judge of what makes a party good or bad. He takes a guess. “Because of the alcohol?”

 “More like the lack thereof,” Tim grumbles as they start toward the tube station. “I know it’s a work party, but come on. Not even spiked eggnog? Not even wine? What kind of person has a party without wine?”

 “Elias, apparently.”

 Tim groans. “Don’t know what I was expecting, really. The man looks like he’s never had fun in his life, ever.” Tim slings an arm around Jon’s shoulder and pulls him into his side as he walks, and Jon tries to pretend like his heart rate doesn’t skyrocket at the contact. He’s just glad it’s dark enough out that Tim can’t see the flush of heat across his cheeks. “So, then. Back to mine?”

 Jon’s heart rate has, apparently, not yet reached maximum speed. “What?” he manages to say, his pulse hammering in his ears. He’s just glad that the word comes out mostly normal, if a bit choked.

 “The night’s still young,” Tim says, oblivious to Jon’s internal turmoil, “and I’m still in need of a drink or three, especially after all of that. I’ve got a batch of eggnog in the fridge. I’ve also got a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon—that fancy brand you like.”

 Tim knows what brand of wine you like, one part of Jon’s mind supplies. The other part says, Of course he knows what you like; you’ve been friends for a year and a half. It doesn’t mean anything.

 “Oh,” Jon says. “Yes, I’d love to- er, that- that sounds… nice?”

 He barely holds back a wince. Very smooth, Jonathan.

 “Great!” Tim says, unbothered. He pulls Jon a little tighter against his side, and when Jon shivers, it’s not just from the chill of the night air.

 In the time it takes them to get to Tim’s house, Jon has relaxed a bit, settling into a comfortable rhythm of laughing at Tim’s jokes, offering his own awkward attempts in return, and letting the warmth of Tim’s laughter soak into him like the summer sun. It’s fine, he tells himself as Tim puts a hand on his shoulder, lingering just long enough that Jon can still feel the weight of it when Tim pulls away. It’s the same as always, he tells himself as Tim grabs his hand on their way off the tube, gently guiding him through the late-night crowds and into the bite of the open air. (Tim doesn’t let go until they get to his house, which Jon tries very hard not to have a minor crisis about.) It’s just Tim, he tells himself as Tim places a hand on the small of his back as he reaches around him to grab the glasses from his kitchen cabinet. (Jon almost drops the bottle of wine he’s holding. Which would have been quite embarrassing.)

 It’s not even like this is new. This tightness in his chest, the way his breath catches a bit every time Tim smiles at him, the way he sometimes finds himself staring at Tim’s lips and wondering if they’re as soft as they look. And Jon’s not naïve. As much as he despises the word itself, he knows that at some point, he’d developed quite a potent crush. He just tries very, very hard to ignore it.

 Because, well. He hasn’t been in a relationship since Georgie, and while their breakup had been unspectacular by most standards, it still ate a hole in his chest filled with a nagging certainty that if they’d remained just friends, he wouldn’t have had to go through the pain of falling slowly out of contact with her. And he doesn’t want that to happen with Tim. So it doesn’t matter how badly Jon wants to hold Tim’s hand and curl up into his side and kiss him. He’ll ignore it like he’s been doing for the past three months, and it’ll be fine.

 But it’s getting harder and harder. Especially at moments like this one, with Tim pressed up against Jon’s side on the couch and his voice right next to Jon’s ear as he points out his favorite parts in the movie they’d put on. Jon’s unsure if the heat in his cheeks is from the proximity or from the three glasses of wine he’s consumed, and he’s fairly certain that Tim’s on his fourth glass of eggnog. Tim’s glass is shaped like a little reindeer head, which he thinks Tim had said is a reference to something. He’d been too busy looking at the way Tim’s rolled-up shirt sleeves showed his forearms to process what, exactly, it was a reference to.

 “You know,” Tim says, cutting through Jon’s train of thought, “I never really understood the whole ‘love at first sight’ thing.”

 Jon’s heart jumps into his throat. “Sorry, what?”

 “You know,” Tim says, shifting from his position against Jon’s side so he can set his glass on the table before propping his feet up next to it. His socks have felt reindeer antlers on the sides of them. Jon’s beginning to notice a theme. “One person lays eyes on the other and boom. They’re in love.” He gestures toward the screen, which is currently displaying a quite detailed kissing scene. Jon looks away, face burning. “Do people really do that? Just know that they love someone with- without knowing anything about them? Feels a bit shallow, if you ask me. You’ve got to just go based on- on physical appearance or something.”

 At a loss, Jon says, slowly, “Yes, I… I suppose?”

 “Right.” Tim nods once, like he’s settled something. “Me, though, I need to know somebody first, you know? Always used to get me in a bit of trouble in uni, falling in love with my best friends and all that. But isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? Your partner is your partner, yeah, but they’re also your friend.”

 “Right,” Jon says faintly. His heartbeat is hummingbird-fast, and he thinks his hands might be shaking just a bit. “Tim, what—?”

 “It just- it doesn’t make any sense!” Tim turns to face Jon then, his cheeks flushed and his hair a bit messy from where he’d tugged some of it free from its bun. “It’s like- like, I love the way you look, yeah, but also- also the way you laugh and the way you take your tea and the types of books you read as a child. You know, the things that make you you. I fall in love with all of the little things, piece by piece, and then I’m just- just in love. Full stop.”

 Jon thinks he might actually be dreaming right now. Or dying. One of the two. “Um,” he says, the word choked by the lump in his throat. “Are- are you using the universal ‘you,’ or…?”

 Tim is quiet for a moment. His eyes are heavy on Jon’s face, as if searching for something. Then, sounding very much like a man who’s just decided to jump off a cliff and hope that there’s something below to catch him, he says, “You, Jon. And I promise that it’s not the rum talking.”

 “Oh,�� Jon says quietly. “I… I see.”

 He realizes a beat later, when Tim’s face has folded ever so slightly inward and he’s begun to move away, how dismissive that had sounded. Quickly, and a bit panicked, Jon reaches out and wraps a hand firmly around Tim’s upper arm, like if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough Tim will slip away. “No, it’s- I’m, sorry, I just- I didn’t—”

 Jon makes a noise of frustration, because of course, now that he needs them, the words won’t come easily. His eyes find Tim’s face—the gentle slope of his nose, the small birthmark by the corner of his eye, the five o’clock shadow across his jaw—before settling on his lips. And before Jon makes the conscious decision to do so, he leans forward and kisses him.

 Tim makes a surprised noise against Jon’s mouth, something low and breathy. After a moment, Tim pulls back, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry,” he says, more hesitantly than Jon’s ever heard him before. “Are- are you sure you—?”

 Yes, Jon wants to say. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. I’m sure about this. I’m sure about you.

 Instead, he leans forward and captures the rest of Tim’s sentence with his lips. After a moment, Tim’s hands go to Jon’s waist, pulling him close, and Jon slips his hands up to the sides of Tim’s face, feeling the heat of Tim’s skin against his as he kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

 At some point, weeks later, Tim will joke that they have Elias to thank for them finally putting an end to the mutual pining, and Jon will give a full-body shudder and say that he would rather not think of Elias when remembering their first kiss, thank you very much. But for now, Jon holds Tim close and kisses him and lets the light, giddy feeling in his chest overtake him until it feels like he’s weightless and floating, grounded only by the feeling of Tim’s hands on his hips and the way Tim smiles against his lips and whispers, softly and reverently, I love you.

 I love you too, Jon says, resting his head against Tim’s shoulder to hide his smile and to try to breathe around the affection blossoming in his chest. I love you, I love you, I love you.

[beholdme]

WIP Day!

@starrypaws tagged me <3

Tagging @big-urchin-energy @aghostchoir @platanosandprejudice @mag-118 @solarianvoidthearoace and @nofashinpunk if you're interested!

Snippet from my new JGM au where Gerry is a witch and Jon and Martin work in the Institute that revolves around strange magic and even stranger people.

This scene is from when Gerry and Martin meet for the first time.

The first time Martin ever sees Gerry, it's through the age mottled windows of Memoria, and they're standing at the counter talking to an exhausted-looking woman. Gerry gently hands her a large, hardcover book, covers one of her hands with one of theirs, and Martin watches as all the tension slowly drains out of her.

He's heard of the Morden bookstore where the proprietor can always suggest just the right book, of course, but Martin has always been convinced it was just an overblown rumour.

Still, he can't deny the sudden and complete ease that had overtaken the woman, and the mental image remains with him over the next weeks.

What he would give for a bit of ease.

The next time Martin walks past the store, it's almost midnight and he's supposed to be looking for something for his mother, but he's caught by the soft warm lights of the bookstore, still open despite the late hour.

They're there, the person with their long black hair and eclectic collection of piercings, hands decorated with rings and black polish. They look up at Martin as he lingers before the big windows, and their eyes meet for the first time.

Their eyes are an unusual shade of bright, light green, and Martin can see them clearly, even through the hazy window panes and across the space between them.

Martin feels seen, as if those eyes are gently resting on his soul, instead of his tired, haggard face.

Gerry tilts their head as if inviting him inside, but Martin feels a spike of anxiety rush through him and he takes off, down the street and towards his errand, desperately trying to put the beautiful bookseller out of his jumbled mind.

Those green eyes start to appear in his dreams.

Most of Martin's dreams are less than fun, full of anxiety and fear, but these are soft. Every time one comes, he wakes feeling settled and energetic, ready to face the day.

They start to feel like a lure, guiding Martin's steps back to the bookstore again and again.

He resists going inside, convinced he won't find anything in there he couldn't find at the library. There's no such thing as magic, no miracle booksellers that can hand him just the right tome to bring him some kind of comfort or fulfilment in life, especially not when life is dull and frustrating and dragging, when the weight of his existence pulls down on him every second of every day.

Martin still finds himself in front of the store day after day on his way to work and then again on the long slog of a commute home, and each time it gets a little harder to resist.

"You could come in, you know," comes a warm, smokey voice from behind him.

Martin jumps, turning to find the bookseller there behind him. They're even taller up close, almost six inches taller than Martin's height of 5 foot 7, and they're wearing bold, dark make-up today, green eyes made more piercing by the carefully applied black eyeliner.

He feels his face heat, caught out. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, looking away before the sight of them renders Martin speechless.

"I… I don't really need any books." He offers lamely.

"Memoria isn't about need," they respond, subtly shifting further into his personal space. "It's about the freedom to want something."

Unlike most people, who tend to leave Martin flustered and vulnerable when they press too close, their presence is far more welcome, their aura comforting and steadying.

"I don't know what I want," Martin admits, shivering in the cold autumn air.

"Tea?" They offer, stepping up into the doorway and holding the door cracked open.

Martin almost says yes, Martin burns to say yes, but instead he shakes his head, pushing back inexplicable tears as he turns and rushes away, away from hope and freedom and towards the unchanging monotony of his everyday life, just work, and mom, and bills, repeat.

And repeat.

And repeat.

Hope is dangerous. Martin can't afford it.

It's an unexpected rainstorm that finally sweeps him in, the sky opening up in a deluge at just the right moment that the bookstore is the closest open place, and Martin is totally unprepared to deal with it in any other way than to throw himself inside, shutting the door behind him as quickly as possible.

He breathes in a big sigh of relief to be out of the rain, before remembering his previous encounter with the bookseller and burning with shame. He almost throws himself back out into the rain, but they appear behind the counter at the very moment, and Martin doesn't want to compound his terrible behavior by repeating it.

"Good evening," they say politely. "Bit damp out there, isn't it?"

Martin laughs awkwardly, stepping further into the store. It's warm, the air dry and comforting against his damp skin. "Yeah, feels like it came out of nowhere though."

He catches sight of a large clock on the wall, and blinks when he realises that it's past 11pm.

"Oh, I, ah, I'm so sorry, I didn't realise it was so late, you must be closed."

"Must I? Is there some law that says I have to be closed when a cute boy needs shelter from the elements?" They offer a warm, flirtatious smile, leaning on the counter casually.

Martin blushes from the roots of his hair and all the way down to his toes, burning at the completely unexpected compliment. Not only is he decidedly not cute, at the best of times, being recently drenched and looking half drowned certainly wouldn't help the situation.

"I, um…" he takes a deep breath, "Well, as long as I'm not keeping you?"

"Don't worry, I'm not particularly fond of the rain myself. Stay as long as you like." They gesture at the stacks, shelves stuffed full of books in every shape, size and type imaginable. "Looking for anything in particular?"

Martin shakes his head. "I actually work in a library."

"Really? What kind?"

"Well, it's an academic library in a research institution, so it's not like they have many fiction books laying around, but I keep myself entertained."

"I bet you do. You're a bit of the independent sort, aren't you?" They step out from behind the counter, casually (carefully) moving towards him.

Martin's eyes widen. "I live with my mother," he blurts out, starting to tremble slightly from nerves and his wet clothes.

Their eyebrows raise questioningly. "In my experience, mothers are far more work than any 'independence'. That's just my bias speaking though."

"I'm Martin," he blurts out, wanting to talk about anything other than his mother, though he had brought her up. "Martin Blackwood, that is."

They offer a wide smirk, lip piercing flashing in the warm lighting. They offer a hand. "I'm Gerry Delano."

Martin shakes their hand firmly, and finds their grip confident without any aggression. Gerry takes the opportunity to take another step into his personal space. This close up and in an enclosed environment, Martin can smell them, a mix of old paper and black ink, combined with the sweet floral of jasmine. It takes him aback, the contrast is so wild and unexpected.

Martin sways towards them, making no move to step away or extract himself, at ease and not willing to risk breaking the little bubble he's found himself in, even if it is with a handsome stranger.

[thewidowsghost]

The War Gone Wrong (Obviously) - Stark! Reader x Steve Rogers

This is written for @rogersrogers334​.

3rd Person POV

Tony and (Y/n) Stark, the father-daughter duo, stand in the shadows as a projection shows Maria, Howard, and a Younger Tony talking.

After the projected scene is over, both Tony and (Y/n) walk out, side by side, to the front of the stage.

"That's how I wished it happened," Tony says softly into the microphone. "Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing, or BARF."

"You really need a better acronym," (Y/n) teases which makes the crowd laugh for a minute or so before the attention turns to the two Avengers. "An extremely costly method of hijacking the hippocampus to . . . clear traumatic memories."

Tony blows out a candle, "Huh." The whole scene around Tony and (Y/n) dissolves. "It doesn't change the fact that my parents never made it to the airport . . . or all the things I did to avoid processing my grief, but . . ." Tony takes off his glasses. "Plus, six hundred eleven million dollars for my little therapeutic experiment? No one in their right mind would've ever funded it.

"Help me out, what's the MIT mission statement?" (Y/n)'s voice echoes through the hall now. "'To generate, disseminate, and preserve knowledge.' And work with others," she adds, "to bring it to bear on the world's great challenges."

"Well, you are the others," Tony picks up (Y/n)'s words - the two having rehearsed this. "And, quiet as it's kept . . . the challenges facing you are the greatest mankind's ever known."

"Plus," (Y/n) says, amusement lighting in her eyes, her voice taking on a teasing tone, "most of you are broke."

The crowd chuckles again and after a moment, Tony says, "Oh, I'm sorry. Rather, you were. As of this moment . . . every student has been made an equal recipient of the Inaugural September Foundation Grant. As in . . . all of your projects have just been approved and funded."

The crowd of college students breaks out in applause and cheers.

"No strings, no takes . . . just reframe the future!" (Y/n) says over the cheering. "Starting now!"

Above the audience, the teleprompter now reads: Tony: Now I would like to introduce the head of the Foundation, Pepper Potts

Tony stares at the words sadly and then says, "Go break some eggs."

The two exit the stage, side by side.

Ignoring one of the teaches and one of her father's assistants, (Y/n) walks over to the bathroom and changes into a pair of casual clothes for the mission she was supposed to be on.

Approaching her father, (Y/n) says a quick goodbye, and the twenty-four-year-old woman closes her eyes and disappears, arriving in Lagos, Nigeria.

(Y/n), like her mother, was a mutant. (Y/n) had the powers of teleportation, absorption, and the ability to control elements, as well as the ability to shape-shift. 

Glancing around for a moment, (Y/n) pulls on a pair of sunglasses, places her COM set in her ear, and walks over to the Black Widow, who is sitting by herself with a tea in her hands.

"Morning, ma'am," (Y/n) greets Natasha Romanoff, "you mind if I sit here? There are no more open tables."

"Sure, go right ahead," Natasha says, hiding a smile at the sight of her best friend. Natasha and (Y/n) had been friends since Natasha had joined SHIELD, as (Y/n) and their partner, Clint, had recruited her.

A waitress walks over and (Y/n) orders a coffee, listening in on the conversation between Natasha, Wanda, Steve, and Sam going on.

"All right, what do you see?" Steve asks.

"Standard beat cops," Wanda murmurs around her cup of coffee in her hand. "Small station. Quiet street. It's a good target."

"There's an ATM in the south corner, which means . . ." Steve begins but Wanda cuts him off.

"Cameras," Wanda says.

"Nice Wanda," (Y/n) murmurs, and Wanda smiles softly at the approval in the older woman's voice.

"Both cross streets are one way," Steve says into the COMs.

"So, compromised escape routes," Wanda guesses.

"Means our guy doesn't care about being seen, he isn't afraid to make a mess on the way out," (Y/n) says softly.

"She's right," Steve says and (Y/n)'s cheeks dust a slightly darker color. "See that Range Rover halfway up the block?"

"Yeah, the red one?" Wanda asks. "It's cute."

"Looks like my first car," (Y/n) says with a soft laugh.

"Not the point," Natasha says and (Y/n) grins. "The point is, is that it's bulletproof, which means private security, which means more guys, which means more headaches for somebody."

"Probably us," (Y/n) adds. "I should have stayed with Dad.”

Wanda laughs but then says, her voice more serious, “You know I can move things with my mind, right?”

“You know I can set things on fire, or freeze them, or throw them at people?” (Y/n) says. 

“Looking over your shoulder needs to become second nature,” Natasha and (Y/n) say in unison. 

“Anybody ever told the two of you that you’re a little paranoid?” Sam asks. 

“Not to my face,” Natasha scoffs, exchanging an amused glance with (Y/n) for a moment. 

“Nor mine, probably cause my Dad could sue anyone for some odd reason, but, you know, whatever,” (Y/n) says. “Anyway, why?”

“Did you hear something?” Natasha asks. 

“Anybody tell you that you two are perfect together?” Sam asks and (Y/n) holds back a fit of laughter and from the expression on Natasha’s face, she was doing the same. 

“Eyes on the target, folks,” Steve says, keeping Sam from saying anything else. “This is the best lead we’ve had on Rumlow in six months. I don’t want to lose him.”

“Oh, that’s why we’re here,” (Y/n) says. “Watch me get deaded by Rumlow if he’s here.”

“Okay Crazy,” Wanda says, holding back a laugh as the sound of Natasha smacking (Y/n)’s arm sounds through the COMs. 

Unknown to everyone but Steve, a garbage truck begins pushing its way through traffic, showing no regard to pedestrians or other vehicles. 

“Sam, see that garbage truck?” Steve asks. “Tag it.”

There is a moment of silence before Sam speaks, “That truck is loaded for max weight. And the driver’s armed.”

“It’s a battering ram,” Natasha realizes and (Y/n) sets a twenty on the table and stands up, heading for the alleyway where she’d teleported from MIT. 

(Y/n) teleports on top of the truck then just outside the Institute for Infectious Diseases Ward. 

Soldiers in black armor emerge from two trucks that had driven through the entrance to the Institution. 

“Go now!” Steve orders, readying his shield. 

“What?” Wanda asks. 

“He’s not hitting the police,” Steve says. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” (Y/n) grumbles as one of the soldiers shoots where she’d been standing a few moments before, while some of the soldiers shoot gas bombs into the building above (Y/n). 

Her fists lighting on fire, (Y/n) knocks out a few of the soldiers before Steve shows up.

“Nice of you to show up,” (Y/n) says with a warm smile towards the super-soldier. 

Steve smiles and says into the COMs, “Body armor, AR-15s. We make seven hostiles.”

Sam flies in and up to a rooftop, spinning and using his wings to block the gunfire, taking out two soldiers in the process. 

“I make that five,” Sam says. 

Wanda arrives and flies over a rooftop into the courtyard, blocking bullets with her powers. She takes control of a soldier and lifts him upwards. “Sam,” she calls, and the Falcon flies down and catches the soldier with one of his wings. 

“Four,” Sam says with a grin.

One of Sam’s drones flies by, scanning the inside of the building. “Rumlow’s on the third floor.”

“Aye Wanda,” (Y/n) says, running towards the girl. “Just like we practiced.”

“What about the gas?” comes Wanda’s questioning voice, her Sokovian accent thick at the moment. 

“Get it out,” (Y/n) says. 

Wanda uses her powers to lift (Y/n) up and through a window. 

(Y/n) grabs one of the soldiers and pulls off their gas mask. 

(Y/n) advances, taking out about five solders before making her way to the Bio-Hazard area. 

“Rumlow has a biological weapon,” (Y/n) warns. 

“I’m on it,” Natasha tells her, riding in on a motorcycle. She turns it on its side and skids it towards a soldier, taking out a few more in hand-to-hand combat. Rumlow comes up behind her, dragging her onto an armored vehicle. Natasha tries to electrocute Rumlow but it doesn’t work. 

“I don’t work like that no more,” Rumlow taunts. He throws her through a roof hatch into an armored vehicle, drops in a grenade, and shuts the hatch. “Fire in the hole!”

“Get out of there Nat!” (Y/n) calls, moving to stand on a balcony. 

Rumlow catches sight of her and sends a bomb her way and (Y/n) gets blasted back into a wall. 

Scrambling her feet, (Y/n) presses a hand to her bleeding forehead and breaks into a run as another blast shakes the building behind her. 

Another blast sends (Y/n) through a window and she falls over the side of the balcony, onto a metal container, and down onto the concrete below. 

(Y/n) groans, rolling over and staggering to her feet, her arm pressed tightly to her ribs, guessing some had broken. “Oh man, those are broken,” (Y/n) grumbles and Wanda rushes over, throwing an arm around (Y/n)’s shoulders, taking some of her weight. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Wanda says. 

Steve, Sam, and Natasha rush after Rumlow and the soldiers, Steve finally pinning Rumlow to the ground. 

“Something’s about to happen,” (Y/n) says, her eyes widening, hearing the conversation between Steve and Rumlow over the COMs. Then she turns to Wanda, “You gotta trust me? All right?” Wanda nods and (Y/n) teleports them to where Steve and Rumlow are. 

(Y/n) wraps her arms around Rumlow and nods to Wanda, who shoots the two into the air, not a moment too soon it seemed, because Rumlow explodes, (Y/n) screaming as she absorbs half the blast. The remaining energy hits the side of the building, shattering glass windows and setting the building on fire. 

(Y/n) drops back towards the ground, her eyes blurring slightly and Wanda shoots her arms up, catching (Y/n) and lightly lowering her to the ground before the Scarlet Witch looks up at the building in flames and covers her mouth with her hand. 

“Oh my . . .” Steve’s bright blue eyes, wide with shock, his mouth hanging open murmurs, “Sam . . . we need . . . Fire and Rescue . . . and a MedEvac team . . . on the south side of the building. We gotta get up there.”

Wanda glances down at (Y/n), whose forehead was bleeding, her right arm resting on her stomach, and the side of her face slightly burned, the woman’s (E/c) eyes fluttering shut. 

Natasha and Sam show up a few moments later and Natasha stares wide-eyed at her best friend’s unconscious body resting in Wanda’s lap. 

Natasha rushes over and helps some of the medical workers lift (Y/n)’s body onto a stretcher. 

The next day finds Natasha and Steve fussing over (Y/n) as she sits up in the Med Bay in the Avengers’ Compound. 

“I love all of you, but stop fussing over me,” (Y/n) says, getting to her feet and shrugging off Natasha’s hand on her shoulder. “I’m injured, not dead.”

Steve smiles at the thought, the same words as he had said to Natasha and (Y/n) a few years back when they were on the run from SHIELD, well, HYDRA. 

“Steve,” (Y/n) stops the super-soldier as she, Steve, and Natasha walk out of the Med Bay together. “Would you check up on Wanda? She probably feels responsible for what happened.”

Natasha turns to (Y/n) as Steve walks away, towards Wanda’s room, (Y/n) guesses. “Don’t you ever do anything that stupid ever again,” Natasha scolds her friend. “You did it in DC and Sokovia before now. You’re going to kill yourself by the time you die.”

“That’s incredibly strange wording there Miss Romanoff,” (Y/n) says with a smile. 

Natasha goes to say something but Sam walks up and leads Natasha down to the briefing room. 

A few minutes later, after (Y/n) had changed into a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt, she makes her way down to the briefing room, leaning on the doorway as she listens to Thunderbolt Ross, the Secretary of State, speak. 

“Five years ago,” Ross begins. “I had a heart attack. I dropped right in the middle of my back-swing. Turned out it was the best round of my life, because after 13 hours of surgery and a triple bypass . . . I found something 40 years in the Army had never taught me: Perspective. The world owes the Avengers an un-payable debt. You have fought for us, protected us, risked your lives . . . but while a great many people see you as heroes, there are some . . . who would prefer the word ‘vigilantes’.”

“And what word would you use, Mr. Secretary?” asks Natasha in a falsely respectful voice. 

“How about "dangerous"? What would you call a group of US-based, enhanced individuals who routinely ignore sovereign borders and inflict their will wherever they choose and who, frankly, seem unconcerned about what they leave behind?“ Ross says and (Y/n) steps forward into the room from the shadows. 

“You don’t think we’re unconcerned about what we leave behind, Secretary?” (Y/n) says in a soft voice, which still carries through the silent room. “I think the Avengers, above all others, know what it’s like to lose the ones they care about and the wreckage left behind.”

Steve and Natasha look over to see (Y/n) standing behind Sam’s chair at the back of the room. 

“But,” (Y/n) smiles with a look of disgust in her eyes, “if you must, please, continue.”

“Thank you, Miss Stark,” Ross says, rolling his eyes and pressing a button on a remote in his hands. 

News footage from past Avengers and SHIELD matters flash on the screen as he speaks, “New York.” A Chitauri leviathan. Terrified citizens. A soldier firing a gun. The Hulk smashing into buildings, sending dust clouds engulfing the camera.

Rhodey’s expression turns regretful and he glances over his shoulder at Natasha. 

“Washington DC,” Ross continues. Three Insight helecarriers, firing on each other. The destroyed Triskelion. A helicarrier crashes into the Potomac throwing up a massive wave while in the background, (Y/n)’s body hits the river below. 

Sam is the one who looks down this time, and Steve spares a glance at (Y/n), whose expression had hardened into one of carefully controlled anger. 

“Sokovia,” Ross says, pressing yet another button on his controller. Terrified citizens running. The city rising. A building falling over. Wanda and Tony continue to look at the screen, Wanda swallowing thickly at the sight of her former home behind destroyed. 

“Lagos,” The burning building. Paramedics moving bodies. A dead girl. An unconscious (Y/n) being lifted into an ambulance.

Wanda looks particularly affected by the footage from Lagos and (Y/n) steps forward to place a comforting hand on the young woman’s shoulder. Steve also sees how discomforted Wanda seems and intervenes. 

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Ross nods to an aide and the images disappear. 

“For the past four years, you’ve operated with unlimited power and no supervision. That’s an arrangement the governments of the world can no longer tolerate. But I think we have a solution.” Ross receives a thick book from one of his aides and slides it across the table to Wanda. She picks it up and then slides it to Rhodey. 

“The Sokovia Accords,” Ross tells the Avengers. “Approved by a hundred and seventeen countries . . . it states that the Avengers should no longer be a private organization. Instead, they’ll operate under the supervision of a United Nations panel, only when and if that panel deems it necessary. You say that it's enough to be a man. But there are gods. And the rest of us, what are we? They’re giants, we’re what they step on.”

The conversation has (Y/n) remembering what Phil Coulson had told Mike Peterson before he had become DeathLok. 

“The good ones, the real deal,” comes (Y/n)’s voice and everyone turns to look at her once again. “They’re, we’re, not heroes because of what we have that you don’t. It’s what we do with it that matters.”

Steve nods and sends (Y/n) an admiring glance. “The Avengers were formed to make the world a safer place. I feel we’ve done that,” Steve adds to (Y/n)’s words.

“Tell me, Captain, Miss Stark, do you two know where Thor and Banner are right now?” Ross asks, meeting Steve’s eyes. 

“I have a guess,” (Y/n) says, meeting Natasha’s green gaze. “Asgard.”

Ross ignores (Y/n) and says, “If I misplaced a couple of 30 megaton nukes . . . you can bet there'd be consequences. Compromise. Reassurance. That's how the world works. Believe me, this is the middle ground.”

“So, there are contingencies,” Rhodey guesses. 

“Three days from now, the UN meets in Vienna to ratify the Accords.”

Steve glances at Tony as Ross heads for the door. 

“Talk it over,” Ross finally says. 

“And if we come to a decision you don’t like?” Natasha asks. 

“Then you retire,” Ross says and Natasha stifles a smile. 

A few minutes later, (Y/n) finds herself sitting at the counter in the briefing room, her fingers pressed to her temples as Sam and Rhodey argue behind her. 

“I have an equation,” Vision interrupts. 

“Oh, this will clear it up,” Sam says, turning to listen to Vision.

“In the eight years since Mr. Stark and Miss Stark announced themselves as IronMan and Phoenix respectively, the number of known enhanced persons has grown exponentially.”

“Are you saying it’s our fault?” Steve asks his eyes remaining on (Y/n), whose fingers had begun tapping lightly on the countertop in front of her.  

“I’m saying there may be a causality. Our very strength invites challenge. Challenge incites conflict. And conflict . . . breeds catastrophe. Oversight . . . oversight is not an idea that can be dismissed out of hand.”

“Boom,” Rhodey says. 

(Y/n) glances over at her father, who was lying on one of the couches, one hand on his face. 

When Natasha speaks, he removes his hand to look at her. “Tony,” Natasha prompts. “You are being uncharacteristically non-hyper-verbal.”

“It’s because he’s already made up his mind,” Steve guesses.

“Boy, you know me so well,” Tony gets up, wincing, rubbing the back of his head. “Actually, I’m nursing an electromagnetic headache.”

He walks over towards the kitchen and grabs a mug. “That’s what’s going on, Cap. It’s just pain. It’s discomfort. Who’s putting coffee grounds in the disposal” Am I running a bed and breakfast for a biker gang?” 

Despite the negative thoughts running through her head, (Y/n) cracks a smile at her father’s question.

Tony sets his phone in a basket and taps it. The phone projects an image of a smiling young ham. Tony looks down, then back up, and pretends to notice the picture for the first time. “Oh, that's Charles Spencer, by the way. He's a great kid. Computer engineering degree, 3.6 GPA. Had a floor level gig at Intel planned for the fall. But first, he wanted to put a few miles on his soul, before he parked it behind a desk. See the world. Maybe be of service. Charlie didn't want to go to Vegas or Fort Lauderdale, which is what I would do. He didn't go to Paris or Amsterdam, which sounds fun. He decided to spend his summer building sustainable housing for the poor. Guess where Sokovia.”

(Y/n) swallows thickly and glancing at her teammates, she can tell that the others are also affected by this. 

“He wanted to make a difference, I suppose,” Tony says softly. “I mean, we won't know because we dropped a building on him while we were kicking ass.” Tony takes a pill with some coffee, then faces the others. “There's no decision-making process here. We need to be put in check! Whatever form that takes, I'm game. If we can't accept limitations, if we're boundary-less, we're no better than the bad guys.”

“Well said,” comes (Y/n)’s quiet voice, though everyone in the room heard it. 

“Tony, someone dies on your watch, you don’t give up,” Steve says. 

“Who said we’re giving up?” Tony asks. 

“We are if we're not taking responsibility for our actions. This document just shifts the blames.” 

“I’m sorry,” (Y/n) says softly and the others turn to her once again. “Steve,” she pauses for a moment. “That’s dangerously arrogant,” there is an apologetic undertone to her words and now Rhodey speaks. 

“This is the United Nations we’re talking about. It’s not the World Security Council, it’s not SHIELD, it’s not HYDRA.”

“No, but it’s run by people with agendas, and agendas change,” Steve argues. 

“That’s good,” Tony presses. “That’s why I’m here. When I realized what my weapons were capable of in the wrong hands, I shut it down and stopped manufacturing.”

“Tony, you chose to do that. If we sign this, we surrender our right to choose. What if this panel sends us somewhere we don't think we should go? What if there is somewhere we need to go, and they don't let us? We may not be perfect, but the safest hands are still our own.”

“If we don’t do this now, it’s gonna be done to us later. That’s the fact. That won’t be pretty,” Tony says, shooting an apologetic glance towards his daughter. 

“You’re saying they’ll come for me,” Wanda’s gaze flickers to the others. 

“Us,” (Y/n) corrects, meeting Wanda’s fearful green gaze. 

“We would protect you,” Vision says. 

“Maybe Tony’s right,” Natasha says, shooting a glance at (Y/n), then Wanda.

Tony looks at the former assassin, surprised. 

“If we have one had on the wheel, we can steer. If we take it off -” Sam interupts Natasha. 

“Aren’t you the same woman who told the government to kick her ass a few years ago?” Sam asks as (Y/n) rises from her place slumped against the countertop and walks over to sit by her friend. 

Natasha looks over at (Y/n) and sends her a comforting smile. 

“I’m just . . .” Natasha begins but (Y/n) continues for her. 

“She’s reading the terrain,” (Y/n) explains. “We have made . . . some -”

“Very public mistakes. We need to win everyone’s trust back,” Natasha finishes. 

“Focus up,” Tony says, still staring at Natasha in disbelief. “I’m sorry, did I mishear you or did you agree with me?”

(Y/n) cracks another smile as Natasha replies, “Oh, I want to take it back now.”

“No, no, no,” Tony argues. “You can't retract it. Thank you. Unprecedented. Okay, case closed--I win.“

Steve’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out to check it. (Y/n) glances over at Steve, a question in her eyes. 

(Y/n) knew that Steve had feelings for her - and (Y/n) did as well - and judging by the look on Steve’s face, she knew it had to be about Peggy. (Y/n) knew that, deep down, Steve still loved Peggy. 

“I have to go,” Steve says abruptly, dropping the Accords onto the coffee table and going downstairs. 

The others in the room glance at each other for a moment before Wanda stands up from her place next to Vision and (Y/n) stands up, following her. 

(Y/n) jogs after Wanda, catching up with the young brunette. “Wanda,” (Y/n) places a hand on her shoulder, but the girl continues to walk. “Wanda, stop.”

“What?” Wanda snaps, turning on (Y/n). 

“What are you going to do?” (Y/n) asks softly, her hand remaining on Wanda’s shoulder. 

“What are you going to do?” Wanda asks in return. 

“I’m going to sign,” (Y/n) says softly. “I think you should too. Like my dad said, if we don’t do this now, it’s going to happen later.”

(Y/n) gives Wanda’s shoulder a comforting squeeze before she turns, walking away. 

A few days later, (Y/n) and Natasha walk into the cathedral where Steve had just been mourning the death of Peggy Carter. 

(Y/n) smiles nervously at Steve as he speaks, “When I came out of the ice, I thought everyone I had known was gone. Then I found out that she was alive. I was just lucky to have her.”

“She had you back, too,” Natasha says, shooting (Y/n) - who was standing at her shoulder - a glance. 

“Who else signed?” Steve asks. 

“Tony. Rhodey. Vision.” (Y/n) answers. 

“Clint?” Steve asks. 

“Say’s he’s retired,” Natasha says, and (Y/n) and the redhead share an amused smile. 

“Wanda?”

“TBD,” Natasha answers. 

“We’re, well, off to Vienna for the signing of the Accords,” (Y/n) says. “There’s plenty of room on the jet,” she offers, hoping with all her heart that Steve would come. 

Steve sighs and bows his head and (Y/n)’s composer seems to fall. 

“Just because it’s the path of least resistance doesn’t mean it’s the wrong path. Staying together is more important than how we stay together,” Natasha tells Steve.

(Y/n) had the feeling that her best friend was trying to convince herself as well. 

“What are we giving up to do it?” Steve asks, avoiding meeting (Y/n)’s eyes.

Natasha sighs and Steve shakes his head, unconvinced. 

“I’m sorry, Nat, (Y/n),” Steve says softly. “I can’t sign it.”

“We know,” (Y/n) says softly. 

"Then what are you doing here?" Steve asks. 

"I didn't want you to be alone," (Y/n) says, stepping forward to wrap the super soldier in a hug. 

(Y/n) pulls back after a moment, holding back tears as she says, "Good luck, Steve." 

Natasha puts a comforting hand on (Y/n)'s arm and the two walk out of the cathedral. 

A few hours later, (Y/n) and Natasha are standing in the UN building signing papers for the Accords. 

"Excuse me, Miss Romanoff, Miss Stark?" asks a UN staffer. 

"Yes?" Natasha responds.

"We need your signatures," the staffer says. (Y/n) and Natasha sign the papers. 

"I suppose neither of us are used to the spotlight," comes a voice and the two women turn to see Prince T'Challa standing in front of them. "Though, Miss Stark, it seems to follow you everywhere."

"Well, it's not always so flattering," Natasha answers with a smile. 

"You seem to be going alright so far. Considering your last trip to Capitol Hill . . . I wouldn't think you would be particularly comfortable in this company."

"Well, I'm not," Natasha replies. 

"That alone makes me glad you're here, Miss Romanoff," T'Challa continues. 

"Why? You don't approve of all this?" (Y/n) asks. 

"The Accords, yes," T'Challa answers. "The politics, not really. Two people in a room can get more done than a hundred."

"Unless you need to move a piano," comes King T'Chaka's voice. 

"Father."

"Son. Miss Romanoff. Miss Stark," T'Chaka's says in return, nodding to his son. 

"King T'Chaka," (Y/n) says, nodding respectfully to the king. "Please let us apologize for what happened in Nigeria."

"Thank you. Thank you for agreeing to all this. I'm sad to hear that Captain Rogers will not be joining us today."

(Y/n) and Natasha share a glance. "Us as well," (Y/n) answers.

"If it is okay, I would like to have a word with Miss Stark," T'Challa says and (Y/n) nods. 

Smiling at Natasha, then nodding to the king, (Y/n) follows T'Challa to the window. 

Before T'Challa can say anything, T'Chaka begins to speak. "When stolen Wakandan vibranium was used to make a terrible weapon, we in Wakanda were forced to question our legacy. Those men and women killed in Nigeria were part of a goodwill mission from a country too long in the shadows. We will not, however, let misfortune drive us back. We will fight to improve the world we wish to join. I am grateful to the Avengers for supporting this initiative." (Y/n) spots something outside and she nudges T'Challa, pointing to a news van outside where several officers were milling around the back. "Wakanda is proud to extend its hand in peace."

"Everybody get down!" (Y/n) and T'Challa yell, sprinting towards where the king was still standing, giving his speech. 

An enormous explosion goes off between the two buildings sending (Y/n) and T'Challa flying back. 

(Y/n) staggers to her feet, her hand wrapped around her bleeding forearm, and watches, horrified as T'Challa finds his father lying on the floor with his eyes closed. The Prince grabs his father's wrist and feels for a pulse, but King T'Chaka lies still. Devastated, T'Challa lies across his father, then lifting him and rocking him. 

Natasha darts forward and pulls her friend down onto the floor and rips off part of her sleeve to wrap around (Y/n)'s arm, (Y/n)'s eyes wide with shock.

The survivors are evacuated from the buildings and fire crews begin to hose them down.

Natasha and (Y/n) sit on the bench beside T'Challa's. 

"I'm very sorry," Natasha says softly. 

T'Challa glances at the two, holding a silver ornate ring which he toys with between his fingers. "In my culture, death is not the end. It's more of a . . . stepping-off point. You reach out with both hands and Bast and Sekhmet, they lead you into the green veldt where . . . you can run forever."

"That sounds very peaceful," Natasha replies, her voice still soft. 

"My father thought so," T'Challa answers, placing the ring on his finger. "But I am not my father."

"T'Challa. Task forces will decide who brings in Barnes."

T'Challa clenches his fists, "Don't bother, Miss Romanoff. I'll kill him myself."

3rd Person POV

Steve - in his uniform - strides through an underpass, then jogs onto a private runway, heading for a grounded chopper. An electro-disabler slams onto the chopper and Steve looks up. 

Above him, Tony and Rhodey descend, landing on the ground. 

"Wow, it's so weird how you run into people at the airport. Don't you think that's weird?" Tony asks, his helmet retracting.

"Definitely weird," Rhodey answers. 

"Hear me out, Tony," Steve says. "That doctor, the psychiatrist, he's behind all of this."

T'Challa, clad in his Black Panther uniform, leaps over a truck. "Captain."

"Your highness."

"Anyway," Tony says, walking behind Rhodey. "Ross gave me thirty-six hours to bring you in. That was twenty-four hours ago. Can you help a brother out?"

"You're after the wrong guy," Steve answers calmly. 

"Your judgment is askew," Tony replies, some of his anger showing now. "Your old war buddy killed innocent people yesterday. 

"And there are five more soldiers just like him. I can't let the doctor find them first, Tony. I can't."

"Steve . . ." It was Natasha's voice now. ". . . you know what's about to happen. Do you want to punch your way out of this one?"

"All right I've run out of patience. Underoos!" Tony calls. 

A figure in blue and red spandex shoots what looks like a web, stealing Steve's shield and binding his hands, landing on a car. 

"Good job, kid," Tony praises. 

"Thanks. Well, I could've stuck the landing a little better. It's just the new suit… Well, it's nothing, Mr. Stark. It's--it's perfect. Thank you," Peter stumbles over his words.

"Yeah, we don't really need to start a conversation."

"Okay. Cap . . . Captain. Big fan, I'm Spider-Man." 

"Yeah, we'll talk about it later. Just . . ."

"Hey, everyone."

" . . . Good job."

"You've been busy," Steve interrupts. 

"And you've been a complete idiot. Dragging in Clint. 'Rescuing' Wanda from a place she doesn't even want to leave, a safe place. I'm trying to keep . . . I'm trying to keep you from tearing the Avengers apart," Tony finishes. 

“You did that when you signed,” Steve answers calmly. 

“Alright, We're done. You're gonna turn Barnes over, you're gonna come with us. NOW! Because it's us! Or a squad of J-SOC guys . . . with no compunction about being impolite,” Tony scowls at Steve. 

Steve holds up his hands and Clint shoots the web off with an arrow. “Alright, Lang.”

“Hey, guys, something . . .” Peter says. 

He gets kicked back and a full sized man is now standing beside Steve, holding out his shield.

“Oh great,” Tony says. “There’s two in the parking garage. One of them’s Maximoff I’m going to grab her.” Tony flies off in his suit. “Rhodey, you wanna take Cap?

“Got two in the terminal, Wilson and Barnes,” Rhodey answers. 

“Barnes is mine!” T’Challa shouts. 

“Hey, Mr. Stark. What should I do?” Peter asks. 

“What we discussed. Keep your distance. Web ‘em up,” Tony answers.

“Okay, copy that!” Peter uses his webs to swing away. 

Scott Lang - Ant Man - faces Natasha. “Look, I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“I wouldn’t stress about it,” Natasha replies. She kicks him in the groin and he miniaturizes, throwing her head over heels. She zaps him off her wrist and he slams into a nearby truck, leaving a small dent. 

Tony is now hovering over Wanda and Clint. “Wanda, I think you hurt Visions’s feelings.”

“You locked me in my room,” Wanda retorts. 

“Okay first, that’s an exaggeration. Second, (Y/n) wanted me to protect you. Hey, Clint.”

“Hey, man,” Clint answers, readying his bow. 

“Clearly, retirement doesn’t suit you. You get tired of shooting golf?”

“Well, I played eightteen, I shot eightteen. Just can’t seem to miss,” Clint fires an arrow which Tony deflects. 

“First time for everything,” Tony replies. 

“Made you look,” Clint smirks. 

“Suddenly a sar slams past Tony and he looks up as dozens more come crashing down. Wanda moves her glowing red hands until Tony is burried under a pile of cars. 

Tony flies over to Natasha once he unburries himself and helps her up. 

“Is this part of the plan?” the redhead asks. 

“Well, my plan was to go easy on them. You wanna switch it up?” the billionare asks. 

Clint spots the Quinjet. “There’s our ride.”

“Come on!” Steve calls. 

Steve’s team runs towards the Quinjet but they are stopped by a fizzing stream of energy slicking across the runway and they stop. Looking up they see Vision hovering overhead. 

“Captain Rogers,” Vision begins. “I know what you believe what your doing is right. But for the collective good you must surrender now.” As he speaks, the rest of Tony’s team arrives. 

“What’d we do, Cap?” Sam asks. 

“We fight,” Steve answers. 

“This is gonna end well,” Natasha says. 

The two teams stride towards each other with grim determination etched on their faces. 

“They’re not stopping,” Peter says. 

“Neither are we,” Tony replies grimly. 

Steve blocks a punch with his shield from Tony as he lands. Clint fires an arrow at Vision as Rhodey flies after Sam and and Bucky, trading blows with T’Challa.

An explosive arrow hit Tony.

Natasha throws Scott as Peter wings through the air, struggling to evade flying vehicles.

Bucky lands punches on T’Challa. 

Clint and Natasha battle with batons and eventually, Clint pins her down with his bow. 

“We’re still friends, right?” Natasha asks. 

“Depends on how hard you hit me,” Clint answers.

Natasha spins the archer with her legs and jumps to her feet. As she’s about to kick his head, her foot stops and glows bright red. With a wave of her hand, Wanda throws Natasha back. “You were pulling your punches. 

As Natasha’s thrown back, someone catches her before she can hit the ground. 

“Nice to see you,” the figure says with a ghost of a smile as she sets the redhead back on her feet. 

“(Y/n)! What are you doing here?” the redhead asks. 

“I’m making sure nobody dies today!” (Y/n) yells over her shoulder, running to where Steve was talking to Peter. 

“Look kid,” Steve says as (Y/n) comes up behind him. “There’s a lot here that you don’t understand. 

“Mr. Stark said you’d say that,” Peter replies. “Wow.” He fires webs which stick to Steve’s leg and shield. He pulls and Steve slides towards him. Peter kicks him backwards and then rolls clear. “He also said to go for you legs.” As Steve runs to get his shield, Peter webs his hands and pulls. Steve grits his teeth, spins and somersaults, propelling Peter through the air. 

Steve catches one of Peter’s webs and tugs the boy near him, knocking him down with the shield. Peter recovers and pull himself on top of a gangway. “Stark tell you anything else?” Steve asks.

“How about don’t beat up kids?” (Y/n) asks teleporting in between the kid and Steve. 

“Go,” (Y/n) tells the kid, then readies her fists at Steve. 

Growling with frustration, Steve throws his shield at (Y/n) but (Y/n) stops it with a jet of water. 

(Y/n) charges at Steve but is stopped by Bucky, who had launched himself at her and pinned her to the ground. 

Bucky goes to punch his metal fist into her face but (Y/n) teleports away. “What the!” Bucky exclaims. 

Vision had just shot a shining beam of energy at the control tower and it collapses towards the entrance of the hangar. Wanda holds other hands, keeping the tower from collapsing, letting Steve and Bucky run through it. Rhodey descends behind her and fires a sonic disruptor and Wanda holds her head and screams. The tower falls around Steve and Bucky but they make it into the hanger. 

Natasha, who was in the hangar, catches sight of the tower falling on top of another figure. The two had made eye contact before the tower had collapsed on top of her, (E/c) on green. 

“Tony!” Natasha yells, running past, completely ignoring Steve and Bucky, who run past her into the Quinjet. “We’ve got a big problem!”

“Romanoff, what is it?” Tony asks. 

“(Y/n) . . .” the redhead trails off. 

“What happened?” Tony asks frantically.

“The control tower, it collapsed on top of her,” Natasha breathes. “We need somebody who can lift heave things.”

Tony, Rhodey, Wanda, and Clint show up soon and the five dig through the rubble and Natasha heaves one chunk of rock, moving it. 

(Y/n) raises up her arm, her hand trembling and everyone rushes over to move the rest of the rock. Her hand falls, palm facing up, and she exhales, her breath ragged. 

“I hope one of y-you can c-carry me,” (Y/n) stammers. “Cause I think my leg’s b-broken.”

The last slab of rock is removed and everyone looks at each other. A sheet of metal was stuck in her abdomen, and blood was pooling under her. 

“Y-you’re gonna have t-to c-carry me.”

Tony comes out of his suit and takes his daughter’s hand in his own. Natasha moves to take the other. (Y/n)’s eyes close in pain for a moment and then she opens them again. 

“I-I think i-it’s bad,” (Y/n) voice trembles. “Cause I can’t feel it.” 

Her eyes close once more and then she opens them again, looking at her father. 

“D-dad? W-when di-id you get h-here?” (Y/n) stutters and Tony squeezes his dying daughter’s hand. 

“Oh sweetheart, I’ll always be here.” Tony says, a tear falling from his eyes. 

“T-that’s sweet,” (Y/n) slurs. Her head lolls to the side and she sees Natasha and Clint, the archer’s hand placed on his redheaded friend’s shoulder. “Nat. C-clint.” A tear streaks down Natasha’s face. “D-don’t c-cry. I-I’ll be o-okay.”

“Only you could comfort us like this,” Natasha says, tears falling onto her hands. 

(Y/n) looks over at Rhodey, and his helmet retracts. “U-uncle R-rhodey?”

The man nods. 

“W-watch m-my Dad,” she says. “H-he tends to be r-reckless sometimes.”

“I will,” Rhodey promises. 

“Doll, that’s not every nice,” Tony scolds lightly and (Y/n) lets out a soft laugh. 

“Wanda,” (Y/n) says, addressing the youngest. 

Wanda looks up from her feet. 

“Y-you’re so s-smart and t-talented,” (Y/n) tells the young girl. “And d-don’t le-et anyone tell y-you different.”

Wanda chokes down a sob as (Y/n) falls limp against the rocks under her. 

Natasha runs her hands gently through her friend’s hair and (Y/n) jolts conscious once again. 

“N-nat,” (Y/n) stammers. 

“Breathe, just breathe (Y/n/n),” Natasha murmurs. 

“N-nat, t-ell St-teve I’m sorry,” (Y/n) slurs.

Then she falls limp . . . 

She breathes her last breath . . . 

And falls silent, not moving again . . . 

Well, this was, well, this made me cry writing it, so . . .

Word Count: 7,164 words

So yeah, I don’t know if this was what @rogersrogers334​ was looking for, but here it is. 

Anyway, Imma go cry in the safety of my bed now . . .

Love,          Kaitlynn ❤️😍

[faejilly]

being by her seen

A series of scenes on motherhood in the Shadow Word for my @shadowhunterbingo​ square “Single Parent”

Imogen stood by the bier, kept her chin up and her face still.

She would not cry.

Would not scream.

Would not let a bit of her thoughts free, would not.

She had spoken her son's name in a steady voice, as if this wasn't any different than any other memorial she'd attended, no more important than any other ceremony she'd led.

As if the world was the same today as it had been before he'd died, as if the world hadn't ended, as if there was room for anything as useless as ritual in her heart.

Her son was dead, his child dead with his wife, nothing left, no one, nothing...

Nothing but vengeance.

Valentine would pay, if it was the last thing she ever did.

Every ounce of pain he'd inflicted, every atrocity he'd led... she'd feed it back to him, drop by drop by drop.

Ave atque vale.

Hail and farewell.

*

Jocelyn stared down at the pregnancy test in her hand.

There were other ways to find out, but this was private, mundane, something no one would notice.

This was positive.

She dropped the test, broke it under the heel of her shoe. She'd have to make sure to throw it out somewhere else.

She remembered the way black had filled her Jon's eyes...

She couldn't do that again.

She wouldn't.

Better to be alone, than to let Val...

Better to be alone.

Her hands settled on her stomach without her consciously deciding to put them there.

Not entirely alone.

But definitely better for the both of them, to get as far away from Valentine as possible.

*

Lilith stroked a single finger down the boy's shoulder, watched the black flakes of former skin fall away at the gentle touch.

He was asleep now, passed out from the pain, so he only shivered a little, no more screams, no more fighting.

He had such beautiful screams.

She inhaled, closed her eyes as she let it out again, as she let the smell of his blood, her blood, fade away.

There was still an acidic-sweet tang of angel as well, but not as much as there had been. She couldn't burn it all out, had to make sure she stopped just before it was gone.

Too little left, and he'd just be another demon-spawn, barely more powerful than all the Warlocks running around on earth, for all he had her blood in him, rather than just echoes of her power, her curse. Too much left, and Edom would kill him before he grew into his powers. She had to get it just right.

She wondered if the Nephilim who had helped make her boy realized what he'd wrought, had any idea what he'd given back to her.

She smiled, and waited for her precious gift to wake before she started again.

Mine own, at last, forever and always.

*

Elaine closed her bedroom door behind her, leaned back and pushed her head against the wood, hard, harder, harder.

She pressed her lips together until she could feel the shape of her teeth grinding together, until the tension in her neck was so high she was afraid she'd snap.

But silently.

That was the important thing.

Simon had been fussy all night, Becky too quiet, both of them missing...

They were both finally asleep, she couldn't wake them up. She had to hope that when they were asleep they could forget, for a little while, everything that they'd lost.

Everyone.

Elaine refused to open her eyes, refused to look at the bed she hadn't made properly in days, only one side messed up, only one side.

Her fingers curled, her nails digging into the grain of the door behind her.

Her nostrils flared as she tried desperately not to count the steps in her head, how far to get to the cabinet, how long to open it, to pull out the bottle...

It was just her, she couldn't...

It was just her, she couldn't.

She couldn't do this, not by herself, not without him...

She ignored the burn in her chest, the heat in her eyes, her throat, flushing across her chest.

Just one drink.

Just to help her sleep.

She'd get rid of it tomorrow.

She'd try again.

Tomorrow.

She just had to make it to tomorrow.

She opened her bedroom door, and walked back towards the kitchen.

She needed it. Just a little.

Just enough to make it through.

*

Maryse stood in their office, her hands clasped behind her back as she pretended to look out the window, as she pretended to care about anything happening here and now.

She didn't put her hands over her stomach, though it ached a little to deny the impulse, cold between the bones of her wrists.

She could pretend she didn't know yet, could let Robert go, as they'd considered, could let this charade of a marriage be over.

Would it grant her freedom, or would she fall from the precarious perch they'd built up after the Clave begrudgingly took them back?

She didn't deserve the freedom, she knew that, but she'd take it, hold it tight with both hands, because it meant her children were free, would survive, would outlast Valentine's legacy and the Council's bitter mercy.

But they hadn't made it public yet, because even though Robert had his mistress, he knew as well as she did how they'd bought their second chance from the Clave with Alec's life, with the facade they presented of a perfect, loyal, Nephilim family. They knew that taking one step outside of their assigned duties could mean they'd all fall, not just her.

They chafed, these chains that tied them together, but...

But wouldn't unlocking them be worse?

How far would she fall?

Would Alec and Isabelle fall with her, or would Robert be able to save them?

She closed her eyes, and swallowed. She couldn't let it all be up to Robert, couldn't count on him to save them all.

Especially not...

She let a sliver of her control slip, moved her hands where they wanted to be.

She couldn't risk her fall injuring the one that wasn't here yet.

She'd tell him she was pregnant again, and he'd stay. She knew he would, he'd understand his duty.

She'd pretend she was glad of it.

She had enough practice, after all.

She'd do what she had to do.

She always did.

*

Magnus brought the poor girl right over, as soon as he got her away from the Institute. Catarina almost fluttered about her apartment as she waited, though it hadn't even been a minute between his warning and his arrival, a portal swirling to life in the middle of Cat's living room.

She looked scared, barely even holding Magnus' hand, caught between wanting to hide behind him and from him, from the both of them.

"Madzie, right?" Cat dropped down to her knees without even thinking about it. "Are you all right?"

Madzie looked half a step away from bolting, but she firmed up her frown and nodded, and Cat's heart broke just a little more. She was so small, and yet she stood there all on her own, straight and strong and so damned young.

Cat could barely remember being a hundred, much less... what, five?

"Are you sure?" Cat asked again, her voice low, her magic warm between her fingers, her heart aching to reach out. "It's all right if you're not. We're here to help."

Madzie's frown shifted, as if she wanted to let it go, but didn't think she could.

Didn't trust that it was safe.

Cat knew that there was no real way to convince her, nothing besides time, but she wished...

She wished magic worked like that.

Only, maybe it did? Cat let her glamour go, so used to holding it she hadn't realized she'd left it up, and Madzie's eyes widened at the wave of blue appearing across Cat's skin. She reached out, and Cat carefully stretched her arm so Madzie could choose when to touch her, to feel the warmth of normal skin beneath her fingers, could see the contrast between the blue and dark brown.

Madzie sniffed, and something behind her eyes broke, and Cat almost fell over from the sudden weight of a child in her arms.

Cat wrapped her arms around her, swallowed against the urge to swear as Madzie started crying into her shoulder. Rather than risk startling the poor girl again, she just let her weight settle and waited.

Waited, as her heart grew heavy and her arms tightened and she realized she was never going to be able to let go again, not really.

She looked over her girl's head at Magnus, drowning in the same helpless heartbreak in his expression that she could feel in her own chest.

Only not quite the same.

Madzie was still just a girl to him, and Cat realized, looking at him, that she couldn't say the same. Her heart had chosen.

Madzie sniffed, and Cat kissed the top of her head, and when she looked up again it was to the sight of Magnus' eyes widening, somehow recognizing what had happened by the look on her face.

Congratulations, Mama, he mouthed, and Cat felt her eyes burn even as she smiled at him.

Thank you.

[fandom-imagines-stories]

The Haunted Ones: 1 Hello, Welcome Home

Tom Hanniger x Reader

Words: 2603

Series Summary: Scarred by their past, Tom Hanniger and his girlfriend decide to face their nightmares together. When the reader’s past begins to resurface, the two must hold fast to each other, or submit to insanity. 

Episode Summary: After six years together in the institution, the reader takes Tom back to her hometown. Back to where it all happened. 

Notes: I know I said fourteen imagines for October, but I just couldn’t resist this idea after watching this movie. I wrote a fic series for the video game Until Dawn and I’ve wanted to write something similar for a long time. I don’t know how often this’ll be updated, so just continue to check in if you enjoy!

Thanks to my wonderful beta @suckmysupernatural​. She’s a beautiful human and I love her!

-

Shake. Shake. Shake. You could hear the pills rattling around in your pocket. Shake. Shake. Shake. The jeep slowly creeped down the road, a heavy fog making it nearly impossible for Tom to see. You were getting close. 

Trees stretched up to the sky, looming over the car like they were ready to swallow you. You used to love those trees. Even they seemed to have turned against you. You kept your gaze on the road and with every mile, the weight on your chest grew heavier and heavier. It wouldn’t be long before you passed the house. 

Tom noticed the way you shrank into your seat like you were trying to disappear. The look in your eyes was one he was all too familiar with. It was a crippling combination of crushing guilt and absolute terror. You’d had it since you’d left the institution and it only intensified when a narrow road split the trees apart. It gaped at you, mocking your fear. Even though you couldn’t see it, you knew that the house was watching you. Tom drove faster, hoping to put your memory in the rearview mirror as soon as possible. 

With a trembling hand, you dumped a couple of pills into your palm. Shake. Shake. Shake. You brought the little white ovals up to your lips, feeling Tom’s worried gaze follow your movement. 

“Maybe we should go camping like we talked about.” He suggested, pulling the jeep over. He knew you hated those pills. He hated his too. 

“No.” You swallowed, shaking your head. “I have to go back. I have to go home.” You hesitated and made sure Tom wasn’t looking before you poured one more pill into your hand. Shake. Shake. Shake.

-

“Fucking hate motels.” Tom muttered as he stuck the key in the lock. You felt all of the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Someone was watching you. Afraid to look, you slowly turned your head. The curtains of the room next store closed in a flash. 

“What is it?” Tom asked, eyes searching the direction that you were looking.

“I thought… nothing.” You pushed inside the room. You were just being paranoid. You just had to keep reminding yourself what the nurses said. Dr. Krychek was dead. She couldn’t hurt you anymore. 

Tom placed both of your bags at the foot of the bed before collapsing onto the comforter. You kicked off your shoes and crawled up beside him. Tom slowly unbuttoned your jacket and laid his hand over the large, jagged line that stretched across your stomach. His touch grounded you. It kept you from going back there. Back to that house. 

While he soothingly ran his fingers over the length of the scar, you tapped the rhythm of his heart beat on his chest. 

This was a routine that you’d fallen into anytime one of you was having a particularly rough day. HIs touch kept the pain at bay and your steady taps reminded him that he was still himself. You anchored each other to the present to keep from slipping into the past. 

“Thank you.” You whispered into the fabric of his sweatshirt. The olive green color reminded you of a pond - steady and calming. 

“I still think we should leave.” He huffed, his arm tightening around you protectively. “I don’t care what the nurses said.”

“It’ll help me get closure. I need to move on.” It was a line you’d heard over and over again. Your voice sounded automatic, rehearsed. The following words were your own. “I have to go see her, Tom. She’s probably wondering where I’ve been all these years.” 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, last time you saw her was the trial and she nearly broke your nose.” Tom pulled away to give you a concerned glance. You shrugged. 

“From what I’ve heard, Amanda has been doing okay. She’s married now and adopting two boys.” You had a tone of envy in your voice. “She certainly coped better than I did.” For one, she didn't spend the last six years being fed a bunch of self-help bullshit. 

Tom didn’t try to argue. He just wanted to keep you safe, whether it was from this town or from yourself. Your eyes locked together and you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“Can we talk about something else?” You pouted. It had been a long day and you wanted to forget where you were, if only for a few hours. Tom nodded. 

It felt odd, having no one to hide from. Your nurses discouraged romantic attachments, especially with other patients. They said that a relationship would only confuse you more. They also thought that you were just some fragile little girl afraid of her own shadow. They didn’t know what you were capable of. 

And you weren’t hiding anymore.

Tom’s breathing hitched as you lowered his hand from your scar to the waistband of your jeans. His free hand undid the rest of the buttons on your jacket and snaked around your back, unclipping your bra with one motion. 

With your hands free, you removed his sweatshirt, followed by his belt. He slipped off his jeans before shimmying yours down your legs. You threw your jacket on the floor, followed by your shirt. The cool air found your bare skin, making your shiver, but his body was quick to warm yours. He whispered your name, kissing a trail from your neck down your stomach until he settled between your legs. Your fingers laced through his hair, desperate to feel something other than fear or anger or despair. You just wanted to feel him. 

-

By the time Tom woke up, you were half dressed. You walked around the motel room in slacks and your white lacey bra. He couldn’t help but smirk at the sight. 

“Hey,” He greeted, lazily swinging his legs over the side of the bed. 

“I’m just going out for some coffee. Sleep in.” You playfully shoved him back onto the pillows. Tom hooked his fingers through your belt loops and pulled you onto his lap. 

“Give me a second to get dressed and I’ll go with you.” His strong arms locked around your waist and those green eyes nearly had you. You shook your head and kissed his forehead. 

“I can go get coffee by myself, Tom. You spent all day driving yesterday. You need the extra rest. Especially after last night.” You silenced his argument with a kiss. “I won’t be gone long.” Tom gave you a disapproving frown. 

“Okay.” He said reluctantly. You pried yourself away and put on one of your nicer blouses. You wanted to look decent for your return to your home town. If you could look sane, maybe people would believe it. 

You went out the door and Tom laid down, but had no intention of sleeping. He didn’t like sleeping alone. Without you, he saw him again. Swinging that fucking pick ax into someone’s skull. Sometimes it was your body he saw in those mines. Sometimes he saw his own.

You didn’t really just go to get coffee. You to Alli’s, the diner in town that you went to as a kid. You had heard that Amanda was working here as a manager. Funny. She used to be a law student. But hey, who were you to judge?

The subtlety you’d been hoping for was quickly ruined. It felt like every pair of eyes were on you. Cars even slowed down to get a better look. You tried your best to ignore them. None of them understood. None of them except Amanda. 

The sign of Alli’s had new paint. It used to be blue. It was red now. 

Going in was like a scene from a movie. The music stopped, all chatter halted and everything just froze. Dozens of stares burned into you and you wished you could sink back into that motel bed with Tom’s warmth pressed against you. Holding your chin a little high, you approached the register. 

“What is going on out here? Y’all look like you’ve seen a-” Amanda froze, eyes meeting yours, “ghost.” 

“Hey Mandy.” 

Just like that, it all flooded back into you. And from the look of her eyes, you knew she felt it too. Neither of you were standing in that diner anymore. You were back at the house. 

 Seven Years Ago

Your legs ached, your muscles screaming from being strapped down for so long. But you couldn’t stop. If you stopped, she’d catch you. 

“We have to go back for her!” Amanda sobbed. You were practically dragging her down the hall, fingers clamped around her wrist. Your other arm was pressed against your bleeding stomach like you could keep your insides from spilling out. With the amount of blood gushing from the wound, your vision was turning black around the edges. And still, you pulled Amanda along behind you as you kept running. 

“Stop it! Stop!” Amanda fought your iron grip. “We have to go back for her! Ashley! Ashley!” Her screams for her sister went unanswered. 

“Ashley’s dead.” You blurted. Amanda pretended not to hear you. 

“Ashley! Ashley!” A figure appeared at the end of the hall. 

“Get back here!” Dr. Krychek shrieked. 

“Fuck.” You muttered, yanking Amanda through the door. She kicked and she screamed, but you didn’t care. You were getting out. 

Present Day

“Y/N?” Amanda gasped. “Jesus, I thought you might be-”

“Dead?” You laughed humorlessly. You stepped towards her. “Nuts? Yes. But very much alive.” 

You waited for her to yell. To slap you and to order you out of the restaurant. You weren’t prepared for her to fling her arms around you and cry happily into your shoulder. 

“I thought I would never see you again.” She cried. “And after everything I said at the courthouse… I’m so glad you came home.” 

Still shocked by the rush of affection, you hesitantly returned her hug. The last time you saw Amanda, she clawed your face and called you a murderer. She had to be pried off you by courthouse security. They said she wasn’t thinking straight because of the trial, but she was the only one who knew the truth. Dr. Krychek didn’t kill her sister. You did.

-

Back at the motel, Tom was getting anxious. Your ten minute coffee run had turned into an hour. His call to your cell went unanswered, sending an icy panic through his veins. If you were alone for too long, you could have one of your episodes, with or without those damn pills. 

“She’s abandoned you, Tommy boy. Left you all alone with me.”

Tom ignored him and called again. 

“Come on, you’re not really worried about her. You’re worried that, without her, you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

Tom quickly downed a handful of his pills and continued to ignore the voice. Leaving one more unanswered call, Tom decided enough was enough. He put on some jeans and his sweatshirt and grabbed the keys to his jeep. 

“I’ll be back, Tom. You know I will.”

Tom took a deep breath and started the car. He didn’t make it far before he saw the glare of red and blue lights. Again, the freezing hand of panic seized his heart. No, no, no. He slammed on the breaks, leaving the jeep in the middle of the street to investigate. 

The yard was teeming with police and paramedics. They had been called too late, judging by the body being loaded into the ambulance. 

“Poor woman.” One of the neighbors. “Emily was supposed to play cards this weekend… poor woman.”

He couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t you. 

“What happened?” He wondered genuinely. The woman shrugged. 

“The gardener found her. All cut up on her kitchen floor.” She shook her head. “It’s like the Krychek killings all over again.” She mused before walking over to a group of other neighbors. Tom observed the scene for another minute or two before returning to his jeep. 

He found you walking down main street with another woman. You were smiling. 

Tom quickly pulled over and caught up to you. You noticed the worry on his face before he threw his arms around you. In catching up with Amanda, you had forgotten he was waiting for you. 

“You didn’t answer your phone and when I saw those cops I-” He took a deep breath to calm himself down. “Paranoid, I know.”

“Tom, I’m so sorry.” You pulled back and placed an apologetic kiss on his cheek. “We got to talking and I didn’t even think about how worried you would be.” His eyes darted between you and Amanda. 

“Oh, how rude of me. I’m Amanda. Y/N and I were friends when we were kids.” She held out her hand to shake his and he took it, eyes narrowed slightly. She just kept smiling. 

“It’s okay, Mandy. He knows.” You could tell that she had this part rehearsed well, but there was no need to pretend with Tom. She visibly relaxed. He gave her a small smile. 

“Tom Hanniger.” Her expression was quizzical, as if she was trying to place the name. Tom clarified. “That Hanniger.”

You forgot that you weren't too far from Tom’s hometown. The news of the mine collapse and the Harry Warden murderers spread all over the state. Even after nine years, she recognized the name. 

You recalled something strange Tom had mentioned. 

“What were you saying about the police?” You asked. His expression darkened. 

“They found a body.” His lips formed a grim line. There was something else. 

“What?” You urged. You never hid anything from each other. He let out a heavy sigh. 

“I heard someone say…” He trailed off, reluctant to share in fear of scaring the two of you. You and Amanda watched him expectantly. “They said it was like a Krychek killing.” 

Amanda gasped, but you didn’t make a sound. It was like a light in your eyes just switched off. This is what he was afraid of. 

“Baby, hey, look at me. Y/N, look at me.” He cupped your face in his hands, his thumb lightly tracing your trembling lip. 

“W-what’s wrong with her?” Amanda squeaked. 

“Y/N, I'm right here. You’re right here.” He slipped his hand in between the two of you, resting it over your blouse where he knew the scar was. After a moment, his touch brought you back. You blinked and the light flipped back on. 

“Tom?” You whispered. He enveloped you in his embrace. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He swayed slightly, rocking you in his protective arms. Amanda gave the couple a small smile. 

“I’d better get back to work.” She sighed. Her eyes brightened with an idea. “Come to dinner tonight. Matt and I would love to have you.”

You parted from Tom to give her a nod. She excitedly walked back to the diner, leaving the two of you behind. 

“She seems… well adjusted.” Tom noted, leading you to the jeep. 

“She certainly coped better than I did.” You scoffed, repeating your statement from the previous night. Still feeling the aftermath of your attack, you pulled out your pills and dumped them into your hand. Shake. Shake. Shake. With a heavy sigh, you looked at the town you once called home. “God, it’s like nothing’s changed.”

“One thing has.” Tom put his hand on top of yours. “You’re not alone anymore.” Your lips turned up in a loving smile. With a sweet kiss Tom started the car.

-

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascal; @childhood-imagination;  @mylovegoesto; @yellowbadgergirl; @itmejado

[celosiaa]

ungodly hour

For a prompt from @drmcbones​: during s4, martin gets hurt in some non-institute-related incident, and jon accidentally Knows about it and races to help him. martin isn't exactly happy about this, but he doesn't have many other options.... 

CW: injury, mugging, blood, fainting

(Jon’s thoughts are formatted in italics.  The Eye speaks in glitched text.)

Please enjoy!!

Jon pulls the threadbare blanket from where he’s folded it in the corner of his office, spreading it over the cot which has become his new bed. It’s a rare day that he leaves the archives anymore, not even to eat—and he’s not sure how much he really needs to do that, anyway. It doesn’t feel like much. In fact, it feels like nothing at all.

It’s all just hollow, now.

Outside the office door, he hears the padding of stocking feet, and knows that it’s Basira. She too has been staying in the archives more often than not, finding herself feeling more and more endangered each time she leaves this musty, miserable place. Though she does not say a word about it, Jon knows she’s angry with him—Knows it, really—and so avoids crossing her path wherever possible. She needs the space, and Jon is willing to give it to her.

It doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. Every time she passes by his door, which he keeps almost eternally closed now, the Eye pulls at him—teasing at his paranoia, promising him such a very tasty morsel, just one little bite and she’ll never have to know. He shoves down the thought violently each time, unwilling to invade the privacy of her thoughts, especially as she now seems to be his only friend.

If I can even call her that.

He tries not to think about it for as long as he can avoid it. The hurt runs too deep, too fragile to look at for long—the way he can’t even remember Sasha, Tim’s unforgiveness, Daisy’s vanishing, and now…now even Martin won’t speak to him.

Stop it stop it stop it stop it

Groaning softly in frustration, Jon buries his face in his hands, trying to focus on anything other than the near constant litany of MartinMartinMartin that he tries so very hard to keep from his mind. The force of his thoughts beats against his skull agonizingly, tempting him into Knowing how he is, where he is, what he’s doing with such incredible strength that he can hardly resist.

Aͤrͩ̽e̬͛̚ ͕̞ͭ̔y͈̎̐̑̆o͉̤̲ͬ͋ͩụ̼͕̺͎͂̈́ ̜̫̮ͪͨ̓ͫs̞̘̩͔͍̹̍͂u̝͍͑̽͊̐̿̃ȓ̯͖̈ͬͤ̔ͮͅe͓̳̳̱̩͙̋̃̂ ͎̱̼̠͎̟̺̥́ͧh̳̮̹͖̻̜̰͛͐̇e͇̲̪̽ͥ̓ͦ͑̒ͤ'̣̺̗̀̅̿̾̐̑̚s̩͉̱̻ͨͮ̃̓̓̚ ̣͔̦̈́͂ͦ̀̿̚ͅn̳̘͈̞̻̼̒̉̃ͦǒ̩̬̗̗͙̰ͣ͑t̗͔ͦ͒̔̓̊̃ͭ ̳̹͓͋̅ͩͦ͆̈i̻̳̲̰̜̾ͤͅn͈͍̣͍͓͋̓ ̻̥̉̋͛̔ͯd̩̰̜̝͕͆a̩͚̟ͭͅn̜͈̉ͬg̬ͬ̊̄e͖̫͍r͕̖?̈́

He’s fine, and he doesn’t need me. He’s fine.

O̰h͒ͬ,ͥͣ̌ ̫̈̍ͅi͚ͪ̈́̋s̫͚͖ͫͥ ̣̖͕̿͐t̼̱̯̿͛h̲̟͉̿ͣa̼̣ͮ̐t͇ͫ̅ͩ ͯͨ̚s͕̾o͛̃?̖

Y̅o͎̠ũ̚̚ ͎̻ͯ̈́o͇̙̭̝ͧu͎̰ͨ̒͗͆g̖͌͋̇̆̏ĥ̬̺̦̍̇ͫt̻̝̩̘ͨ͌̚ ̤̱̫̂ͪͨͨͣt̝̩̪ͯͥͮ͗̚o͍̲̞̱̓̍̍ͧ ̜͚͒̓͐ͩͯ͑h͓̞̥̫̓ͨ͛͂a͔̺̰͌̊̊͛̀v̟̫̳̥ͤ͊͋e͉͙̠͈̙̎̚ ̄̎̾̓̔ͅa̩̥ͤ̾̀̇ ̣͈̰ͩͅl̺͈̀͆ȯ͉̚ó̜͛k̐̄.̞

I won’t I won’t I won’t

His vision winks out in a blinding flash.

---

Fading slowly back in shades of grey, sight pulsing at the edges in time with his heart, his eyes land upon Martin—walking briskly down an empty London street, head bowed against the falling snow. Dim light from the lampposts illuminates his pale and drawn face, set in stark contrast with the deep bruises forming crescent moons beneath his eyes, darker than Jon has ever seen on him. If he didn’t Know better, he would think Martin were ill enough to be in bed.

Seething rage at the Lonely and at Lukas builds like static behind his skull.

God, look what it’s done to him.

Sick at heart, Jon tries to pull himself out of the vision, not wanting to risk Martin somehow noticing his presence, when someone stops him on the sidewalk to ask directions.

And three others creep up from the alleyway behind them.

Shit shit shit

Jon cries out a warning, stumbling forward toward him, voice falling soundlessly into the void of this space as he watches the scene unfold before him with horror. The three figures behind Martin jump him at once, their numbers easily overpowering his great height and pulling him into the alley from whence they came, his shouts of fear and pain echoing through Jon’s entire body.

Help him help him help him—

Jon desperately claws at the vision, at the Knowing, anything to break him out of it so he can run run run run—

---

He falls onto the floor from the cot, tile cold and harsh against his bare legs. Despite the pain of landing, his heart still pounds frantically in his ears, drawing him out the door as quick as he can scramble up—merely slipping on his loafers and bolting out into the snow in shorts and a thin hoodie. Without his brace, his knee screams at him to stop, but he can barely register it—so focused is he on reaching Martin, hoping against hope that his vision had been some sort of premonition rather than reality.

Please please please please

The sound of a commotion rises in volume as he approaches the street from the vision. Rounding the corner into the alleyway, his eyes fall upon the four figures he had previously seen, bending over a figure they’d knocked to the ground—

Static bursts from Jon’s mind, and he can feel the Eye opening above him, within him, around him.

G̩̼̉ọ̅ͧ,ͥ he demands simply, voice growling and deep, much deeper than could ever be his own.

At once, the figures drop the man they’d been holding by the collar, backing away from whatever monstrous form Jon had managed to take in absolute terror.

G̝̎ͧ͂Ő̺͗ͭ!ͣ

They begin to run, feet slipping on the ice-laden cobblestones, around the corner and out of sight. Feeling the Eye beginning to close, Jon senses himself lowering back to the ground, from where he had not realized he’d been hovering.

God, what must I look like right now?

He does not spend much effort trying to answer this question, as a low moan from the figure in front of him draws him back to the present.

Oh god, Martin.

Dashing over at once, Jon kneels in front of him, eyes sweeping quickly over his body—face covered in blood from where his nose is streaming, a nasty laceration at his hairline, clothes mussed and dirtied from where he’d likely taken some hits. His head rolls to one side on the cobblestones, brows pinched closely together as he moans in half-consciousness.

“Martin? Hey, Martin, can you hear me?” Jon asks desperately, trying to keep as calm as possible.

Even now, the sight of so much blood makes him shaky, especially blood that is not his own. He takes great care not to dizzily tip over when pulling off his hoodie, balling it up to press against the nasty cut on Martin’s forehead.

Christ, Jon, keep it together, he begs silently, as blood continues to pound in his ears, vision swimming sickeningly.

“J’n?”

Jon could nearly cry with relief at the sound, slurred and thick as it may be.

“Hey, there you are. Are you with me?’ he asks, the shakiness having crept into his voice as well.

“Wh’ are—” he pauses, coughing briefly and clutching at his ribs in response. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I came to help you. Saw it happening. A-accidentally.”

At this, Martin opens his eyes, offering Jon as contemptuous a half-lidded glare as he can manage in this state. Opening his mouth to reply, he gets no further than an inhale before the coughing resumes, choking on the nosebleed that must have spilled down the back of his throat.

“Oh Christ, here—”

As well as he can, Jon guides Martin up to sitting, leaning him back against the dingy wall of the alleyway as Martin bends double with damp coughing, blood spilling from between his lips. For his part, Jon feels as though he could faint at the sight, and he begins to see stars floating across his vision—but tries to focus his efforts on keeping pressure on the head wound.

“S’rry,” Martin mutters, eyes drifting closed as he leans a bit into Jon’s touch.

“No no—you’ve got to stay awake, Martin,” Jon says, voice thin enough to break.

“M’awake,” he replies as Jon pulls the sleeve of his hoodie from where he’s balled it up against Martin’s head, sweeping it down across his still-bleeding nose and split lip.

“Can you—can you tell me you name?” he asks, not liking the way Martin’s head still lolls against his hands.

He opens his eyes a bit at this, squinting at Jon in confusion.

“But you know…oh. Martin Blackwood,” he replies dutifully, having figured out what Jon is trying to do.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Erm…an alleyway, it seems?”

“Can you tell me what day it is?”

Martin falls silent at this, eyes drifting back closed for a moment as he considers.

“I...I’ve sort of lost track,” he whispers, eyes remaining closed.

Not good.

Now that Jon has asked these questions, however, he does not know what to do now that Martin cannot answer one of them.

“A-alright. That—that’s alright, just give it a moment,” he soothes shakily, arguing with himself over whether to dial 999.

Martin suddenly tenses under his hands, eyes snapping open in panic.

“Oh god, you shouldn’t be here,” he whispers intensely, eyes shifting quickly to the left and right as he grabs Jon’s wrist, pulling the cloth from where it’s pressed his head.

Jon sputters for a moment, nearly losing his balance at the sudden motion.

“Wh—Martin, you—”

“No, you can’t—”

Martin sits forward at once, shifting his weight onto his feet as he attempts to stand.

“You can’t be here with me, I—"

His already ashen face goes stark white at the movement, eyes rolling back as he hits the ground again, the back of his head smacking against the brick of the building behind him.

“Christ! Martin!” Jon yelps, cupping a hand behind his head to feel for blood, the other gripping his upper arm.

“M’sorry,” Martin mutters again, eyes fluttering open after a moment, wincing as Jon’s fingers brush over a sore spot where his head had hit.

“Just—just lie back,” Jon soothes anxiously, reaching for his phone. “I’m going to call Basira.”

“No! No—please, Jon, I’ll be alright,” Martin begs, reaching out to grab Jon’s phone from him—giving a sharp, pained inhale as he goes—if possible—paler, clutching at his ribs in agony.

Oh god oh god oh god

“Martin? Where did they hit?” Jon asks, phone clattering to the pavement when Martin’s breaths begin to pick up speed.

He does not reply, merely squeezing his eyes shut, tears beginning to leak out at the corners as he does so.

“Oh god. Martin?” Jon calls softly, fighting back against his panic, voice ticking upwards with effort. “Can you tell me where?”

Martin lets out a shuddering little breath, not opening his eyes as he replies.

“Face. Ribs. Stomach,” he chokes, draping one hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking with barely-repressed sobs.

Oh, Martin.

Jon feels his own tears creeping up his throat, swallowing them down in an effort to stay calm, to stay focused, to do something to mend the heart-shattering sight in front of him.

“My god. God, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, reaching out a hand to hover dangerously over Martin’s, before thinking better of it and pulling back.

Stop it. Focus.

“Can I take I look?” he asks as gently as possible, wishing more than anything that Martin would just open his eyes, would just look at him—

When he does, it’s with such wariness that Jon wants to vomit. He is not a stranger to this look—far from it, in fact—but to receive it from Martin’s eternally kind hazel eyes…that’s something Jon never wishes to see again. Despite his clear apprehension, Martin does reach a hand down to lift his jumper, revealing a bruising abdomen just up to the edge of his binder.

His binder.

“Martin, we should get your binder off those ribs—” Jon breaths out in a rush, hands instinctively reaching forward to touch—

“Don’t! Please don’t, Jon, just—just leave it, please.”

In a last-ditch effort to stop him, Martin grabs at Jon’s hand, keeping a shaking grip on it until fresh rivulets of tears begin to spill down his cheeks.

“Alright, alright—I-I’m sorry, I won’t…I won’t touch it,” Jon soothes quietly, unable to resist offering some gesture of comfort—and rests a hand on Martin’s forearm.

To his surprise, Martin does not pull away.

“I-I’ve got to call Basira, I’m sorry. She’ll pick us up,” he mutters, guilt heavy in his tone as he reaches out for his phone, though Martin does not protest.

As he talks, he keeps his voice intentionally calm and low, running his hand up and down Martin’s forearm now, hoping that the repetitive motion will give him something gentle on which he can focus. To his relief, Martin’s breathing begins to gradually slow, though the tears still slip unbidden down his cheeks.

“She’s bringing her car around as quick as she can,” Jon murmurs, squeezing his arm gently.

At this, Martin shakes his head rapidly, squeezing his eyes shut yet again.

“Just leave me here, Jon,” he whispers in a broken voice, beginning to tremble.

All Jon’s breath leaves his lungs at these words, absolutely devastated that they could even be spoken aloud.

“Wh-what?”

“Just leave me. You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t have looked,” Martin continues, voice a bit stronger, though his body still shakes.

Jon’s chest aches.

“I—maybe you’re right. But I’m not leaving you here, that’s absurd.”

“You don’t understand,” Martin snaps, though his angered expression drops almost immediately into something approaching guilt.

You’re right. I don’t.

And it breaks my heart.

Worrying at his bottom lip for a moment, Jon fights against the rising lump in his throat, choking everything back as he whispers.

“What happened, Martin?”

An echo of the first time he’d asked this question resounds through his mind.

“What happened, Martin?”

"You died.”

"I came back.”

“Yeah, and I’m not going to let it happen again.”

He can hardly bear it—this silence, this loneliness, this complete agony of facing a world without Martin—

And does the only thing left to his power: taking his hand in his own.

“Have I done something to hurt you? Please—if I’ve done something, anything—please tell me and I will try to make it right,” he begs, voice fading into a choked whisper against stinging tears.

Please tell me.

I don’t know how I can do this without you.

At last, their eyes meet in earnest, snow falling softly in both of their hair—but the warm hearth that is Martin’s gaze has gone out, swallowed up in swirling fog.

“I can’t,” he whispers, more tears slipping down his face as he removes his hand from Jon’s hold.

Jon’s heart is absolutely shattered.

“Can’t what?” he croaks, unable to keep the damp from his voice now.

“We can’t do this, Jon. You know we can’t.”

To that, Jon can find no words—no words to surmount this ever-deepening chasm between them. Bowing his head, he at last allows himself the relief of weeping, overwhelmed by the fog and the snow and the ice and the winter chill.

I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand

He trembles—whether from wearing shorts in the snow or from the hurt of it all, he’ll never know.

“You’ll freeze,” Martin mutters from somewhere far, far away.

“It’s fine.”

“No. No, it isn’t.”

…what?

Momentarily taken aback, Jon blinks in shock before dragging his gaze back up to meet Martin’s. The way he looks at him now…there’s something he’s trying to say, something desperate to be spoken aloud, something in the way his eyebrows are creased and his eyes are soft and wide and full of regret—

“Christ, Martin, are you alright?”

Basira’s exclamation jolts them both back into the present, causing them to jump in surprise.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Martin assures, as blood continues to cascade down his face.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, crossing her arms. “I’m driving you to the A&E. No arguments.”

“I don’t need—”

“I said no arguments,” she barks, shutting Martin up at once. “What were they even getting at by attacking you?”

“I’d just gone to the cash machine,” Martin mumbles, dropping his head in shame. “Didn’t think anyone was watching.”

“That’s rich,” she mutters, pointedly glaring at Jon, who sighs exasperatedly. “Help me get him up, then.”

Crouching down on either side of Martin, Basira and Jon loop his arms around their shoulders before dragging him to his feet—nearly pulled back down again when Martin’s dizziness threatens to get the better of him. He gasps with pain at each step, chest heaving shallowly against the stabbing pain of his ribs, until they finally get him settled in the back of the car. By the time he’s seated, his face has gone paler still, looking ready to tip over into unconsciousness at any moment. Jon starts to squeeze in next to him on the seat, trying to press the hoodie back over his laceration, before—

“NO, you can’t.”

Martin half-shouts at him, pulling his hand down yet again and glaring frustratedly.

“But—but you need help, you—”

“I don’t need your help,” he hisses sharply, deliberately not meeting Jon’s eyes.

The hollow ache of it all settles deep in Jon’s chest, and he takes a small step back from the car.

“Just let it go, Jon, I’m begging you. Let me go,” Martin whispers damply, curling in against the pain of his battered ribs.

No no no no no

Tears pooling in his eyes, Jon hesitantly reaches out a hand to grip Martin’s forearm.

“Get well. Please,” he whispers—and drops his hand, gently closing the car door and wondering dimly if that’s the last time he will ever see him.

“Hey.”

Basira turns him around gently by the shoulder, forcing him to look at her.

“Don’t worry, Jon. I’ve got him,” she assures, gaze intense with meaning.

“I know,” he replies softly. “I know. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She gets in the car at once, giving him a nod before she drives off—tires kicking up the sludge in her wake, leaving Jon shivering in the emptiness.

Grief, bitter and biting, falls over him like snow.

[theshadowmalec]

City of Ashes (Cut out scene/ Extra)

Kissed

The story of Malec's first kiss, and how Alec asked Magnus out on a date.

It was printed on thin paper, nearly parchment, in a thin, elegant, spidery hand. It announced a gathering at the humble home of Magnus the Magnificent Warlock, and promised attendees "a rapturous evening of delights beyond your wildest imaginings."

— City of Bones

Standing in the stairwell of Magnus’ home, Alec stared at the name written under the buzzer on the wall. BANE. The name didn’t really seem to suit Magnus, he thought, not now that he knew him. If you could really be said to know someone when you’d attended one of their parties, once, and then they’d saved your life later but hadn’t really hung around to be thanked. But the name Magnus Bane made him think of a towering sort of figure, with huge shoulders and formal purple warlock’s robes, calling down fire and lightning. Not Magnus himself, who was more of a cross between a panther and a demented elf.

Alec took a deep breath and let it out. Well, he’d come this far; he might as well go on. The bare lightbulb hanging overhead cast sweeping shadows as he reached forward and pressed the buzzer.

A moment later a voice echoed through the stairwell. “WHO CALLS UPON THE HIGH WARLOCK?”

“Er,” Alec said. “It’s me. I mean, Alec. Alec Lightwood.”

There was a sort of silence, as if even the hallway itself were surprised. Then a ping, and the second door opened, letting him out onto the stairwell. He headed up the rickety stairs into the darkness, which smelled like pizza and dust. The second floor landing was bright, the door at the far end open. Magnus Bane was leaning in the entryway.

Compared to the first time Alec has seen him, he looked fairly normal. His black hair still stood up in spikes, and he looked sleepy; his face, even with its cat’s eyes, very young. He wore a black t-shirt with the words ONE MILLION DOLLARS picked out across the chest in sequins, and jeans that hung low on his hips, low enough that Alec looked away, down at his own shoes. Which were boring.

“Alexander Lightwood,” said Magnus. He had just the faintest trace of an accent, something Alec couldn’t put his finger on, a lilt to his vowels. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alec looked past Magnus. “Do you have — company?”

Magnus crossed his arms, which did good things for his biceps, and leaned against the side of the door. “Why do you want to know?”

“I was hoping I could come in and talk to you.”

“Hmmm.” Magnus’ eyes raked him up and down. They really did shine in the dark, like a cat’s. “Well, all right then.” He turned abruptly away and disappeared into the apartment; after a startled moment, Alec followed.

The loft looked different without a hundred churning bodies in it. It was — well, not ordinary, but the sort of space someone might live in. Like most lofts, it had a big central room split into “rooms” by groupings of furniture. There was a square collection of sofas and tables off to the right, which Magnus gestured Alec toward. Alec sat down on a gold velvet sofa with elegant wooden curlicues on the arms.

“Would you like some tea?” Magnus asked. He wasn’t sitting in a chair, but had sprawled himself on a tufted ottoman, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

Alec nodded. He felt incapable of saying anything. Anything interesting or intelligent, that was. It was always Jace who said the interesting, intelligent things. He was Jace’s parabatai and that was all the glory he needed or wanted: like being the dark star to someone else’s supernova. But this was somewhere Jace couldn’t go with him, something Jace couldn’t help him with. “Sure.”

His right hand felt suddenly hot. He looked down, and realized he was holding a waxed paper cup from Joe, the Art of Coffee. It smelled like chai. He jumped, and only barely escaped spilling on himself. “By the Angel —”

“I LOVE that expression,” said Magnus. “It’s so quaint.”

Alec stared at him. “Did you steal this tea?”

Magnus ignored the question. “So,” he said. “Why are you here?”

Alec took a gulp of the stolen tea. “I wanted to thank you,” he said, when he came up for air. “For saving my life.”

Magnus leaned back on his hands. His t-shirt rode up over his flat stomach, and this time Alec had nowhere else to look. “You wanted to thank me.”

“You saved my life,” Alec said, again. “But I was delirious, and I don’t think I really thanked you. I know you didn’t have to do it. So thank you.”

Magnus’ eyebrows had disappeared up into his hairline. “You’re . . .welcome?”

Alec set his tea down. “Maybe I should go.”

Magnus sat up. “After you came so far? All the way to Brooklyn? Just to thank me?” He was grinning. “Now that would be a wasted effort.” He reached out and put his hand to Alec’s cheek, his thumb brushing along the cheekbone. His touch felt like fire, training tendrils of sparks in its wake. Alec sat frozen in surprise — surprise at the gesture, and surprise at the effect it was having on him. Magnus’ eyes narrowed, and he dropped his hand. “Huh,” he said to himself.

“What?” Alec was suddenly very worried that he’d done something wrong. “What is it?”

“You’re just . . .” A shadow moved behind Magnus; with fluid agility, the warlock twisted around and picked up a small gray and white tabby cat from the floor. The cat curled into the crook of his arm and looked at Alec with suspicion. Now two pairs of gold-green eyes were trained on him darkly. “Not what I expected.”

“From a Shadowhunter?”

“From a Lightwood.”

“I didn’t realize you knew my family that well.”

“I’ve known your family for hundreds of years.” Magnus’ eyes searched his face. “Now your sister, she’s a Lightwood. You—’

“She said you liked me.”

“What?”

“Izzy. My sister. She told me you liked me. Liked me, liked me.”

“Liked you, liked you?” Magnus buried his grin in the cat’s fur. “Sorry. Are we twelve now? I don’t recall saying anything to Isabelle . . .”

“Jace said it too.” Alec was blunt; it was the only way he knew how to be. “That you liked me. That when he buzzed up here, you thought he was me and you were disappointed that it was him. That never happens.”

“Doesn’t it? Well, it should.”

Alec was startled. “No — I mean Jace, he’s . . . Jace.”

“He’s trouble,” said Magnus. “But you are totally without guile. Which in a Lightwood, is a conundrum. You’ve always been a plotting sort of family, like low-rent Borgias. But there isn’t a lie in your face. I get the feeling everything you say is straightforward.”

Alec leaned forward. “Do you want to go out with me?”

Magnus blinked. “See, that’s what I mean. Straightforward.”

Alec chewed his lip and said nothing.

“Why do you want to go out with me?” Magnus inquired. He was rubbing Chairman Meow’s head, his long fingers folding the cat’s ears down. “Not that I’m not highly desirable, but the way you asked, it seemed as if you were having some sort of fit —”

“I just do,” Alec said. “And I thought you liked me, so you’d say yes, and I could try — I mean, we could try —” He put his face in his hands. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

Magnus’ voice was gentle. “Does anyone know you’re gay?”

Alec’s head jerked up; he found he was breathing a little hard, as if he’d run a race. But what could he do, deny it? When he’d come here to do exactly the opposite? “Clary,” he said, hoarsely. “Which is . . . Which was an accident. And Izzy, but she’d never say anything.”

“Not your parents. Not Jace?”

Alec thought about Jace knowing, and pushed the thought away, hard and fast. “No. No, and I don’t want them to know, especially Jace.”

“I think you could tell him.” Magnus rubbed Chairman Meow under the chin. “He went to pieces like a jigsaw puzzle when he thought you were going to die. He cares —”

“I’d rather not.” Alec was still breathing quickly. He rubbed at the knees of his jeans with his fists. “I’ve never had a date,” he said in a low voice. “Never kissed anyone. Not ever. Izzy said you liked me and I thought —”

“I’m not unsympathetic. But do you like me? Because this being gay business doesn’t mean you can just throw yourself at any guy and it’ll be fine because he’s not a girl. There are still people you like and people you don’t.”

Alec thought of his bedroom back at the Institute, of being in a delirium of pain and poison when Magnus had come in. He had barely recognized him. He was fairly sure he’d been screaming for his parents, for Jace, for Izzy, but his voice would only come out on a whisper. He remembered Magnus’ hands on him, his fingers cool and gentle. He remembered the death-grip he’d kept on Magnus’ wrist, for hours and hours, even after the pain had passed and he knew he would be all right. He remembered watching Magnus’ face in the light of the rising sun, the gold of sunrise sparking gold out of his eyes, and thinking how oddly beautiful he was, with his cat’s gaze and grace.

“Yes,” Alec said. “I like you.”

He met Magnus’ gaze squarely. The warlock was looking at him with a sort of admixture of curiosity and affection and puzzlement. “It’s so odd,” Magnus said. “Genetics. Your eyes, that color —” He stopped and shook his head.

“The Lightwoods you knew didn’t have blue eyes?”

“Green-eyed monsters,” said Magnus, and grinned. He deposited Chairman Meow on the ground, and the cat moved over to Alec, and rubbed against his leg. “The Chairman likes you.”

“Is that good?”

“I never date anyone my cat doesn’t like,” Magnus said easily, and stood up. “So let’s say Friday night?”

A great wave of relief came over Alec. “Really? You want to go out with me?”

Magnus shook his head. “You have to stop playing hard to get, Alexander. It makes things difficult.” He grinned. He had a grin like Jace’s — not that they looked anything alike, but the sort of grin that lit up his whole face. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

Alec drifted after Magnus toward the front door, feeling as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders, one he hadn’t even known he was carrying. Of course he’d have to come up with an excuse for where he was going Friday night, something Jace wouldn’t want to participate in, something he’d need to do alone. Or he could pretend to be sick and sneak out. He was so lost in thought he almost banged into the front door, which Magnus was leaning against, looking at him through eyes narrowed to crescents.

“What is it?” Alec said.

“Never kissed anyone?” Magnus said. “No one at all?”

“No,” said Alec, hoping this didn’t disqualify him from being datable. “Not a real kiss —”

“Come here.” Magnus took him by the elbows and pulled him close. For a moment Alec was entirely disoriented by the feeling of being so close to someone else, to the kind of person he’d wanted to be close to for so long. Magnus was long and lean but not skinny; his body was hard, his arms lightly muscled but strong; he was an inch or so taller than Alec, which hardly ever happened, and they fit together perfectly. Magnus’ finger was under his chin, tilting his face up, and then they were kissing. Alec heard a small hitching gasp come from his own throat and then their mouths were pressed together with a sort of controlled urgency. Magnus, Alec thought dazedly, really knew what he was doing. His lips were soft, and he parted Alec’s expertly, exploring his mouth: a symphony of lips, teeth, tongue, every movement waking up a nerve ending Alec had never known he had.

He found Magnus’ waist with his fingers, touching the strip of bare skin he’d been trying to avoid looking at before, and slid his hands up under Magnus’ shirt. Magnus jerked with surprise, then relaxed, his hands running down Alec’s arms, over his chest, his waist, finding the belt loops on Alec’s jeans and using them to pull him closer. His mouth left Alec’s and Alec felt the hot pressure of his lips on his throat, where the skin was so sensitive that it seemed directly connected to the bones in his legs, which were about to give out. Just before he slid to the floor, Magnus let him go. His eyes were shining and so was his mouth.

“Now you’ve been kissed,” he said, reached behind him, and yanked the door open. “See you Friday?”

Alec cleared his throat. He felt dizzy, but he also felt alive — blood rushing through his veins like traffic at top speed, everything seemingly almost too brightly colored. As he stepped through the door, he turned and looked at Magnus, who was watching him bemusedly. He reached forward and took hold of the front of Magnus’ t-shirt and dragged the warlock toward him. Magnus stumbled against him, and Alec kissed him, hard and fast and messy and unpracticed, but with everything he had. He pulled Magnus against him, his own hand between them, and felt Magnus’ heart stutter in his chest.

He broke off the kiss, and drew back.

“Friday,” he said, and let Magnus go. He backed away, down the landing, Magnus looking after him. The warlock crossed his arms over his shirt — wrinkled where Alec had grabbed it — and shook his head, grinning.

“Lightwoods,” Magnus said. “They always have to have the last word.”

He shut the door behind him, and Alec ran down the steps, taking them two at a time, his blood still singing in his ears like music.

[schmokschmok]

a series of events

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Mikaele Salesa, Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley, Tim Stoker & Sasha James

Characters: Mikaele Salesa, Getrude Robinson, Michael Shelley, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Wordcount: 5,314

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Missing Scene

Canon Compliant

Vignettes

Summary:

It's not a tragedy. It's not a comedy either. It's a series of unfortunate events and their rather anticlimactic end.

aka What do Mikaele, Gertrude and Tim have in common? A gun!

Contains spoilers up until MAG 115

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28205352

CN: Guns (discussed), Murder (mentioned & idiomatic) Entities alluded to: Buried, Corruption, Flesh, Slaughter, Stranger

Exposition

It starts with a plain looking flintlock pistol and a few percussion weapons. After he had copied Jürgen’s client list, he had studied every last name on it relentlessly until he found one that he was sure enough he could sell to without having Jürgen with him. Then he tracked down a lass in Sunderland who liquidated a relatively sumptuous collection of antique weapons.

Now he’s standing in front of a door belonging to a block of flats which doesn’t look in the slightest like a home for antiques. Mikaele’s used to much too big houses, creaking with old age and looming over him like the head of a giant monster sleeping underneath the earth. He knows brass doorknockers and intercommunication systems at iron gates separating the wide-spreading garden area from the street. A simple intercom at the door and several flights of stairs towards one of half a dozen identical looking doors is unfamiliar territory and sends a rush of adrenaline through his whole body.

After drawing a final breath to brace himself, he rings the bell and waits for the steady thrum of the buzzer inviting him into the whitewashed house with its light grey louvred blinds. His feet hit tiles and then stair after stair until he’s in front of a door with inlaid glass. The sight through is blocked by what seems to be a curtain made from Nottingham lace.

Drawing another breath, he raps his knuckles curtly against the wood of the door and takes a step back. While he listens to shuffling footsteps coming closer, he swallows drily and plasters a sly grin on his face, even though he doesn’t feel like it. He has seen Jürgen interact with dozens of people over the years and had a fair share of interactions with tedious clients himself, so he knows that confidence is the first step to success. If he thinks he can make a deal, then he can make a deal. It’s easy, he tells himself.

The door swings open and a woman in her thirties studies him with tired eyes. She says: “Mr Salesa, I suppose?”

He nods, accompanied by verbal confirmation and greeting, and extends his hand for her to shake, and it only takes an imploring look upon his hand until she grabs hold of it and welcomes him into her small flat.

“It’s in the backroom,” she says as soon as the door clicks shut behind him. “Found them while cleaning out my Da’s cellar but hadn’t had the chance to get them looked at. What with all the funeral preparations, you know?”

Mikaele doesn’t because he never had to take care of such thing, but he makes a non-committal sound at the back of his throat and offers his condolences because it’s the polite thing to do. She thanks him in a detached voice, as one does faced with superficial, sympathetic words.

“It’s a whole chest of them,” she continues while opening the door to a small pantry which is filled to the brim with shelves displaying tinned and pickled food. The floor area is covered with cardboard boxes, two wooden chests and a few rolled up carpets. She gestures towards the chest on the left and steps back to make room for him. He thanks her.

“I don’t know if they’re worth anything at all,” she says, leaning against the doorframe and watching him step closer until the fingers of his outstretched hand touch the copper key of the chest, and sink to his knees. A part of him wants to explain to her that she’s setting herself up to get stitched up like a kipper. But it’s not his problem, is it? Actually, it’s rather his fortune.

Mikaele opens the lid and takes a look at the percussion weapons, eight of them in total. Six percussion rifles and two guns. And right on top of them lies a flintlock gun with a wooden handle. He’s not interested in that, so he takes it out and lays it down next to him on the floor with great caution.

“So, you’re taking them?” She asks and he can hear her shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I’ve got two other potential buyers. But if you want them, you can have them.”

He doesn’t know why she’s so eager to get rid of them and uneasiness settles into his midriff, constricting his breathing in an almost imperceptible way. So, he tells her that he can’t decide without taking a proper look at them. And then he asks her about deeds of ownership.

“Everything I’ve got is in that chest. If they don’t have a deed of ownership, then I haven’t either,” she replies while he takes one percussion gun out of the chest, examining the caplock mechanism and pulling back the hammer, only to be greeted by the strenuous sound of a screw being used for the first time after a long period of inactivity.

Cautiously taking out one musket after the other, splayed around him like sunbeams, the bottom of the chest reveals nine deeds of ownership and even a documentation of the last purchase agreement.

This is too good to be true, Mikaele thinks. But what he says is that he is going to buy them and that he can guarantee her an adequate payment, he can’t, however, say anything about the price just now. He must test if they work, he apologises, then he promises that if they’re usable he’s going to pay her even more. Even though it doesn’t make a difference for his potential buyer. Mikaele will get the same amount either way. But she seems like she could use the money, and this is his first buy all on his own. He can be a little generous, he can be a little accommodating.

“I don’t care,” she says, levity coming back to her and lifting her shoulders as if up until now she had been pressed down by a weight he hadn’t noticed. “I just want them gone. So, if you could take them with you today, that would be appreciated.”

After taking out the documents, he nods absent-mindedly and places the weapons back inside the chest. When he turns towards the flintlock pistol, he asks where he should put it.

“You can have it,” she rushes to say, involuntarily taking a step back and raising her hands in a display of defensiveness, palms spread wide open. He tells her that he doesn’t necessarily want it, but she dismisses his objections. “I don’t want it.” He opens his mouth again. “Look, take it as an eight plus one deal, okay? I don’t want them. Not any of them.”

He nods as if he understands what she’s trying to say. He doesn’t, but does it make any difference?

Together they lift the now locked chest after and they carry it down the stairs, through the small front yard and into Mikaele’s waiting car. As she steps back from the boot, he thanks her for her generosity and extends once again his hand to meet hers.

“Thank you,” she says as if she hadn’t singlehandedly conferred the possibility for his career beyond horror and threats on his life bound in leather. So, he thanks her, too, and as he drives away, he can feel the uneasiness melt from his ribcage into a small puddle of contentment right above his abdomen.

This is the start of something new.

 Rising Action

It hadn’t been the start of something new, Mikaele realises when he sees the now familiar chest again. It had been a continuation of misfortune and horrible, sleepless nights. At least until Jürgen’s list began to seek him out to sell him the objects Jürgen wouldn’t take.

It’s a mule chest made of oak, a warm reddish colour and with a beautiful patina spread over the copper of the escutcheon, handles and applications that speaks of a long history of utilisation. Nice to look at with its octagon panelling and its visible age rings and veins of the wood.

But Mikaele knows there’s something inside besides the eighteenth century’s weaponry he held for the first time over twenty years ago. Something that, if it would live in a book, would be in Jürgen’s métier.

Despite his knowledge of the danger that lurks inside this chest, Mikaele had sold it multiple times to all kinds of different people. He thought, a meat grinder, an antique syringe, a wooden crate, a wooden chest – when it comes down to it, it’s all the same.

Slowly, word spreads. Especially in a social circle as small as the one Mikaele operates in. People talk and its hard to bring something to a market that has learned by now that the thing will get them killed. (Of course, there are always the outliers, the unpredictable variables of heedless rich men who think they can withstand temptation, only to fail. Mikaele, however, is not a heedless man and if he knows one thing, it’s that dead men can’t spend money anymore.)

So, he almost got restless at the prospect of owning a chest filled with death impossible to market again, when he remembers the small business card in his middle desk drawer that reads in small capital letters The Magnus Institute.

He calls.

Mr Bouchard welcomes his offer with the generosity of a Lukas and asks him to drop off the chest as quickly as convenient. So, he gets into his car roughly two days later and takes the trip to the institute himself as the loss of Cook is still somewhat thrumming beneath his skin. (He gives the others a few days off, tells Leigh to stock up on supplies, so they can set sails as soon as he gets back.)

When he gets out of the car in the parking lot of the institute, he realises belatedly that he has no chance of transporting the chest all on his own, so he locks up the door and heads up to the institute, a certain spring in his step and something akin to giddiness in his soul.

“Rosie,” he greets the woman sitting at the desk in front of Mr Bouchard’s office and she offers him salutations with a smile as wide as the Thames. “Mr Bouchard awaits me. A delivery for Artefacts that I could not possibly carry alone.”

She tells him that Mr Bouchard is in a meeting with a Lukas, and she says it with a wink and a smile, and even though Mikaele doesn’t quite make heads or tails of her words, he understands that she can’t ring him up until he gets out of his call, so he asks: “Would you mind calling Artefacts to send a helping hand?”

Telephone handset already in hand, her manicured fingers dial a three-digit number, and she waits patiently for the other person to pick up.

Meanwhile, Mikaele studies the stone tiles that could almost look like marble, and the dark, oiled wood that forms the intricate details of the desk she’s sitting at. The surface is covered in paper and sticky notes and handwritten reminders and dates, almost contrary to the planner lying next to her keyboard that is colour-coded and in a minimalistic beauty that Mikaele wants to envy but finds to be incredibly annoying.

Although Mikaele’s clearly occupied studying her surroundings like the engaged columns that bestow texture upon the too white walls, ending in abstract art nouveau capitals that could be worthy of note but only exert tristesse in their colourlessness. It’s a shame, Mikaele thinks, that this is what Jonah Magnus chose to express the prestigiousness of the institute with.

Suddenly, someone’s standing too close to him; entirely unexpected in his line of vision. He startles, ripping his gaze off the columns, and is met with an expressionless look of a woman. She narrows her eyes when he takes a step back to bring distance between them and apologises in a stern voice that doesn’t speak of remorse.

“Oh, don’t be,” he replies, interlacing his fingers behind his back.

From the other side of her desk, Rosie informs him that someone from Artefacts will soon be with them and if he would mind waiting for a bit. He shakes his head in answer, but his attention lays on the gaunt woman before him. She’s one part tenuous and two parts careworn wrapped in white hair and wrinkly skin only broken by thread veins and purposeful inexpressiveness.

She introduces herself as Gertrude Robinson, the head archivist of the Magnus Institute, and asks him for the cause of his visitation. So, without his own volition he tells of the chest and its malevolent contents. He tells of violence and strife and death. And when he’s done, all he can do is blink at her in owlish perturbation.

Adversatively, her gaze is unwavering, examining the parts of his being that he himself is not entirely aware of. With a blink of her eye, he feels like he can breathe again, but her carefully worded question, if he had anything else to say to her, tries to gently pry words from his mouth that he hadn’t previously known existed. He swallows them all down, phoneme for lexeme for root, almost choking on the pre- and inter- and suffixes.

He says: “Beware of the splinters. And always wear gloves.”

Though he thought she’d be displeased, her eyes glow in satisfaction and the smile tugging at the corner of her lips makes uneasiness rear its ugly head like he’s still a twenty-something in the middle of Jürgen’s library.

 Climax

Michael’s standing in the doorway even though she has told him a hundred times not to lurk. He’s crossing his arms in front of his chest and the look on his face can only be described as discontent.

“I told you,” she says, weariness settling into her bones, “that it’s an act of utmost discourtesy to earwig my recordings of a statement.”

He doesn’t say anything, just shifts his weight and leans against the doorframe like a scallywag assessing the possibilities to wreak havoc. With a sigh coming from the depths of her soul, she attempts to find chagrin between fatigue and impuissance, but she comes home empty handed.

“I know,” she concedes, “this is of personal interest to you. And I can assure you, I won’t keep you in the dark in regard to research. However, I find myself in the unfortunate position of putting the development of the case before your personal interest. Which, ultimately, should lead to your satisfaction, too.” She interrupts herself in hope that he says at least something. He doesn’t. “Emma is currently tracking down Mikaele Salesa and should return with him and his extensive knowledge of the artefact as soon as possible. A research assistant is accompanying her, for her own safety and the insurance that Mr Salesa will come back.”

Michael narrows his eyes, still rigid and tensed up, every fibre of his body tight-drawn.

She has never seen him like this, without his languid smile and crinkling eyes, without the casual ‘swagger’ of his step and his restless fingers in search of something to hold on to. This is the first time she has ever seen his face in severity and earnest, almost distorted in its unfamiliarity.

“Michael,” she says after a while and she can’t keep every notion of defeat out of her voice. Three words sit on her tongue, heavy and strange, a combination of egoistical self-sorrow and wrong-worded sentiment. An attempt of retaliation, of connecting broken pieces and lost connections.

But her mouth remains empty, her teeth blocking the path separating herself from vulnerability and violability.

It's nothing personal, she thinks to herself, Michael's as good as they come. But here inside the walls of the institute every word is a weapon shock-sensitive and ready to explode. (The shock comes in many forms, most prevalently and most dangerously in the shape of grey-green eyes and blasé smiles that turn benign concerns into malignant worries. The shock comes in bursts, circling into waves that drown out every other thought.)

So, she breathes around three words that Michael deserves and that she would willingly give if he were anyone else, anyone unknown.

Time goes by in little droplets of apprehensiveness, pulling together into a flow of disquietness. But Michael’s not moving, just staring at her demandingly, his jaw locked and his knuckles turning white.

For a moment, she must avert her eyes, cannot take his open display of discontent anymore, and her gaze falls upon the wooden chest, neatly tucked into the corner of her office. A feeling of I can’t believe an unimpressive thing like you could do such harm, but deep down in her core she knows it not to be true. She has had enough artefacts in her hands, only separated from her skin by a thin layer of latex, to know that nothing ever seems as ill-natured and pernicious as it truly is.

Her eyes snap back to him, and she needs him to break the silence. (Needs him to spare a smile to reinforce something resembling normalcy. Although she Knows it to be true that Michael can’t do anything about this situation. He’s bound to the laws of physic, too, and he can’t tilt the world back into its normal position. And Gertrude shouldn’t expect him to do it if she herself can’t do anything about the world.)

“Michael,” she says again, breath catching at the edges of a four-letter word still sitting discomfortably in her throat. “Sometimes the right thing to do and the easy thing to do are two different things.” He continues to stare, vulnerability brought by wholeheartedness. “And the right thing is concentrating on your work so that Emma can do hers.”

Softly, Michael says that they were his friends. His shoulders dropping, weighted down by the acknowledgement of defeat. The start of a sentence escapes his lips, but he struggles to force it out completely, and interrupts himself. He draws a shaky breath. Voice trembling, he tries again and states that one of them did this, and she feels like he should make an all-encompassing gesture, drawing in not only shaky breaths but all the weak-kneed wrongfulness of this place.

He doesn’t know, she thinks, he doesn’t know a thing.

“Sometimes,” she says and lays her hand flat atop the desk to stop them from pushing her upright, “bad things happen. And we must deal gently with them.”

A broken-up sentence that he is just, that he is. But he can’t go on and he swallows the fire in his chest, chokes on the flames and sobs up a few sparks. He says that he’s so, so very angry. And the taste that his words leave in her mouth reminds Gertrude of bonfires and sun storms and the sound of cracking wood. (It reminds her of her adolescence, of nights spend only illuminated by the moon and the flames licking into the sky.)

She nods and presses the palms of her hands on the wooden surface with as much strength as she can conjure. She says: “Anger is a dangerous place. You must tread softly, or it swallows you whole.”

They fall back into silence, the quiet thrum of the air condition a white noise for his grief.

Then his arms fall down, and he tries to smile at her but it's a vain attempt at best. (She knows how his smile looks by heart. And this is only the caricature version of Michael himself.)

Michael's as good as they come, so she settles on: “Trust me, Michael.” And she can see that he does.

 Falling Action

In the end, Gertrude is alone in the Archives and she’s buried beneath statements and rituals and eyes that follow every step she takes. Maybe she’s growing paranoid in the wake of a catastrophe she can’t even fanthom the momentousness of. Maybe she’s in her right to collect explosives like wrinkles on her skin. However, she’s still in need of more, more, more. (More certitudes, more dependability, more apologia.)

So, she starts a little fire. Nothing major, just a small one. On the other side of a room that contains a wooden chest that has brought so much grief upon the institute.

Nobody’s in danger of getting hurt, she reasons, every artefact destroyed is a blessing bestowed upon humanity. She only needs them to clear the room, to lose sight of a few things like maybe a Gorilla Skin or a wooden chest full of weaponry.

And the impossible thing is that it worked. Or semi-worked at least because the Gorilla Skin is not in the institute, has never been, and Gertrude’s not any closer to finding it, but she’s got a hold onto the chest, offered by Sonja in an attempt to safe what can be saved.

Time runs out, the Unknowing comes closer, creeps into every waking thought and tries to strangle her into submission. But Gertrude’s not done. She’s almost entirely alone and her hands may be shaking like aspen leaf, but she’s not done.

Shoulders squared and cardigan wrapped around her thin frame, she walks into Research and politely requests help moving an artefact into the Archives. A young man she has seen a few times in the hallways offers his help and she assures him that there will be a sack barrow in Artefacts when he asks if she needs more than one pair of helping hands.

“That will do,” he says light-heartedly and opens the door for her to step through in front of him. It’s a nice gesture and Gertrude enjoys Tim’s joviality as long as it lasts.

They walk in silence for a moment, their footsteps being the only noise they produce. They echo inside Gertrude’s ribcage and for a moment she thinks fondly of Gerry who’s just waiting for her to get started on their trip to the other temples of the beholding. (She won’t think of it as a capital B, she’s been resisting for so long, she won’t cave now. The pressure to give in and paint her dreams with atrocity is big and strong and all-consuming. Just a flick of her tongue and an almost imperceptible strain on her queries and the knowledge of the world would lie at her feet, waiting for her to be crowned and bestowed a gift that she had always declined politely.)

“Tim Stoker.” The research assistant breaks their silence and her train of thought. Blinking through her dusty glasses, she turns towards him without a falter in his steps. “Pleasant to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Robinson.”

Meeting her stern gaze with a friendly one of his, he smiles at her with something more akin to geniality than politeness. (All of a sudden, she’s standing in front of Michael who laughs with an edge of nervousness shortly before she sends him off to find the door. Unexpectedly, she sees Emma in the way he drags his left foot a little more than his right. Without intention, she sees Eric and Fiona in the freckle-constellations on his bare arms.)

She must avert her eyes, forcibly shaking off the images of trust and anger and disappointment dressed in faces she had known so dearly. So, she attempts to focus on their differences, on his height and cadence and the way that he says her name with distant respect like she’s worthy of note.

“Originally, I applied for a position in the Archives,” Tim says at this moment and Gertrude is present again, emerging victorious from the fight with her demons. (Victorious for now.) “But there hasn’t been an opening in quite some time.”

Nodding in thought, she tells him that the Archives is crewed with only her since 2011 and that she doesn’t intend on changing the way that she works. (Gerry’s not employed by the institute, so it’s safe to be in his company for now.)

“Not going to lie, I’m a bit disappointed at that prospect,” Tim retorts without showing any sign of frustration or letdown. And this is the thing that tips Gertrude off, makes suspicion rise in her gut like the tide after moonrise. Tim Stoker is a strange man with unclear affiliations who explicitly applied to be part of the Archives, part of Gertrude’s team. And who, upon dismissal, took work up in the institute anyways. As if he’d like to keep close, take an eyeful of the progress she’s making.

She studies him again, out of the corner of her eye this time, and asks what persuaded him to apply to the Archives in the first place, carefully keeping the compulsion out of her voice, and he says: “I’ve been working in publishing for a long time but in college I used to work as a research assistant in an archive. I guess it’s work I liked doing.”

The lie slips from his skull directly into the hollowness of her chest, and she can feel the draw of the eye to dig deep into the hidden space behind his heart. But she swallows it down, like she always has, like she always will. Pushes it into a corner not to be touched ever again. (It’s going to rear its ugly head time and time again, but hope is a frail thing with sturdy bones and Gertrude is hell-bent on keeping it alive.)

She tells him that she thinks he would be perfectly suited for the Archives, and she apologises that she can’t offer him a position. But he waves his hand dismissively, laughter in his voice and a quick pip on his tongue: “There will be other times.” But she sure hopes there will not.

 Denouement

Upon entering the storage room, Tim tells her that he doesn’t believe her, that Sasha James is a liar, but he laughs right with her, holding the door open so she can come inside, too.

“I’m not lying,” she replies, breath still caught in her throat. “Jon really did! I saw it with my own two eyes!”

Tim, however, is not listening anymore. He’s mesmerized by an oak chest in the far corner of the room. A curse falls from his lips into the dusty air of the room and it only takes him a few bee-lining steps until he’s right in front of the thing.

“What’s that?” Sasha asks, following him until she’s standing right beside him. Shrugging his shoulders, he tells her that its from Artefacts and Gertrude Robinson asked him to bring it down here for a time being. (A time being that is long over since Artefacts has been renovated and Gertrude Robinson went missing.)

He kneels down to examine the chest because he distinctly remembers Gertrude telling him to not dwell on the contents for too long. Cautiously, he reaches for the escutcheon of the lid, tinged green and matted by disuse.

Sasha catches his hand mid-air. “Should you be touching it?” The levity of their prior conversation is forgotten, a tension hangs in the air between them, filled only by the muted footsteps of Martin and Jon in the hallways. “If it’s an artefact, it could be dangerous.”

Mischievously grinning, he asks her if she’s as thorough and careful in her daily life as she is with the looming possibility of spooky encounters.

Even though her aim is pretty good, he dodges the jab with a laugh he’s sure causes her to smile at least a little. He tells her to live a little, be great and beyond.

“If you had seen the artefacts we were dealing with,” she says, “you wouldn’t be as careless. You’ve read the statements. You’ve worked in Research.”

He sighs and a constricted look settles on his face, almost mirroring the flood of memories knocking him down, only simmered down to something he can actually display within the boundaries of his flesh. She’s right and he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to voice it out loud, so he settles on the one thing he always knew best: Deflection.

Making a pained sound at the back of his throat, he laments his choice of occupation without acknowledging the true intent of it. He tells her that, when Jon had asked him to move down into the Archives with him and Sasha, he hadn’t thought about it twice, had deemed working with his friends favourable to Research where Conrad works, of all people. He had thought, so he says, that working inside of an archive again would feel like home for an anthropology major like him. Field work may be wonderful, he continues, but he loved working nose burrowed in books.

More quietly, he admits that he misses publishing. Misses reading into the late hours of the night, entranced by academic works filled with hypotheses and argumentation. Misses tweaking phrases and correcting spelling, omitting thoughts only worthy of footnotes to force papers into their linear trickle of thoughts. Misses communicating with people beyond horrifying experiences and lived nightmares.

“This really is an awful lot like Research,” Sasha agrees, still eying the chest just like he is. “Artefacts is much the same, really. Just with the additional splash of weariness of life.”

In as much confidence as they can find in an open room, too close to their colleagues, Tim says that the Magnus Institute is the worst academic facility he has ever seen. That if he has to see Sasha staple documents together one more time, he’s going to pull his hair out and quit.

“I don’t understand your problem,” Sasha replies dismissively. “What the hell is wrong with stapling. It’s fun!”

He stares at her incredulously. Then he tries to explain to her why stapling sensitive documents that they are supposed to keep safe and away from harm is most decidedly the opposite of their job description.

“I think you’re overthinking this.”

Pointing at his face, still on his knees in front of her which means that he has to strain his neck to be able to look at her, he asks if he’s even apt to overthink. And once again she tries to shove at him. This time, though, she succeeds but she doesn’t reckon him trying to hold on to her legs to keep himself steady and upright, which only leads to them falling into a heap on the floor.

Laughing and a bit out of breath, she shoves at him again, trying to free herself to get standing again.

When she manages to upright herself again, she says: “You should stop being quite as overdramatic.” He points at his face once more and mouths Who? Me? at her, feigning a look of innocence. “And you should call Artefacts, so they can come and collect their cursed chest or whatever.” Still pointing at himself, he mouths again Who? Me? This time, however, with fake indignation plastered over his face.

“Yes you, yes you, yes you,” Sasha singsongs, shoving at him for the last time, pressing him into the floor, before she finally gets up and starts to head for the door. “And because of your blatant neglect of your duties,” she’s gesturing towards the chest over her shoulder which, admittedly, looks rather silly, “and your implication– no, your malicious defamation of one Sasha James, I’m going to leave you to rummage through these boxes all on your own.”

She leaves the storage room, and he can hear the echo of her footsteps, while he loudly mourns her absence and begs for her to come back. The laughter, however, that rings out of the hallway, makes it absolutely clear that he has no choice but to suffer on his own.

(If he’s nice enough, and Tim’s confident that he is, then Martin may have mercy with him and join him on their combined quest to conquer the Archives.)

[solesurvivorpaigeargot]

Loving Stupid - Chapter One: Sanctuary [Fallout 4 Fanfiction]

HELLOOO Tumblr! Now that I’ve got this blog up and running, I wanted to do what I could to expand the exposure of my fic and get it around to new readers. While it’s already up on Fanfiction.net , it seems to me that the majority of the community prefers Ao3 or reading directly here on Tumblr. So, I figure why not post it over here as well? 

Though a heads up that this first chapter was first written entirely for personal enjoyment, and then a friend I showed it to encouraged me to expand upon the story cause they wanted to see more of the ship. XD It’s uh... lil spicy. Or lemony, depending on how old you are and how far back your fic vocab goes.

Story Title: Loving Stupid

Story Summary: Paige [Sole Survivor] and Hancock venture into the Glowing Sea in pursuit of a lead on the Institute, when a catastrophic equipment failure forces them to separate. 

Rating: MATURE

Content Warnings for this Chapter: Sexual content, drugs, alcohol, cursing

Content Warnings for story overall: Sexual content, drugs, alcohol, cursing, violence, blood, injury, needles, limb mutilation

Genre: .... erotic romance-adventure? IDK shit goes down and there’s some spicy scenes, but also a lot of character building and relationship stuff. I’m bad at genre assessment. Open to suggestions XD

.:_Sanctuary_:.

“So these are your digs, huh? … can't say it's my speed.”

“Not historical enough?”

“Nah, it's...”

Paige watched Hancock's face twist as he struggled to pick out what word fit his distaste, ghoulish features creating sharp valleys along fault lines in leathery skin while the shiny dark of his eyes appraised the home she'd built atop one of the empty foundations of Sanctuary Hills.

It wasn't anything special, wooden planks coaxed together into floors, walls, and roofing with nails and elbow grease. This was the only settlement where Paige had a place that was specifically hers, where she kept the little knickknacks and oddities she collected; all dutifully looked after by Codsworth-- ever dedicated to his task two centuries after it had been assigned to him. She'd given some life to the wooden bones of the shack, however; recycled fabrics became rugs and curtains with only mildly clashing patterns, and she even managed to cobble a number of worn out flannel shirts into a workable set of sheets for a double-wide bed that was, in truth, just a pair of smaller mattresses pushed together to pretend they were a queen size.

What could she say? She liked to sprawl.

Generators lit up Sanctuary at night with bare bulbs, and her little shack was no different. It brought yellow light against the dark, and reflected off a multitude of glass bottles, lined up on the shelves of a bureau she'd rescued, mostly intact, from the home of a long-dead neighbor. Whiskey, vodka, wine-- she jokingly called it her liqueur cabinet, despite the thing not having doors to lock the alcohol behind.

She'd done her best to make this a where place she could sleep soundly, when she was in the area. It was little more than a bed, a roof, and a lot of junk on shelves; insulated from the outside world with some sewn-together fabric scraps... but stepping over the threshold always made her feel like she'd entered a sort of... bubble. Not safe-- nowhere was safe-- but... quiet.

She could pretend, here.

“Comfortable.” Hancock decided, grousing out the word. “Damn near cozy-- you put this together?”

“With my own two hands.” She informed him; trust Hancock to find an issue with comfort-- then again, she couldn't blame him. Comfortable people had a habit of being complacent people, and they both knew that was where a lot of ugliness could happen... but his opinion didn't stop her from stepping inside and divesting herself of the pieced together armor that she layered over a set of somewhat over-sized army fatigues, reclaimed after clearing an old base of ferals. There was a wooden bin by the door for that stuff; she'd have to strap it all back on in the morning... but for now she was grateful to take a load off, starting with an enameled metal helmet.

“I've watched those hands beat faces to a bloody pulp. I didn't figure they could sew.”

She scoffed at him, rolling her eyes as she heard him trudge inside anyhow, metal door closing behind him, and set herself to the straps that kept her secured within the bits of metal and leather that frequently kept her alive on the road. Left arm first, a metal shoulder piece coming loose, and the whole ritual making her feel as if she were shedding skin.

She didn't tell him that she might have been a housewife a few centuries ago-- that was a different life. The idea that someone could live so cushy as to devote themselves to home-making and nothing else was a fever dream in this age, and while Hancock probably had enough chems in his pockets to attempt imagining it, she didn't feel like trying to paint the picture for him.

She didn't want to know what he'd think of her, knowing just how... comfortable she'd been.

“I'm a woman of many talents.” She snarked instead as another heavy piece of metal thumped into the bin, freeing up the shoulder beneath to roll and stretch. “Don't worry about getting used to it-- this is a one night stop. First thing in the morning, I'm seeing to the upgrades on the armor, and then back on the-- ah--”

Hands-- surprisingly strong hands despite withered skin that clung to spindly bones. She didn't know how that worked-- Hancock wasn't a big man, and the ghoulishness made her think he'd be frail... instead he'd hefted a flamer onto his back when he set out with her, and carried it from one end of the Commonwealth to the other without complaint. Finding those hands suddenly assisting with undoing the straps at her sides so that her chest piece could come loose was a surprise; simple and sure movements causing the scavenged military combat armor to come loose and slide forward. Without an anchor, it slid forward until the hard edge of the back plate caught on her neck and stopped it from simply falling to the floor. Meanwhile, Hancock's hands had slid in along her ribs, pressing firmly into the rough fabric and reminding her that they were, for the first time in a while, blissfully alone.

“I'm aware of that.”

Her lips pressed together-- a low sigh was expressed with his rough whisper in her ear. She swore he knew how much that got to her, despite her very deliberately not telling him. It was a struggle not to react, not to lean back as he reeled her in, those spidery hands easily finding their way upwards beneath the hanging breastplate and his chin perching on her shoulder. He'd pulled them together, his body against hers, and punctuated the move with a mischievous chuckle.

“Sometimes a little too talented-- doin' everything yourself, despite having a public servant waiting in the wings.” He teased her. “Let a ghoul help, eh sister?”

It wasn't entirely unexpected, nor unwelcome, but his eagerness was something that caught her off guard. She usually had something to say, something sly to come back with, but for some reason all she could focus on was the ticklish clutch of her gut as his fingers gathered up the material of her shirt in their traveling to her bust, squeezing fitfully enough to expose an inch of skin at her belly.

“Hancock--” She muttered, squirming slightly, but not in earnest. “C'mon, we've got the whole night--”

“That's right.” He agreed, but it was with an entirely different tone. One hand remained up, keeping her tight to him, while the other traveled down. The thin ribbon of skin that had been exposed was soon graced with the specific texture of his skin; rough, but not terribly so. Like callous, only it was all over; somewhat leathery and unique. His entire palm invaded through that opening, hard against her belly as fingertips sought out a path further south. “We've got the whole night-- and I didn't plan on wastin' any of it...” His fingers were ruthless once they found purchase, shoving past the tight fit provided by a belt she was wearing. “Did you?”

Her breath shuddered. No part of her wanted to tell him no-- the rush was enough to make her ignore the metal edge digging into the back of her neck, and forget how doggedly exhausted she'd been after their long trek here... particularly lugging her own weight in lead along the way.

In her hesitation, he'd gotten far enough to make a more intimate contact-- damnably persistent, like ivy finding the cracks in brickwork to wheedle its way in.

He pressed in against her, too certain to be deterred by straps and clothes. Barriers had been passed without any show of manners, knowing her well enough that if he was unwanted she would have thrown him off by now... and getting a sweet gasp as his reward.

“There we go.” His smile was evident in his tone-- no, not a smile, a grin-- a smug, shit-eating grin. She could imagine how it looked on his face, and knew he'd be wearing it for hours just to make her glare at him.

It didn't matter. Everything he'd done so far was just testing the water in his puckish, incorrigible way. Now he had her, and his wrist twisted as he worked that hand just a little further into her pants before slipping a fingertip against soft flesh. The motion was a sort of rocking of his hand, sliding the single offending finger down between sensitive lips before drawing back upwards with the tip pressed in, working up a little warmth in general and offering up a little tantalizing pressure to wake up the sweet spot for later, stroking her like that as his hips pitched against hers to turn her away from the bin next to the door and instead face her against the closed portal they'd entered through, reinforcing that he had her.

Without thinking, her right hand came out to brace against the door. Cold metal barely registered, just that it gave her something to push back against as he leaned in harder against her back, idly kneading her breast as he stroked her beneath restrictive layers of cloth and leather.

“O-oh... damnit, Hancock--”

“I was thinking fuck it, actually.” He smirked, still right by her ear for that quip before finally leaning back the necessary inches and releasing her breast to help her get her armor the rest of the way off, falling to the floor with a hard thud instead of getting placed in the bin. Pitching his shoulders back, hips pressed forward, grinding against her to advertise himself against her rump. “... just like this...” He added, losing a little breath as he suggested it, that free hand of his coming right back as if magnetically drawn, this time landing at the top of her hip and sliding upwards to expose a few more inches of skin-- his palm on her back, pushing with his surprising strength to encourage her to bend forward.

Bend over, actually.

She got his meaning, groaning softly as his stroking remained steady. She didn't resist the push, her hand shifting against the wall as her body dipped lower and her own free hand fumbled with the latch for her belt. The strip of leather resisted her, frustrating her fingers for a few agonizing moments as the sensation of his hand brought on another faint sigh, slipping against her with more ease as her body reflected her own eagerness; building with the anticipation. Then, finally, she managed to yank it just the right way for the latch to loose, the pressure of having his hand shoved in where it was such a tight fit relived, and further tugging releasing the subsequent button and zipper before they became obstacles... and before her hands became utterly uncooperative.

The loosened hem could be yanked down on his side, exposing more precious skin to the evening chill that crept in through the walls. Gnarled knuckles hooked on the hem, and fingertips got her underwear in the same dragging motion that demanded quick access. The lower she bent, the more he leaned against her, miming what would come in due time. It wasn't until he had her ass bare, pants and underwear drug down below the swell of her hips, that he finally pulled his own body back the inches necessary to attend to a few layers of fabric himself... but he didn't let off touching her as quickly. The hand that exposed her lingered, fingertips ghosting the sensitive skin just below the curve of her rump and sending a tingle across her skin, before his weathered palm pressed up and squeezed hard, his thumb sliding up to the top of her hip while his fingers rotated down. Finally, he finished up the groping with a light swat, chuckling behind her.

“Fuck you look so good like this...” He marveled, and she could hear layers of fabric moving against each other. “I just wanna wreck you.”

“Shut up and-- nnnnnnnh--”

She couldn't see him, but she felt him; hard and hot against her skin, pressed first between her thighs before he adjusted himself upwards. His finger's rubbing of her had paused, that hand simply anchored there as, from the rear, he worked himself against her, dragging the tip of himself this way and that until he found just the right angle to slick himself up with her excitement... and making her crave him in the process as she flexed her hips back towards him, trying to make it easier for him.

Somehow, some fucking how, she'd gone from exhausted to needy in the span of only a few minutes. It was the kind of eagerness that usually belonged to the young and dumb-- insanity she thought she'd left behind in her teen years, but he always found a way to draw it out of her.

She had no idea how he did that, but she never wanted it to change.

“Yeah?” His voice had dropped, the word barely differentiated from the heavy sigh it was carried out on. “C'mon, you can moan for me... no one's gonna hear you this time...”

More of him, pressing between wet lips-- and then more; there was resistance, going for it quick like this always meant it was a little rough, but it was the kind of sensation that left her gasping aloud as she went from craving that feeling of him to having him sink into her and remind her just how good it felt. Imagination, memory-- it always fell short, not quite living up to what it was in the immediate reality of the moment. Friction and heat, bound up in an intimate need-- just as addicting as any of the chems he slipped into her pockets whenever he thought she looked strung out.

Out of reflex, her jaw clenched tight, denying the urge to moan aloud and her body clenching around him instead. Both hands had applied themselves to the wall, and her breath shook as teeth ground together, resisting.

“Oh shit-- fuck-- if you squeeze me like that, I'm gonna...”

His hips bucked forward after a short draw back, the hand he'd been using to guide himself against her now finding its way to anchor at the crease that formed between her hip and her body as she bent against the wall, yanking her tight against him with the same motion before coming to a sharp stop. She could feel him inside, throbbing and thick, and the jolt made her jaw drop open for a short exclamation to escape her.

Buried, he began to rub her from the front again, abandoning the long strokes he'd used to warm her up and instead zeroing in on where she was most sensitive. Where his opening moves had all been about pressure with maximum contact, he changed tactics to only flick across her with the tip of his finger, instigating another tightening of her body as her resistance to making noise produced a shudder instead.

“D-don't--” She finally managed to murmur. “Oh God-- Hancock, you don't have to--”

This was a quickie-- an opener. She didn't expect this kind of attention; he always made up for it later, after a little Jet got him going again. This was usually the part where he took her by the hips with both hands and went to town, but instead he held her to keep them both tightly together, all while--

“F-fuck--” A whispered curse, kept lower than a murmur, followed by a greedy breath. He wasn't letting up, despite her telling him he didn't need to bother. She tried to push herself back against him, to antagonize him, but his fingers only tightened their grasp on the side of her hip as he leaned forward over her, ensuring that he was the one in control.

A defined clutch passed through her, centered at her core.

“Oh fuck-- mmmm--!”

“There you go... c'mon, let it out...” He coaxed her, rocking himself back in another short motion before jolting back into her again, letting out a guttural sound of his own as he did so. “Lemme hear you...”

It was an old habit to hold back, to grit her teeth and hold her breath-- anything to keep quiet. Her own fingers, once splayed open against the metal door, curled inwards into fists as the sensation built up, deep and desperate gasps getting drawn in through her nose as her jaw remained tightly closed, lips pressing hard against each other as she hummed and swallowed. Her head dropped down, his touch taking more and more of her focus.

Old habits were hard to break, but he was a new habit. One that liked to push at her old habits and see how long they'd stick.

Toes curled inside her boots, eyes closed without thinking. There was no thinking-- no, just her perception of him; the weight of his body against hers, the grip of his hand, and sound of his breath, all as her body underwent jolts that made her hips continue to try and rock back against his, one of her hands eventually lifting and banging back onto the door as the sensation turned briefly sharp, jaw loosing for a raw gasp between her lips and a guttural groan. “F-Fuck Hancock, you're gonna--- oh-- oh-- shit--”

“Rub you raw?” He completed the thought she was trying to articulate, drawing in a heavy breath of his own. His own hips rocked now, a minimal motion of a man that could barely help himself. “Wouldn't... wouldn't dream of it... just love the way you squeeze...”

The rocking changed things, introduced that delightful sensation that scratched the ineffable itch he'd aroused in her. Pressure and friction as he kept up his assault on her sensitivity made her knees wobble with a threat to give out, breath viciously driven out of her lungs in a single erotic moan.

“Fuck...” He murmured emphatically. “Sing for me babe... it's so pretty...” He encouraged her, pressing his face against the back of her neck as he kept a steady tempo. He was fully against her, laid over her back and abandoning his grasp on her hip to reach forward, those thin fingers of his stealing beneath the buttoned blouse of her fatigues and taking a demanding grasp on her breast; stalled only momentarily by the worn elastic band of her bra. The heel of his hand ground upwards at first, pressing in against her ribs, before he was pulling on her again, ensuring she remained anchored against him as he kept up the rocking motion he'd adopted over more conventional thrusting.

“Ah... ah shit... shit- shit-- J-John, oooooh... oh fuu...”

She lost the thread of why she'd been protesting in the first place. Her jaw fell open, and another moan came out; louder as everything began to come together. The movement, his insistent grasp, that very specific sense of fullness within her body and the craving it both satisfied and aggravated at the same time--

“Yeah?” He breathed against her ear. “You gettin' there, sweet thing? … good... I wanna feel it... And once you're over the edge, I'm gonna rail you until I burst.”

A thrill ran through her, like electricity that danced along her spine. Now that he'd articulated his intention, she wanted it, too.

“C-close...” She whimpered, nodding her head faintly. “J-just like that... l-little higher... rub a little higher... little circles around my-- oh- oh god- there- fuck yes-- there--!!”

Feverishly murmured coaching that directed his stroking where the craving was strongest sent her further than she expected to go, her head and chest dipping lower as her elbows bent and her forearms joined her hands in being braced against the door, a defined shaking running through her person as she went up to her toes and the rubber soles of her boots dug into the floor, further flexing her hips back in the desperation to have that sense of fullness as her body seemed to anchor itself on where they were intertwined. More than just laying open, her jaw stretched for her cry out with the rush.

His grip on her changed. He wasn't leaned over her anymore, but pitched back as both of his hands found their way to her hips.

God, she could feel him; the meeting of their bodies dominated her brain as she felt him throb within her shortly before he changed to much more active motions. There, again, was that surprising strength as he drew back and adjusted himself just low enough to begin taking her roughly, groaning between sharp breaths as his hips shocked against her rump with every thrust.

Her body was still squeezing, still rippling from what he'd just put her through, aware of the force in his every motion as he drove into her tightly clenched core.

“A-aah... aaanngh--!!”

A hitch, and his voice gave out for a more primal noise, his motions growing more hurried as she felt his nails digging into her hips. There'd probably scratches to attend to later-- not the first time. His breath juddered, followed by a gasp before it was held a moment. All at once, everything came to a halt, a shuddering swell moving up through his flesh that came shortly before a certain warmth spread within her; passed from him to her.

He claimed a sharp breath after, followed by a relieved exhale as his hands loosened. He didn't release her just yet, but he wasn't clutching quite so hard anymore.

“...shit that felt too good...” He muttered faintly as she tried to regain her own breath. One hand and forearm remained braced on the door, but the other had released to reach backwards for him, flexing her fingers to show she desired another kind of contact, and getting one of his hands in return for the non-verbal gesture. Once intertwined, she squeezed him, and let out a faint and almost girlish giggle.

“Too good...?” She quested, surprised he'd ever entertain the concept.

“Damn right.” He lobbed back, squeezing in return. “It's the kind of good a guy gets addicted to... Gotta find us some privacy a little more often.”

Don't have to tell me twice.

This was about the point where bodies needed to come apart; signaled by their hands drifting away from one another after that comforting squeeze... but that process was interrupted.

There was a knock at the metal door Paige was braced up against.

“General? Do you have a moment?”

… Preston, your timing is a disaster.

She recognized the voice in a heartbeat, and it was exactly the sort of person who had previously voiced his disapproval of her and Hancock's partnership... and he didn't even know about the more intimate details of said partnership. There was a shock associated to hearing his voice at this particularly compromised moment, one that made her face flush as she was excessively thankful for the solid door between them.

More thankful that he hadn't shown up a few minutes ago, when he might have heard a thing or two through that door.

Behind her, she more felt than heard Hancock's muted chuckle.

“I'm a little occupied at the moment, Garvey.” Paige answered back through the door; not entirely a lie. “Is it urgent?”

“Just a couple questions I'd like to ask, that's all.” Preston's voice answered back. “Security concerns.”

That was code for yes, it's urgent to me. Preston had been very particular about security ever since she assigned him to it. Making him wait would prompt more questions later, and possible lost trust with him and his group.

Despite very much not wanting to, it sounded like she was going to need to put her clothes back on for a little while.

“Just a minute, I'll be right out.” She informed him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Awee...” Hancock quietly cooed, easing himself away from her. “No cuddle time?”

Finally able to straighten up, she shot a look back at him that encouraged him to shut his face before she broke some part of it in lieu of his mostly missing nose... before cracking a smirk. “There's a bathroom behind that partition--” She directed him quietly, muting her voice to lower the chance it would carry. “No hot water, but it's clean.”

“Heh, ritzy.” Hancock smirked back. Looking at him, she was able to see exactly how ruffled his coat and blouse had ended up, with trousers only shifted just enough out of the way to get away with what they'd just done. He hadn't made any motion to arrange himself back into those trousers, though, appearing all too comfortable to just let it all hang out. “Is that your way to telling me to put it on ice? Cause if anyone needs cleaning up right now, it's you.”

He was right; she was a sticky mess between the thighs, and standing upright allowed for dripping between her legs. Usually she would have insisted on some clean cloth and water to manage that with, but at the current moment? She reached down and simply pulled pants and underwear back up, zipping, buttoning, and straightening both bra and blouse until it was impossible for anyone to know what they'd been up to by simply looking at her... and with only him aware of the specific nature of what was probably going to end up staining her undergarments.

“I'll make you clean it up, later.” She informed him playfully. “It's your mess.”

“Oooh... dirty.” He chuckled. “Don't threaten me with a good time.”

Her look hardened, making a motion at him that encouraged him to shoo-- the last thing she needed was to open the door and have Garvey catch a glimpse of her companion with his dick out. Hancock pouted at her, but ultimately obeyed.

With a sigh, she turned herself back towards the door, hesitated a moment, and then finally grasped the handle to push it open and head out.

Doing so was not unlike a splash of cold water to the face. Twilight was a good hour past, and the night sky was filled with stars without a single cloud to obscure them. There was a stiff wind tonight; enough to snap Garvey's trench coat against his legs and make the man pull up the swell of his scarf a little more to protect his nose and cheeks.

Going from the relative comfort of her little home-made haven, as well as the heat of her recent encounter, into the abrupt chill of the night with a sharp wind in her face could have only been more of a shock to the system if it had been raining.

As she emerged, Garvey looked back to appear in profile to her. The man was always at the ready, laser rifle held upright over his chest and his eyes brightly aware despite the dark of the night. Paige's shack was at the far end of Sanctuary; away from where she'd built housing for the other residents, as well as where she'd set up crops, power generators, and water. Looking down the slight hill her shack sat upon at Preston meant also seeing the lights of the settlement beyond him; the faint yellow glow of something that could almost be called a town as the back-drop to his silhouette and shining gaze.

“Garvey.” She greeted him by his last name; it felt more professional, what with him always insisting on calling her General since she'd helped him revive the Minuet Men and retake their old headquarters. “What can I do for you?”

“Like I said, I just had a few questions...” He answered, peering further up and towards the shack. She couldn't see his face; her abode featured no outdoor lights, and with the glow of the settlement behind him his features were cast in shadow. “... where's the ghoul?”

The ghoul. She could practically taste the disapproval on that one.

“Hancock is taking this chance to wash some of the wasteland out of his clothes.” She responded. “Is your security concern about him?”

“No, no, of course not. If you trust him, that's enough for me.” Preston assured her. “But, uh...”

“Out with it, Garvey.” She ordered sternly.

“I was manning the watch when you came back to Sanctuary, General-- I saw you brought back your power armor, and it looked like you were carrying a heavy load of supplies. I know you'd tell me if anything were coming for us here, but... I didn't see any of it go out with the traders, and that made me worry. So, I've gotta ask; do you think something nasty is coming up this way?”

She blinked. Preston thought she was stockpiling for an incoming threat. She almost wanted to laugh aloud, but couldn't manage it. Instead, she stepped down from her place above him on the hill, coming to stand at his side while still looking out at the settlement.

“No,” She answered him. “Nothing's coming here. I'm preparing for a journey into dangerous territory... I need to upgrade my armor before we head out, and we needed a safe place to rest our heads before we committed. I want every advantage we can get under us before we go.”

A pause. Whatever he expected to hear, that wasn't on the list.

“... General, you know all you'd have to do is say the world, and I'd--”

“I'm going somewhere you can't follow, Garvey.” She responded flatly. Of course he wanted to go with her, probably wanting to convince her to take him instead of Hancock. He considered himself more capable, more trustworthy; the better choice on all fronts.

She'd disagree with him outright, but Hancock also had a very specific advantage over Garvey that would leave him no grounds to argue on.

“I'm going into the Glowing Sea.”

Silence. The pause stretched out for several beats, no doubt as Preston processed what exactly it was she was saying.

“... I see. The armor will protect you from most of the radiation, and your companion is immune.” He observed. “... smart choice.” He added, begrudgingly, before asking, “But why are you going in there? Even with the armor, you're going to need to be carrying your weight in medicine to even have a hope of making it back alive...”

“It's important. That's all I can say right now.”

A month or two ago, she might have told him. Before getting involved with the Underground Railroad, before encountering a synth and the person they were trying to replace at the same time and very nearly killing the wrong one during the confrontation, before learning exactly how the institute dealt with people they didn't want to have around anymore... But now? There was doubt in her mind, about almost everyone. Was Preston really Preston? Or was he just another set of eyes and ears for them? If she mentioned a defector, hiding out in the Glowing Sea, would they somehow beat her to that defector and kill them?

She couldn't risk it. This was her line on Shaun, on her son. Right now, the only person she trusted was the one who was going with her; Hancock... and even he didn't know exactly why they were going.

Granted, he hadn't asked.

“... You're sure about this?” Preston quested quietly.

She scoffed. “... barely.” She answered back. “But it's the only way forward I have right now.”

She'd already decided on a direction. Her doubts didn't matter anymore.

“Then I suppose the only thing to do is wish you luck.” He sighed, turning to face her and taking a hand off the stock of his laser rifle to offer it to her. She, in kind, turned to him and took it, sharing a firm shake. “Whatever you're facing, if there's anyone who can survive it, it's you. You already provisioned?”

“Been buying out all the Rad Away and Rad-X I can find.” She confirmed. “Cleaned out every trader between here and Diamond City. Tomorrow morning I take all the lead I've collected and upgrade the power armor to withstand the radiation... and then we'll be suiting up and heading out.” She paused, withdrawing her hand from his. There was something else that had to be said; something she'd been hoping to save until they were on their way out, so there'd be no space to argue about it... but now was probably the kinder time to say it. “Garvey, if I don't come back--”

“You're coming back.” He interrupted.

“If I don't,” She pressed. “You'll be back in charge of the Minute Men. You can't hesitate from that. We've got enough supplies to last a day out there-- maybe two or three if we find a place to shelter that's not soaked in rads, like a cave or a pre-war bomb shelter that's somehow intact. If I don't come back to Sanctuary within that time? You need to take over properly and keep up the fight.”

He was quiet. He didn't like it.

“... I don't know if I can live up to what you've done for us, Paige.” He admitted, softly. “But... if it comes to that, I'll do my best by you.”

“... that's all we can do out here, Preston.” She affirmed in kind. “I know you're the man for the job.”

“Let's try not to find out.” He rebutted.

That time, she let out a faint laugh. “Don't worry.” She told him. “I'll be doing my best, too.”

__________

Chapter One: You are here Chapter Two: [hasn’t been posted to Tumblr yet, will add link when I’ve got it up... oor you could just go read the story so far on Fanfiction XD]

If you enjoyed reading this, please consider reblogging it to help me find a wider audience! <3

[t4t4t]

On the rebellions following the murder of Oscar Grant, 01/01/2009 / verdict of not guilty of murder on 07/08/2010

When we realized that, in the eyes of the powerful, our lives are just piles of bones waiting to be shattered, arteries and veins on the verge of tearing open, hearts and lungs that stop beating and expanding at the moment they pull the trigger, the only thing left to do was to come together and make them tremble before us.

Everyone saw the video. At least it seemed that way at the time. A young father's last breaths press against a cold train platform, a cop holsters his firearm and calmly pulls out his handcuffs. Why would they kill an unarmed man with so many people around? Why don't we know how to respond?

I wanted to break windows, to set fires, to strike fear into every cop on the streets that night. I wanted to show the powerful that they, too, would learn the meaning of violence, just as we have been forced to learn it time and time again. They needed to understand that we don't forget, we needed to feel that we were still alive.

Today, the situation is every bit as dismal as it was yesterday. Every hour of our lives spent at work creates the revenue that strengthens the army that confronts us. In Stockton, in Livermore, in Bakersfield; the police continue to open fire on us, we continue to die. We have yet to create a force that can subject them to the misery that will one day confront them, however, we have come closer than we ever thought we would.

Until now, we believed we were fighting battles. On the day of a demonstration, we walked the streets, we fought, and we went home that night, unsure of what to do in the time until the next battle presented itself.

Today, we understand that we are at the beginning of a war. Wars are protracted conflicts. Their results aren't determined at the end of the day. The police have killed again, and, as of today, our response has been less than forceful. In warfare, it is necessary to develop weapons.

We need to learn new tactics. There is still so little we really know how to do. We could learn how to blockade roads or shut down BART trains. With better communication, we could attack police property or raid supplies in places where the cops aren't waiting for us. We are working toward developing the capacity to respond forcefully every time the police kill one of us.

This movement has never had leaders. It is composed of independent and often disconnected groups of people. These groups tend to operate outside of the typical political and social justice networks. So far, their autonomy, their lack of reliance on both the non-profit world and the radical political scenes, has been a strength. We all come from vastly different places, and many people may not be willing to work with one another. Therefore, the point isn't to try to bring everyone together into one organization. What is important is to begin providing supplies to people to assist their ability to continue to struggle autonomously.

...

That night, the night of the verdict, we were reminded how little our lives mean to this system, and that police officers do, in fact, get away with murder.

Demanding justice is not enough. The concept of justice for an individual doesn't address the need to dismantle the system that murdered him. It doesn't prevent any of us from being killed by the police. What is important now is not speaking in terms of justice, but attacking and weakening the institution of policing that continues to wage war against us.

For people who hold the weight of the earth on their shoulders, the fastest way from the bottom to the top is to turn the world upside down, to throw the property of the rich into the street and to dance on the roofs of police cars instead of riding in the back seats.

...

“When the South has trouble with its Negroes – when the Negroes refuse to remain in their ‘place’ – it blames ‘outside agitators’” --- James Baldwin

The term "outside agitator" was popularized during the civil rights struggles of the 1950s, when southern politicians would blame the growing unrest in exploited black communities on the presence of (often white) radicals from outside of the city. Presently, it is a term used by Oakland politicians (and aspiring politicians) to try and keep the situation under control, to prevent local marginalized people from realizing the power they have.

Today, we face enemies that we could have never conceived of before this.

Sometimes, it's the people that pretend to be on your side that are the most dangerous enemies. The non-profit world has, for 18 months, waged a campaign against this movement.

Many non-profits that function independently of the local government have disparaged us. They oppose collective uprisings and spontaneous activity because they feel the need to control the movement. These organizations view themselves as they saviors of the downtrodden; when dominated people rise up on their own terms, it threatens the position of leadership these organizations occupy in their imaginary worlds.

We have also come under attack from non-profits that operate entirely under the influence of the city government. One of these city-funded non-profits has taken up a full fledged assault against us, using some of the $2 million in city money they have received to wage a propaganda campaign against the unity we have found with each other through this struggle. They have even used city money to pay young people to come to their indoctrination workshops where they speak of the evils of people coming together and standing up to their enemies.

They have also helped to spread the absurd logic of the Mayor's Office that only people born and raised in Oakland have the right to take to the streets. This micro-nationalism is an attempt to foster collaboration between disenfranchised people and their exploiters in a unified front against the enigmatic "outsiders."

It is incorrect to assert that non-profits of this type have motivations of their own. They are simply the hip mouthpieces of the city government that funds them. Their agenda is the agenda of the Mayor's Office and the police department. They use the language of "peace" to try to preserve the institutions that created them. We have never been concerned with their peace. The peace of the powerful is the silent war waged against the dispossessed.

In the past, our enemies have attempted to divide movements distinguishing the "good" elements from the "destructive" elements. This time, it seems that the primary division they created was not between the "peaceful" and the "violent" but a racial division wedged between groups in the uncontrollable elements in an attempt to neutralize our collective strength.

[sea-side-scribbles]

Fanfiction: Sympathy For A Downer

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22737214/chapters/75525395

Chapter 56

Nick ran all the way back home while Arthur’s words were taking a toll on his mind. The more he heard, the more horrified he became.

Stop taking Joy! Leave the town forever!

All the bad things Downers would probably pester a Wellie’s poor soul with. 

Arthur had never bothered him with that before and Nick had thought he never would. 

What if Arthur was not the kind of person Nick thought he was? 

What if there was still a bad side in Arthur that Nick didn’t see? 

Why would anyone leave? 

Why would anyone even not want to take Joy? 

What was Nick thinking trying to live with someone like him? 

What a fool he was! It would never work! 

Heartbroken, he digged a handful of pills out of his pocket but stopped a second later. 

What if an overdose loosened his tongue and made him reveal the whole affair to Morrie?

I was in love with a Downer! Can you believe it? Ha ha, what a funny story!

No, that couldn’t happen! He needed his senses!

Back home, he prepared for another heart-to-heart conversation with Morrie, who must’ve been worried all day. And perhaps disappointed or angry or jealous or all at once. Nick was ashamed and regretted that he had to tell even more lies. He’d rather not talk about it and wished they could forget about everything that happened today.

The house was quiet. He couldn’t even hear the band and went all the way upstairs without meeting anyone. Palpating the door handle, he hesitated, trying to look all calm and innocent, just in case his lover was inside. Instead, he found another surprise.

Opening his door, his gaze fell onto a bouquet of Nightblooming Nonsuches. They bathed the room in red light because someone had closed the curtains and turned off the light to make sure Nick would notice. Nick stared at it with dismay. 

No, it couldn’t be! They must be a gift from Morrie! He didn’t water Arthur’s flowers in ages, they must be already dead!

Nick hurried to his closet and opened a door - the shelf was empty. He opened all the other doors, hoping that he got the shelf wrong - but in the end he found out that there were no flowers in his room except for those on his side table. Nick searched them for any sign, any message that proved them to be freshly bought flowers. 

Finally, he sadly sank down on his couch, realizing that there was no way around this. 

Whatever Morrie was thinking already, absolute silence would only make it worse. But also Nick felt betrayed. Why did Morrie search his stuff? What else did he find? His notes? His letters from James? 

Nick’s heart beat faster while his mind imagined all the disastrous outcomes. 

No,no,no, stop! Calm down!

Nick pressed his eyes shut.

Calm down, he only found some flowers. Perhaps he felt sorry for them, gave them some fresh water and put them on the table because he found them beautiful. Freaking out would only give it all away. Be casual!

Nick took one last glance at the pretty Nonsuches that were actually a nice room decor and then went to take a shower. There was so much he wanted to wash off before he met his lover.

Later, at Morrie’s room, he tried to knock in a casual way but ended up being too loud and harsh.

Well, at least he would hear it.

“Hi“, he said to a surprised Morrie. “Uh, I’m back…“

“I see“, Morrie answered, looking startled. “Is something wrong?“

“No…I don’t know…I guess I was a bit too loud.“

“A bit? You almost gave me a heart attack!“

“Sorry“, Nick said with his most apologetical smile. “Well, if you’re busy, I better leave you alone…“

He started retreating.

“No, wait!“, Morrie shouted after him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come in.“

Nick stopped. Morrie didn’t look like he’d make a scene, so Nick went along. When his lover sat on his bed and waved him over, Nick was thankful for the gesture. He joined the other man and lay his head on his shoulder.

Now come hell or high water.

“Norrie…about what I said this morning…“, Morrie began in a soft tone, “I didn’t mean to accuse you or anything. I don’t think you could hurt anyone. Not even Kitty. Please, believe me.“

Nick now remembered their stupid fight.

“Oh, Morrie“, he sighed and hugged him. “I already forgot it. I was so upset about the news…it had nothing to do with you.“

“You forgot?…And your dreams?“

“They are only dreams, Morrie. Nothing to care about.“

Morrie fell silent.

“Is that why you looked into my closet?“, Nick mentioned the elephant in the room. “Because you were searching for clues?“ 

Morrie eagerly shook his head. “No, I’d never invade your privacy like that! I…I didn’t meant to look…but I saw that weird light…and I noticed the smell…I just had to…Then I saw these poor flowers and couldn’t let them rot like that.“

It was like a heavy weight got lifted from Nick’s heart.

“Oh, I forgot I had them…“, he casually said and laughed.

Morrie now eyed him suspiciously. “Why would you put them in a closet?“

Nick shrugged with emphasis.  “Dunno…maybe so I don’t accidentally kick them over…“

“Who gave them to you? A gardener?“

“No.“ Nick laughed again. “Just some fan…I already forgot the name. But the flowers are pretty, so I kept them.“

Morrie pondered over that. “They must be really fond of you if they make such an effort to get theses flowers for you. They’re very rare.“

“Are they? I don’t know much about flowers…“, Nick said, waving him off. “It’s crazy what fans do to get close to me. Flowers are the least of my concerns. I’m glad Virgil renewed the alarm system.“ He tried another chuckle. “But I can keep them if you like them…“, he purred and looked up to Morrie. It was a sight his lover couldn’t resist most of the time. Always looking up to the taller man, Nick’s expression was both adoring and adorable.

“How old can they be?“, Morrie went on, unfortunately ignoring Nick’s hint. “Did you have them already when we met?“

“Sure….“ Nick put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don’t rack your brain about some plants. I had them already, I remember now I watered them sometimes and then forgot. That’s all.“

Morrie sighed deeply. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?“

Nick’s heart skipped a beat. He acted upset. “Morrie, we already talked about this! I see you were angry about Kitty, what she did was really fucked up, but what’s it this time? A random gift from a fan?“

Morrie shook his head again. “I feel like there’s something you don’t tell me.“

“But what?“ Nick gave him the most innocent look.

“I don’t know…there’s  something between us that I can’t get through.“

Morrie looked so helpless that Nick began to feel sorry for him. His bad conscious woke up again making him regret that he did nothing but to continue with the lies, endure the burning pain in his chest and ignore the senses that yelled at him to stop hurting Morrie and tell the truth.

“You know, it wasn’t there when we met again“, Morrie said after a short pause. “I didn’t feel that you were shutting yourself off. I thought you were sorry for what you did and would do everything for a second chance.“

“But Morrie, I…“

“Please let me finish, Norrie. It’s about us. You made me feel loved again. I even felt ten years younger at your side. I hoped that we left all our old troubles behind, but now it feels like…we’re going through the same mess again. You’re always gone and I don’t know where and when you come back you take a shower first…“

“Hey“, Nick interrupted, “That was only today! And anyway, why wouldn’t I take a shower for you? I felt greasy, okay?“

“Norbert, I’m not dumb! You always showered after you ’met’ one of your birds!“

“And I never showered anyway? Do you think I never wash myself?“

“You know what I mean!“

“Yeah, you mean I was off shagging a fan because I took a shower!“

Morrie shut his eyes for a moment. “Then what is it? If it’s not that, what is it? Sometimes you look so afraid and I don’t know how to help you…or is there something you don’t want me to see? Other times you look like you wanted to apologize and I don’t know what for. No matter how close we are physically I can’t get through to you. What’s happening?“

Nick, who had blown off steam, felt sorry again. Morrie’s words hit him hard. Everything he did to hide all the trouble from his lover obviously failed and now he could only try to glue the shreds back together.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be distant! Of course I want this to work! I can’t imagine my life without you! I want you to feel loved, Morrie! I didn’t change my mind or anything…“

He decided to stroke the other man’s back as an attempt to shorten the distance between them. Morrie’s gaze was mild, but nothing more. “What is it, Norrie?“

“Uh…well, my entire life is changing again, I’m stressed out sometimes…“

“None of that shit!“, Morrie blurted out and Nick backed away. “I want the truth! Just a tiny bit of the truth! Can you do that for me? For us?“

“Morrie, I promise you…“

“No promises anymore! This isn’t getting us nowhere! You keep promising and vowing ever since we met! I can’t believe anything as long as there’s this barrier around you!“

Nick gulped down all the other promises and fell quiet, staring at his feet.

“You could start with where you’ve been“, Morrie offered him, even sounding softer.

“At therapy“, Nick said promptly. It came out quite confidently because it was half true.

“And where is that? What’s your doctor’s name?“

“It’s at the Health Institute of course. His name is James.“

“James?“ Morrie lifted an eyebrow.

“Er, Doctor James.“

“Doctor James?“

“Yeah…he and some assistants…I keep forgetting their names.“

Morrie squinted his eyes. “And if I’d go there with you, they would know you, right?“

“Of course!“ Nick put his hands into this pockets because they had started to shiver.

“So, next time, we go there together.“

“You don’t need a doctor, Morrie.“

“You know what I mean.“

“But…you’d waste your time. You’d go all the way to the Parade, hand me in, and then what? Wait? You know the process takes hours sometimes. Or just go back?“

“All I want is to know if you’re telling me the truth!“

“Morrie, look at me!“ Nick knelt down before him. “I’m clean! You couldn’t handle me if I was high…“

It was the first time Morrie nodded. “That’s true. You didn’t take anything since we met…Whatever you’re doing, it works.“

“It works because real doctors help me.“

Morrie eyed him, observing the man at his feet who went back to his adoring look.

“But next time you go there, I’ll come with you, alright?“

„Okay“, Nick said without blinking.

There was a short moment when everything seemed to be alright again. Then Morrie stood up.

“So, it’s nothing? All my worries are a hallucination and everything is actually fine?“

Nick got up, too. “I’m sorry that you feel like this. Perhaps we’re both stressed out. You didn’t have a band for a long time and…“

“It’s not the band!. They’re lovely as always! I never had a problem with them!“

“Really? We were fighting about a song again. You let it out on me, but you could’ve scolded them too.“

“Oh god, don’t tell me it’s because of our fight. I regret what I said…“

“I know, it’s okay. We’ll probably fight again. It’s fine. But I don’t believe it leaves you cold…You’re ambitious, Morrie. You really care about where we’re going, musically, and I love that part of you. I bet you’re already thinking about what we’ll do next. You were writing a piece, right?“

He caught Morrie off-guard with that. His cheeks turned a soft tone of pink.

“I…er…it’s nothing, really…I was just experimenting with something new and…No! Don’t change the subject! There’s something wrong, I know it!“

“Just give me a chance! Maybe it’s going away! I’ll focus more on what you need, and you’ll tell me what you want.“

“You mean, apart from the truth?“

Nick fell quiet and did his best to look hurt. The pain in his chest had gone numb by now, but he couldn’t bear to hear his own lies anymore. 

Morrie looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and despair. 

“If it’s still there tomorrow…“

“I’ll do my best!“, Nick said eagerly. “Trust me, it’s nothing serious!“

Morrie let out another deep sigh and gave up. “If you say so.“

Nick nodded.

Silence followed, in which Morrie refused to look at Nick and Nick stared at Morrie.

“Are you..busy?“, Nick asked quietly. “Do you want me to go?“

Morrie nodded. “You need some time to think, right, Norrie? Perhaps you find the courage to tell me whatever your problem is. Or perhaps I find that I was only dreaming.“ He opened the door.

Nick hung his head and left. It was probably for the best. Still, he felt defeated. 

In his room, he crawled into his bed and under the blanket. He wanted to hide himself away, to vanish into thin air, even. Then all the trouble would be over and nobody would be hurt anymore. He was sure, if there was a problem in this town, it was himself.

While his tears broke loose, he also felt a bit of self-pity. 

Arthur…

He still felt betrayed. Since when had Arthur been planning all this? All the time he had played the nice Downer, the special Downer, who would never drag him down. Who had given his second chance a meaning that now turned out to be a lie.

Nick had to admit, as much as he loved Morrie and felt loved in return, it seemed like only Arthur had given Nick Lightbearer a second chance. He hadn’t known his past and had simply loved him the way he was - if he had loved him at all. 

Morrie always drew a line between Norbert and Nick. He preferred the first while he despised the second and to be loved, Nick needed to turn back into his former self - whatever that meant. 

Was he really so different now? 

Arthur had never compared him to anyone, with him he had been just Nick, and that had been okay. Well, good old times.

Now he had to let him go. Just like that.

What a payback.

And with Arthur gone and Morrie almost gone, he had his punishment.

If he didn’t learn to hide his secret any better, he’d lose Morrie too. He couldn’t just tell him he betrayed him with a Downer.

Sobbing into his sheets and thinking this over and over again, anger mixed into his shame.

That Downer…why did he even start it in the first place? If he wanted to leave the town, why did he bother with a Wellie? Lure him with a stupid present?

Yeah, everyone wants to shag the Lightbearer, even the Downers! 

And it was probably comfy in his suite, with food and shelter and everything! And especially when that drugged rockstar was stupid enough to…!

Nick threw the blanket away. With a few steps he was at his side table. The vase felt cold in his hands when he took a swing and let it crash against the wall.

The next day, he was awakened by a knock at the door.

“Norrie? Are you awake? It’s already late and we want to jam a bit.“

Nick bobbed up, rapidly blinking, and went to open the door.

“Why don’t you come in?“

“I…I thought you wanted to be alone.“ Morrie eyed him from head to toe.

Nick assumed he wasn’t a very pleasant sight right now.

“No, I was still asleep, as always.“

Nick searched his drawer for a comb and then fixed his hair a little, while Morrie found the remnants of the vase. 

“What happened here? The floor is all wet!“

“I told you I’m clumsy with flowers“, Nick waved him off. “Who cares? Let’s go, the band is waiting.“

He hurried out, not ready to talk about any of his secrets now. He actually looked forward to jamming, to care about nothing but their music for once, since he hadn’t spend a lot of time on it lately. 

Maybe Morrie was right about his musical integrity. 

But anyway, he would change that in the future. He would be a completely new Lightbearer.

Downstairs, he joined the Make Believes.

“Are you okay?“, Brad wanted to know.

Nick cheerfully held up both hands. “Couldn’t feel better.“

“Morrie, you coming or what?“, Chris shouted up the stairs. Nick looked up too, worried that his lover would think too hard about the shattered bouquet. But then he finally arrived and seemed to be fine. 

The jam session was like a life saviour for Nick. He finally forgot time and place for once and merged with a world where he couldn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t even have a deadline. Still, in the late afternoon, they already had a song recorded. When they congratulated each other and their spirits were high, Morrie began to play the mysterious song again. This time, Nick played along and was glad to agree with his lover after all the trouble in the last days. The others soon joined them and for a while they got absorbed in the meditative, calm and thoughtful piece.

After that, Nick had the feeling that a knot inside him had been opened was as at the edge of crying tears of happiness. 

However, when the band decided to celebrate themselves in a pub, Morrie gave Nick a look, and his heart sunk again. Sadly, he told his friends to go without them and promised they’d follow later.

“What is it with you two?“, Chris asked. “It’s like you’re playing a game we’re not part of.“

Matt only gave him a pitiful look, knowing.

“It’s all right between us“, Nick assured them. “We just have to talk something out.“

“Just like every time“, Chris replied.

“Now you’re being unfair. It’s nothing to worry about, really. We’ll be with you soon.“

“Sure“, his friend deadpanned and went out.

Nick then went back to Morrie, preparing himself for whatever the hell he had done wrong now.

“Have you been thinking?“, his lover asked, eyes longing for a ’yes’.

Nick was relieved that is was only that.

“Yeah, all night“, he said and took a deep breath. “You’re right about the promises…I guess I promised you too much too soon and made you think I was already a better person, even though I wasn’t. And now I disappointed you.“

It was hard to look at Morrie but he still tried.

“I didn’t mean to lie… or to play with you. I was just so overwhelmed when you were at my side again and you even wanted me back and give me a chance…I wanted this to work. I didn’t think. I didn’t see how hard it is to turn back into my better self. I’ve been lonely for such a long time, I’ve been begging for attention everywhere and I just fell in love with people…I couldn’t help it. Now I see what I’ve done…again.“

He paused, his gaze directed at the floor.

“I don’t want to blindly follow my feelings anymore. I want to talk to you first, before I act. I really want you back. But I’m afraid you’ll need a lot of patience to deal with someone like me…“

The tears broke out again and his speech ended with heavy sobbing. 

And still, Nick felt a bit more free now, even though he was afraid what Morrie would do if he got the hint. 

Suddenly, Nick was pressed tightly against his lover’s warm body and ended up crying some more on his shoulder. 

“Thank you“, Morrie whispered to his sobbing lover. Then he gently lifted up Nick’s chin to look at him before he pulled him into a kiss. 

For Nick, it was their first real kiss after a long time of lies. Later, Nick rubbed his cheek against Morrie’s chest while Morrie caressed his hair.

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to“, Nick said quietly.

“I think they deserve to know that everything is alright“, Morrie gently replied.

Nick nodded.

“And I’m looking forward to be a team again.“

„Me too.“

They smiled at each other.

Morrie gave him another kiss on the cheek before they went out.

[thatnerdnextdoor24]

on love’s light wings

I'm stuck on quarantine and I hate online lessons. Also, I've had this quote stuck in my head all day. Yes, I know that it's actually "With love's light wings." But I like "on" more, okay? Shakespeare would let me take some liberties. It's fine. Now enjoy the soft gays.

ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The idea of waking up, in a lover’s embrace, had always seemed so romantical and impossibly far away. It sounded like something straight out of one of Tessa's favorite novels. Something that had always had an attractive appeal to Kit. But he knew that if he tried to reach it, to search for it, he would be sorely hurt and disappointed. That was, until it hadn't been. Until the day when Kit had finally dared, he took a leap of faith and found that there was, indeed, someone to catch him.

Ty. 

He had caught him. Easily, with a grace and romance, only a Shadowhunter Centurion could have. That seemed so long ago. Lifetimes ago. Yes, the Kit that did not believe in a lover's embrace, was a very different Kit. Because the Kit the now, was in such an embrace. In fact, he found himself in it often. Despite that, Kit still feared that he might one day lose it. So he would find himself studying the scene before him. 

The sun would leak through the curtains. Casting a golden glow across their apartment bedroom. Their legs had tangled together, the sheets bundled around them. Ty's dark curls spilled across the pillows. His eyebrow, usually quirked or furrowed in curiosity, would be relaxed. His arm draped around Kit’s middle. Ty's face would gleam in the morning light. He seemed so, impossibly still. So beautiful. Like youth and beauty in a single frame. Like one of the statues in the Institute's garden. Ethereal. Eternal. 

Kit would let his hand trace Ty's collar bone, his shoulder, down his bicep. He took no small amount of pride and satisfaction in his boyfriend's lack of clothing. He could have laid there forever. Ty made a small noise, (he did that in his sleep a lot) and nuzzled his face closer to Kit's. A smile drifted across his face, he closed his eyes in an attempt to fall back asleep to the sound of Ty breathing. Then the cat started. That damn cat. Clawing at the door and meowing constantly. Kit had lived with the cat long enough to know that it wouldn’t go away until fed. Ty murmured in his sleep, he was always a heavier sleepier than Kit. 

With a sigh, Kit crawled out of bed. Careful not to disturb Ty. Irene, it seemed, didn’t have such notions, because she just meowed louder. Kit rushed to throw on some underwear and a T-shirt, and hustled out the door. “I hear ya.” He hissed at Irene, using his foot to keep her from rushing into the bedroom. Their LA apartment was small. The bedroom door leading right out into the livingroom and the adjourned kitchen. The light flooded from the big window overlooking the city. Everything was quiet, as if the world hadn’t quite woken up either. Kit drifted past the couch and into the kitchen, Irene at his heels.

Irene was a smart cat, he had to give her that. She had recently been registered as a service animal, and she was good at it. She could tell when Ty was about to have an attack. She knew how to help him through them. Irene wasn’t half bad at tracking demons either. It was very difficult for Kit to stay annoyed or mad at Irene. Especially when she had helped Kit a few times as well. Both in the demon hunting aspect, and in getting through panic attacks.

Besides, Ty always felt better when Irene was around, especially when Kit or Julian weren’t with him. Living in the middle of the second most populated city in the US never helped Ty’s autism. Kit had once asked if he’d ever want to move to somewhere quiet, but Ty had simply said that LA was home. So that was the end of that. 

Irene jumped gracefully onto the kitchen counter. Waiting patiently. “Oh, so you’re going to be all nice and quiet, huh? Now that you’ve got me awake.” Kit mused. Irene tilted her head innocently. A chuckle escaped Kit, he reached out and gave the cat a gentle scratch behind the ears. She let out a soft purr. 

He made quick work of getting her food. It was something he did every Sunday morning, the movements now a natural reflex. He filled the blue food bowl and set it down. Irene descended the counter in a single bound. “Happy now?” He asked, and he could’ve sworn she scoffed as she devoured her breakfast. Kit rolled his eyes and glanced at the oven clock. It read; 9:07. Ty revolved his life around a strict schedule. But Sunday’s were different. There was still a schedule, but there was only one thing on it. At 10 am, they would go to the Institute and eat Julian’s pancakes with the rest of the Blackthorns. They would linger and leave around noon, and then, it was just them. Just Ty and Kit, to do as they pleased.

Sometimes they’d go to lunch and a movie. Sometimes they wandered the mall, or downtown. Sometimes they went to the library, or sometimes they just went home. Sundays were always Kit's favorite day of the week. Kit was about to head back to the bedroom to awaken his sleeping beauty, when a pair of arms snaked around his waist. “Good morning.” Ty hummed, his face buried in the crook of Kit’s neck. Kit leaned against Ty’s chest, “I thought you were asleep.” He whispered. Ty shrugged, “It was cold without you.” His arms tightening around Kit as if to emphasize. Kit’s chest rumbled a laugh. Ty was right. It was warmer now. He turned in his lover's embrace to wrap his own arms around his love’s neck. 

“On love's light wings.” He murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his boyfriend's lips. Ty smiled against him. It was something that Kit said often to Ty, and it always lit his face up in a smile. The old Kit would have never said something so soft and lovely, but this Kit did. Kit had found it when he’d read Romeo and Juliet one boring summer day at Cirenworth Hall, years ago. It had spoken to Kit. Lept off the pages and stuck in his head all day. The perfect way to describe it he’d thought, and it was a strange thought. The Kit at that time, that younger, angrier Kit, didn’t think about love often. But he had loved his new family.

He loved the way Mina would sometimes stop crying when he scooped her up. It made his heart swell when she went from tears to giggles because of him. He loved the way Tessa’s voice changed when she read a story. How invested and serious she took story time each night. He would sit on the floor while she cradled Mina and sat in the rocking chair. Softly rocking and reading the girl to sleep. He loved the way Jem taught him. He taught him everything. From languages and history, math and science, to fighting and tumbling, climbing and tracking. He taught it all with a gentle hand and firm but simple instructions. 

Kit loved all these things. They made his heart lift and soar. Made him feel ten feet tall, as if he could take on anything and come out on top. Yes, ‘loves light wings’, that was it. That was what made him feel like that, what picked him off his feet and sent him to the highest places. Love had always sounded so heavy to him. Like a burden or a weight, holding him down, a chain keeping him in place. But that wasn’t it at all. Love was light. Love was fragile. Love was blissful and sweet. Love was warm and soft. He didn’t know this, not until a night when the stars were bright. When he and Ty had sat on the roof of the Institute.

 After he had spilled his guts in a less than graceful, but much clearer, confession. Things were oddly comfortable, yet Kit didn’t know where they would go from there. Or what he should do. In the end, it had been Ty, who leaned over and asked to kiss him. The world had stopped spinning, just for a moment. Then he had kissed him, and it spun again. Faster, wilder, clearer than before. Kit had kissed people before, sure. Many times, with mostly girls. They had never felt quite right. No matter how much he had cared. But this, this had been more than right. It was meant to be. That line had come back to him. When they had pulled apart, a little breathless, Ty’s eyes shining brighter than any moon or star. Kit’s heart leaping into his throat.

“On love’s light wings...” He’d whispered, without thinking. Ty tilted his head, his headphones had slipped around his neck. “Romeo?” he asked. Kit’s face flushed. “Yeah, I-uh-I understand it now. I didn’t before. But now I do.” He had stumbled, expecting to be teased. But Ty would never, he knew that now. His face had split into a smile. A dazzling, beautiful smile. That knocked the breath out of Kit, and he could feel those wings of love. Light, and gentle. They wrapped around him and lifted him up. They held him, re-molded him. Shaped him into someone new, someone he had forgotten was there. 

In his mind, there had been the Kit before, the Kit that was angry, who hated his father and wanted his mother back. Who didn’t know who he was, who had loved, but never loved in return. Then there was the Kit who was still young, and confused. But who had loved. But was then broken. Then he was back at that angry Kit. Yet slowly, he had begun to change. Becoming a Kit who learned to let go of that anger. Who finally, laid his parents to rest in the back of his heart. And in this particular moment, he became a Kit who had finally found himself. Who loved and was loved back. This was the Kit, who had grown up. 

Now, Ty was kissing him in their kitchen. When he pulled back, he gave Kit a curious look. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, his hair still messy from sleep, the dark waves falling into his face. Kit brushed them away. “That I love you.” A boyish grin on his face. Ty pressed a kiss to his cheek, “I love you too,” He said. “And we should take a shower.” He let go of Kit, giving him a smirk over his shoulder as he entered the bathroom, leaving the door cracked open. Kit leaned against the kitchen counter, still grinning softly. He stood there for a few minutes before the words and smirk registered in his head. His cheeks heated. Irene licked her paw at his feet, giving him a strangely judging look. “Don’t look at me like that.” He muttered, and followed his boyfriend. 

This Kit, he decided, had it a lot better, and liked it better, than the old one.

[jerkbitchidjitassbutt]

What Mattered Most (2)

Characters: Dean x Reader; Sam

Summary: Dean wakes to find she’s gone. What would make his best friend leave him? Sam may just know.

A/n: This will be a mini-series of two to three parts, based on the song “What Mattered Most” by Ty Herndon. This has been rumbling around in my head for a while, so I finally committed to getting it down. This is a little later than I was hoping to get it to you today, for that I apologize. 

Warnings: Angst. Sadness.

Dean stood in the doorway of the bunker’s kitchen, resting his weight against the wide frame as you stood at the stove, flipping sizzling bacon in a cast iron skillet. Your hips were swaying to the sounds of music flowing from your headphones and you would shimmy your waist every few beats, oblivious to the world and thoroughly enjoying the Saturday morning off. A smile played at his lips as he watched you, content to savor the moments where you were lost in a melody as you took care of him and Sammy.

You turned slightly and caught his movement out of the corner of your eye, making you jump and yank the cords from your ears, “Dean! Don’t sneak up on me like that!” you yelled, clutching a hand to your chest.

A small chuckle erupted as he held his hands up in surrender, “Hey, you can’t blame me. There was no way I was going to ruin that show.”

Dean smirked as your cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink and a hint of a grin made a small dimple appear on the left side of your mouth.

He loved mornings like this; in the safety of his home, his brother snoring down the hall, and his favorite girl waiting for him to wake up.

“Yeah… well, you could have warned me. Not given me a heart attack.” You grumbled, but still cheekily beaming as you turned your back to him, setting to work at the stove with the pancake batter.

Dean moved slowly, placing a foot in front of the other methodically and allowing his strong legs to carry him to you. He rounded the small island, reveling in the sight of your falling in ribbons around a messy bun and your bare legs tucked beneath your sleep shorts.

It was a sight he adored. You.

When he reached you, he planted his feet on either side of your stance, his arms sensuously winding around your midsection. His fingertips trailed lightly against the skin exposed as he pressed his lips against your collarbone.

“How are you this morning, sweetheart?” he purred, caressing the shell of your ear with his mouth.

Reaching behind you to thread your fingers in his soft locks, you replied with a hum, “I’m good. Slept well, had good dreams.”

“Oh yeah?” he questioned mischievously. “About me?” he asked, attaching himself to your backside and locking you within his large frame.

You giggled. He could get lost in your laughter. “Of course, honey. Always about you.”

He spun you gently to cage you against the counter, leaning in to run his nose along the curve of your jaw, “I had good dreams too. I missed you when you weren’t there when I woke up, though.” his lips curling while he brushed a few stray hairs from your face, feeling the smoothness of your skin against his palm.

Stretching to your toes, you pressed a longing kiss to his plump lips, slipping your hands under the hem of his shirt to feel his muscle beneath. Dean knew he could live in this feeling for eternity.

“I’m sorry,” you whined, hugging him tightly and burying yourself in his chest, “but I had to go.”

“Go?” Dean questioned, confusion knitting his brow.

“Yeah, Dean.” You stated simply, pulling away from his embrace to look into his eyes, a sadness in your voice that he hadn’t heard before. “Remember? I left. I���m not here anymore.”

Dean stood speechless, witnessing the once happy glow fade from your gaze. A single tear flowed down your cheek, but you were steadily fading even as he still felt your warmth in his arms. “Y/n…”

Before he could continue, you slipped from his grasp, his hands still reaching for you as you vanished, words echoing in the darkness, “I’m gone. You can’t find me. I’m never coming home.”

Dean awoke gripping the sheets around him, a thin layer of sweat covering the length of his body and a panic in his chest that he couldn’t calm. He sat up quickly, searching his surroundings for something he wasn’t sure he’d lost. Sleep still fogging his memory, he struggled to remember what he was holding onto, but his dream haunted him none-the-less. He shook the covers from his legs and swung his bedroom door open with force, moving towards the room across the hall. Sam’s gentle snores could be heard from behind his cracked door to the left as he stood in front of yours.

When he twisted the knob gently and the door opened with a whine. He flipped the light switch, illuminating the pitch-black space to reveal a pristine, yet empty bedroom. He felt his stomach turn in knots and his eyes burn with fresh tears.

It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t his imagination… You really were gone.

He’d tried for two months to find you, but every shred of your identity was left behind. Every link or connection he had turned up empty. Fake badges, ID’s, and every burner phone he knew of yours sat on the small desk adjacent to your bed. He dragged his body towards it, slumping into the chair and resting his elbows on his knees to run a hand through his hair tiredly. Retrieving your most recent license from the stack before him, he took a moment to study the photo displayed on the plastic pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Your eyes, your nose, your lips. The smile hidden beneath them.

The images of his dream flooded back to him. He felt your skin touching his, your body cradled against him, and the smell of your shampoo. His hands could still feel your heat, though they were cold to the touch.

The scene in his vision wasn’t entirely fantasy, but one that he’d been a part of years ago. A memory of breakfasts you’d shared so many times made his chest tighten in agony. They were always filled with laughter and deep conversations. The secrets you kept from the world were often shared over the most amazing coffee and arguments ensued over the last shred of bacon. The only difference now was the intimacy. The touching. The kissing. Holding each other. That was something that had never been reality. It was never that he didn’t love you—at least not in the profound, elegant way, but rather it was something that hadn’t blossomed within him, until recently.

Until Sam told him everything. Until you left.

Now there was a longing in his heart that bloomed like a thirst that could never be satiated. He reasoned that it was just the feeling of missing his best friend, the person that had been there for him through all of the ups and downs that accompanied this life. But he knew. Deep within him, Dean knew he was in love with you—he could deny it, pretend he didn’t know the feeling, but there was no mistaking it. He also knew that he was too arrogant to appreciate it when he’d had the chance to act. He drove you away to the point that you didn’t want to be found, all the while burying himself into a hole of his own creation. He could try to move on, to try to forget and pretend to be his old self with a devil-may-care attitude, but there would be no use.

He stood from your desk chair and moved to stand by your bed, envisioning you lying there curled beneath your favorite blanket. Strangely enough, your scent was still etched into the very fabric of the room he now stood in. Your once decorated nightstand and dresser were bare, drained of the photos that use to adorn them. Dean resisted the urge to crawl into your bed and instead settled for running his fingertips along the hem of your pillow, cold and unused.

Dean shuffled back to the confines and darkness of his own room; closing your door to hide the haunting sight of its bareness, before slowly lowering himself back onto his mattress. He tucked himself tightly beneath the sheets, praying for the release of sleep if only to see you once again.

Hours passed before he was being gently shaken awake by Sam informing him of a case. In a state of confusion and hollowness, Dean packed his small bag of belongings and kept the radio silent during the entire drive, pertinently ignoring Sam’s questioning stares. He tried to pretend with Sam; pretend he wasn’t torn apart, but his brother knew him all too well.

Now, here he was, in a bar in nowhere, Nebraska, trying to chase the tiniest bit of his sorrow away. They’d arrived in town at 7 p.m., too late to follow any leads of the case, so Sam elected to stay behind and do research as Dean elected to do anything but stare at motel room walls.

“Another round?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah, then close out my tab.” Dean replied; opting that two was actually a good place to stop for the evening, something he potentially wouldn’t have done two months ago.

The bartender, a man probably in his late 40′s and hardened by life, grabbed the bottle of scotch and poured another three fingers over the remaining ice in Dean’s glass, “You from around here?”

“No.” Dean shook his head, lifting the amber liquid to his lips. “Just in town for a few days.”

“Didn’t think so. Only a few newbies ever make there way to these parts. But, let me give you some advice…” the stranger replied, reaching behind him, “This place has the best steak in town. My neighbor owns it; it’s an institution around here.” He set a paper menu in front of Dean on the glistening wood, next to the coaster that would house his drink.

Dean picked it up, prepared to thank him before he excused himself to help the new round of guests that poured in.

As he was studying the menu, a commotion sounded from the other end of the room, where two men were in a heated discussion about a recent game of pool. Dean took notice of the increase in bodies in the small area, not surprising for a Friday evening in a small town bar. At the other end of the space, a squeal from the speakers sounded as a few workers set up equipment for karaoke that would apparently be happening later that evening.

Glasses clinked together, the cracks and clanks of the balls being pushed by  pool cues flooded his hears, and voices sounded from all around him; but nothing could have drowned out the sound of the voice he’d missed for months.

“Can I have a Jack and coke, please?” he heard from the opposite end of the bar, causing him to freeze. It was unmistakable.

He slowly turned his eyes in the direction of the wonderfully chilling melody and was met with the sight of you leaning over the edge of the bar, your Y/h/c hair falling in waves around your face and your eyes shining as you smiled at the bartender.

Dean attempted to force every cell of his body to tear his eyes away from you, but to no avail. Your skin was flushed and healthy. You were wearing a new shade of lipstick; a slightly darker red then the natural pigment of the flesh of your lips.

The bartender passed you a glass as you left a few bills on the counter, but you stayed planted where you were standing when you ordered. There was a lightness to you that Dean hadn’t witnessed in many years, feeling a fresh wave of guilt as the knowledge passed that it had been his doing that you’d lost it.

As he was taking you in, Dean felt a new found determination and strength to right whatever he’d done wrong. In that moment, he’d give anything to give you everything.

He began to stand, until he heard your name called.

A new fire rose to your eyes as you glanced in the direction from which it came, a bright, dazzling smile gracing your lips.

Dean watched as a man made his way through the crowd, steadfastly making his way to you.

And when that man captured your lips with his, Dean felt his heart shatter.

To be continued...

<Part 1 / Part 3>

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