#it has long sleeves almost no stitches and a fucking. Hood. get this. it has a hood

[syrenki]

'damn i hope they're not into me' she says, as she casually puts on her mother's wedding dress for a night out.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry VII

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), mentions of previous forced oral, abuse of power, these men ain't shit.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You face a reckoning for evading your lord.

Note: This wasn't planned but things just turned out this way because my go to is fuck the reader. Oop.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The nights only got harder. It didn't matter if Lord Barnes wanted to touch you or wanted you to touch him, even just laying beside him was torment. You hated what he'd done to you and what he'd made you do. You hated yourself more for how he made you feel.

You decided that day in the carriage during the rainstorm that you hated him. You hated Lord Barnes more than even Lord Rogers. At least the latter was honest in his lechery, he did not try to veil his true desires but Barnes spoke to you sweetly as he forced his needs upon you.

The night before you were due to reach the capital, you did not sleep. You couldn't in the bed next to Barnes. He wanted to be astride as he entered the city and so you were left to ride alone in the carriage. The sway soon had you across the bench in a deep slumber. It was the best sleep you had in weeks.

You only woke as a hammering came at the door and streaks of sunlight were let in as it opened. A footman called you out and helped you down the step into the dirt. You batted your sleepy eyes and marveled at the castle as it came clear. It was getting colder as the autumn wore on, bitter. It was the wrong season for a tournament.

As you trod through the beaten yard of the castle, Lord Barnes clapped off his right hand, the leather glove dusting, and approached you. He’s gaze strayed to Lord Rogers for a moment then back to you. He dropped his shoulders and scrunched his lips.

“I have an audience with the king,” he said glumly, “as much as I’d prefer you attend with me it has been brought to my attention that… the court might not be as accommodating to you as I am. Regardless, I might have a seat arranged for you at the feast and you were surely sit in the rows for the sparring.”

“I… my lord, I am only--”

“I told you,” he interjected, “you are not a maid anymore.”

You held your tongue as you wanted to spit at him. What were you? A courtesan? A whore? Was that better than emptying his pot? You dipped your head and pulled your cape snug, “my lord.”

“See her to my rooms,” Barnes directed the footman at your shoulder, “once the chests are unpacked, she is to be undisturbed. My guard will have the same orders.”

“Yes, my lord,” the footman bowed, “my lady.”

You looked at the footman and slowly followed him away from Barnes. You were eager to be away from him but not eager to be shown your new prison. You entered the castle and followed the torchlit corridors beside the footman.

“I’m not a lady,” you said at last, “I don’t want you to ever call me that again.”

“My apologies, my--” he stuttered, “the lord bid it.”

“He lies to himself and you,” you muttered, “I was born as you, likely lower. My own mother was a laundress and my father a stablehand. Cut from the finest, I am.”

The footman was quiet as he waved you ahead of him up the coiling stairwell. You regretted your harsh words but knew they could never be delivered to their true target. When you reached the chamber designated to your master, you stopped outside. Lester was already at his station by the lord’s doors.

“I am sorry,” you told the footman, “I was unkind. You do not deserve that.”

His lips curved slightly and he hid his amusement, “I know now you are like me,” he said softly, “the nobles, they don’t apologise.”

You chuckled darkly and left him. You passed the servants as they carried in trunks and opened them in a flurry of duty. You went to the bedroom and climbed up on the large feather mattress. That time you had to yourself, even surrounded by the chaos of your arrival, was a relief. You did not know how long you’d get away from Barnes.

🏰

You fell asleep again. This time, you weren’t floating in your dreams, driven wildly by the tides, but you were still, straight as a board in the ground as dirty sprinkled onto you. The cold earth warmed as the layers piled on you. Deeper, deeper, deeper until you couldn’t breathe.

You woke with a start and nearly screamed as a shadow loomed over you. Barnes sat beside you, his legs over the edge of the couch. He played with the lifeless fingers of his artificial hand. Your hood was on the pillow, crumpled and the folds of your dress were bunched awkwardly beneath your body.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he murmured, “just wanted to sit with you.”

“How long--”

“It is almost time for supper,” he said, “but the feast is not until the morrow. You might remain and rest some more.”

You didn’t move, just looked up at the canopy and laid there. You didn’t say anything more as you folded your arms over the stiff bodice.

“You should sleep… the journey was long. Tiring,” he continued.

You just blinked but didn’t close your eyes. The canopy was a rich green marked with gold. The stitches were woven in the shape of leaves and vines. You thought of the forest and those days you were so scared. You were much more terrified now.

“I wanted to say, and I should now since you are awake,” he began as he leaned on his elbow and his other arm fell limp and heavy, “what occurred with Rogers will not arise again. I made him a promise I regret and it was sorted.”

You held back a shudder as you thought of the salty tasted and the pungent scent of their arousal. You swallowed and hugged yourself tighter.

“If he attempts to reenact the scene, or more, you will inform me, and you have my leave to see that he does not,” Barnes said sternly, “you are still mine. I would not have you confused.”

You rolled onto your side so that your back was to him. He huffed and his hand fell onto your side. He squeezed and the bed shifted. He said your name and every muscle in your body went taut.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“I’m tired,” you said.

“I want no mistake. You--”

“I belong to you,” you sneered, “you want to use me, you want to own me, you want me to tell you I know I am nothing but the dirt beneath your boot. Let me assure you I am aware--”

“Do not speak to me as such,” he hissed.

You bit back your voice and heaved. You sucked in your cheeks and wriggled away from his reach. “It is understood, my lord. Now as you bid, I would sleep.”

🏰

The only grace allowed you at the feast, rather denied you, was a seat with your lord. As much as Barnes would prefer to have you close he was still bound by the expectations of court. He didn't let on that you were merely a servant but you didn't think anyone could believe otherwise. For his vouching, you were sat among the lower lords and ladies.

You watched as wine was poured for you. You eyed the girl who kept her chin down as the filled the cups and thought of your own time in a similar duty. What did Barnes find so fascinating about you? You had only done what dozens others had done for him before. You couldn't figure you had an outstanding feature or manner that could explain his interest, it could only be your own poor luck.

You ate without tasting, without zeal, slowly as you brought fork to lip and dissolved into the chatter of strangers around you. All those seated at the long tables had a partner or some family with them. You were alone. Your parents were dead and all those you'd ever had a kindred tie to were far away.

"Uncle," a voice perked up across from you and drew your attention as you chewed the spiced rabbit meat, "if I made the lists, surely I can win!"

"My coin got you on those lists," the older man replied, "it is all formality. Should you gace a king or a duke, you would be remiss to claim victory."

"I am to lay down for their title?" The younger scoffed, "I am a man now and I have trained--"

"But you think like a boy," the other rebuked, "a runner up can take a fine purse still and if you feed the ego of a high borne man he will be more willing to show you favour."

You lowered your fork and looked at the two men as they argued. The elder`s hair was sprinkled with grey but the rest the same shade of reddish brown as the youth. You were heartened by their familial banter but saddened at your own solace. You dropped your hands to your lap and looked at your plate.

"Dear," the woman beside you touched your sleeve, "are you well?"

You turned to her startled and nodded. "Yes, my lady," you cleared your throat, "fine indeed."

She peered past you then shared a look with the older man across the table. She was not so grey as him. She smiled and withdrew her hand. "You are alone?"

"Only me, my lady," you answered.

"And overly polite," she chuckled, "a pity. A young girl sent to court without escort. What family could do such a thing? You must be frightened out of your wits."

"I will… persevere," you said.

"Ay but it is the nature of these events to be cordial. I am May Parker, my husband is a baron," she gestured to the older man across from you, "Benjamin, and my nephew, Peter, a viscount in his beloved father's stead," she smiled at the younger man, "and your name?"

You hadn't been told what to say in the circumstance. You hadn't thought of it and surely Barnes hadn't either. You would have to garnish the truth with enough lies to get by. You twined your fingers together. You offered your name, your truth, then conjured your lies as you spoke.

"My father is, er, was, a baron as well," you said, "I am his only child."

"Oh, you sweet thing, if you would be alone for this tournament, you might stay near to us. My nephew hasn't many peers of his age just yet, and my husband is much too weary to keep up with him."

You glanced around, the two men bowed their heads in greeting. You attempted a smile and thanked her.

"Our Peter will be competing in the joust and in the sword contest," she announced, "we did urge him to enter the bow and arrow but he finds it dull."

"Oh," you were uncertain how to address these people, to speak as if you were their equal, "I've never attended a tourney before."

"Best you stay close then," she squeezed your hand gently, "why look at all these people! Even that Duke from the north came, bless him, that one who did lose his arm in the campaigns."

You reached for your wine to hide your discomfort at the mention of him. All you had to do was pretend for the evening and you'd likely not see these people again. As friendly as they were, you couldn't stand to make friends only to lose them.

You listened for the rest of the courses as May and her family did much of the talking. There were moments you forgot your predicament, even that you were born a peasant, but when it returned to you, the food turned to a lump in your stomach and your heart clamoured.

You were roused from the waking dream only as the music plucked up and the plates were cleared by your own ilk. May chuckled and stood as her husband came around to her. She paused as the bodies flooded from the benches onto the boards. She touched your shoulder kindly, "if you would be in want of a partner, our Peter is rather graceful."

You looked to the younger Parker and he lit up. "Only if you like, miss."

"I… would say I am not so," you said evasively.

"It would not bother me, I trained with the old hound that slept in our barn, he slobbered quite heavily," he laughed, "but I would be indebted should you allow me the treat of a true partner."

"I suppose…" you looked to the high table where Barnes scowled at Lord Rogers, entirely unconcerned with you for the first time in a while. Perhaps this was a chance; lose yourself in the crowd and you might find the opening you needed. Or perhaps merely a respite from him at least, "I do warn you however, I would not know where to place my feet."

May and Benjamin swept away as Peter came around to you. He offered his arm and you mimicked the other ladies as you took it.

He lifted his shoulders proudly as he led you to the floor, "only step around my own and I will do my best not to trod on your slippers, lady." He turned you in time with the music, your arms hooked so that you faced in opposing direction, "follow me and do not worry so much. No one is watching us so closely."

You smiled, a real smile that time as the strings and flutes filled your chest. As this kind stranger patiently guided you around the boards. You raised your chin as you did your best to stay on the beat but nearly tripped as your eyes met another pair.

Lord Barnes glared down at you from the high table, the only lord remaining in his seat, and his hand gripped the stem of his goblet tightly. Even at the distance, you felt his chagrin. And as he stood, your sole met Peter's toe but he only snickered and righted you.

"You're doing fine, lady," he assured as he spun and switched arms, you let him lead you dumbly as you watched Barnes descend from the dais, "a natural."

[katsukikitten]

WARNINGS Adult themes and hinted at sexual assault. This is an 18+ AU  @bakugotrashpanda I finished

Your vision blurs from both the side effects of a quirk and the dam of tears threatening to burst. You throw your black hood up over your head, huffing as you rush to an apartment complex. 

"Fifth floor. Fifth floor room 5C, right?" You mumble to distract yourself from the pain coursing through your body as you force yourself up the stairs, looking over your shoulder out of paranoia. 

Finally you reach your destination but suddenly the urgency in you dies out. Fizzling away in your veins as you stand frozen wondering just why you were here? 

Standing in front of the door of the very hero who has almost caught you time and time again. Having only narrowly escaped with a quick witted quip and a trick that barely worked. 

Just as you're about to turn to leave, a hot head yanks open the door. His garnet eyes are sharp before widening in surprise. He takes you in with a slight horror as he takes in what he can in seconds. Your eyes are blown wide, dilated so unnaturally large that only a drug or quirk could induce a pupil of that size. The veins in your left eye are ruptured while a faint purple hue blooms on your lid. Your plush bottom lip is split down the middle, swollen even and the blood is barely dried. Your hoodie is torn down the middle as shaking hands clutch it closed while your tights and skirt are tattered beyond repair, your outfit threatening to fall away from your body from a small gust of the cold winter wind. 

The last thing those molten eyes notice is the faint bruising around your tender throat and with the angle of your hood he can just barely make out the shape of fingers. Something hot forms in his chest and seeps out into his fingers causing them to twitch. 

You answer the question he left unspoken.

"I didn't know where else to go." 

He watches you sway on unsteady feet as you speak, eyes fluttering as you fight off losing consciousness. He grabs onto you, causing you to flinch even as you're half out of it. That odd burning sensation blooms beneath his ribs again, he grits his teeth. Voice low, hushed even; missing the normal gruff venom. 

"Let's get you inside." 

After that your memories are a blur of warmth and a soft crimson gaze that holds with it malice towards someone unknown.  

As you lie on his couch flickering in and out like a dying flame he debates with himself. Wondering if he should take you out of those clothes, well what is left or them, that are covered in blood and possibly vomit.

But what he cannot fathom is how you a high ranking villain, probably the top female villain who has eluded him for months could end up like this. 

He has seen your power, the grace in which you hold yourself and the feats you have done. And he's been dying to turn you in since the first time you punched him in the solar plexus. 

As he crimson eyes linger over your frame he feels that way now, as you had delivered a well placed blow as he studies the bruises in the low light.  

He decides he should at least rinse you off. You're awake enough to cling to him as he gently guides you to theshower, cranking it high enough it could scald but he knows you need it. Still you sway on your feet, shaking as he slowly removes your ripped hoodie leaving your breasts exposed to the steamy air and your worst enemy Bakugou. 

But he hardly notices the way your tits sit or the color of your nipples, all he can see are the scratches and bruising. Unzipping your skirt with care you didn't know he possessed to reveal a pair of ragged tights with a hole ripped between your legs. Disgust fights to rise up his throat with a shout that he swallows down as he slowly removes them and your torn pair of underwear. You're shaking harder now as he pauses to collect himself, getting his teeth as he stares down black bruises on your inner thighs. He lets out a rush of air through his nose before he gently guides your bare feet to the cool tiled floor. He gestures to the shower trying to give you some privacy but suddenly you cling to him.  

"Fifth floor. 5c. Fifth floor. 5C." You murmur fisting his shirt as you look up at him. He can tell that you're frustrated, fighting through the haze of whatever has you under the influence but all you can force Your or remember is his apartment number. Your broken voice echoes through his head as he stares down at you.  

"I didn't know where else to go."

So you, a highly wanted criminal, showed up at the doorstep of the number one hero, or at least one of the men who owned the title. And the least compassionate one at that. His chest feels odd, as if one of his explosions ruptured a lung or worse as he realizes what that means for you. Usually when someone found themselves at rock bottom they went to someone they knew they could truly trust but you, you had no one to turn to? 

Just someone you avoided, half attempted to kill and vice versa. He was your last stitch effort.

"P...please…."A tremor runs through you before he quickly scoops you up to set you on the counter of the vanity. He removes his shirt with a grimace before shoving himself free of his shorts and boxers. Gently guiding you to your feet as his callused hands held onto yours. He hadn't realized that how much he dwarfed you until now. Especially now, his stomach churning as he realizes just how fragile people can be. 

He hates seeing fragility on you. He places you beneath the stream, grabbing onto something hidden beneath the vanity. The small set of women's toiletries his mother had given him for "just in case", silently and reluctantly he thanked that stubborn hag. 

He offers you a bottle and when it is evident that your mind is lightyears away he sighs deeply, lathering his hands in flowery body wash. He holds his broad hand out to you and you grant him silent permission as you offer him your wrist. Hands sweeping up your arms, over your shoulders and pausing for a moment, unsure if he should touch your chest although you desperately needed it. Another tremor moves through you as you guide his hand down, resting it over your heart. His jaw tics as he feels how rapidly it is beating, a combination of substance abuse and whatever the hell just happened to you.  Still your eyes linger on his body wash and your mind wanders aloud. 

"I thought you smelt like caramel because of your body wash." Voice barely there when you were normally boisterous. Instead you notice that the spicy smell comes from his soap, the burning sugar was all him. You had smelt it moments after entering his home. He says nothing, not that you wanted him to reply. You move his hands to give him permission to care for you before going numb. 

Totally numb to the water and his touch, although it is much more comforting than the last set of hands that touched you. 

Your vision blurs, the tears fall silently and he allows you to grieve before your mind goes numb again. 

"Fifth floor." You whisper, voice breaking as if you bore bad news. He washes your hair and conditions it as best he can as he watches your mind begin to slip. A surprisingly plush towel caresses over your skin as Bakugou pats you down gently. Making sure you are dry before he moves to your hair,  squeezing the water from it softly. Finally he is done, scooping you to him, princess style, before he decides you're going to stay here tonight. 

He takes you to his room, setting you on the edge of his bed, forcing you to sit for now. He throws on a pair of boxers before he rummages through his closet to find an old pair of basketball shorts and a long sleeved shirt.

"Arms up." A gruff voice pulls you closer to the living and you obey. Arms burning as you lift them into the air only for comfort to envelop you. 

"Step into these." Bakugou growls as he is bent over with the shorts held firmly in his hands. You nod furiously, sliding off the side of the bed to allow your feet to fall into the holes. One hand steadying yourself on a broad back. 

"Strong." You whisper, patting him gently before he comes up, he hates how your breathing hitches, coming in short bursts now that he is full height. You even push away from him a bit before your glazed over eyes register that it is only him. 

"5C." You mumble, touching his chest and he nods, fingers gripping onto yours. Katsuki eases you into the bed and wrapes you in his comforter. It's large and warm, reminding you of strong arms eveloping you. You deeply inhale the dark fabric and it smells godly. Like caramel, a burning sparkler and a spice you can't place, your eyelids become heavier. Just as he is about to walk away your eyes snap open, chest heaving as the night tries to return. 

"FIFTH FUCKING FLOOR!" You shout, grabbing onto that callused hand that soothed the rage, the raw fear and the utter self loathing from something you couldn't control. Could never dream that it could have happened to you.

But it did.

The same fucking hand that kept you from shattering, at least for the time being. 

"I'm here. I'm right here." He coos in a husky tone, hand smoothing down your damp hair. He squeezes your hand tightly and like a switch you go limp, all but your death grip on him as you fall into a deep sleep.

He stands there until your breathing is even, turning the lights down low but not completely off as he leaves the door to his bedroom ajar. 

Angrily he searches for his phone with an idea in mind. A threat turned promise, that he repeats to himself over and over again.

When he finds out who did this to you, he was going to kill them. No questions asked, no second thoughts. Wholeheartedly he was going to commit murder for what they had done to you and what will continue to haunt you for years to come. 

Finally he finds his phone and dials one of the few numbers he knows by heart. The recipient answers after the third ring. 

"Oi, Deku, remember that favor you owe me? I think it's time I fucking cashed it in." 

[eyeofthedrgn]

A Heavy Battle Symphony - Chapter 4

New chapter! This chapter is slightly fluffy, still angsty, but much less than previous chapters.

Catch up here: Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3

TW: language, mental abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, violence, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, self harm, self-esteem issues, sexual abuse (only alluded to briefly in future chapters), just a lot of trauma, angst, smut - lots of lovely gay smut

Word count: 1685

Chapter 4 - Forgotten

A little piece of paper with a picture drawn

Floats on down the street 'til the wind is gone

And the memory now is like the picture was then

When the paper's crumpled up it can't be perfect again

It was Monday, and he was healed enough that Maeve let him go to school. After a normal morning routine, Lorcan made sure he wore a hoodie that would do a decent job covering his neck. Hood up, hands in his hoodie pocket, head down, he headed to school.

He missed a lot of schoolwork. It was going to be a late night. Luckily, most of the teachers gave him until the end of the week to turn it in.

When P.E. came around, he went straight to the gym rather than the locker room. He found his teacher and handed him his doctor's note. Mr. Brullo sent Lorcan to the library to study. Lorcan was happy about that. He was able to catch up on some of his homework.

Lorcan's handwriting, luckily, wasn't hindered by his cast. Perrington at least broke his right arm, his non-dominant arm. That he was thankful for, if he could be thankful for anything that happened to him.

He was getting a headache from his pre-calc homework. Lorcan rubbed his face with his hand and sighed.

"Lorcan?"

Lorcan grunted and slowly turned to see Elide, who looked relieved to see him. That was interesting. "Oh, uh, hi."

"Aren't you supposed to be in gym?" Lorcan lifted his casted arm. Elide's eyes widened and her lips parted. "Oh." She swallowed. Fuck, here comes the pity. "How-" she closed her mouth. "How'd that happen? We thought you were sick." Why were they concerned?

He told the same story Maeve told the doctor. Something about getting in a fight and falling down stairs, and "you should see the other guy". She didn't seem to believe him, neither did the doctor.

"Can I sit with you?" Lorcan shrugged. She sat down and then proceeded to talk to him about what he missed in creative writing. He didn't realize her voice was so soothing.

"Has anyone signed your cast yet?" She was eyeing the black cast. "I have a silver Sharpie!" She pulled it out of her bag and held it up with a smile.

Lorcan huffed a small laugh. Not being able to say no to that smile, knowing he was going to get in trouble, well, what could really do to him anyway? So, Lorcan carefully pushed up his hoodie sleeve. She smiled brightly at him. He propped his head up on his hand, eyes closed and listened to her hum as she put ink to the black cast.

++++

It was hard to keep from asking Lorcan questions. Elide saw the handprint bruise on his neck, the exhaustion lining his body, and of course, the full arm cast. She thought about how his injuries were formed. Obviously, someone put their hands on him, but who?

She didn't know who he lived with besides his aunt. It was doubtful that a woman had done this sort of damage, but one never knows for sure.

As she put pen to plaster, she kept looking up at his face between strokes of ink. He had drifted off to sleep. His face was slack, a slight snore every time he breathed out. Lorcan looked so innocent like that and dare she say, gorgeous.

Having finished her artwork, she just watched him until the bell rang. She gently brushed a lock of hair off his forehead, delicately tucking it behind his ear. He didn't stir.

Elide wished there was something she could do to get him away from his more than shitty situation. Calling the police was probably out of the question, but that was really the only thing she could think of.

The bell rang.

---

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep until he felt his textbook being pulled from under his elbow. "Oh, shit. Sorry," Lorcan furrowed his brow as he started cleaning up his stuff.

"You looked tired, I didn't want to wake you, but it is lunch time." Elide smiled, "and you have to look at your cast!" She seemed so excited about it.

Expecting some nonsense, he was pleasantly surprised to find a nice line drawing from his elbow to his wrist. It was a row of detailed trees with her name under it. Lorcan looked at it with awe. He looked back at Elide, "You did that?" Obviously, she did that. Don't be stupid, Lorcan, he thought to himself.

She giggled. He thought her laugh was adorable. "Obviously." Lorcan's cheeks flushed while he finished packing up before they walked together to lunch in a comfortable silence.

---

He followed Elide through the lunch line, the lunch lady gave him an extra serving. He was probably looking a little gaunt these days having barely eaten for the past week. Lorcan started towards the empty table in the corner.

Apparently, Elide wasn't having any of that as she pulled him to the group table before he could go be alone. Everyone seemed excited to see him. His name was shouted amongst several other greetings. Lorcan felt a tug in his chest as he looked around at the friendly faces. Why were they always trying to be nice to him? And then his eyes fell on the silver haired boy, he instantly forgot what he was thinking. He stared at the green eyed beauty a fraction longer than he should have as he sat down.

Elide introduced everyone. Aelin, Lysandra, Manon, Dorian, Chaol, Fenrys, Connall, Rowan - the silver haired boy - and then Vaughn, who was the last one to join the table.

He was sitting between Elide and Fenrys. Lorcan kept his head down while he ate, feeling very out of place. Everyone was chatting around him, over him, leaning around him. It was a lot. He wished he was alone at the table in the corner.

Rowan spoke up, "Can I sign your cast?" Lorcan jerked his head up. The sleeve of Lorcan's hoodie was still pushed up, he had forgotten to pull it back down which was unusual, but under the current circumstances, it made sense.

Lorcan's heart sped and he suddenly felt warmth spread up his neck. It drove him crazy how much his body reacted of its own accord around Rowan. He wished it would stop.

There was no reason to deny him when the punishment was coming now anyway since Elide's Sharpie touched the cast in the library, so he just shrugged and moved his arm towards the center of the table, towards Rowan.

"Elide, can I borrow your Sharpie?" She handed it over with a nod and went back to animatedly talking to the other girls about something.

Lorcan was careful not to press into the edge of the table, as he adjusted his arm. "I don't think mine will be as pretty as Elide's. Sorry in advance." Lorcan just shrugged a shoulder. He watched Rowan do his little doodle.

Then Rowan grabbed Lorcan's hand to carefully twist his arm to get to a different part of the cast easier causing electricity to shoot through his skin. His breath hitched. The soft fingers lingering on his skin, he never wanted the other boy's hand to move. Lorcan's eyes darted to Rowan's face to see if he noticed anything weird. All he saw was intense concentration, the way his tongue stuck out just a tad and his brows stitched together. Suddenly he was too warm, chest tight, heart pounding. Hellas below.

"There!" Rowan smiled at his silly nonsensical line doodle signed with his name. "All done." That smile did weird things to his stomach and the absence of those warm fingers made all the heat he had just been feeling disappear. A shiver ran down his spine.

Rowan capped the Sharpie and went to hand it back to Elide when Fenrys grabbed it.

"Can I?"

"Yeah." He was screwed anyway.

By the end of lunch, his cast was covered in names and doodles by his... Friends? They couldn't be friends, could they?

As he walked to his next class, he started panicking. His chest tightening for a whole other reason than being in close proximity to a certain boy. A tightness that was only reminiscent of growing anxiety. He shouldn't have let anyone sign it. What was he thinking?

Fuck.

++++

"Lorcan," Rowan breathed as he saw the dark haired boy basically being dragged by Elide to their table. Everyone perked up at that and welcomed him back.

Rowan saw his pained expression. Then, he saw the cast and the light purples, greens, and yellows on his neck that Lorcan was obviously trying to hide with the hood of his hoodie. It looked like a handprint. A fucking handprint. His gut roiled at the thought.

But then Lorcan looked at him, and oh boy, those eyes were going to be the end of him. They were an amazing onyx, almost like pools of night. His cheeks heated and he hoped no one noticed.

He finally got the courage to ask to sign his cast. And when Lorcan leaned over to get his arm closer to Rowan, he noted the stiffness and slight discomfort that flitted over his face. There was so much damage to Lorcan's body that they couldn't see. It made him unbearably sad thinking about it.

For the rest of lunch, while everyone signed Lorcan's cast, Rowan just sat there silently, observing the beautiful dark haired boy. He'd catch his eye every now and then give him a small smile, which was never returned. His eyes just quickly flitted away. Lorcan, he learned was very hard to read.

Rowan wished they could hang out, just the two of them. He wanted to get to know him and help him. And know what those lips felt like, tasted like. How it would feel to thread his fingers through his long dark hair that was usually in a messy bun. Or just to hold his hand. Fuck, he had it bad.

____

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you would like to be tagged.

@thenerdandfandoms @starlightorstarfire

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Whumptober Day 27: Extreme Weather

CW: Environmental whump, references to drug and alcohol use, references to Derrick (see: The Break-Up for his last appearance), Kauri’s Bad Life Choices, slut-shaming, trauma response, untreated abuse survivor with fucky headspace, referenced abuse

When Krista opens the door, Kauri stands on the doorstep to her apartment soaked to the bone, water dripping off the flattened curls of his hair, stuck to his forehead. Water runs in rivulets down his cheeks like tears, drips from the sleeves of his sweater onto her doormat.

She’s proud of that doormat. She picked it out at Target and it says Shoes Off, Witches. 

Krista decorates for every holiday, because she can, because the holidays belong to her. There are tiny pumpkins, alternately white and orange and painted with little patterns, lined up along the little railing on their concrete patio. She has little witch figurines in the centerpiece of the circular dining table she and Sonya found at a garage sale, and a Halloween wreath made of black and orange leaves hangs on the door.  

Mrs. Richardson didn’t celebrate Halloween, because of something to do with celebrating our sinful natures and something something demonic influences hidden in seeming fun and the devil something harry potter witchcraft something, but Krista celebrates every holiday, just because she can.

Sometimes she thinks of Miss Alyssa and wonders if she celebrates Halloween, now, too.

“What are you doing here, Kauri?” Krista squints past him, shivering against the chill air even in her big soft purple sweatshirt. It had cost her six hours of work to pay for it, it was so expensive, but it’s the softest thing she’s ever felt in her life, like wearing a cloud with a hood on it everywhere she goes. 

“Can I crash here?” Kauri blinks rainwater out of his eyes. 

Behind him, the rainstorm that’s been going for nearly three days continues, pouring water like it’s falling from overturned buckets from the dark gray skies. “Sorry, they shut the buses down, it’d take me like five hours to walk to the shelter from here, and…” He rocks up and down on the balls of his feet, and Krista winces at the squelch from his thin black-and-white checked shoes. 

Krista takes a deep breath, looking over her shoulder. Sonya is still in the bedroom, finishing up a call for work, speaking in her Phone Voice, softer and pleasant, with all the edges sanded off. When Krista was a pet, she spoke in a voice like that. Sonya speaks for her job to men who constantly interrupt her, but somehow when she does it, the voice is gentle but commanding, where Krista always felt her voice just sounded… weak. “I don’t know, Kauri, I’m not… I’m not sure.”

“Please?” Kauri’s eyes are huge and blue, and water frames them as it runs from his hair. He shudders, as a winter breeze blows at his back. A spatter of the tiniest water droplets is blown with it, and Krista blinks rapidly against the feeling. “Please? It’s just for tonight, they said the buses should be running tomorrow morning if it doesn’t get worse… please?”

“If it doesn’t get worse,” Krista repeats, her eyes scanning back into the parking lot. Someone drives past, their headlights on, and the rain falls in such thick sheets that Krista can only see their headlights, not even the car.

Who would drive, in something like this?

She looks back at Kauri, and figures maybe someone who would walk in rain like this, someone who doesn’t have a choice. Not every business is closed, after all, and not everyone can work from their laptop like Sonya. Not everyone can afford the days off if they call in. There are people who don’t have the option to stay safe from the floods. There are people who are told to risk their lives or they will not eat. 

There are times Krista wonders how anyone doesn’t become a pet. At least she never had to watch a paycheck disappear from a bank account nearly as soon as it was deposited before.

Not that she knows of, anyway.

“It’s just overnight,” Kauri says, softly. “I know she doesn’t like me, but… but it’s just one night.”

She looks at him, in his soaked-up shoes, shivering in the rain and with his backpack dripping as hard as everything else, and then she sighs. The felt leaves on the Halloween wreath rustle against the door as she steps back and to the side. “Take your shoes off and stay on the mat, I’ll get you a towel to get you to the shower. I think you can probably wear some of my sleeping clothes.”

Kauri’s eyes brighten, and he kicks off his sopping shoes and peels off soaked-through white cotton socks. His toes are wrinkled from being wet for so long, and he spreads them with a sigh of relief against the rough doormat. 

“Thank you, Krista, thank you so much-”

“Get inside,” She says, but her voice is gentle, and he steps in to stand on the inside doormat (this one just says I hope you brought tacos) while Krista walks away, across the soft beige-gray-nothing-color carpet in the apartment, swinging around the low-slung coffee table by the couch. She ducks into the small bathroom and grabs the towels off the towel rack.

Sonya calls out, “Baby, do I hear someone at the door?”

Krista hesitates, towels in hand - she bought them at Target, too, the bathroom is fall-themed and the towels are a deep saturated pumpkin orange and a hunter green and they have cream-colored stitching that reads thankful and choose joy - and looks towards the closed bedroom door. “Um, yes. You remember Kauri Grant?”

There’s a pause, and then the bedroom door cracks open, and Sonya peeks through. Her short, straight brown hair is pulled back with clips to keep it out of her eyes, and she’s still in her pajama pants and t-shirt from last night. “That druggie friend of yours? The homeless guy?”

Krista shakes her head, nervously twisting the bunched-up towels in her hands. “He’s, he’s not-... he’s not on drugs, Sonya, I told you he’s not on drugs.”

“But he is homeless.”

“... yes.”

Sonya’s lips are a straight line, and the look she gives Krista makes her heart flip unhappily. Kauri always makes Sonya look like this. She doesn’t trust him, thinks he’s going to get Krista arrested, thinks he deals or buys or something, but Krista knows the truth and it’s a truth she can’t tell.

If she told Sonya what Kauri is, there would be questions, and then Krista would have to explain what she is, and she… she can’t.

What if Sonya reported him? Krista would shatter if she were the reason someone had to go back. So… she keeps his secret for him, and it’s just one lie, but it means Sonya only ever believes the worst.

“Well.” Sonya takes a deep breath. “What does he want?”

“They stopped running the buses,” Krista says, keeping her voice low. “Because the roads are so flooded.” The TV is still going, running a show Krista doesn’t even remember turning on, and Kauri is still on the inside doormat, dripping and cold and wet and in need of somewhere to stay. “He just wants to crash overnight, Sonya. Please.”

“I’m tired of you letting this guy take advantage of you, Kris,” Sonya says, and then just sighs, raking a hand through her hair and getting it caught on the clips, frowning and jerking her fingers back out, leaving her hair all mussed and beautiful. Krista wants to kiss her, but this isn’t the time. 

“It’s just one night-”

“It’s never just anything with Kauri Grant, Kris, and you know it. Just one night with Kauri Grant means he’ll eat half the food in our kitchen and you’ll end up washing his clothes for him-”

“He shouldn’t have to pay for laundry!”

“How come he can’t stay at a motel or something?”

“I don’t know, probably he hasn’t been making much money, if it’s raining people don’t go walking around to give-”

“Oh but somehow he always has money for drinks when he calls to see if you want to go out, though? You think I haven’t noticed that?”

Krista sets her jaw, at that. “Sonya. Please don’t do this. You know he almost never has to pay for drinks-”

“Because he’s fucking all the bartenders, Kris!”

“He just needs somewhere to crash for a single fucking night. Come on, Sonya, don’t be-... don’t be like this. He’s my fucking friend. It’s not like I have a lot of those.”

She never curses, and the unusual word coming from her lips pulls Sonya up short from whatever she intended to say next. There’s a silence, and then her girlfriend sighs and pushes the door open a little more. She holds out her arms and Krista steps into them, taking the tight embrace and soaking it up.

On the bed, their black cat Pepperjack looks up, gives a soft chirping meow, and lays his head back down again. 

“I’m sorry,” Sonya says, softly. “I know you care about him. I just wish I understood why.”

Because we’re the same, in all the ways that made us. Because he needs to know there are places where he is allowed to stay. Because of a million reasons I can’t tell, secrets I have to keep. 

Because he’s a ghost, and he wears the face of someone who died for him to be born.

Just like I wear a dead girl’s face, just like Leila does, like Chris and Antoni and all of us, we’re all walking around in someone else’s discarded body.

And I can’t tell you.

“He’s my friend,” Krista says again, more softly, and kisses Sonya’s cheek. Her girlfriend turns her head to turn it to a kiss on the lips, and Krista relaxes into the soft reassurance that comes with the love in that kiss. “One of my first friends, really. He’s just going through some stuff right now-”

“Baby, you always say he’s going through some stuff. When does he finish going through it and get out on the other side of all that stuff?”

Krista sighs, and nuzzles her way back into another kiss. “I don’t know. But he’ll leave as soon as the buses are running again, I promise, okay?”

Sonya nods, and they rest their foreheads together for a moment, let the softer silence stand. Then Sonya says, quietly, “Okay, baby. Just. I feel like Pepper over there is all the strays we need in our life, you know?”

“I know,” Krista murmurs. “But he’ll have somewhere to go once it stops raining, I promise.”

“Yeah. Well, I’ll start making a list for replacing all the goddamn groceries he’s gonna eat.”

“He doesn’t get much good food out there-”

“Kris. He’s a taker. He uses you. And when he’s here, he uses us. I don’t see why you don’t get that.”

“He’s not-”

“Kris, listen to me. Stop trusting some pretty dude who is just going to get you hurt when he pisses the wrong person off. I know you guys met at the same homeless house or whatever, but he’s going nowhere fast and you can’t let him take you with him.”

“Sonya, stop.”

“Kris-”

“I said stop it.” She pulls back and away, grabbing some of her baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt from the pile of ‘clean’ clothes folded on top of the dresser until she has the energy to put them in the dresser - which is never, Krista delights in being able to be messy in her own home - and carries them out. Sonya stands in the doorway watching her go, and then sighs and goes back to her headset, back to work.

Kauri, still just inside the doorway, is lowering his phone from his ear as Krista comes into view. Nat bought him that phone, so she’d know Kauri was alive the weeks he was gone. Nat bought him the phone, he bought his clothes with panhandling money, his sweatshirt is Dustin’s. The backpack he found abandoned at a bus stop. 

Nothing Kauri is wearing, or holding, is really his own.

A little plastic ziplock-style sandwich bag sticks out of his pocket. He had his phone in it to keep it dry, Krista thinks, and wonders how long he’s been wandering around out there in the rain. She hesitantly speaks up. “Here, Kauri, I’ve got towels and some clothes to change into-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kauri says, softly, and glances up at her  before he looks down again. Water drips from his hair onto the phone’s screen and he wipes at it with his finger, squinting. “I’ll be gone in a second.”

“What?” Krista goes still, and realizes that she and Sonya were not as quiet as they thought they were. “What do you mean? It's pouring-”

“I called someone,” Kauri says, flat and sharp, without looking at her. “Gonna walk to that bus stop with the little roof and he’ll come get me. Don’t worry about it.”

“Jake? It’s not- Kauri… it’s not safe for Jake to drive all that way across the city, half the roads are flooding-”

“Not Jake.” Kauri isn’t just not looking at her, he can’t. His face is a little red, splotches on his pale cheeks. Is some of the water on his face tears, now, and not from the rain? “I know someone else who lives near here. He’s coming to get me.”

“Kauri…” Krista closes her eyes, guilt twisting around inside of her that he’d heard. He knows Sonya doesn’t like him, but Kauri is so sensitive to being disliked. She should have pulled Sonya into the bedroom and closed the door. “Who is it?”

Kauri blows air through his nose. “It’s Derrick.”

Krista hitches in a breath in surprise. “Your ex? Kauri, didn’t-... didn’t he threaten you when you broke up?”

Kauri shakes his head, gives her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No. I misunderstood him, that’s all. I thought, um, I thought he was angry, but he was just… sad. The whole stupid fight was my fault anyway, and I’ve seen him since and he agreed to be friends. It’s fine. I asked, and he wants me there. I’ll sleep on his couch.”

No, you won’t. We both know you won’t.

“He wants you there,” Krista parrots, plaintively. “Kauri, you don’t have to leave, or anything, I swear. I’ll make you a bed up-”

“It’s fine,” Kauri repeats, and gives her another breezy, airy smile. He sticks his phone back into the little clear bag, closes it up, and shoves it back in his pocket. He slips his soaking-wet shoes back on and Krista winces as she hears the way his feet push water around inside them. “I’m fine, Krista, it’s really not a big deal. Derrick always says I can call him, when I run into him-”

“You’re still seeing him?” Krista licks at her lips. She holds the towels and clothes useless in her arms like a child hugging a teddy bear, feeling guilty and useless. Kauri came here for somewhere safe to stay, and felt unwanted, and now…

“No, but he… we show up at the same places sometimes.”

“... Kauri, is he following you?”

Kauri gives a brittle, bright laugh. “What? No! It’s fine.”

“It’s fine,” Krista repeats, and then says softly, “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. You… you always say it’s fine. How many times can you say it before you just… admit when it’s not, Kauri?”

Kauri’s smile drops, for a second. His blue eyes meet hers, haunted and sad, making the choice to hurt himself rather than be hurt by anyone else. Kauri Grant is a ghost, she thinks, and very nearly says out loud. You don’t have to haunt us, Kauri. You could have a home.

He takes a deep breath, pulls the hood of his zip-up sweatshirt over his head, where it flops, just as soaked-through as everything else, providing no safety from the rainfall at all. Water drips off of it onto his nose. “I’ll say it as many times as it takes to believe it,” He says, heavily.

“For who to believe it? Us, or you?”

“I’ll catch you later, Krista. No big deal. Thanks for letting me hang out for a minute.”

Krista watches, helpless, as Kauri turns and walks back out into the rain, shoulders hunched. The rain is so thick that he disappears from view before he’s even fully across the parking lot. From a man to a shade of the fog to nothing at all.

Sonya wanders out of the bedroom to find Krista still staring outside, through the open door. “Baby? Where’s your friend?”

“Where’s my friend? He heard us talking.” Krista’s voice is thready trembling. “He found someone else to stay with.”

The ex-boyfriend, who told Kauri he was a ditz and kind of dumb, who told him he was lucky someone put up with how difficult he is, who broke up with him while threatening and scaring him, who… who still let him leave, at least.

So it’s better than where he came from, maybe.

But not by much.

“Oh. So he did have somewhere else to go. Probably he just called his dealer, Krista. Nobody looks that strung out without being on something.”

Krista’s fingers tightened on the cloth she held in her hands until the tension hurt, ached up her arms and to her shoulders. “Sonya, he’s just-... he’s messed up, but he’s not-... he’s not on drugs. He’s just had a hard-... a hard life.”

“Yeah, I mean, a lot of us have. But you always let him take advantage of you, Kris. That’s all. That’s all I worry about. I mean, I’m sure he’s a fine guy, but I’m not on Team Kauri, you know? I’m Team Krista. I worry way more about how you get all weird for a couple days every time he’s here.”

“Sonya-”

“He’ll be fine.”

Krista shakes her head, but repeats, “He’ll be fine,” to settle her own nerves. She realizes belatedly that Kauri’s socks are still balled up on the concrete step outside her door, and she moves forward, closes the door, and does up the locks, leaving them there for now.

Maybe he’ll come back for them.

He probably won’t.

Pepperjack meows softly at her, and she turns to see the black cat winding his way around a leg of the coffee table. Something in his eyes looks… reproachful. Pepper likes curling up with Kauri when he stays over, warm against his back or on his chest, just under his chin. 

Krista walks past Sonya to hang the towels back up, puts her clothes back in the clean clothes pile, and curls up on the couch with Pepperjack in her lap and Sonya at her side. Warm, dry, and guilty.

She sent the ghost away - or Sonya did - or she did, by not defending him enough… and still, Krista feels haunted. She pulls her own phone out from the pocket in her pants and texts Jake. He went back to Derrick.

She doesn’t have to say who he is. She sees when Jake reads the message, but he doesn’t send anything back right away. Maybe he’ll call Kauri. Maybe he’ll convince Kauri to go somewhere other than his shit ex-boyfriend’s place. Maybe maybe maybe, but it all relies on Kauri not running away.

It all relies on Kauri. Kauri’s a survivor, she tells herself. They all are. She texts Jake again. I’m sure it’s okay. I’m sure he’ll be fine. I’m sure.

Yeah, is all Jake sends back. She can feel the anger through the inconsequential bloodless single-word response. Anger, fear, and worry.

She closes her eyes. 

He’ll be fine. He’s fine.

How many times do they tell each other Kauri is fine, when everyone knows it’s not true?

---

@maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @18-toe-beans, @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @giggly-evil-puppy, @whimpers-and-whumpers, @moose-teeth, @whump-it, @lumpofwhump, @pumpkinthefangirl, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly @whumpiary @whump-tr0pes  @raigash @cubeswhump

[dissonantdreamer]

Abby stares at her reflection in the hotel mirror. The kigu she ordered online was supposed to fit, the guy assured her it was big and tall, but the popped stitching round her calves and the four inches of skin that was supposed to be covered with cuffs begged to differ. Dude probably didn’t believe her when she asked for the biggest size.

The hood has little plush horns on the sides and she throws the hood over her hair reaching in to pull her braid out around her shoulder. The brown arrow on the top going down to the wide tail that stopped just below the back over her knees matched Lev’s blue one. An extra set of small stuffed legs were sewn into the sides, when she moves her arms they move with her. For fun she flexes and feels the slight snap of thread in the cuff around her forearm. This was the most inconvenient design she’s ever seen.

“I look fucking ridiculous.” she groans. Snapping a photo anyway she sends it to Manny. He was off somewhere getting laid. Conventions are the only place Ashitaka and Casca can get it on, Abigail. Whatever the fuck that meant. He had shouted it as he passed the hotel cleaning lady with a wink, some girl in foam plate armor leading him away from their room. It was embarrassing. He was embarrassing.

Grabbing her boots she heads over to the queen bed she was sharing with Lev and starts putting them on.

“You okay in there?” She shouts at the closed door of the bathroom. He’s been in there almost half an hour. He’s been looking forward to this convention for months, ever since she surprised him with passes for his fourteenth birthday. The silence stretches long and she finishes lacing her boots up. Just as she finishes she hears the click of the bathroom door latch and light spills out as Lev steps out with a huff.

“I don’t look stupid do I?” Abby stands and she gapes at the elaborate red and yellow monks robes he wears.

“Holy shit, Lev!?” She pulls at one of his sleeves. “You made this!?” Sheepishly he rubs his arm and she can see two long blue lines that end in arrows on the backs of his hands. They match the bright blue arrow on his head, it’s the most important part Lev had explained while she helped him bic his head.

“I told you I was going to make my costume.” He observes her for a moment. “You look like you stole my pajamas.”

“Yeah, well the guy sent me the wrong size and it’s not like I could exchange it the day before I’m supposed to go to the convention.” Abby goes to rub his head and she pulls back seconds before she smears his make up. He gives her a long-suffering sigh and ducks under her arm to check himself over. He’s withdrawing and she tries to lighten his mood. “Are you sure you wanna be seen with me?” “Of course, Abby. His eyes meet hers in the reflection of the mirror and he sticks his tongue out at her. “How else am I gonna get around.”

“Okay, rude.” Abby walks back to the bed, falling over dramatically. She folds her hands behind her head and closes her eyes. “Have fun trying to get in to the convention now.”

She hears some rummaging on the side table next to her as Lev grumbles something about her being five.  The clack of plastic key cards and the jangle of lanyards break the quiet before she feels them thrown onto her chest. There is a second more of peace, broken by a battle cry, followed up by the full weight of a fourteen year old boy jumping onto her stomach. She grunts as the air leaves her lungs, Lev immediately tries to grapple her into a sitting position. She takes pity on him and helps him get her halfway into a sitting position before she scoops him up and tosses him onto the pile of blankets on the other bed. He gives her and indignant look before she throws her pillow at him.

“Stop being a child, Abigail.” He deadpans, his hand slowly moving to grab the pillow next to him.

“Start being a child, Lev.” She ducks as he throws the pillow at her, briefly wincing at the sound of something falling over behind her. Good thing the room was in Manny’s name.

She barely manages to catch Lev as he jumps her. Easily tossing him over her shoulder, she loops the lanyards over her neck. Taking her time to casually put her phone, wallet and room keys into the deep pockets of her costume as he pounds away on her back.

“Have you seen the passes?” she carries him around the room, pretending she can’t find the obvious passes hanging off her neck. Lev huffs, stilling.

“Put me down.” He sounds defeated and she acquiesces.

“You done?” She asks as he reaches up to grab the hood of her costume until shes bent over and he takes his pass off her neck. He heads over to the door picks up the staff he made, directing her through the door with a few pokes and she laughs at how serious he’s trying to be.   They get in the elevator Lev keeps messing with the sleeves in his costume, checking his warped reflection in the steel walls of the cart. Abby chuckles at the sight, places her hand on his shoulder.

“Relax, kid. You look cold.” She half being supportive, half teasing him for the one time he misspoke when she took him to the old theater to see Cool Runnings.   “I'm actually war-.” He pauses when he realizes what she’s doing. “Oh you’re trying to be funny.” “I am funny.” The doors open and they exit into the hotel lobby Welcome Seattle Comic Expo banners strung up every where. Abby takes in the insane amount of people dressed up in all sorts of colorful characters, none of which shes familiar with. Stepping through the lobby she can feel the temperature in the room rise, instantly she regrets not wearing her sweat wicking workout clothes underneath her outfit. “Who besides you thinks that?” He glares, but tucks himself closer to her frame when he thinks she’s not paying attention. Crowds have never been his thing and she steps forward a little to protect him from the waves of people.

Abby shrugs. “Yara thinks I'm funny.” Lev rolls his eyes at her. “Yara thinks it's funny when I pronounce cheese as chez.”

The manage to make it out the door and across the street to the massive convention center. The chill of a fall afternoon cools the sweat on her back slightly and she shivers. More Comic Expo banners flutter in the wind and she takes a picture, texting it to Manny with the caption: Just a reminder there is a convention going on that you paid upwards of 600$ to be at. “Remind me again why she isn't dragging your butt to a convention.” Abby asks as they slide into the lie of people waiting to get into the main convention hall.

“Because Yara is at science camp and you already paid for the weekend.” Lev flashes his badge at a worker and they pass through a short hallway to see impossibly, even more people stuffing themselves into a large lobby. Posters of cartoons decorate the walls, some folks in bright blue vests try to direct the flow of traffic away from the doors.

The noise of hundreds of people laughing and shouting caries up through a three level rotunda, into the high ceilings.  Around them people are asking for photos and posing in their costumes. A few people are putting on little fights, or singing song in character. One group of kids enthusiastically play a card game right in the middle of the and people who stop to watch only crowd the hall further. It’s unfamiliar “Daddy, it's the avatar!” There is a little kid, no more than six years old, running towards Lev in a green tunic with a yellow under shirt and pants. He’s wearing a matching green cloth hat, there is a small gray goatee on his face and he’s holding lettuce for some reason. He stops in front of Lev and grabs the “You’re the Avatar! You can’t have cabbage.”

Lev eyes wide in confusion, looks hopelessly to Abby. This is way out of her jurisdiction and she gestures at him to engage the kid.

“Look Daddy, the Avatar dressed the Boulder up as Appa!”

The fuck does that even mean? She thinks. Abby raises a brow at Lev who hides his laughter behind his hand. Behind him a young man a few years older than her, rapidly approaches looking haggard as he puts a hand on the kids shoulder, apologetically grimacing at Abby as he catches his breath. He points between Abby and Lev. “Sorry, he loves this show. Can we take your picture?” She faces Lev and he stares like he needs her permission. She turns her lips down and shrugs. “I mean you put all that effort into you costume. Fuuc-dge it right?” She checks to make sure the kid didn’t hear her almost slip up but he is too busy watching Lev for his answer. Lev nods and the kid loses it. Pulling his dads pant leg and starts to point at all the cool things about Lev’s costume.

Lev beams up at her and she kneels down enough for him to climb on her thigh to hop up onto her shoulders. As he settles he whispers a quiet thank you as he locks his legs against her torso for balance. Lev strikes a pose as she grips his knees so he doesn’t topple off from the force of his excitement.

“Say the thing!” The kid shouts as his father raises his camera up, leaning back to get both of them in frame. “Appa! Yip yip!” The camera flashes and Lev’s laughter rings brightly above her as she hoists him higher.

If this is what it takes to get him out of his shell a little she thinks, it’s totally worth it.

[itsmeevie01]

Bio!Dad Bruce Month Day 13- Gifts

a teen was standing in an airport, the hood of his hoodie pulled up to hide his dark hair. His hands were stuffed in the pocket of his sweatpants, and he kept his eyes (really blue eyes!) fixed on his phone. When the arrival of the last flight from Paris for the night was announced, he glanced up, scanning the area. Satisfied that whoever he was looking for wasn’t yet at the baggage claim, he returned to his phone. 

20 minutes later, the device binged, and his head shot up, once again scanning the area. The athletic boy’s face split into a smile when he locked eyes with a girl who was waiting near a pile of bags, looking through the ones that were spitting out. The boy made his way over and pulled the girl into a hug. After they had snagged the last of her bags (how on earth did the kid have 6???) the two made their way to the parking garage. When they neared the doors separating the warm airport, the boy pulled the girl’s hood up and made sure his was up as well before pulling the bags he had taken behind him. the tow hurried through the cold air, heads down. 

As they passed a line of cars in the drop off lane, the boy’s hood got knocked off by the wind. He ducked down further, but by then, it was too late. “Timothy! Timothy Drake!” his name flew through the reports and visitors in the crowd. The boy, Tim, scowled and cut those closest to him a glare. The girl behind him sniggered at his distress before pulling her hood farther forward. As she pushed past the teen, there was a flash of blue eyes, before she was pulling him after her. As they hurried off, there were multiple flashes of cameras and questions floated through the air.

---

“what that fuck did you do?” the question was punctuated by the slamming of Marinette’s door. Tim huffed as he slumped into the driver’s seat.

“I didn’t do anything though! Honestly, it’s not my fault B has been making me do the public appearances for WE!” at his sister’s suspicious look, the older teen made a face and checked to make sure she had buckled her seatbelt. S

oon, the two were speeding down the road that led to the manor, where the rest of the family was gathering. 

---

When they walked in, they were greeted by Alfred, who gave Tim an unimpressed look before smiling at Marinette and insisting that the two go join the family in the big sitting room. When they entered, they found everyone staring at the television, where a news story was flashing on the screen. As the Anchor continued to talk, a picture of whatever had caught the family’s interest appeared on the screen and-

“well shit, Timmy, can’t you even pretend to be low key?” Jason’s question made the other boy groan and throw himself into a chair.

“I tried, Jason. I tried. It wasn’t until we were almost to the car that someone saw us.” He glanced at the image on the TV, “at least M can’t be seen clearly. That went correctly.” Jason snorted derisively and let himself fall back into his seat.

“how long do you think before the conspiracy theories start flying?” at his question, Marinette looked up from where she was scrolling through her phone.

“oh, those have already started. Half of Twitter thinks I’m Tim’s Girlfriend.” The room erupted in laughter and the siblings moved to accommodate the teens before turning back to the news.

Bruce smiled at his children as they started to stumble down the stairs. First, Marinette had come down from her room. The 14-year-old had taken the holiday to swap out her jeans and long-sleeved tees for a pair of leggings and a long green top that settled mid-thigh. Although her clothes weren’t festive, per say, you could tell she had thought her appearance through very carefully. At this point, Bruce mused, he wouldn’t expect anything less from the budding fashion designer.

Next had come Tim, somewhere around 5 am. The teen had also changed from his Pajamas into what Bruce realized was an outfit Marinette had planned. Black joggers, black tee peeking out from under a red hoodie, and a pair of slippers that Bruce suspected were actually his.

 Once the two had curled up together gripping their coffee, Dick and Jason appeared. They too had forgone the customary pjs for joggers, in Dicks case, and sweats in Jason’s. Dick was wearing a deep blue hoodie that was almost back, with…OH that must have been Marinette’s doing who else was going to make a custom hoodie for Dick that displayed his Nightwing symbol so subtly. Jason on the other hand…Marinette clearly had put less into being subtle with him. instead of a deep garnet that could blend into the bat symbol on his chest, the hoodie was a bright glaring red. On the back, in cursive, the name “Red Hoodie” had been sewn. Bruce held back a laugh of disbelief at the ease the girl had used to sneak the hoodies into the boy’s wardrobe.

While Bruce was marveling at his daughter’s creativity and sneakiness, Cass slipped in and settled next to him. she too was wearing a hoodie that Bruce now recognized as one of Marinette’s. it was black on black with white outlining the bat symbol. At his look of amusement, Cass handed him the hoodie in her hands.

It was black like hers, except much bigger and completely devoid of color. As he inspected the hoodie, Bruce found a small selection of embroidery on the bottom hem. “dad, I didn’t want to do anything huge, but this is a thank you, and a small reminder that I love you. Stay safe, Marinette Cheng-Wayne” he smiled as he ran his fingers over the stitching. 

When he glanced over at Cass again, he found her playing with the embroidery on her own hoodie where it met her leggings. Before he could turn and say anything to the designer, Damien made his presence known as he entered the room. The boy scowled at everyone before he plopped down on next to Marinette, on the side opposite of Tim. Bruce shook his head as he watched his two youngest interact, Damien in a green hoodie and sweats. The hoodie wasn’t anything special, except for the red lining and yellow accents that Marinette had obviously added as a nod to his hero persona.

Alfred came in shortly after and handed out coffee and Hot Cocoa. As the siblings woke up, they moved so that the family made a semi-circle around the tree. They pulled out their phones and started checked the time, texted their friends, and generally got accustomed to the early morning. 

When Alfred came back to join them, toting two giant trash bags and a camera, Dick perked up, it was time to start handing out presents. As the young adult started moving through the room, the others sorted what he was handing them when they all were given boxes in an unfamiliar paper, many of the older ones traded confused glances with each other. When the last present had been distributed, everyone turned to Damien who glanced around in confusion. “what? Do I have something on my face?” the others laughed, and Marinette bumped him with her elbow.

“its not that, little brother, you are the youngest, so you go first. You open one and everyone else will take turns after until it comes back to you!” the boy rolled his eyes at her explanation, before reaching for the paper that the rest of the family knew signifies that the gift was from Alfred. 

When the youngest had opened the parcel to reveal a selection of books on drawing and wildlife, Marinette smiled at him and nodded to Dick, who had ended up next to Damien. Dick flashed her a bright smile and opened his own present form Alfred. After Dick, Jason tugged off the paper on his box. Then, Cass who turned to Bruce with a prompting tilt of her head. After Bruce had opened his bag (really, Alfred! He didn’t need any more books on raising emotionally stable children. He had done well so far, right?) he nodded to Alfred who raised a pointed eyebrow at him (about what, Bruce wasn’t sure. He hadn’t done anything yet, had he? It was barely 6 in the morning!). Tim rolled his eyes at their interaction, before ripping open his own package and letting out a yelp of happiness at the stack of books that he found waiting for him. 

After that, Marinette simply giggled at the family antics and opened her gift. When Damien reached for the next present, Alfred lifted his camera to capture the smiles that were flooding the room.

Somehow, Damien had left the unfamiliar papered gift for last. When he reached for it, he tried to do a mental tally to figure out who it could be from. First they had opened Alfred’s gifts, so it couldn’t be him. then they had moved onto Bruce’s then Jason’s. After that, they had gone through Cass’s (apparently, she was a notoriously bad gift giver) and his own. Then, Damien had reached for the ones he knew came from Marinette, before deigning to opened Tim’s. if they had opened all of the family presents, then…” Alfred, why are these under the family tree?” Dick’s question broke Damien from his thoughts. “shouldn’t we wait until the Kents get here to open these?” the old Butler shook his head and gestured for the vigilante to open the box. 

When Dick did as instructed, he full on squealed. “How!” at the family’s confusion, the oldest of the siblings held up a card that had been nestled inside. The small crème square read ‘Complements of MCW’. As the family processed what they were seeing, all hell broke loose. The others tore into the boxes in front of them, and all found a personalized gift, and a matching Christmas sweater. No one noticed Marinette’s small smile at the chaos surrounding her, or that though she had the Christmas sweater, she didn’t have a personalized item to go with. 

No one, that is, except Tim.

so, this is LATE, because the place im staying over the weekend has crazy spotty internet and i couldnt get Word to save anything. that said, i will also be uploading day 14, so keep an eye out for that today...

[saipng]

me? write a frenrey one shot fanfic with them drunkenly playing truth or dare? it’s more likely than you think

-

Nights like these made it all worth it.

The lulling whir of the air conditioner kissed his flushed cheeks as the sound of dying laughter dissipated through the air. The noise of the streets outside the window and the quiet chatter of the TV filled the room instead, and the smell of home cooked food mixed with old cologne and alcohol seemed to cling to his very clothes. His eyes traced the long shadows cast in red, pink, and blue, painting the familiar scene in technicolors.

It was nights like these, Gordon thought, that made it all worth it.

Joshua was long asleep in his room, snuggled next to his favorite plush toy of a head crab that Bubby (lovingly) stitched together out of old scraps of clothing. Tommy arrived first, as was usual, tagging Sunkist along and letting her carry a bottle of wine between her teeth. Dr Coomer and Bubby came later, always together, always the same chorus of ‘Hello, Gordon!’s, always a big bright smile and a warm tingle in his heart. Darnold arrived late, later than he usually would if he were to come at all, but this time he brought his ‘strongest potions’ and Gordon was equal parts terrified and excited to try them out.

Benrey was already there by the time Gordon remembered him. He always simply appeared, but even that became routine at this point.

Gordon never invited any of them.

It was enough, he thought, that they would come over like this, with food and alcohol and maybe a DVD or a board game, and they would spend their time in peace and (relative) quiet. Having the company was enough.

Gordon smiled, sudden warmth spreading through his belly.

“Hey-Hey guys,”- He stuttered, trying to get up on his already slightly shaky feet, the attention of the room shifting towards him from the TV as The Science Team all turned their heads in unison.

“Woah- Um, okay. Creepy. Guys, do you wanna like- Hey guys, do you wanna play Truth or Dare?”

It wasn’t the first time they would be playing it, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Bubby, particularly competitive in, well, everything, immediately perked up.

“What, you itching to lose just like last time, you little bitch boy?”

“Okay, just because I refused to drink an entire glass of bleach doesnt mea-“

“Bitch boy!”

“Um, I would like to go first, Mr Freeman!”- Tommy piped up, having a surprising competitive streak in him too.

Truth or Dare, for most people, was a game of fun and embarrassment and messing around. For The Science Team, it was more like a battle for dominance and glory.

Most of their games were, actually. Gordon already lost 6 packs of Uno cards to fire, and Jenga is completely forbidden in his apartment for the foreseeable future. And god forbid he ever saw anyone with a box of Monopoly ever again.

Gordon took an uncertain step, steadying his feet as he raised his glass and nodded, -“Sure, Tommy. Truth or Dare?”

“Oh, and why do you get to ask,”- Bubby piped up, crossing his arms.

“Because I offered the game, alright? Now-“

“Truth or Dare, Tommy?”- Dr Coomer took over, and Tommy immediately replied with a resolute “Dare”.

“Fantastic choice, my young friend!”- The older man smiled, and then his face immediately turned to stone. Gordon swallowed, on the edge of his seat (still standing) at what might come next.

Dr Coomer was known for going to the extremes. His dares were either along the lines of “Do a chicken dance” or “Drink this glass of bleach” (which was exactly where Gordon drew the line last time). One time he dared Bubby to eat a pack of ramen raw, and the maniac actually did it.

Once Dr Coomer opened his mouth again, Gordon’s heart sank to his feet.

“I dare you to drink-“

“No! No more bleach drinking! That is banned forever, okay, it’s-“

“-An entire glass of Dr Darnold’s strongest potion!”

Gordon paused in his tracks. Suddenly, the bleach idea didn’t seem to be as bad.

He threw a quick glance at the man in question, who seemed to be perfectly beaming at the suggestion.

“Why, I do think my potions are way too strong for you, Tommy! The side effects can be unpredictable!”- He exclaimed, already reaching over the precariously shaped vial, -“Now, I will need you to have a bucket by your side and a pack of ice and maybe a pair of tweezers-“

“I will be fiiiiine,”- Tommy slurred, more determined than ever. He was not one to pass up a dare, no matter how insane it sounded. Gordon began to wonder whether he had any tweezers lying around, just in case.

In the next second, with an agility unbecoming of a man as drunk as he already was, Tommy threw back the glass and Gordon watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed at every resounding gulp. He couldn’t help his jaw clenching as the fiery burn resonated in his own throat at the sight, a shiver running down his spine, The feeling was something akin to watching a car crash, the horrifying fascination making his stomach turn when Tommy thumped the vial back on the table and wiped at his mouth with his sleeve.

He had to sit back down for this.

“go, tommyyyyyy!”- Benrey shouted from somewhere behind the couch, and for once, Gordon agreed wholeheartedly. At this point, he was pretty certain that Tommy was the most badass person he knew.

“Hoo! Yeah! Woo- Aw-Awright, z-zat- Eazy! Eazier zan... zan.....!”- Tommy blinked hard, his eyes clouded over as he tilted further and further to his right, and yeah, maybe he was going to have the worst night/morning of his life, but damn if the street cred he earned in that moment wasn’t worth it.

“Cake!- Darnold helpfully supplied, and Tommy forcefully threw himself at the man to give him a huge hug.

“Iz cake!”- He slurred from Darnold’s shoulder, waving an arm around way too close to Bubby’s face, -“Whoza next!?”

“Gordon!”- The latter smirked, slapping away Tommy’s hand and leaning further back into Coomer.

Gordon turned his head so fast his neck cracked, a slight headache immediately forming from the whiplash.

“No!? What!? No, I didn’t agree to that. Why me!?”- He began pouring himself another drink. Suddenly he was really craving some of that strongest potion.

“Because you offered the game, right?”- Bubby grinned, and Dr Coomer nodded in agreement.

“You did offer the game, Gordon.”

“I know I offered the damn- Hey, why don’t we have someone else go, huh!? Why not- Why not Benrey?”- At the mention of his name, said being popped his head up and stared directly back at Gordon, -“He, like, never participates! What’s up with that!”

And he wasn’t lying, either. For someone who consistently talked about gaming, Benrey almost never took part in their late night competitions. Gordon could never tell why – he could never, ever tell why anything with this guy – but to him this felt almost deliberate. Of course, everything Benrey did felt deliberate – that is, he was always deliberately trying to get on Gordon’s nerves.

And this time was no exception.

“huh?”- Came the simple response, and the burn in Gordon’s stomach turned to a burn in his chest.

“Yeah, you never do anything! Here we are, running around like headless chickens, doing whatever stupid shit we want each other to do, and you just sit there!”

“whu-?”

“What, you think this is like, some kinda free show for you? Some kinda performance piece!? No, nope, that won’t do, buddy. You’re gonna participate or you’re gonna get the hell out of here, alright? Truth or Dare?”

“dare”

The reply came so fast, Gordon nearly lost his footing while sitting. He blinked down at the glass in his hand, brows furrowing in concentration.

Alright, sure, cool. Maybe he didn’t expect Benrey to actually answer. And maybe he definitely didn’t expect him to choose dare. This was fine. It was fine.

Gordon poured himself another drink.

“daaaaare,”- Benrey whined at the same time as Bubby said “The man has chosen dare, Gordon, now will you please give it to him!”

“Alright, alright; don’t shout at me, I’m thinking!”

“Well, think faster!”

“It is rude to make other people wait, Gordon,”- Dr Coomer pursed his lips as Tommy may or may not have said something in agreement. He was now more than half lying on Darnold, who didn’t seem to care in the least, and his hand was absentmindedly stroking Sunkist’s back.

Knowing him, though, he most definitely was on Benrey’s side here. They all always were.

“Would you like some ideas, Dr Freeman?”- Darnold offered, and Gordon reached his boiling point.

“No! No, alright, I got it! I dare you to, uh,”- Gordon looked Benrey over, his stupid acidic gamer slogan hoodie making his retinas hurt, watched as the same hooded eyes not blink as they stared back, dull, unseeing, bored, overcast in a shadow that seemed to be permanently encasing his sharp face. And then Gordon scrunched up his nose as he said with the most vitriol possible, -“I dare you to take off you stupid beanie.”

It was but a beat of silence before Benrey, understandably this time, went, - “huh???”

“You heard me,”- Gordon doubled down this time, fully recognizing how stupid and inconsequential his dare seemed in comparison to Coomer’s, but damn if he wasn’t going to insist on it now, -“Come on. Show us what’s under there. Show us what- Show us what you’re hiding.”

Benrey blinked once. Then twice.

And then he was suddenly making his way towards the front of the room, crawling on all fours like an animal, and his gaze pointedly fixed on Gordon as he said “ohhhhh does feetman wanna- does feetman wanna see my secret parts. does feetman wanna take a glance at my uhhhh my special place”

Gordon nearly choked on his drink, a renegade laugh escaping this throat as he desperately tried not to have vodka pour out of his nose.

“What the FUCK, man, don’t call it that!?”

“what next, you gonna ask me to take my shoes off. maybe my socks? i’m gonna need to see a signed permission for that first”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”- Gordon slammed the table as he keeled over, and he could almost physically feel Bubby rolling his eyes.

“You gonna do it or what!?”- He nudged Benrey with his foot so that the other nearly toppled over.

“what, that it”

“Wh-What?”- Gordon managed in between taking deep breaths, feeling the room sway slightly from side to side. He hated how everything the guard said made him lose his shit. He especially hated it right then, when he was staring right at him with that self-confident smirk that still somehow managed to look bored. He hated it so much.

“is that all? weak”

“What, you wanna take off your shirt too? Be my guest, man, fucking- Strip down to your pants. Do it. You won’t.”

Benrey stared at him.

Gordon regretted every decision he ever made that led him up to this point.

Benrey smiled.

And then in one confident motion he ripped off his hoodie, his beanie coming along with it.

He threw them to the side, the pile of clothes landing on Sunkist, who didn’t seem to mind in the least, and this was exactly the point where Gordon realized that this was a bad, bad, horrifically bad idea.

He didn’t know what he expected to see when Benrey took off his hat (or helmet or whatever other stupid thing he was wearing at the time), didn’t really think about it (or tried not to) but damn if it wasn’t this. It was just - just hair. Completely normal hair, almost insultingly so, jet black and cropped short to his skull. But it wasn’t even the hair that was the biggest offender - no, it was the now completely open, completely normal and completely handsome face that was staring back at him. Completely human, completely right, and so disgustingly unobscured that it made Gordon’s stomach do back flips that would have scored tens all around at the Olympics.

When Benrey’s fingers twitched to remove the undershirt that he had underneath, he knew he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Okay, okay, fuck! We- We get it! You did the dare, alright, enough! That’s just indecent exposure at this point! Chill out, man!”

Benrey didn’t reply, but didn’t move to strip down any more. Gordon allowed himself to breathe again.

He was way too drunk for this.

He poured another drink.

After an uncomfortable stretch of terrible silence where Gordon could acutely feel the burn in his face and shoulders, Dr Coomer finally spoke up with an “That was a shitty dare, Gordon!”

“Yeah, it was horribly underwhelming. Not even writhing snakes underneath that thing,”- Bubby immediately joined, and at that Tommy perked up only to mumble “badgers” and then fall back down onto Darnold, knocking them both over to the floor.

Gordon couldn’t keep in the laughter that bubbled up from his stomach, and he had to look for support if only to stay upright. At this point, he was certain that if he were to fall down, he would not get back up again.

Of course, it just so happened that this time his closest support structure was Benrey, and by the time he realized that he was grabbing onto the other’s shoulder, it was way too late. Benrey was already staring at him, a smirk stretching over his lips that, without the ever-present shadow painting over his eyes, now looked almost... Nice. Sweet.

Gordon shifted in his seat, slowly removing his hand and clearing his throat.

That’s right. Play it cool. Play it cool.

Easier said than done, though, especially considering Benrey’s skin was practically burning next to him.  

Gordon pulled at his hair tie, freeing his curls if only to have something covering his face. Dammit, Freeman, play it cool!

“Alright, which of you lightweights is going to go next?”- Bubby sighed, clearly resigning to being an observer this round, rather than a participant.

“gordon,”- Came a voice directly from Gordon’s right, and he immediately opened his mouth in protest.

Only to be shut up by Bubby before saying a single word, -“If you even so much as make a single sound besides “Truth” or “Dare”, I swear to fuck I will set your curtains on fire.”

Gordon was really tempted to say “Fuck off, not again”.

Instead, he resigned to whispering, “...Truth.”

“huh? what was that? truth? does little baby want truth? does little baby want his truth bottle?”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole, that doesn’t even make sense. The game isn’t called Dare or Dare, I can choose what I want.”

“stupid shitty baby can’t even handle this truth.”

Gordon snorted, fists curling up at his sides as he inhaled sharply, turning to face the permanent annoyance of his life that was Benrey.

“Okay. Okay. You know what? Okay! You wanna dance Benrey, huh? You wanna dance? Then let’s fucking dance. It’s dare. I choose dare. Hit me.”

Benrey’s smile only widened as Gordon’s heart sank deeper and his ears tingled with a warmth that was unwelcome, but not unfamiliar. And before either one of them could make a move, there was the distinct sound of clothes shuffling, the noise of something breaking, and then Tommy was kneeling on the floor, swaying from side to side like a piece of grass in a gentle breeze, finger pointed up, eyelids half closed as he barely managed out an, “I d-daaare- I dare Miste-ww Freeemann and B-Ben- Rey- To danz!”

Having finished his incredible statement, Tommy fell onto his other side, head landing right on Sunkist, and Darnold gently patted him on the shoulder mumbling “There, there.”

Gordon could only side eye the other scientists. He would be laughing right now, really, if he wasn’t so perfectly outraged by the proposition.

“Uh, how about no? You know I love you Tommy, but if you think that even for a second-“

“chicken man.”

“...What?”

“gordon freeman more like. more like gordon fowlman.”

“Hah, that was a clever one, Benrey! Keep it up!”- Dr Coomer encouraged, and Gordon really didn’t need that in his life right now.

“I’m not afraid to dance with you, I-“

“chickon fowlman”

“Fucking stop, alright! We’re both drunk as shit, and I doubt any one of us is a good dancer, we’re probably gonna break some-“

“what, no. i’m a great dancer. i’m the best- the bestest at dance. moves. number one in just dance 2003 on the playstation 2- got an award. a diploma. what do you got. stupid chicken legs. cluck cluck cluck, i’m idiot baby, i can’t dance-“

Gordon was on his feet in seconds, the room spinning around like a freaking kaleidoscope, but he’d be damned if he let this pretty- this cute- this shitty garbage sack believe that he was better than him. Even if it was true.

At this point, he was more than drunk, he was pissed, he was warm, and he wanted to wipe that stupid smile off of Benrey’s face if it was the last goddamn thing he did. If that meant he needed to dance, then he was going to fucking dance.

“Fine, okay, sure! Let’s go, let’s fucking go, go, go! Dr Coomer, hit us with a beat!”

If it was a dance battle Benrey wanted, it was a battle he was going to g-

The soft sound of a gentle piano was definitely not what Gordon expected to come out of the- Of Dr Coomer...? He honestly wasn’t sure where Dr Coomer was producing the sound from, but that mattered less at the moment than the particular sound being produced - which certainly wasn’t what he had in mind.

“What the fuck!? What is this shit?”

“Gordon, this track is As Time Goes By by the Claude Williamson Trio-“

“No, no, I don’t give- Who cares about the name of the track!? We’re not fucking slow dancing! Give us something with a beat!”

“But Gordon, I enjoy this song.“

This was yet another moment where Tommy decided to speak up, suddenly raising his hand with one finger pointing at the ceiling, his voice muffled by the perfect dog’s fur as he muttered “I- I dare Mr Freeman- and- and Benrey to- to Slow. Dance. For fiiiiiiiiiiive miiiiiinuuuuuutesssssssss.”

His hand fell back to the floor with an audible thump.

“No! Hey, no, that’s not- That’s not in the rules! You can’t just change the original dare like-“

“Oh my god, silently! Quietly! Without words! Slow dance for five fucking minutes with your mouths shut tight, okay! That’s your fucking dare!”- Bubby threw his arms up, and the reflection in his glasses told Gordon that his curtains are very much in immediate danger.

This was dumb. This was more than dumb, this was shitty, stupid, against all rules, and really, he should just kick them all out and be done with it all.

So, like any rational and sound-minded person, Gordon swallowed down the horrible tightness in his throat, and opened up his arms in an invitation.

He didn’t mean to bite his lip when Benrey approached him, really, he didn’t, but his chest refused to stop pounding, his arms felt sticky and gross, and his vision was only ever so slightly blurry when he reached out his hand and grabbed Benrey’s.

“I’ll lead,”- He barely whispered, maybe more like mouthed so that didn’t count, and Benrey did not protest for once, his other hand finding his way over to Gordon’s shoulder. Gordon hesitated only a second before lightly guiding his fingers to the other’s waist.

There was a moment of certain panic, blood freezing over as an electric current ran through his spine, sudden realization that he couldn’t remember the last time he danced with anyone flooding his senses, before being replaced with a gentle, coaxing burn when he felt Benrey pull at him and take a step backwards. Gordon swallowed hard again, allowing his drunkenness to overtake for a moment, letting himself sway ever so gently as he tried his best to guide the other around the room. This wasn’t exactly a waltz, not even close, but at least he was conscious enough not to step on any feet or trip over his own.

This was... excruciating.

He didn’t know where to look, eyes darting around the room like he was desperately looking for an escape, and his hands and hair felt altogether way too sweaty for any of this. He didn’t want to hear Benrey’s slightly exalted breathing, the firm press of his hand in Gordon’s own, the feeling of those dark, dark, immensely dark eyes staring right into his very being. Five minutes, Gordon learned by the first 30 seconds, was an outrageously long time.

It was only around the second minute mark, when Gordon was certain he was going to pass out before finishing the dance, that his vision darkened for a split second, and it wasn’t before long that a feeling of complete and utter surrender washed over him. Shoulders dropping down, muscles releasing with an almost audible click, he felt his anxiety dissipate in the air along with that unbearable, pulsating heat. The only thing left was his heavy eyelids defiantly staying open and the soft sound of the piano keys running through the air. He willed his head to turn to Benrey then, finally allowing himself to make eye contact for the first time, and the sea of gently glowing blue orbs around them nearly overwhelmed his vision.

“calm down,”- Benrey mouthed, and Gordon gladly obeyed, nodding his head ever so slightly.

His arms felt like cotton, like melting butter, so he allowed both his hands to travel to Benrey’s lower back, not able to keep them up anymore. Benrey, in turn, gently wrapped his own arms around Gordon’s neck, and Gordon couldn’t find it in him to protest.

He could find it in him to be delighted, though.

He didn’t know what it was, exactly - the alcohol, the forced silence, or the gentle blue light that filled his very soul, but he suddenly felt braver, braver than he had ever been before. But more importantly, he felt curious - and so he tugged Benrey a little closer, just that much. He knew it was but a gentle pull - no, he was certain of it. The rest of the way between their bodies Benrey closed on his own.

Gordon’s stomach ignited in fireworks, his ribs prickling with the sensation of the other flush against him, the touch of his skin intoxicating in ways he didn’t remember were possible.

And all the while, his eyes were glued to Benrey’s, almost morbidly mesmerized by the two dark caverns that refused to reflect light and seemed to only take, take, and take.

Benrey’s fingers tangled in his hair, and Gordon couldn’t help the genuine smile that easily found its home on his face, couldn’t help the breath that got stolen when he saw that same smile reflected on Benrey’s own.

His fists balled in the other’s thin shirt, and he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so secure.

Serene. Right.

It’s nights like these, Gordon thought, that make everything worth it.

The last note played, the orbs burned out, and the only thing left standing in the middle of it all were the two of them, still clinging one to another, breathing hard as though they have just finished an intense exercise routine, and for a brief moment, time stood still.

And Gordon felt as though something unspoken has passed between them in that one moment.

And in the next, raucous applause followed, mostly provided by Dr Coomer, with Darnold gently joining in. Bubby let out a few claps as well, and they almost didn’t sound sarcastic.

“Bravo, Gordon! What a beautiful display of emotion!”- Dr Coomer kept on clapping, wiping a tear away from one eye as he cheered, -“For 2 Play Coins, I can replay the same song again!”

“N-No- Uhm-“- Gordon began, feeling his throat as dry as a summer in a dessert, having to cough violently as he practically peeled himself from Benrey. The immediate cold and overall shittiness that followed almost weren’t worth it, -“Ahem. That’s- That’s quite alright.”

“Ah shit, there he goes on talking again,”- Bubby rolled his eyes, and the atmosphere seemed to return to normal.

Benrey went to sit next to Tommy’s most probably unconscious form, and Gordon, after hesitating for way too long, sat down on the opposite side of the room.

A decision he came to regret immediately, if the brief look Benrey gave him was anything to go by.

How that permanently bored, expressionless face could carry so much emotion, Gordon would never know.

What he did know was that he needed another goddamn drink.

And from that point on, it was a huge blur. There were more dares, of course. He was pretty sure Darnold had to do a keg stand and Coomer and Bubby had to exchange clothes.

It was all stupid.

It was all ridiculously fun.

Gordon didn’t feel right throughout any of it.

His mind only came back online closer to morning, when the only thing keeping him awake was the constant noise of conversation and sheer willpower.

“truth,”- Benrey said, crude drawings of Sunkist now decorating both his arms. Gordon wasn’t sure if this was part of a dare or if he just did that for no reason.

“You want to mix it up a little, eh? Think this will be easy, don’t you?”- Bubby’s smile was sharp, all teeth and evil intent, and Gordon suddenly was really happy he wasn’t at the receiving end of that. Bubby was the most entertaining when he was being mean to someone else.

“hit me.”

“Okay. So. Who, out of this group, do you have a crush on?”

Oh. So Gordon was on the receiving end of that after all, huh.

He didn’t know why was it, exactly, that that question hit him like a pile of bricks. But it did. And now he was anxiously staring at Benrey, heart beating so fast it threatened to break through his rib cage.

Benrey, on the other hand, didn’t look nearly as panicked. He just... kept on staring at the floor. And he kept on staring. And he kept on staring until he finally blurted out an. “bbbb.... d.... coomer.”

“I am flattered, Benrey, but I am quite happily married,”- Dr Coomer replied hugging Bubby close, who only rolled his eyes and snorted.

“Bullshit! It’s called Truth, now say the goddamn truth!”

It was at this moment that Benrey’s eye met Gordon’s.

It was at this moment that Gordon knew precisely what to do.

In a move that probably required him to be way more sober, he kicked the table so hard that half the glasses and bottles on top of it tumbled over, some rolling to the floor and breaking with a resounding crash.

“Fuck! What the fuck!”- Bubby exclaimed, throwing his feet up on the couch, and even Tommy came back to life for a second to look around, before passing back out on Sunkist again.

“Careful, Dr Freeman! These babies can melt through concrete!”- Darnold immediately busying himself with picking up his vials, and Gordon took this moment to stand up, exaggerating his slur and wobbliness (though not by much) when he said, -“Woo... Huh... Sorry- Sorry, guys, I must have- Man, I’m dying, I think I- I need sleep, guys, I-“

“Yes, yes, we get the message,”- Bubby sighed, as Dr Coomer immediately laid straight down on the couch, forcibly pulling him down as well, -“Goodnight, Gordon.”

“Good night, Gordon!”- Coomer echoed, closing his eyes and passing out within seconds.

“Take care, Dr Freeman,”- Darnold nodded, before snuggling up next to Sunkist and Tommy.

Well, that was easy. If there was one thing about The Science Team that Gordon appreciated most of all, it was how they didn’t bother asking questions. It was better that way, really.

He should be a better host and at the very least get them blankets, Gordon thought, carefully avoiding the broken glass as he made his way across the room.

This was a problem for tomorrow’s Gordon.

Now, however, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Benrey stood up as Gordon approached him, staring silently, before turning around and abruptly making his way to the entrance.

“Wa- Wait- Benrey, wait!”- This time it wasn’t an exaggeration when Gordon nearly tripped over his own feet. His head was throbbing with a headache unlike any other, but he shut that part up for a brief second. More important matters, -“Where the hell are you going!?”

“away?”- Benrey replied as though that was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But- Wait- I mean. Why? You can stay here? I’m not kicking you out?”

He stared. And then he stared some more.

It was true that Benrey usually disappeared before morning came, like some sort of vampire that could only come out at night. Gordon never questioned it, never bothered to ask him why he left – it didn’t matter that his apartment always felt a little emptier.

It didn’t matter before, but it mattered now.

“I mean- I know there’s not a lot of room, and the guys are all over the living room, but, y’know, my bed is a double, so if you wanna, you can-“

“i don’t sleep”

Gordon blinked down, the ramble in his head and his words interrupted by this simple poignant statement. He tilted his head, desperately trying to keep standing upright.

“What? Like, at all? That’s bullshit man, that’s complete- and I- I saw you, okay, I saw you sleeping in-“

“kind of gay of you. watching me sleep. wanna see my hair then. then taking my shirt off then. then dancing with me like-“

“Shhh- Shut up, shut up!”- Gordon hissed, taking Benrey by the hand and quietly leading him back to the bedroom. There was no way he would be able to handle this conversation standing up, -“This isn’t- It’s not like that, okay, it’s-“

“It’s not?”

It wasn’t often that Gordon was able to tell what Benrey was thinking or feeling at any given moment. In this instance, however, the disappointment in his voice was so palpable that he could almost taste it on his tongue.

“N-No! Wait, I mean- Yes? I mean- I- I don’t fucking knoooow, man,”- He sighed, dropping down on the bed, head immediately spinning like the propellers of a helicopter, heart drumming, jaw aching, -“I just- I’m too drunk, Benrey. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t- I just know I don’t want you to leave.”

He didn’t know if that was enough. It didn’t sound enough to him.

But to Benrey, apparently, it was.

In a moment the space besides Gordon felt the bed beside him dip, that already familiar heat seeping through his skin like nuclear radiation, overwhelming him whole.

He felt himself magnetized, moving closer to it almost unconsciously, keeping his eyes closed to prevent the room from spinning crazy. His hand worked of their own volition, desperately searching for anything to hold, and when he felt a set of fingers interlace with his own, he allowed himself to exhale all the tension in his shoulders.

“Thanks,”- He whispered, snuggling in closer, inhaling a scent that was near acidic, but not unpleasant. He didn’t know how he would justify this to himself tomorrow, didn’t want to think about that just yet, and he heard a stream of sweet voice being spread around the room.

He opened his eyes just for a second, just a brief moment to register the vibrant pink floating around his bedroom, the gentle glow that outlined Benrey’s hooded eyes, and for once he thought he could recognize something in them.

Gordon exhaled softly, holding on for dear life.

“Goodnight,”- He said, or maybe thought, or maybe imagined, his consciousness finally fading into sweet darkness.

“gordon,”- Benrey replied then, quiet, soft, and with the certain conviction of a man giving the right answer to a demanding question.

[filthy-rat]

Mary Had a Little Lamb

AO3 Link

You were never really one for parties, so you aren’t exactly sure how you managed to let your friend, Angel, drag you out one crisp autumn night.

From what they had said, this party was going to be mostly drinking and smoking weed and playing video games—all things you enjoyed, right? So maybe you would have a good time. You think about the inherent awkwardness of talking to people and the mortifying ordeal of being known, and your stomach clenches in fear. Ugh, maybe not. You make a mental note to do a better job of hiding your melancholy from them the next time they start giving you the Concerned Face.

As you approach the run down apartment building in the heart of the city, apprehension gnaws at your gut. For the third time in your five minute walk, you come to a halt, frowning at your companion.

“I don’t know, dude, I-I really shouldn’t—”

“Ugh, c’mon!” Impatiently, they stomp back to you, latch onto the sleeve of your jacket, and tug you along. “It’ll be fun! I’m sick of you moping around the house!”

“...I wasn’t moping,” you mumble, stuffing your hands into your pockets and shrugging off their hand from your sleeve. “And besides, do you even know anyone at this party?”

“Like, one or two people. But it’s a party, you’re not really supposed to know everyone.” They link arms with you, continuing to pull you down the street. “Listen, if we get any scummy vibes, we’ll bounce, okay?”

“Fine.” Huffing out an irritated sigh, you allow yourself to be pulled.

“There’s supposed to be some really hot guys here, too.” Angel flashes you an excited grin.

“Yeah, ‘cause hot guys have a history of being into me.”

“Oh, my god, stop that or I’m gonna kick your ass.” They nudge your elbow with theirs and give you another look. The dreaded Concerned Face. You hate it when they do that.

“Okay, okay. Let’s get up there before they drink all the good beer.”

“Hell yea.”

Arm in arm, the two of you make your way to the building, and Angel leans in to press the buzzer. A disgruntled, raspy voice on the other end asks shockingly few questions of the two of you before opening the door. There’s no elevator. You groan as you realize you’ll have to hoof it up five flights of stairs.

You can hear the music pounding from about a floor and a half below, and it only gets louder the closer you get to your destination. When you finally reach the correct floor, you’re gasping and clutching at a stitch in your side and regretting your life choices. Why the fuck isn’t there an elevator?

“C’mon, it’s this door,” Angel says, after catching their breath, and they approach a door at the end of the hallway.

The worn wood is absolutely slathered in band stickers and old Halloween decorations and painted-on pentagrams. Though the plaque on the door reads “66”, someone has taken a red marker and added an additional 6 to the end. You give Angel a dubious side eye.

“Listen, these guys are… a little rough. Just give them a chance, though. Most punks and goths are good people.” They give a nervous laugh, grimace, and knock on the door.

After a moment, it opens to reveal a thin youth with multicolored dreadlocks tied in twin tails and a bridge piercing. Arching a perfect brow, she saddles the two of you with an unimpressed eye, and steps back to see if any other partygoers will claim you.

“Who the fuck are these herbs?” asks one of them, putting an emphasis on the letter ‘h’ that makes everyone laugh.

You shoot Angel a glare. Punks and goths are good people, huh? They have the decency to look a little chagrined, and rub anxiously at the back of their neck.

“Angel!” shouts a voice, and you vaguely recognize one of Angel’s friends—you’ve never formally met the guy—as he approaches and pulls them into a one armed hug. “Hey, you finally made it! I was wondering when you were gonna get your slow-ass up here.” With the music so loud, they have to lean close and yet still practically shout to be heard.

“You could’ve fucking warned me there was no elevator,” Angel says, playfully shoving his shoulder. “Show me where the drinks are before I change my mind!”

Without another word, the two of them disappear arm in arm deeper into the shabby apartment, leaving you standing in the door awkwardly. The girl at the door eyes you up and down, her expression blatantly judgemental, but merely gestures inside with a grand sweep of her arm. With a polite but nervous smile, you step over the threshold and immediately glue yourself to the wall just inside the door. There are people milling about everywhere, drinking, laughing, making out.

You’ve never felt more out of place in your entire life. A part of you wants to leave—but you can’t do that to Angel. So you’re stuck there, leaning against the wall and pretending like you don’t exist.

The music pounding through the stereo lulls momentarily as another song is chosen.

“Hey there, sweet thing.” A voice, much too close to your ear, makes you jump and you whirl on the spot. “Tell me you ain’t wearing a fuckin’ Stryper t-shirt.”

Leaning his shoulder against the very same wall, the epitome of rough, roguish charm, is a pale, gaunt-looking young man. His dark hair is pulled down in front of his face in a messy devil lock, and there’s long, red lines of blood—hopefully fake—dribbling down from the crown of his head to his chin and onto the front of his sleeveless Candlemass shirt. A wrinkled, hand-rolled cigarette is tucked behind one ear, and the vest he wears rattles with many pins when he moves. You don’t think you’ve ever seen tighter jeans in your life. It’s like they were fucking painted on. Are those fishnet tights you spy through the shredded knees?

Who is this guy?

As you take in his appearance, eyes wide, he reaches out and gently cups your chin, forcing your eyes back up to his face. He gives you a knowing smirk, eyes hooded, and your whole face feels very warm.

The music starts up again, but quieter this time—a slow power ballad. You’re distantly aware of people pairing up in the background, but your eyes are focused on his.

“You lost, little lamb?” he says, his voice low, almost a purr.

“N-No, I came here with my friend.”

With an arch of his thick brows, the bloodied stranger casts an exaggerated look around you, then resettles against the wall with a shrug. “Don’t see you with anyone.”

“...Yeah, they kinda abandoned me.” A brief, rueful smile tugs your lips.

“That’s okay. I’ll be your friend,” he says, flashing a wicked grin that quickly makes him seem less a friend and more a wolf.

Is that why he called you ‘lamb’?

“...I don’t even know your name.” But, fuck, do you want to. You can’t remember the last time someone this hot even gave you the time of day.

“I don’t know yours either,” he points out, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear and placing it between his lips. “Names are so fuckin’ superfluous, kitten, but you can call me Mary.”

“Mary?” Your brow furrows. “That’s a strange—”

As he fishes a lighter from his pocket and brings the flame to the end of the cigarette, he gestures with his free hand to his bloody face. He takes a drag and exhales a plume of smoke, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s a joke.��� A beat. He heaves a sigh, and shoots you a scowl. “Why do I even fuckin’—Bloody Mary, get it?”

“Oh. Y-Yeah.” You’re not quite sure you do get it, really, but he seems to be satisfied with this answer. You change the subject. “So, do you live here?”

“Sometimes, if I feel like it.” He plucks the cigarette from his lips and offers it to you, held delicately between two long fingers. The black polish on his nails is chipped, you notice.

“I don’t smoke.”

Mary smirks. “It ain’t tobacco, lamb.”

“Oh.” Frowning, you look down at the smoldering cigarette and a little bubble of panic rises in your chest. “I-I’ve never uh. Done it. This way before.”

Mary arches a brow.

“Me and my friend, w-we usually put it in brownies.” You feel silly just saying it, and avert your gaze with a grimace.

“Oh, well… you wanna shotgun it?”

You look back up at him, brows furrowed in confusion. “What is that?”

“C’mere.”

He leans in closer, until his lips are nearly touching yours. For one heart-stopping second, you think he’s going to kiss you, but no—he stops just shy of contact. The tip of his nose brushes featherlight against yours, though, and goosebumps erupt across your skin. His eyes are hooded, and there’s something so sensual and alluring in those dark depths that it makes your stomach do a little somersault.

“I exhale, you inhale, yeah?” His lip quirks into a crooked smile.

You give a slow nod, afraid that if you moved too suddenly he’d bolt like a wild animal. He lifts the joint to his lips, takes a long hit, and holds it for just a moment. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips. When he exhales a cloud of smoke, you inhale too quickly, and the unfamiliar burn of it makes your lungs spasm and you jerk backward with a cough.

Mary gives a rueful laugh and reaches past you to an open ice chest on the kitchen counter. With his free hand, he fishes out a can of beer and cracks it open. It foams and he holds it out at arms’ length with a quiet, disgruntled ah, fuck as suds splatter onto the carpet.

When it finishes spewing, he pushes the damp can into your hands, and you gratefully gulp it down to soothe your burning throat.

“Wanna go again?” he asks, once you’ve recovered enough to speak.

You eye him with apprehension. Do you want to go again? You’re pretty sure another close encounter with Mary might kill you. On the other hand, you’re craving more of that closeness.

“Okay.”

“Cool. This time,” Mary says, and he sidles a step closer, centimeters away from his body making contact with yours. “Don’t suck it into your lungs right away. Into your mouth first, like a milkshake.”

Or like something else? Your cheeks flush as this filthy thought enters your head. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice as he leans in. This time, you’re ready, and though your throat burns again, you manage to cut your coughing time by half. The cold beer helps. Mary reaches around you and extinguishes the roach in a nearby ashtray, then settles back against the wall, his shoulder touching yours. For a moment, the two of you sit in silence as the weed works its magic. It isn’t long before you feel yourself loosening up a little.

“So… is Mary your real name?” you ask, casting him an expectant glance.

Before he can answer, however, both your attentions are diverted. In the living room before you, where most of the party seems to be congregated, a girl is sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing idly with an empty bottle of wine. She leans forward and gives the bottle a spin as she talks, and when it finally comes a stop, the mouth of it points to a taller girl leaning on the wall across from her.

“Ha, now you guys have to make out,” giggles another partygoer.

An nervous titter rises up from the other partiers.

Wordlessly, the girl on the floor gets to her feet, approaches the girl on the wall, and draws her lips downwards in a kiss. Several wolf whistles and appreciative hoots rise up from the crowd, and eventually the two part, looking flushed but grinning. The tall girl leaning against the wall grabs the other girl’s hand, and fishes out a marker to scribble a phone number across her palm.

Mary tilts his head back against the wall he’s leaning on and gives you a curious look out of the corner of his eye. You pretend like you don’t see his gaze linger on your body.

“Someone else spin!” demands a partygoer, and another person grabs the wine bottle.

“What is this, a party of stupid horny teenagers?” snorts someone else, and everyone drowns them out with a chorus of boos. Someone throws a pillow at them and everyone laughs.

“You wanna play?” asks Mary, his lip curving into a wolfish smirk. “Get someone’s tongue down your throat?”

“W-What?” Eyes widening, you tear your gaze away from the display before you to look him in the face. “No…” Not unless it’s yours. Even though you don’t say that last part, you can’t help but glance down at his lips as you think it.

“No?” He turns towards you, leaning now on one shoulder instead of two, and lets the side of his head rest lazily on the wall. That smirk only grows more wicked. “Oh, so you want your tongue in—”

A collective squeal rises up from the partiers congregated in the living room as the game of spin the bottle has now become a game of truth or dare, it seems. Instead of making out with a stranger, someone’s been dared to flash everyone. With a gasp of shock, you look away as a dude gets to his feet and starts fumbling with the fly of his pants.

Mary doesn’t look away.

“Do you want to play?” you ask him, looking up at his face.

“Always, kitten.” Tearing his gaze from the flasher, he looks down at you with those gorgeous dark eyes of his, and he gives you a wink.

“Fine.” The weed and beer have made you more confident—perhaps stupidly so. “Let’s play.”

Mary’s face splits into a crooked grin—a wicked flashing of teeth that does very little to soothe your nerves—and his hand grabs yours. You barely have time to grab another beer before he’s yanking you towards the circle of partygoers that’s begun to crowd around the spinning bottle.

You think maybe Mary’s going to sit beside you, but instead, he elbows his way into the circle across from you, and sits cross-legged on the floor. The game continues without interruption, and everyone decides if they’d rather kiss the person the bottle lands on, tell a truth, or do a dare.

Most people pick dare.

In the five minutes it takes for your turn to arrive, you’ve seen a lot of tits and ass from strangers. More than you’d ever care to see, really. You get the impression that these people aren’t exactly creative when it comes to thinking up dares. Or they’re just really horny. Most of the dares involve getting naked or showing off body parts.

Finally, it’s your turn.

You swallow hard, pointedly avoiding Mary’s gaze, and give the bottle a twist. It spins and spins and spins in a seemingly endless loop.

You chance a glimpse at Mary. Those dark eyes of his are hooded and staring at you with such an intensity, as if he’s reading every filthy thought you’ve ever had in your entire life and he’s imagining ways to sweetly torment you with them. Your stomach does a little somersault. Somehow, you just know where the bottle’s going to land. Mary’s lip twists into a subtle, wicked smirk, and the bottle comes to a stop.

It’s pointed to the girl just to Mary’s left.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Mary arches an eyebrow at you, an unasked question lurking in the inky depths of his eyes. But now the girl is asking the question and your attention is diverted away from him.

“Truth or dare?”

“...Dare, I guess.” You make direct eye contact with Mary as you say it. You think he looks a little impressed, but it’s hard to tell.

The girl chews her bottom lip in thought. “Dare you to…” She gives you an impish grin. “Let us look through the pics on your phone for one minute.”

A collective “ooooh” rises up from the congregation and several pair of eager eyes fall on you. A hot blush crawls up your cheeks, and as you fish your phone from your pocket, unlock it, and hand it to her, you silently pray you deleted those nudes you took a couple of weeks ago just for fun.

As your darer scrolls through your picture gallery, Mary leans to look over her shoulder, occasionally flicking his eyes up at you and smirking. The minute seems to drag on forever, and you busy yourself with taking sips of your beer, but you can’t help anxiously watching as they go through all your photos.

“Oh my God,” giggles your darer, and she turns your phone around to show you. “Cute selfie but is that a fucking dildo??”

A cackle rises up from the crowd of people as you look at the picture. You’d taken it a couple of days ago but never posted it to your social media for this exact reason. Sitting on the dresser in the background is a large, silky purple dildo. Face hot and red now, you snatch away the phone, grumbling under your breath as you stuff it back into your pocket.

“It’s my roommate’s,” you mumble, but no one hears you.

Mary gives a snorting giggle.

The person to your left gives the bottle a spin and the game continues. Several shotgunned beers, flashed body parts, eaten teaspoons of mustard, and one extremely loud streak later, it’s Mary’s turn.

The bottle lands on you. Mary cocks his head to one side, his eyes patient but there’s an unspoken challenge there that makes your pulse leap with anticipation.

“Dare.” He says it without even waiting to be asked.

“Okay…” You think for a moment, then flash him a grin of your own. “Dare you to sing us a verse from your favorite song.”

This seems to have finally flapped the unflappable Mary. His intense, challenging gaze falters a bit, replaced with utter bewilderment. He blinks, and a subtle blush rises to his cheeks, barely visible beneath the lines of dried blood. A thrill of pride surges through at the thought that you managed to surprise him.

“And no cheating, Goore,” says the girl beside him, elbowing his ribs gently. She flashes him a smug smirk. “They said sing, not growl.”

Mary casts her an irritated glower, before flicking his eyes back to you. For a moment, he contemplates, and his gaze holds yours the whole time. Someone turns down the music so that he can be heard better. With a clear of his throat, he closes his eyes, and begins singing.

I'm crucified Crucified like my savior Saintlike behavior A lifetime I prayed

I'm crucified For the holy dimension Godlike ascension Heavens away

A stunned silence follows this brief display. Everyone is staring at Mary with disbelief in their eyes, including you. Never would you have suspected that such an angelic voice could’ve come out of such a rough-looking guy. Several people clap, but Mary has eyes for only you. The intensity to his gaze fills you with both anxiety and elation. You’re unsure if there’s a punishment or a reward coming for you the next time your turn comes up.

You’re unsure which idea thrills you more.

The game continues, and a few uncreative rounds later, your spin finally selects Mary as your darer again.

He flashes you a mischievous grin, and your pulse spikes with adrenaline. By this point, you’ve had a couple more beers, and you’re really beginning to feel the effect. You’re a little braver, but only a little. A tiny, cowardly part of you wants to chicken out and pick truth, but Mary doesn’t even give you a choice.

“Dare you to make out with the hottest guy here.”

Fuck.

Judging from the smug grin and the intense smolder to his eyes, he knows he’s got you now. He cocks his head to one side, and his tongue pokes out to wet his lips, as if preparing himself for the inevitable.

Well, if he’s going to be so insufferable about it.

Holding his gaze, you turn to the guy immediately to your left, lean in, and capture his lips in a searing kiss. He grunts in surprise, but at least he reciprocates. Several hoots and whistles rise up from the crowd as the kiss continues on for a minute or two. You briefly toy with the notion of sliding into the stranger’s lap, but decide this will suffice for now. After a moment, your eyes open and you meet Mary’s gaze.

That insufferably smug look on his face has utterly evaporated. He stares at you, his expression hovering somewhere between heartbroken and incredulous. Then that, too, dissolves, and he looks away with a scowl.

“I need some air,” he mutters, and he gets to his feet.

Avoiding your gaze, he picks his way through the circle, and strides off. Guilt sinks its hot teeth into your stomach and you break away from your unsuspecting kissing victim.

“Mary, wait.”

With clumsy, drunken movements, you scramble to your feet, tripping only a little, and hurry after him. You find him out on the tiny balcony of the apartment, leaning on the railing and smoking a cigarette. Trying your best to be stealthy, you slip out onto the balcony. He doesn’t look up as you shyly approach the railing beside him.

“...I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Mary exhales a lungful of smoke, and casts you an unreadable glance out of the corner of his eye.

“For that, back there.” You frown. “I don’t know why I—“

“Forget about it.” He gives a shrug, turning his gaze back out to the glittering city stretching out before you, and takes another drag of his cigarette. “Got no fuckin’ reason to be mad, do I?”

Your heart sinks a little. He has a point, but you hate it anyway. Slowly, you shuffle a half step closer, until your arm lightly brushes against his, and look up at him. In your half-drunk state, you can’t find yourself to be ashamed of your ogling. He really is beautiful, even with lines of red dribbling down his face. The neon lights of the city below throw odd shadows across his features, highlighting the curve of his cheekbones, the crooked angularity to his nose, the definition of his brow. His lips look so soft and inviting. You find yourself studying them while biting your own.

“...It’s you, yanno,” you mumble quietly, rotating to lean your elbows on the railing. “I was just… I dunno, being stupid, I guess.” You look away from him, frowning at nothing in particular. “You know it’s you, that’s why you asked.”

“What’s me?” he asks, as he flicks the spent cigarette over the railing. With hooded eyes, he finally turns his head to look at you, and you just can’t resist anymore.

Wordlessly, you reach for his face and pull his lips down to meet yours. Obediently, he lets himself be pulled. He hums out a chuckle against your mouth, low and quiet. There’s some minor adjusting as he sidles closer, one hand sliding up to the back of your neck while the other yanks your hips against his, and his lips part in silent invitation. He tastes like beer and cigarettes and there’s some kind of unnameable metallic tang on his tongue, but holy fuck do you need more.

A soft, desperate moan escapes you, immediately swallowed by his kiss, and he adjusts more, sliding one of his thighs between your legs. You grind yourself against him with a whine. His hands fall to your hips, squeezing you and guiding you just right on his thigh. For a moment or two, he seems content with this—your lips on his, his tongue in your mouth, your crotch grinding against his thigh. With a groan through clenched teeth, he breaks the kiss and brings his lips to your ear.

“Better tell me what it is you’re after, little lamb,” whispers Mary, as your hands fumble with the overly-large belt buckle at his waist. “Or else I ain’t gonna fuckin’ know.”

“Want you,” you mumble incoherently, whining as he gives the thigh you’re riding a bounce. “Fuck me, please. Please.”

“Mm…” He makes a show of considering your proposal, cocking his head to one side. He leans in a little, and you think that he’s going to kiss you again, to get you going, and take it a step further. Then his face splits into a wicked grin.

“Nah.”

And he just pulls away.

You gasp in shock, your mouth hanging open in betrayal. As Mary Goore steps away from you, leaving you panting and needy and utterly unsatisfied, he gives a little cackle. So this is your punishment for disobeying his dare. God, what an asshole!

At the sliding glass door, Mary pauses, flashes you a shit-eating grin accompanied with a two-fingered salute in farewell, and disappears back inside.

What the fuck.

[lo-55]

Tilt The Hourglass Ch. 12

It occurred to Maul only when they were halfway to the mainland that he should probably tell Jango that they hadn’t died. 

Maul didn’t know why he was bothering, exactly. However much Jango might fancy himself a would-be-father for Maul he wasn’t. He wasn’t a father, or a master, or anyone that Maul owed true loyalty to. Maul owed him for patching him up, nothing more. He did not ask to be adopted and he did not need a parent or anyone to take care of him. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He had been for years. 

After this job that debt of his should be paid for, and Maul could go on about his life. He could find Kilindi and Daleen, fetch his brother from Dathomir before the witches could twist him into a tool for their use, and start building his shadow empire. 

That was his plan, wasn’t it?

"Plans are fragile things, and life often dashes expectations to the ground."

Maul’s head snapped around. He’d heard something again. A woman’s voice this time, one that whispered to him from a space between shadows. In his mind it was painted pale purple and white. 

Tiny, pin-pricked claws caught on his sleeve and one of the vornskr’s clambered up to rest on his shoulder, pushing her head against Maul’s cheek before she crawled inside his hood and lay herself around his neck. Her dark body was warm and fluffy with baby fur. 

She hadn’t reacted to the voice, nor had anyone else in the ship of freed slaves. Not even those few who stood close enough to hear a whisper away from him where he sat next to a control panel in the galley. 

Not a real voice then. Not one from a physical place. 

Maul touched his temple, beneath one of his crowning horns, and felt his stomach twist unpleasantly. Was it returning, now, the madness he had spent so long entrenched in? Mother Talzin’s magics had stitched together his fragmented mind with green energy and her own will, and after her death he had been forced to learn to hold it together himself. Sometimes the insanity threatened to creep back in. Sometimes he woke up and it was too dark and he could hear acid rain hissing and see the scratched paintings that a lunatic had put on the wall in fits of rage that kept him living and breathing but not truly there. 

It was a terrible thing, the madness. 

Being not himself, or worse when he was lucid enough to almost grasp onto concepts more solid than filling his mouth with blood and filling his heart with vengeance but could not quite grab hold of the flitting knowledge of who and what he was, or even what he hated so much that it kept his heart beating when the weaker would have perished.

He’d lost a decade of his life to that haze, in the squalor and the garbage and the fire. 

Thrown away like everything else on Lotho Minor. 

His nails dug hard into his thigh, biting into the skin there until it threatened to break and grounding him in the fact that he was not there. He had legs. They hurt. 

Maul took a breath, slowly, and wove the fear in his heart into a latticed shield that he’d been patching around his mind. It had done enough to keep him safe from the Jedi, but they hadn’t really been looking at him. They’d had no reason to prod his mind for more than superficial surface thoughts. 

Sidious had done more damage than Maul wanted to admit, and it would take more time than he had to completely fix it. If he ever could. There were scars in his skull, deep claw tracks that his master had left for him when he lanced through his thoughts and tore them asunder. 

He touched the small muzzle of his vornskr. Her companions, siblings, perhaps, found a place on his lap. 

The voice did not sound like the mad hissing and the frantic, cloying whispers of his shattered self. For one thing, he had never had a woman's voice. For another, it was not dripping with loathing and desperate pain. 

The scars on his palm itched. 

Once he was centered again, and sure of the world around him, Maul input Jango’s comm code. 

He answered a second later. 

“Who is this?” he demanded. His voice was short and sharp and there was the distinct sound of metal being ripped apart in the back ground. What was he doing? Maul had the feeling he’d missed something while he was on the platform with Kenobi. 

“Maul,” was all he said. 

Jango’s tone changed instantly. “Maul! Where are you? Why didn’t you answer the call?!” 

Maul rolled his eyes. Why was Jango so worked up? 

“I used an EMP to kill the explosive charges in a bunch of slave collars on the mine I found Kenobi on. It knocked out the comm along with everything else.” Maul wasn’t sure why he wasn’t just telling Jango that he hadn’t felt like it. 

“... You know what. I’ll ask when you get back. Where did you get the EMP?” 

“I made it.” 

Jango went quiet. Then, “Where did you come from?!”

Maul couldn't help it. He actually laughed. A rough, unused sound. 

“Orsis,” he said finally. “I trained on Orsis.” 

“Orsis. Fuck. That explains a lot. Okay. How did you make the EMP?” 

“Battery, door lock capacitor, wire coil.”

“Kriff.” 

“Why?” 

“Long story short? The di’kut jetii’s wayward student planted a bomb on a timer in the ionite mines. It’s going to blow up the planet.” 

Maul looked up to see Kenobi sitting across from him, horror on his face. “Cursed,” Maul said firmly. 

“Wait!” Kenobi jumped across the gap to slap his hands next to the ships com, nearly knocking his little lizard askew from its place clinging to his ginger hair. It’s tail slapped Kenobi in the cheek. Maul leaned away from him.

“Ionite! Ionite disrupts electronics, especially clocks and sensors. Miner’s are afraid of it,” Kenobi said quickly. 

“Ob’ika!” Jango sounded relieved. “You’re both safe?” 

“Yes,” he said, a strange smile on his face, “But the bomb-”

“We’ll handle it,” Jango promised. “Can the two of you meet us at our apartment?” 

“We can,” Maul assured, shouldering Kenobi behind him. “And Jango?” 

“Hmm?” There was the sound of rocks being thrown against something metallic. Jinn shouted something too far away to be heard. Hopefully he got hit with a rock.

“I have dibs on the dar’jetti.” 

“Absolutely not-!” 

Maul hung up the com and sat back in the seat to shoot a crooked grin at Kenobi. 

“What did you mean by that?” Kenobi asked curiously. 

“I mean that Xanatos has royally pissed me off, and I have no intention of letting him go now. If he was at the mines I have a starting point. Go back to the apartment.” 

“Not without you!” Kenobi grabbed his arm. “We go together.” 

Maul looked at him. His blue eyes were bright and true. Maul’s mouth thinned into a line. It would be dangerous for him but… Kenobi was stronger than he looked. If he had survived this on his own before, he must be. Maul underestimated him. 

“Very well. Together, then.”

Maul inclined his head to Kenobi, and ignored the way he burst into a grin. Force, he was so young. 

Maul had the newly freed slaves drop them off somewhere where Maul could ‘commander’ and speeder for them. Kenobi sat behind him, holding onto his poncho while the vonskr piled into the front of his shirt and Kenobi’s little lizard hid inside the jedi’s pocket. 

Maul turned them suddenly away from the mine. The Force, darkness whispering around his fingers, hissed at him that Xanatos was not there. 

“Where are we going?” Kenobi shouted in his ear. 

Maul didn’t respond. He sped faster, roaring through the crowded streets of Bando. If Xanatos had set a mine to blow up the planet then he wouldn’t still be around, and Maul had found the landing platform that Offworld used for its corporate members when he’d been poking around Xanatos’ files. 

They shot onto the landing platform from the street, bursting past the security teams and weaving between blaster fire until they went tumbling off the bike and directly into the cargo hold of a shiny nubien transport ship. It certain didn’t look like it came through an Ion storm. 

Kenobi landed on his feet and Maul at his side in a crouch. He forced the vornskr out of his clothes and shooed them off to the side. 

They were like him. Fighters, angry and vicious down in their bones, hunters with sleak bodies ready to grow into muscle and danger. Venom coated their pointed tails. 

“Stay,” Maul ordered harshly, pushing them between two boxes for their own safety. He could feel the little female in his mind, upset at being pushed aside. Their bond was already strong. 

Kenobi put his little pet in with Maul’s future hunters and the pair turned around right as the door slid open with a hiss and Xanatos came out, his cloak billowing. He was flanked by two assassin droids of a much more basic model than the CIS had used. He moved with a natural battle prowess, and looked down his nose at the children before him. 

Maul bared his teeth. Good. It would make it that much easier to kill him. 

Maul drew his blaster and fired without warning. Xanatos ripped his lightsaber out of his sleeve and flicked it on with a buzz. The red blade hummed ominous. Maul eyed it derisively. He could sense it from here. The crystal had been bled, but not properly. Xanatos was full of hatred, but not enough. 

Maul fired again and Kenobi ignited his own ‘saber. The little Jedi threw himself at the wash out with abandon. He was vicious and fast, the familiar forms he had used in the future nowhere to be found. 

Maul ignored the off footed feeling it left him with and kept shooting, careful not to his Kenobi while he was at it. The bolts shot back and hit the walls, scorching them and freeing crates from nets to go falling around them. It gave Maul the leverage to climb higher and hit Xanatos in the shoulder, thoroughly ruining his fine cloak. 

Good. It was gaudy anyways. 

The assassin droids came after them alongside their master with electro-staves, forcing Maul and Kenobi to fight three on two. Enraged by his loss of fashion Xanatos snarled and launched himself clean over Kenobi to slash down at Maul, who ducked and rolled out of the way. When Kenobi tried to held the droids intercepted him and tried to cut him down, forcing him on the defensive. 

He had to dodge and weave the slashes and jabs that Xanatos sent his way. He dropped and swept his foot out to knock Xanato’s feet out from under him. 

Maul fired at him twice and had both shots deflected.  

“Have you always had such sloppy footwork?” Maul asked dryly. 

Xanatos rose to his feet. Kenobi circled him on the other side.  Xanatos dodged between the two of them, trying to get them to slip up and strike eachother, but both of them managed to avoid it. The Force curled around Maul as his temper rose and impatience came with it, practically begging to be used. 

Maul shot just over Xanatos’ shoulder and steam erupted in the ship, screaming through the hold. The steam burned Xanatos’ arm, forcing a howl out of his mouth. 

Pathetic. 

Maul caught Kenobi’s eyes and jerked his chin towards the ex-Jedi. Kenobi caught his meaning and abandoned his opponents when he launched himself at Xanatos with a powerful overhead strike. 

Xanatos lashed out with the Force and slammed Kenobi into the wall so hard the metal dented. His lightsaber went out and fell to the ground with a clatter beside him while Kenobi’s body fell limp, just behind Maul. 

Rage coiled through Maul’s body. 

No, absolutely not. 

He didn’t hear the speeder roaring closer. He didn’t hear his comm, recovered from the EMP, going off. All he heard was the echoing of Kenobi’s body and his own blood rushing through his ears. 

“You shouldn’t have bothered with the Jedi,” Xanatos lectured, his voice slick. His Force slithered around Maul’s skull and tried to poke and prod him into listening. Maul snarled. “They don’t care about anyone or anything. They are cruel, and they will betray you in the end. They don’t understand true power.” 

“And you do?” Maul snapped, his voice harsh and echoing through the coiling steam. Xanatos’ smile was a sickening sight. Maul was going to cut his face off and rip the mouth apart. 

“I understand it better than any of them. Let me show you!” 

Xanatos threw his hand out, intending to strangle Maul, but Maul batted the Force choke away. Xanatos was strong in the darkside, for someone who hadn’t been trained in it. 

Maul was born to it. 

Raised in it. 

Suffered and bled and killed for it. 

The Darkside hummed through his veins. 

The ships ramp shook and clattered around the ground and the ship itself creaked as power filled it and pushed outwards, away from Maul. He lifted one hand and squeezed a fist to crush the droids on either side of Xanatos into nothing more than balls of scrap metal and wire. 

The former Jedi stepped back, his eyes wide. Fear flickered through them. 

Good. 

Maul touched the barrels of his blaster. He unhooked them from the base and pulled them free. They swung apart, a hinge in the middle keeping them together until the bases met. 

Red extended from one side, and crimson from the other. Maul held it in front of him, with Kenobi limp behind him and the darkness raging around the pair. 

“You-” Xanatos gasped. 

Maul met his eyes squarely. 

“You speak of power as if you have it. You have barely scratched the surface of the Darkside. So you covet one scar and one loss above all else? You are weak. Pathetic. The Darkside is born of fear and hate and you seek to control all things. But the Darkness can never be truly controlled. You are weak, ex-Jedi. You were never even a Knight. I have killed Padawan’s, Knights and Masters. I will kill you too.” 

Xanatos lifted his ‘saber up to block Maul’s first attack, but he was forced to defend. Each arching strike was powerful and intended to take his head. Each twisted and flash of red launched at his openings and weaknesses. 

Over, under, left, right, Maul came from all angles. Xanatos was good, but not good enough. He was no Jinn, no Kenobi, no Tano. 

Maul dodged and slash aimed at his shoulder and drove the edge of his ‘saber through Xanato’s chest. 

It was quick. Quicker than he deserved. 

Maul stepped back and let him fall to the ground with a hole smoking in his chest. 

He stood over him, his lightsaber singing in his grasp of vengeance and satisfaction. It had met its first blood with a fallen Jedi of the same lineage that Maul had spent a lifetime battling. Maul’s hood fell from his shoulders and he turned at last to his fallen battle-partner. 

He found pale blue eyes watching him. The pupils were dilated and Kenobi only uttered a weak groan. There was blood along his lips and his injured back had certainly been done no favors by the rough treatment at Xanatos’ hands. 

Maul walked towards him slowly. He turned off his ‘saber and folded it back in half just as Jinn and Jango came bursting through the doorway in a clatter of armor and boots. Maul picked up his blaster and carefully clicked the ‘saber back in its place before he joined Jango at Kenobi’s side. The Mandalorian was checking him over, testing his ribs and stomach for broken bones and internal bleeding. He head bled sluggishly from a cut along the back of it. 

“You found us,” Maul said, surprised.

Jango shot him a look. “I don’t know if you know this, but it’s my job to find people on the run. It doesn’t matter if their petty thieves or corporate hot shots. I’m very good at my job, Maul’ika.” 

Jango glanced at Maul’s blaster. So he had noticed after all. He was still acting like everything was the same. Like Maul wasn’t a sith. 

“Come on. Let’s get Ob’ika to a proper doctor. And stop shaking the ship.” 

Maul hadn’t even realized that it was still trembling under the force of his anger. The ship shuddered and the lights flickered when he draw the darkness back inside himself and tucked it carefully into the ocean of his being. 

He spared a glance at Jinn, who was cradling the body of Xanatos as if he hadn’t just tried to kill him and half a planet’s worth of people. 

Had Kenobi held Jinn like that after Maul had killed him? 

An armoured hand on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts. Maul looked up to see Jango standing over him with Obi Wan hefted onto his back. He still looked dazed, but with the weight of Maul’s anger lifted from him he was much more relaxed. 

“C’mon. Let the jetii mourn. I’m trusting you to watch my back on the way to the hospital.” 

Maul personally thought trusting a Sith was a terrible choice, but whatever. He nodded once to the Mandalorian before he went over to the shelter he had left their companions in. He came back holding three vornskr and Kenobi’s varactyl. 

Jango stopped walking when he saw Maul approach with a bundle of tiny animals. 

“... You’re cleaning up after them.” 

Maul scoffed. “Obviously.” 

The pair left Jinn to mourn his fallen apprentice. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Jango left Obi Wan to rest in Maul’s bedroom in their apartment before he made his way out to the kitchen, where Maul was feeding their new little guests. Three small feline creatures with puffy black fur and long tails that pointed at the end in a diamond shape. 

The three were all equipped with tiny, sharp claws and razor sharp baby teeth. 

Jango hadn’t even considered saying ‘no’ when Maul had pulled them out of a small space between crates in the cargo hold of Xanatos’ ship. The boy was a natural born hunter if he’d found the dar’jetii before either he or Jinn had arrived.

Jango hadn’t liked working with Jinn, and he liked even less tripping over him in close quarters combat with a coward who had no intention of fighting them straight. They had done more damage to each other than they had to Xanatos. 

In the end it hadn’t mattered. 

Jango’s kid had cut him down with a lightsaber of all things. 

Jango couldn't say he was surprised. 

The Manda had been very loud about the boy, and Jango had seen him building the strange blaster over the last few days. He’d known he’d been up to something curious, but he hadn’t been inclined to ask right off. Nothing had been put together in a way that looked like it would explode, and Maul had seemed to know what he was doing. 

Now Jango knew why. 

Orsis. Kriff. 

He’d heard of the academy there. The headmaster, Trezza, had recruited a Mandalorian years ago. Meltch Krakko may have been Kry’tsad but he was a formidable fighter. When he disappeared for nearly a decade it had been enough to warrant Jaster looking into it and Jango after. Now he was back with the Kyr’tsad and a royal thorn in Jango’s side. 

Had Maul been trained by Krakko? He’d been back for three years, and Maul looked much too young to belong to Orsis for that long. Yet, Maul was not a half trained student. He was well trained, a frightening thing. No child should be that good at killing. 

It also confirmed… certain things. 

Jango came to sit across the counter from where Maul was wrestling one of the felines with his hand, trying to ‘fight’ it for the small hunk of meat he was holding. The little varactyl that Maul said was Obi Wan’s was stretched out in front of a sunbeam that came through the window. Morning had already come and only Obi Wan had gotten any sleep. 

Jango set his helmet on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair. 

He was too young for this. He was too young for two kids and four animals, and more kids to come. He’d promised to help Maul fetch his brother. That would mean three kids. Four, maybe, Maul had used plural but he’d been vague. 

Jango didn’t know that he could raise all of them on his own. He was only twenty two, and he was Mand’alor as well. He didn’t even have a riduur to help him. How could he give the boys all the attention and care they deserved? 

Maul and Obi Wan were already independent for their age, and given when little Jango knew of them it wasn’t that much of a surprise. Apparently the jettii sucked at caring for their young. While that meant that he probably didn’t have to worry about making sure they got dinner and washed up it meant that he needed to be more present for other matters. 

For the compassion and care they had been denied before. To coax the both of them into trusting him and letting him take care of them when he could. Would it really be fair to ask that they put up with a buir that had so many responsibilities to the Haat’ade?

Jango had been so sure of himself before. And he hadn’t changed his mind. He wanted Maul as his son. He wanted Obi Wan too. 

But he had to think about what was best for the boys. 

On top of Jango’s own issues there was also the matter of the Force. 

Obi Wan had dreamed for so long of being a Knight, and his heart was crushed by the idea that it would never come true. Maul had already proven himself to be powerful in the magic, even more so tonight. 

Jango glanced at his blaster. 

He didn’t know what he’d expected when he arrived at Xanatos’ ship with Jinn, their alliance held together only by the common goal of ‘stop Xanatos’, but it certainly hadn’t been Maul standing protectively over a downed Obi Wan before he sprung into a fight so fast and vicious Jango hadn’t been able to keep up with it at the time. He’d been a blur of red and black rage that took Xanatos down in the time it took Jango and Jinn to cross the landing pad at a run. 

“You are taking this better than I expected,” Maul said suddenly. 

Jango pulled his gaze away from the blaster to look at the boy. 

“Taking what?” Jango asked, laying his hands on the counter. He’d noticed Maul was more comfortable when he could see everyone’s hand around him. It was just the smallest easing of his shoulders. Jango understood. 

“Me,” Maul said bluntly. Jango frowned. His confusion must have shown, or Maul felt it in the Force, because he elaborated. “My lightsaber. And the Force. You felt it there.” 

“Well yes,” Jango tilted his head. “I knew about it already.” 

Maul’s head snapped up and he sat straight, knocking his playmate on his back. The feline chirped angrily at him and snatched the meat. He went scampering over to his litttermates, and ended up getting knocked head over heels by the female. She was a scrapper, and she adored Maul. 

“You what?!” 

Jango’s heart softened. Maul hadn’t known. He’d been hiding it this whole time. Had he been afraid? Had he thought Jango was going to punish him for having such abilities? 

Jango recalled the scars that painted Maul’s body. 

It was very possible that that was what he expected, because that was what had happened in the past. The idea made Jango’s blood heat with anger. 

Jango tamped it down so he could speak calmly to Maul. 

“When I found you on that ship, the one that you were stowed away in, you lashed out when you were hurt. Every light in the ship exploded.” 

Maul grimaced. “I see. Then why didn’t you leave me there?” 

Jango didn’t even try to act like he wasn’t horrified. 

“You’re a child! I wasn’t leaving an ad alone in the middle of space in a dead ship!” 

“You have no obligation to me,” Maul snapped. “I’m not your son, you’ve sworn nothing to me. I’m not a Mandalorian-” 

“But you can be. You know you can be.” 

The weight of his words betrayed the secondary meaning behind them. Jango watched Maul’s breath catch and his eyes grow wide. His skin paled to pink and grey. Jango winced. He hadn’t meant to scare him that much. He hadn’t meant to scare him at all. 

“You saw that,” Maul hissed, scrambling to stand up. Jango made himself stay calm. He made himself stay relaxed, his hands in sight and his eyes open and genuine. 

“I did. It was the future, wasn’t it?” He waited for Maul to give a stiff, short nod. Jango stayed very still. “I heard that jetii sometimes see the future, and sometimes they read minds. Mandalorian’s who are more connected to it can sometimes receive information from the Manda, but it’s mostly feelings and intuition.” 

“Beskar muffles the Force,” Maul said quietly. 

“I didn’t have my buy’ce on when it started. I saw what could have happened, and I saw what you changed it too, with your friends. You’re going to look for the girls eventually too, right?” 

Maul nodded slowly. 

Jango quietly added two more to his growing list of responsibilities. If it took a clan to raise a child it was going to take the entire Haat’ade to raise Jango’s.  

 “You knew the whole time,” Maul realized, looking at Jango with new eyes. One of the barriers between them was starting to dissolve. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I didn’t want to scare you. If you wanted me to know you would tell me, eventually. You hate having to make yourself lesser.” 

Maul grimaced. “Yes. I do.” 

Jango leaned closer across the counter. 

“I would never ask you to do that, you know. I would never ask you to pretend to be anything that you aren’t. You’re a feral nexu, and too smart for your own good. You’re a fighter the likes of which I’ve rarely met. Even if I wish that you didn’t have to be. I wasn’t lying, or joking, and I’ve known what you are and what you could be the entire time. I want you as my son, Maul’ika. If you say yes.” 

Maul sat back. He looked lost, and confused, but Jango could see a new light in his eyes. 

“My brothers. If you take me you take them.” 

“I know,” Jango promised. He hesitated. “I wouldn’t try to keep you from family. My buir, Jaster Mereel, took me in. I was a foundling. My parents and my sister were killed by the Kyr’tsad.”  

“Oh.” 

The door to Obi Wan’s room hissed open and they both turned to see the boy standing there, looking pale and shaken but standing upright. Jango waved him over and Obi Wan came to sit by his side. His varactyle came running off and climbed quickly onto Obi Wan’s shoulder. Obi Wan smiled and pet her head, where a crown of messy feathers was starting to come in. 

“It’s good to see you’re up,” Jango said fondly. Obi Wan shot him a shy smile before he sat up straighter. He was far too adult for Jango’s liking. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you like that.” 

Jango’s heart broke. He dragged Obi Wan into his side. His armor lay on the corner, so he didn’t smack the boys head on his breast plate. 

“It wasn’t an inconvenience, but I wish you boys had waited for us, or at least told us the plan. I would have helped, you know.” 

Obi Wan flushed faintly with the simple affection, but he let Jango hug him for a minute more before being released to sit on the stool next to him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “But we won! Right?” He looked between the pair. “I.. don’t remember everything. It was dark, and cold, and kind of hard to see…” 

“Yes. We won,” Jango assured. “Xanatos is dead. Maul got him.” 

Obi Wan looked to Maul in surprise. The zabrak boy hunched his shoulders. Obi Wan’s eyes got wider. 

“The lightsaber. The red lightsaber, with two blades. It was real. It was yours.” 

Maul nodded, once. His lips curled, ready to bite. 

“Yes. It is.” 

“But, how? You aren’t a jedi, are you? You’re too young…” 

“I’m old enough,” Maul snapped, as he was wont to. Jango privately disagreed. From what he knew of zabraks, Maul hadn’t even hit puberty yet. He wouldn’t have even  been eligible for his verd’goten yet. 

“But you’re right,” Maul admitted. “I am no jedi. I am… I was, a sith apprentice.” 

Obi Wan sucked in a sharp breath. “But the sith are dead!” 

“Not dead,” Maul shook his head. “Hiding. A line of Banite sith have been in hiding for a thousand years, passing knowledge from Master to Apprentice.” 

“That’s- But- We have to tell the Jedi Council,” Obi Wan said suddenly. Maul lunged across the counter and grabbed his arm. 

“No!” He nearly shouted. The lights flickered and Obi Wan’s skin paled. Jango grasped both boys by the shoulders and pulled them apart. Maul spared him a brief glance. 

“No,” Maul said again, his voice low and sharp and urgent. “You can’t tell them. They wouldn’t believe you, there’s no proof of what I say and even if there was there’s nothing they can do about it. My- The Master is too powerful politically to be touched, and a religion is not illigal. The Jedi serve the Republic’s whims.” 

It was a messy, uneven argument, but it wasn’t wrong either. Besides that Jango had personal doubts about exactly how capable the Jedi Council was. Not just for Galidraan, but for Obi Wan too. 

They were fools. 

It was still a problem though. 

“That’s not all, is it?” Jango pressed, squeezing Maul’s shoulder. He frowned, but nodded, slowly. 

“No. It’s not.” 

“We can’t let a Sith Lord run free though,” Obi Wan argued. “The Sith are evil! They’ll hurt people.” He faltered and looked at Maul, remembering that he had just called himself a Sith Apprentice. 

Maul glared at the table. 

“No. We will not let him run free. I will kill him myself. For the pain he caused me. For the life he stole from me. For the people he ripped from my arms and the blood I painted myself in for him. I will kill him for it.”

Obi Wan frowned. 

“Revenge is dangerous. Master Yoda says it leads to the Darkside.” 

“I’m already entrenched in the Darkside,” Maul said irritably. He tilted his head. “Do you even know the Sith Code?” 

Obi Wan frowned. “Well, there’s only ever two of them. And they use that Darkside, and tried to take over the galaxy before. They’d angry and hateful, and evil.”

Again, he winced. Again, Maul didn’t take offense. 

“Peace is a lie. There is only Passion.

Through Passion I gain Strength.

Through Strength I gain Power.

Through Power I gain Victory.

Through Victory my chains are Broken.

The Force shall free me” 

Maul’s voice echoed with the words of a thousand Sith that came before him. Jango could feel it in his bones, the way the air shifted and the shadows lengthened in the corner of his eyes. 

Obi Wan frowned. “That… doesn’t sound that bad.” 

Maul inclined his head. “You’re not entirely wrong. My Master is evil. He’s cruel and vicious. And his own master still lives. He has broken the Rule of Two by teaching me. I will end the line of Bane. There is strength in the Darkside.” 

“Although,” he added, reluctantly. “The Lightside is not without its own merits.” 

“Don’t jetii preach about balance?” Jango wondered aloud. 

“They usually mean only for the Light to be prevalent,” Maul said with a grimace. 

“But, yes. We do,” Obi Wan said. His face fell. “They do. I’m not a real jedi now. And Master Jinn won’t take me and there’s no one else that would.” 

“I told you I would help you, Obi Wan,” Jango reminded him. He hated saying it. He really did, especially given what Galidraan could have been if they hadn’t had the warning from two years ago. “If you really want it, I’ll help you find a teacher too, if you’re willing to put up with us for a while more. There have to be a few Jedi who have less of a stick in their shebs than Jinn does.” 

Obi Wan looked at him with such fragile, heartbreaking hope Jango wanted to burn the Jedi temple to the ground. “Really? You think someone would take me?”

If they didn’t, Jango would. 

Jango nodded at him with as kind of a smile as he could muster. 

“I do. We’ll just have to start looking.” 

Maul made a small sound. 

“Actually,” he began, “I might have an idea where to start. There’s a reclusive Jedi Master…”

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Black Lives Matter, @hairmonie donated $15, and requested Samifer/Dean Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

Sam says yes, in Detroit. Dean knows because Sam left him a voicemail.

He got a handful of voicemails this year. He never responded because he--he just never responded. He drove alone and killed some things and nearly got killed by others, and the world got worse. Lucifer out there, somewhere Dean couldn’t find him, and Sam gone, and he’d watch his phone light up with an unfamiliar number and wait through the rings, and then when he got the notification he’d hold the phone to his ear, hunched over with his eyes scrunched shut, and listen. Sam usually didn’t say his name, and he didn’t tell Dean where he was, but he’d say things like he wants to use me and I’m hiding but Castiel says they’re getting better at tracking and be safe. Be safe. The last voicemail is left about five minutes to midnight when it’s still technically May 1, and Dean’s in Louisville with ten stitches in his thigh and nearly a full bottle of tequila in his gut, and he doesn’t actually listen to it until morning, when the skies are suddenly dark all over the country and there’s thunder like it might never stop. He’s curled up on the backseat of the car, and he puts the phone to his ear and listens to Sam’s voice and Sam says, for the first time in a year, Dean, I think I can--I think I can do it. I’m sorry.

He’s sorry. Dean doesn’t delete the voicemail like he hasn’t deleted any of the others, and he lets the phone fall to the floorboards. The thunder’s getting louder. It rattles in his chest like there’s something that used to be there, and now it’s just an empty box.

He’s outside of Evansville when it happens--this massive world-ending crack of lightning that splits the sky’s darkness, so bright he slams on the brakes, swerves over to the side of the country highway. Afterimages blur purple across his vision and he has to clap his hands over his ears for the thunder that comes after. Fuck--loud enough that it hurts, that the windshield fractures. He stumbles out of the car and Castiel’s there, for the first time in months and months since he abandoned Dean to his miseries. Castiel’s wounded, scorched. His ears and eyes and nose all bleeding, and he grabs Dean’s jacket sleeve and Dean has to read his lips to know he’s saying it’s too late, and Michael lost, and Dean doesn’t know what that means. He jerks out of Cas’s grip and Cas stares at him and then looks up, straight up with his back arched unnaturally, and in the blink of a second he’s gone. Gone.

The thunder quiets, finally. In its place Dean’s aware of his ears ringing and the ticking of the car’s engine as it cools, and--nothing else. No other cars on the road near him. No breeze. He listens to his own air and looks west, toward where the lightning was, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and he turns around fast and it’s--Sam.

He backs up a step, more out of shock than anything. “What,” he says, breathless, and Sam tilts his head, looking at Dean. Looking at him, in this--weird dispassionate way, this studying way, and Dean looks back, sees Sam in his dumb boxy jacket and his walked-on jeans and his hair Dean used to tease him for, when it was still okay enough between them that they could have teasing, and it’s all the right shape but the horror’s rising up in his gut. That voicemail. That look, wearing Sam’s face.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” Sam says. Quiet voice, calm. He smiles at Dean, a little. “I thought I was going to kill you, today, but I guess you managed to dodge my brother long enough that you got out of it. You’re more clever than they gave you credit for, Dean.”

He backs up another step. Like there’s anywhere he can go. He has Ruby’s knife and he has his gun and he has a foot-long blade he stole from an angel under the front bench in the car, but none of them will work. “Lucifer,” he says, and even as he says it he hopes it’s not true.

Sam’s face smiles a little wider. “In the flesh,” he says, spreading his hands. “So to speak.”

Dean’s ass hits the car, his boot thudding against the front tire. He didn’t realize he was still backing away. Lucifer. He carries Sam’s body--differently. Taller, slower. His eyes drag all over Dean and Dean feels them physically--literally, physically, like a heavy hand is pressing on his skin, pressing through his skin. When Lucifer meets his eyes again he looks--interested, thoughtful.

“Sam loves you,” he says. Dean’s jaw flexes and he looks down at the asphalt. “No--” Lucifer says, and Dean’s head drags up by some unseen force, gripped tight so that he has to face the thing wearing his brother head-on. He swallows and the pressure slides to his throat, not hurting but an unmistakable threat. Lucifer dips Sam’s chin a little. “He loves you. I loved my brother, too. It’s why Sam said yes. Did you know that?”

“The connection’s a little beyond me,” Dean says. He’s surprised he’s allowed to speak.

Lucifer stares at him for a too-long alien second before he smiles, a strange upside-down version of Sam’s smile. Like he’s pitying the dumb human. “He wanted to keep the world from burning,” Lucifer says. “Not so much for the world’s sake, but because you were in it. He thought he could control me and stop all this. It was noble. Even if it didn’t work.”

“If you loved your brother, why did you kill him?” Dean says. He remembers Sam’s hands around his throat, his cheekbone cracked and the blood spilling over his lips. Lucifer watches him, calm. Maybe he did it with his hands, too. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

Lucifer huffs. It’s so like Sam for a second that Dean feels his heart crumbling inside his chest. “It’s okay that you don’t understand,” Lucifer says, softly. He steps closer and grips Dean’s shoulders, gentle enough but it doesn’t stop Dean’s skin from crawling. “You will, I think. One day. You’ll know what’s necessary and you’ll try, instead of this pointless running in place you’ve been trying to justify to yourself. Today isn’t for you. Today is for Sam.”

Dean can hardly breathe with Lucifer this close. “What does that mean?”

Another little smile. Rueful. Almost sweet. “Sam’s screaming,” Lucifer says. He takes one hand off Dean and taps Sam’s temple with two fingers. “In here. He wants control back, wants to stop me from doing what I need to do. I need to show him what will happen, if he keeps defying me.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Dean blurts out. Stupid--like he can stop anything--but it’s instinct, ripping past that ill-healed scar where he thought he’d buried away worrying about Sam.

Lucifer shakes his head. “I don’t want to.” It almost sounds honest. “But I can’t have the distraction if I want to execute my vision for this world. But we both know, Dean, that Sam can take any kind of pain and still hold strong. What hurts him is what hurts you.”

He’s watching Dean’s face, waiting for him to get it. Dean drags in air and the understanding of what’s about to happen settles over him like suffocation. “Don’t,” he says, but he can barely get out the voice for it. Lucifer gives him another rueful little smile, like it’s something that can’t be helped. “Sam knows better. He’ll stop you.”

Lucifer cups Dean’s jaw in Sam’s big hand, strokes over his cheek with the thumb. “He won’t,” Lucifer says, quiet promise, and there’s a weird stomach-turning moment where the world quivers, and then Dean’s--oh, god, oh fuck oh fuck he’s on his back on the Impala’s hood, and he’s naked, and he had forty years with Alastair’s knives and even so he still has a moment, a fierce bloody moment, where he thinks he can fight back. He strains and is shocked to find that he can move, and he swings a clenched fist and Sam’s hand catches it, easy. Lucifer’s stripped, too, and Sam’s body is--thinner than Dean remembers him being--like he wasn’t eating right, this last year--but he’s still tan, still built, and Dean’s eyes drop because he can’t help it and Sam’s dick is--god help him, hard, and big, hanging heavy and straight out from Sam’s hips.

“This is stupid,” Dean says, trying to push back on the hood but his skin’s catching, the metal holding him. Lucifer grabs his knee, drags him painfully back into place. “And cliche. I mean, rape? Really? Come on, you think this’ll break me?”

“It did,” Lucifer says, easy. “In hell. Eventually.” Dean’s jaw clenches and he tries a punch again, but Lucifer’s strong--stronger than Sam, unnatural and inevitable, and he grabs Dean’s wrists in one hand, pins them against Dean’s chest bruisingly tight, and his hips are between Dean’s thighs and he catches one leg, pushes it up and back, spreads Dean open for it. He looks down at Dean, knowing, and it’s not--lustful, not crazed and dripping like the demons were. Not cruel. One corner of Sam’s mouth lifts up. “Breaking you isn’t the point. Remember, this is for Sam. He wanted this, so badly,” Lucifer says, and Dean stills his squirming, looks up into Sam’s familiar face. It’s still dark, with the sky crowded with thunderclouds, but Sam seems lit from within, Lucifer’s grace filling him. For a second, he looks genuinely sympathetic, and Dean’s still frozen, mind stuck on that thought, when Lucifer dips in and kisses him, close-mouthed and nearly sweet, Sam’s lips soft and catching against his where they’re chapped. When Lucifer lifts up he sighs, still close enough that Sam’s breath touches Dean’s mouth, and he looks right into Dean’s eyes. “What matters is that it hurts you. It’ll hurt, Dean.”

It does already. Sam’s prick nudges in against Dean’s ass, wet only with whatever precome’s making it slip against his skin, and Dean stares up into his brother’s face. When the shove happens--it is a shove, Sam’s dick too big and Dean too tight--Dean can’t help the sound he makes, or how he arches, trying to get away--and for a split second Lucifer’s face changes and through the haze of split-open racking hurt Dean knows that it’s Sam, it’s his brother, holding him and wrenching him wide and looking at him terrified--and Sam lets Dean’s wrists go and grabs his face--says, “Dean,” in the way he always used to, the way Dean loved, the way that meant something deeper than any other words could ever hope to say--and even with Sam shoved inside him and with how much it hurts Dean touches his face and says, shaky, “It’s okay, Sammy,” and before he can finish Sam’s name Sam’s eyes change and he knows it’s Lucifer, looking back at him, a weird canny triumph in his eyes.

The thunderclouds part, over Sam’s head, and roll back. The sun’s rising in the east and the sky’s a clear, pale blue. Lucifer plants a hand on the car and holds Dean’s hips in his other hand and fucks in and it hurts, hurts, fuck it hurts, and he smiles down and says, “It’ll be over soon, Dean,” and that’s a lie. Dean drags in breath, hooks his legs around Sam’s hips, and when Lucifer screws inside the next time it still hurts like knives but at least the angle’s better, and he drops his head back against the car, pants up at the clear sky. It won’t be over soon, but one day it will be. Lucifer kisses his jaw, gentle, and Dean closes his eyes and says, clear inside himself, it’ll be okay, Sammy, and resolves then that he will kill them both to make sure that one day it’s true.

[wienerbarnes]

Hot Chocolate

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 1,543

Warnings: Mentions of murder and apple pie

A/N: a ha ha heres another lil one shot of these two! send in requests for this pairing if yall got ideas! 

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

“Excuse me, Miss? Someone ordered this for you, it seems like you’ve got yourself a secret admirer. Anyways, enjoy.”

The waiter places down a slice of delicious apple pie down in front of you with a smile, obviously thinking there was more to this dessert than Bucky finding out where you’ve been. You glance at the cinnamon-sugar syrup that pours out of the sides of the slice, the glazed apples smelling like heaven as they hit your nostrils. Without touching it, you slowly turn your body from the high stool you’re sitting on and scan the room, eyes passing over every head in the room before landing on a black hood.

Back facing you, the black hood takes a sip of whatever is in their mug before placing it back down on the saucer, a black glove gently letting go of the handle as it makes it’s landing. 

Now who’s the one guy I know that wears gloves like that in public?

Pie in hand, you make your way over to the small booth Bucky has for himself before taking a seat across from him.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Looks like a piece of pie to me, doll. Why, you find a hair in it or something?”

You roll your eyes to the back of your head and push a hand through greasy hair with a deep sigh. 

“How did you find me here?”

“You know I did this for, like, eighty years, right?”

Bucky slides the sunglasses off his face and places them on the table next to his tea in order to see you better. You’re a blonde now. And it seems you’ve gotten more piercings as you have a few extra studs on your ears than he remembers. A denim jacket hangs on your frame on top of the long sleeve shirt you got from his apartment the night he stitched you up. 

He won’t lie, Bucky’s definitely been looking for you. And you do a great job of hiding yourself. It took him about two months of extensive research, only to find you in this diner-slash-bookstore(?) on accident while he was taking a break.

Through his research, though, he did find out a lot more about you. Information besides what he learned from your criminal file.

You lived with your grandparents until the age of fourteen when they passed away. You lived with someone named Kathleen Grover, who was listed as a “family friend” on any legal documents concerning your guardianship. You dropped out of high school at age fifteen before applying for a pre-marine program. At age eighteen, you started your career as a marine before going missing in action after two years. There’s a large, blank time frame there, but Bucky can guess that’s when your Hydra career began. Probably not so different from him. Kidnapped, tortured to comply, committing crimes until you were eventually caught. With his math, you’re about twenty-eight now. 

Most twenty-eight-year-old’s are married. Planning for kids. Building their career. Buying houses. But instead you’re sitting across from him in his shop, looking very angry at the slice of pie he bought you.

This shop isn’t far from the fresh market he first saw you at after your escape. About two hours from his apartment, but about ten minutes from what used to be Kathleen Grover’s address. She’s since passed away, under mysterious circumstances, he might add, but it was a start to finding where you’d be. 

You’ve been away from society for almost a decade, so it’s only natural to try to go somewhere familiar. From what he read, he doesn’t imagine you did much traveling in your teen years.

“Anything else I can get for you two?” The waiter interrupts Bucky’s thoughts. 

“Hot chocolate for the lady, please.” Bucky orders without taking his eyes off you. The waiter gives a short nod and walks off to put in the drink.

“So, what is it you want?” You finally ask, after giving in the sweet scent of the pie in front of you and placing a spoonful into your mouth.

“Who says I want anything?”

“Why else would you have come all the way out here to find me?”

Why did he come all the way out here to find you? Absolutely no one at the tower nor the FBI are any closer to finding where you’ve hid yourself. They assumed the first thing you’d do was find a flight out here so they've been searching country after country to find you when you have been in their backyard the entire time. Smart on your part, but probably accidental seeing as you have no way to get out of here anyway. He’s not here to ask you any favors, he doesn’t need anything done for him, so why did he come all the way here?

“I-” 

“Hot chocolate?”

A young woman holding a steaming mug of hot chocolate awaits confirmation. You give a shy smile and hold out your hands to receive the drink. As soon as your fingertips reach the saucer the waitress is holding, a loud gasp escapes your body and you flinch harshly, causing the mug to fly out of both your hands and crash on the ground. 

“Oops! I’m so sorry about that! Let me clean this up and I’ll get another drink for you, on the house! Sorry again!” The waitress frantically rushes away to get a mop.

Bucky looks at you to see your eyes wide and lips turned into a frown. He glances down at your hands that are tucked towards the center of your chest to see them shaking. He listens closely and hears your heart beating a mile a minute.

“What just happened?” Bucky asks, voice low yet curious. His question seems to snap you out of your thoughts as you jump once more and meet his eyes.

“Nothing. Nothing just happened. In fact, I gotta go.” You push your hands through your hair once more, clearly stressed about the broken mug.

“Did you see something? Just now? When you touched the mug, you saw something.” Bucky concludes.

You don’t respond as the waitress returns and begins cleaning up the mess on the floor. 

“What did you see?” Bucky whispers, desperate to hear about what’s troubling you.

“That girl- she-she, uh,” You stutter. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” You quickly stand and make your way towards the door. 

Bucky stands as well and struggles to get his wallet out of his pocket. When he finally gets it out he throws a few bills on the table before rushing after you to catch up. After coming out through the door, he looks up and down the sidewalk to see no sign of you.

“Fuck.” Bucky mumbles to himself. 

Nowhere on the sidewalk. Not across the street. Where the fuck did you go? Bucky reaches his right hand up to rub the crease in his forehead between his eyes roughly before making his way back to where he parked his bike on the street.

Fucking idiot, you couldn’t just pay attention? God, it was thirty seconds that you took your eyes off her and now she’s gone for who knows how long this time. Now what are you-

A folded napkin tucked into the curve of his bike handle catches his attention. He takes it out of the crease and opens it to see an address with tomorrow’s date on it. 

Is your way of letting him in? On your own terms? Maybe you see he’s not a threat to you, but you probably don’t fully trust him yet. Bucky smiles and tucks the napkin into his front pocket and swings his leg over to mount the bike.

For someone who has such a fucked up past, this is a huge step. You’re a lot more forgiving than he was when he was getting back into having a life. Braver, too.

Bucky’s ride home is long, but not miserable with the warmth of that napkin in his pocket.

…

Later that night, Bucky gives loving scratches to Alpine who purrs on his chest. He flips through channels with his free hand when a familiar face catches his eye.

Bucky goes back to the channel to see the news and he sits up quickly with a gasp.

“Young Amy Stevens has been arrested this afternoon and is currently being held in custody for the string of murders we’ve seen these last couple of weeks. It is unknown whether or not she has a lawyer, but she has already confessed to police upon being detained that she is guilty for these deaths. If found guilty, Stevens will be going to prison for a very long time for her involvement in the murder of four young men. More information tomorrow, have a good night everyone.”

Bucky’s mouth hangs open at the sight of the waitress from the diner earlier today plastered on his television screen. A serial killer, a fucking serial killer.

That’s what you saw. You probably saw this girl killing random guys when you touched that mug.

A tired sigh escapes him as the channel switches from the news to some commercial and an angry kitten paws at his hand wondering why his dad stopped giving him scratches.

[whumpiary]

(do you ever write a line and then look at urself like “aw man. now I have to write the drabble, huh?” anways… who feels like some motherflippin backstory?)

content warning: self-surgery, field medicine (kinda), mild body horror, mild gore, implied prescription drug abuse, mild innuendo

-

Josiah needs a shower. Desperately. His shoulders are aching and his head is thumping. Today has been hard and long and he still has things to do with Ellie tonight. He just needs the white noise of water rushing over his head for a minute to reset his thoughts.

The third floor bathroom is maybe Josiah’s favourite room in this whole place. Unlike the rest of the bathrooms in the facility, this one is private. One shower, one door, one lock. Whether because of bad planning or very intentional planning, it’s hidden down a hall, squished between a storage room and a switchboard. To find it you’d either have to know where it was or, like Josiah did, stumble across it looking for a spare mop.

So no one comes here. No one bothers him. For a few minutes, for a few quiet minutes, he can relax. Let the pressure of being around people fall away. He can breathe. Be still. He barely even gets that at night anymore, if Ellie has anything to say about it. 

It’s not that he minds people. They’re just… exhausting. Especially in a place like this. Open and communal and always moving. Even if you weren’t talking to someone it was rare that you got a room to yourself to enjoy alone.

And so of course, because his day has already been hard. And of course, because he’s already in a bad mood. And of course, because why on Earth would be think he could catch a break today, there’s someone already in the bathroom when he swings the door open. Josiah flinches, thinking he’s caught someone in a moment of privacy and he’s already apologising, moving to close the door when he processes what he’s seeing.

A young man is straddling the edge of the bath. Save for a towel bunched loosely across his torso, he’s shirtless. The shirt in question is sitting by his bare foot in a heap. Torn by the looks, stained with oil or maybe dirt, it’s hard to tell. The guy’s head lolling back against the tiles, med kit open and scattered on the toilet seat beside him. Unconscious, maybe. Fuck.

Josiah clears his throat. When there’s no response, he knocks on the bathroom wall, awkwardly. 

“Hello?”

At the sound of Josiah’s voice, the guy’s eyes flutter open, bleary and unfocused. Not unconscious, then. His gaze slides across the room before settling on Josiah’s face. He cocks a lazy smile, half-salutes with the hand not occupied by the towel across his waist.

“Oh. Hello”

“You alright?”

“Didn'see ya there,” the words smudge together slightly, as though keeping the words separate is a challenge the speaker can’t handle right now. He doesn’t answer the question.

“Are you, uh… are you alright?” Josiah tries again. 

The guy looks down at himself, then shifts up a little more where he’s sitting.

“Yeahhhhh,” he drawls “Never better”

 “Do you need help? I, um… should I go get someone?“

“No!” the guy yelps. Josiah freezes, and the guy thumps his head back against the tiles with a sharp inhale, trying again for a smile. Probably making an attempt at laid back “No, nah. All good, I’m, uh… all good" 

“I could-”

“Don’t need any help,” the guys grunts, eyes fluttering closed “Thanks”

“You look like your about to pass out,” Josiah says. Iif he was being completely honest, it looks like the guy already did pass out and is just trying to cover it up. Poorly. 

“M’fine. Jus’ having a lil break,” the guy says, and shifts again uncomfortably, pressing the cloth into his side again. He doesn’t open his eyes. 

Josiah looks over his shoulder at the empty hallway behind him, then back again at the slumped figure. He should leave, now. He doesn’t know how long this is gonna take or if this guy means trouble, and he still wants a shower and Ellie will need him shortly. Besides, he can’t help someone who doesn’t want any help. Maybe the downstairs bathrooms will be relatively empty.

“Okay, well, uh…If you don’t, uh, need…” he gestures behind himself awkwardly “I’ll, um-”

He’s nearly got the door closed when the guy’s eyes flick open, head jerking with a start as he calls out.

“Actually wait, wait, hold up. Hang on, I do need a hand with something”

Josiah stops, opens the door again slightly. The guy gestures to the scattered med kit, and a bottle of pills that’s tipped out on the tiles. 

“Those. There. On the floor,” he says, waving his hand loosely

“The… painkillers?” Josiah supplies

“The… Yeah. Yeah, them,” he decides “Dropped ‘em before an’ can’t reach ‘em. D’you mind?”

Josiah looks between the guy’s hooded eyes and the mess on the tiles. He looks again at the hallway behind him. Makes a decision.

“Alright”

And he’s stepping through the doorway, closing it shut behind him. He scoops a handful of the pills back into the bottle, turning to pass it to the guy on the bath. It’s then that he sees the wound on the guys ribs, torn skin a handspan wide, flushed red and hot and angry, several gaping stitches pulled half loose. And blood. An uncomfortable amount of it.

“Holy shit,” Josiah says, pill bottle nearly falling from his hand “What happened?”

“Nothin’,” the guy says, lazily inspecting the injury as he  presses a hand to the flesh above the cut “Just a bit'a self surg'ry. ‘Sall good”

To Josiah’s horror, he trails a hand down to the wound, grabbing the needle at the end of the thread and pulling. 

“Stop” Josiah forgets himself, reaching for the guys arm and tugging it away from the wound.

“Handsy,” the guy mutters with a smirk and Josiah drops his wrist like it’s burned him. Josiah’s heart is racing. What the fuck. What the fuck, what the fuck?

“What the hell are doing? Are you high?”

The question’s meant to be rhetorical but the guy snorts a laugh, cringing as the jerking motion twists the wound in his side. He presses down on it again with the cloth, trying to ease the blood or the pain or the something with the pressure.

“Yeah,” he slurs through gritted teeth “Something like that”

“You can’t just do that to yourself, you need help”

The guy laughs properly at that. A low, bubbling thing. Then it dies, voice sobering as he speaks. 

“I don’t need help, I need my fuckin’ drugs,” he holds out a lazy hand, gaze barely barely focussing on Josiah’s face, “Here, please”

Josiah stares, eyes flicking to the wound at the guy’s side. He should be getting back to work. He should be getting back to Ellie. He should be going and getting someone else to help with this. He should be doing a lot of things. Instead, he stands to his full height.

“I’ll give them to you after you let me help with those stitches,” he says, putting the bottle on the sink, carefully out of reach. The guy stares at him, eyes dull.

“You’re joking, right?”

“No”

“I can do my own damn stitches,” he says. His voice is firm enough that it’s almost convincing. The woozy sway that accompanies it is less so.

“I don’t care if you can,” Josiah says, crossing his arms “You shouldn’t”

The guy thumps his head against the tiled wall again.

“Had to be the one guy with a helpful streak, didn’t it?” he mutters to the ceiling, before straightening up with a rough pant “Look. You seem nice n'all that but this isn’t exactly new t'me, alright? Don’t need help. M'fine”

“Okay. In that case you can get the pills yourself,” he says, moving to the door. 

“No, no, wait!” the guy yelps. Josiah stops, holds back a smile. He knows the sound of the victory siren when he hears it “Fuck. Fuckin hell. Fine. Fuckin’ fine. You c'n play nurse. Fine”

Josiah turns back around, tries to hide his smugness at least a little.

“Good,” he says. The guy rolls his eyes as Josiah washes his hands, but there is a vague expression of relief there. They both know he wouldn’t have gotten the job done on his own.

Josiah moves the med kit to the top of the bathroom cabinet, freeing up the toilet seat a temporary work stool. The guy only hesitates a tiny bit as Josiah reaches for the towel, pulling it loose. The wound is radiating heat, three or four stitches doing the work of twelve to hold it together. They’re rough and loose and different lengths, like someone was doing a patch job for the sleeve of an old jacket.

“Christ, you’ve made a mess of it,” 

“Well excuse me for lacking surgical precision as I stitch my own flesh back together” 

“That’s my point, idiot, you should have surgical precision when stitching flesh back together,” he says, running the pads of his fingers lightly over the inflamed skin. The guy cringes.

“I’m gonna have to pull these out, and start again” he mutters apologetically “Where’s the disinfectant?”

There’s a heavy, jostling silence.

“You used disinfectant, right?” The guy is looking pointedly not at Josiah “What the fuck was the med kit for, then?”

The guy makes bored eye contact, pulls a face like it obvious. Right. Pills. 

Josiah looks across the mess on the ground, finds a bottle of ethanol near the bathmat and some tweezers in the drawer and gets to work pulling out the hack job sutures. 

Now that he’s looking more closely at the wound, he can see some small puncture wounds lining the edge. He glances down the edge of the bath, can see the scraps of old stitches lying in scattered clumps.

“You reopened this, didn’t you?” he says, leaning back “Why?”

The guy hums and knocks something small in the bath with his foot. Josiah watches as a small piece of metal, the size and shape of a battery, spirals in an awkward loop, trailing a thin line of blood behind itself. If Josiah looks close, he can see something that looks like the facility logo hidden behind blood.

“Any idea what that is?” the guy asks. Josiah shakes his head “Yeah, me neither”

The thought that this is something more sinister than stupidity and bad luck chills Josiah like ice. Enough questions, he decides. He doesn’t need to know. It’s not his business. He’s here to help with stitches. Then get back to work. He doesn’t need to know. He just needs to do the stitches. He can do that. The rest of it is irrelevant. He doesn’t need to know. 

Josiah pulls the last of the poor stitching out and feels himself exhale. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding his breath. 

The job, after that, is easier than he thought it would be. Just re-threading the needle through old puncture wounds, wiping down the blood and cooling the wound with a damp cloth. It’s a long time, maybe half a dozen stitches worth of silence, before the guy speaks. 

“What’s your name?“

“Josiah,” Josiah says, not looking away from his work. He winces as he pulls the needle through, swears he can feel it slicing through his own skin “Yours?”

“Ace”

“That your real name?”

“No. Is Josiah yours?”

“Yes”

“That’s interesting”

Josiah does stop then, his hand resting gingerly on the guy’s hip as he looks at his face. Half-lidded eyes look back at him. Glittering and amused. Josiah almost feels like he’s being laughed at. 

“Why is it interesting?”

The guy – Ace –shrugs, “Dunno. Just interesting”

Ace’s face screws up with sudden pain and he shifts where he’s sitting, grunts out a breath of air “Keep talkin’, Josiah. Stops me from thinkin’ ‘bout the fuckin’ pills”

Josiah bites his cheek. He’s never been the best at small talk. Even worse while his conversational partner is shirtless and bleeding in front of him. He pulls another stitch taught. 

“Why do they call you Ace?”

The guy laughs a little like there’s some joke Josiah’s not getting.

“Cause I’m fuckin’ ace”

“Ace at what?”

“Ace at everything” The smirk is heavy in his voice and when Josiah glances up, Ace’s gaze is on him, just as heavy. Josiah can feel his cheeks burning red. Another stitch.

“You’re very pretty,” Ace says, out of nowhere “You someone’s?”

The question makes Josiah’s stomach flip, heart flutter just a little. He nearly says Ellie’s name, decides against it. Rubs a hand absently over the back of his neck.

“I don’t… know what you mean,” he says quietly. The guy shrugs, seeming suddenly bored with the conversation.

“Doesn’ matter. Jus’ a thought,” Ace let’s out a loud sigh and Josiah has to stop what he’s doing as his ribs expand “You nearly done there, doc? M'dying here”

“Not even close. You made a mess of the first lot”

Josiah here’s a thump as Ace lands his head back in the tiled wall. 

“Mind if I close m'eyes for a bit, then?” he mumbles “Gettin’ woozy”

“Thought you were fine,” Josiah says, smirk of his own tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I am fine,” Ace says, a little too defensively. He tries for a joke in recovery “It’s watchin’ those manly, manly hands o’ yours work. Got me swooning”

Josiah huffs a laugh, risking a glance back up at Ace’s face. His eyes are already closed.

“Yeah go on,” he says “I’ll wake you when I’m done”

Ace hums low in response, his hand fluttering to settle gingerly over his stomach. His fingers twitch reflexively with the tug of the needle. 

There’s a good chunk of stitches left to do, and then the cleaning and the dressing. He’ll miss out on the shower and still probably be late. Doesn’t matter. He’ll explain what happened and Ellie’ll understand. Or maybe she won’t but that’ll be fine. It’s not like she could stay angry at him for helping someone in crisis. Besides, someone needs to know that this guy is hurt so someone with actual medical knowledge can go check on him. He probably stays in the facility somewhere, if he’s fixing his stitches in the bathroom. Maybe he oughta tell Simon about it as well. Just to be sure.

“Hey Josiah,” Ace says softly, and he looks up to meet the lazy gaze of his patient. 

“Yeah?”

“Jᴏsɪᴀʜ, ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪs”

“Course not,” Josiah says immediately, almost scoffing at the absurdity of it. Obviously he won’t. Why on Earth would he tell someone?

Ace smiles like Josiah just gave him the best Christmas present in the world. 

“Good,” he says as his eyes slide closed. Josiah smiles too, and finishes another stitch.

[clownistyping]

The Neverending Story, Chapter 53

Long chapter that i love

First

Previous

Next

Cover by @laneygthememequeen

“So what do people normally do for Halloween?” Halian asked as you poured a bag of candy in a large bowl, 

“Normally people dress up in fun costumes, go out trick or treating-” Halian hummed and you explained the strange concept of trick or treating, 

“People can throw parties, or maybe have little rituals to summon demons-”

“Or ghosts!” Beetlejuice popped up, stealing some candy he stuffed his face. 

“Or ghost yes, but we don’t need to do one. Already have a ghost here.” You kissed Beetlejuice stuffed cheek and Halian cringed, 

“Anything else?” Halian asked and you nodded, 

“Oh yeah, some people just stay indoors and watch movies. Specifically horror movies, but some like cute horror movies like uh..” You didn’t have one in mind, 

“Like the nightmare before christmas!” Beetlejuice said, drool dripped out and you wiped his mouth with a napkin. 

“Never seen it.” You said and Halian nodded in agreement, Beetlejuice dramatically gasped. 

“Yeah, that’s about to change.” Beetlejuice snapped his fingers and suddenly the microwave started to pop some popcorn and the TV turned on to show the menu screen for the said movie. You shake your head as Halian gasps, 

“Is it any good?” you asked as the popcorn finished, taking it out you poured the popcorn in another large bowl. Beetlejuice nodded and wrapped his arms around your waist, 

“I was thinking maybe we could dress up, I’m sure the kid would love it too.” Beetlejuice said, following you into the living room as the movie started to play. 

“We’ll see after this movie,” You tossed a kernel his way and he caught it in his mouth. 

The movie started and Halian watched in amazement from the opening scene. Beetlejuice hummed the songs in your ear and you leaned onto his chest, the movie played throughout but Halian fell asleep in your lap halfway. You laughed from his sleeping form and picked him up, 

“Yea, he’ll wanna dress up tomorrow.” you said quietly as you set Halian down on his bed, covering him up you smiled as Beetlejuice silently cheered. 

“I’ve gotta get started on the costumes!” He said as you closed the bedroom door, you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. 

“Can I be oogie boogie?” you asked and Beetlejuice nodded, pulling you in for a deep kiss. 

“Oh definitely, you’re gonna be so hot.” He said and quickly rushed out to work on the costumes. You chuckled and readied yourself for bed, excited for tomorrow. 

A crow cawed on your window sill and you blinked awake, 

“Good morning, Poe.” You said and the crow flew off, leaving you alone. 

Footsteps were heard rushing towards your bedroom and you smiled, the door slammed open to show Halian in a white hoodie, his hood was a replica of the ghost dog Zero from the Nightmare Before Christmas. 

“It’s Halloween!” Halian cheered and you laughed, 

“You look great!” You said and pulled him in for a bear hug, Halian laughed. 

“You’re costume is done, it’s downstairs come on!” Halian dragged you downstairs and you laughed from his excitement. Reaching the living room your mouth dropped when you see the backside of Beetlejuice in an almost replica of Jack Skellington suit, of course it has a few tears and bugs crawling from the sleeves. 

“Finally you’re awake! Come on, it’s ready!” Beetlejucie directed the the mannequin covered in a sheet, 

“What? Am I going as a ghost?” You joked and Beetlejuice shook his head, 

“Nope but you’d be a sexy ghost,” he winked and you laughed, Halian sat on the couch. 

“Drum roll, please.” Beetlejuice said and Halian used his hands to beat on the table, you rolled your eyes as Beetlejuice dragged out the show. Then he snatched the sheet off the mannequin and your eyes widened. 

On the mannequin was a material from possibly a potato sack, the hood had fake centipedes crawling on it and the long sleeves covered the mannequins fingers, the material fell down the legs as stitched shorts and under it was black tight pants. The shoes were like funny elf shoes but terrible stitched, still you smiled at the attire. 

“Did you make this?” You asked and Beetlejuice nodded, 

“I may not be the best at sewing but it fits, come on now, try it on!” He tore it off the mannequin and threw the outfit towards you, you caught it with a smile and left to change. 

Surprisingly the material wasn’t itchy on the inside, he covered the inside in a soft cloth. The pants while they were mainly covered by the costume did fit tightly, you didn’t see any reason to complain because of how hard Beetlejuice worked on the costume. 

Walking back downstairs you heard Beetlejuice wolf whistle and you rolled your eyes again, 

“If I knew you’d look that great then I wouldn’t have made ya put on anything at all,” Beetlejuice winked and you slapped his shoulder, 

“Shut up,” You kissed his cheek, 

“So now what?” You asked as Beetlejuice wrapped an arm around you waist, 

“I’m thinking, we go out on the town.” Beetlejuice answered and you hummed, looking over at Halian who was digging through the candy bowl. 

“Ah why not, let's go!” You cheered. 

The baker set out his trays of pies with edible insects peeking out of them, while the cobbler was dressed as a clown. The bar had a snake theme and selling shots of snake wine, where they got the idea you weren’t sure but you had a guess. Beetlejuice chuckled as he watched a person gag from the wine that had edible snakes inside, Halian munched on a pie slice but cringed as he spat out the centipede. 

The wet centipede scurried away and you cringed, handing your pie over to Beetlejuice who gladly scarfed it down. 

“Next time you go out on the town, at least give me a heads up.” You said and Beetlejuice nodded with his cheeks stuffed. You three walked the village, letting Halian knock on doors and ask for candy. With each compliment you and Beetlejuice got on your costumes, Beetlejuice ego was fed.

Beetlejuice gently grabbed your hand, after he wiped it clean on his suit, 

“I wanna show you something,” He said and you rose a brow as he led you out of the village and down an empty grass path. Halian disappeared in the grass and you went to speak but Beetlejuice stuffed a lollipop in your mouth, 

“Kid’s fine, trust me.” He said and you stayed quiet. The village disappeared from behind you  and on the horizon you see lights flickering. 

In front of you was a rotting arch, covered in striped vines. On different sides of the arch was Lydia and Halian. 

You walked towards the arch with a smile, Lydia was holding a bouquet of monochrome roses, she walked up to you and handed you the bouquet. You took it, confused but happy to have them, Halian then took her spot. 

“What is all this?” you asked and Halian pointed behind you, Beetlejuice coughed and you turned to face him. 

Your eyes widened and the lollipop fell from your mouth, 

Beetlejuice stood on one knee, a soft smile on his face as he held a striped ring towards you. 

“Babes..I.”

“Hell yes!” You screamed and tackled Beetlejuice in an unforgiving hug, knocking him down on the ground. Beetlejuice cheers from the ground as you kiss his face all over. The two guests cheers and suddenly Beetlejuice lifts you up, kissing you deeply. 

“I love you so much, Beetlejuice.” 

“I love you too, (Y/N).”

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[junieyes]

paint me like one of them dead girls (3.1)

usual warnings: gore, violence, profanity shdhdh, uhhh zombies

(omg so turns out there’s a word limit on this shit)

—

The pilot must either be really good at praying or have some absurdly good luck.

You help him apply pressure to the nasty gash in his very not broken, elevated leg.

You also force him to take some painkillers. You’d have given him a drink but they don’t supply that in first aid kits.

“Are you a junkie?” He asks, blearily. “I can’t.”

You blink, taken aback. “What? No! Just take the damn Tylenol!”

He looks at you very uncertain but gulps them dry anyway. You’re not sure if this is shock or something else. You don’t know which you’d prefer.

(you half-wonder if he was drinking on the job)

First things first, stop the bleeding. Whether a wound this large can be stopped, you really don’t know. You’re only trained enough to wait for an EMT to get here. And as there aren’t any EMTs anymore… you are currently the most qualified person in this room.

Ohhhh boy.

You bite your lip, distraught. The only thing you can think of to use without wasting any bandages is… is your jacket. You fucking love this jacket. But the pilot is dying.

Making up your mind, you exhale sharply. He’ll buy you a new one when you get out of this. It’ll be an IOU. You’ll even get it down on paper.

You slip your arms out quickly, turning the jacket inside out. You cut off the bottom half of the body. The outside, although covered in blood, is waterproof. The inside material is relatively clean but you swab it with an antiseptic wipe and bundle it up, pressing around and between the pilots slacking fingers. He makes a painful sound but nothing else; his head lolls sideways. You pinch his nose.

“Wha?” He says, not anymore awake than before.

“If you sleep you die,” you say bluntly. “This is a team effort. You gotta help me out here.”

He breathes heavily, pupils looking a little glazed, but he musters a nod. Makes an effort to put as much pressure as he can on his leg. His forehead shines with copious amounts of sweat, strands of black hair wet and matted flat against his scalp; there are dark bruises along his jaw and nose and you think it might be broken but you can’t tell. You’ve never seen a broken nose.

He looks like shit, but not undead shit. He looks likes he’s about to hurl and die from blood loss, not from a disease or plague or whatever the hell infection is rampaging outside these walls.

It’s something. You can work with that.

The bleeding doesn’t completely stop but it does slow. Enough for you to clean around the area instead. It looks disgusting. It reminds you of a car crash when the hood is all crumpled back on itself and you can see the bits inside. The cut isn’t wide, as though a chunk has been taken out, but it’s long and serrated, and you figure it must be very deep for it to have bled so much. You’re not a damn doctor. It’ll need stitches is your uneducated guess.

You prepare yourself. This is going to be unpleasant.

Check his pulse – which, it isn’t steady or strong like when you compare it your own, but it isn’t debilitatingly weak either. It should be good for now, and you try not to overthink it. You might be severely under-qualified, but he doesn’t have anyone else but you. You’re the only thing standing between him and death.

You take a deep breath and fish for the needle and thread.

The door opens when you’re halfway down the pilot’s calf.

The surgical scissors are up in the air before you even think about it, extra pointy ends pointing away. They drip with blood. It’s not exactly the most dignified or even protective stance, but there must be something fierce and frazzled on your face because Leon takes a startled step back.

“Oh thank god,” you breathe, deflating. And then you perk up again, turning back to suture the wound closed. No time for dilly-dallying! “Where’s Claire?”

You don’t hear her footsteps alongside Leon’s. Unless she’s like, super fucking quiet. But you don’t hear her talking or breathing either so she mustn’t be there. You squint, eyes focused on the task at hand.

The stitches are coming along nicely, as much as they can under your unskilled hands anyway. Your technique is a combination influenced by poor attempts at embroidery and watching medical dramas at 10pm when you should really be sleeping. But his leg is coming back together so you must be doing something right.

The pilot hums, still dazed and sleepy-like. You hope it’s just the painkillers. You don’t have the energy or education to deal with more.

“I was too late,” Leon says, coming to kneel beside you. You don’t turn to him, just silently point at your torn-up jacket and make a gesture. “The noise attracted more of them. We didn’t have any more time.”

He seems to understand you somewhat vaguely because he picks up the bundle and hovers uncertainly around the gash.

“Pat it gently.”

He does, following the trail of sutures you leave behind. You ended up cutting the wrinkled, flappy bits of skin that’d been hanging on by sheer force of will. They were messing up your sewing. If this was a good move has yet to be seen.

“Did you tell her to climb the fence?”

“Couldn’t. It had wires at the top.”

You try very hard not to shrug. It’ll mess up your hand. “Better than getting eaten up by those things.”

Leon sighs. He sounds so tired. It makes you feel a little guilty for still feeling annoyed at him about earlier. But only a little.

“I found something.”

You frown. “What is it?”

“A crank.”

You really want to look at him. But no, you must persevere. The pilot – and you really need to get his name – will die if you look away. Maybe not die, but you don’t think he’ll appreciate you taking your eyes off of him while you repair his leg like an annoying hole in a pair of socks.

“A crank?” you repeat, bemused. “Why did you take a crank? What do you even need a crank for? And where’d you even find it?”

He holds the scissors when you give it to him. “East office. I don’t know why; it was just sitting on the desk. And it’s for the bathroom in this west wing. One of the pipes is blown and it’s steaming gas.”

You immediately perk up. “A bathroom?”

He laughs. “Yeah, a bathroom. If I fix it, you can, you know…”

Leg done. Last stitch in. You wrap it in bandaging for added measure. This time, you look up to the ceiling with a reverent expression. Finally, you can take a sorely needed bathroom break.

You turn to Leon. “That is the best news I have had heard since literally ever.”

He shakes his head, lips quirked. “Figures.”

The pilot interrupts you both with a grumpy exhale. “Are you done flirting? M’leg still hurts.”

You send him a flat look. Not that he can see it, considering his eyes are closed. You wonder how he’s still awake, honestly. It’s not like you had anesthesia. “I’m not giving you any more painkillers. I already gave you above dosage, so suck it!”

Maybe you’re being a little mean, but you really don’t know if it’s safe, especially with all the blood loss and shit. You don’t want to risk it any more than you already have.

(and also, you’re a little mad. It’s the end of the world; you should be allowed to flirt a little. You already fixed his damned leg.)

Finding some strength from… somewhere, the pilot lifts up his head, glaring at you unhappily. You are as intimidated as you would be by a floppy-eared rabbit. “Are you sure you’re a doctor?”

You sigh noisily. “I’m not!”

The pilot grumbles. He must be really out of it. Anyone in their right and sober mind would be pissed mad at you right now. You literally just performed surgery on his leg. That’s not right! You’re a history student, not a medical one!

“Is he going to be alright?” Leon asks, leaning towards you. You eye him a little. He doesn’t look particularly bothered by the pilot’s comment. Unless… you missed him blushing or some cute shit because you were too busy dealing with the pilot. Damn.

No! brain, shut up. There are more important things right now. You can lament over lost opportunities at a later time.

You shrug hesitantly. You won’t lie. You lean in to whisper though. If it were you, you wouldn’t want your faux-doctor and some random guy to be talking about your prospective future in front of you. “Maybe?” you say, and then really think about. “Yeah,” you amend, nodding with conviction. “He didn’t break anything, it’s just… a lot of lost blood. But I dunno if he can walk on it.”

Looking at the guy, Leon seems to contemplate something.

With some mild bemusement, you watch as he putters around, doing something with the cushions behind the desk. He even manages to move the definitely heavy safe off to the side.

“Help me pick him up.”

It takes considerably less time to move the pilot behind the desk than it did getting him to this room.

“I feel like a ragdoll,” the pilot says, almost pouting. You say almost because you refuse to believe a thirty-year-old man is capable of pouting. He looks highly put out. Now that must be the painkillers.

“Sorry bud,” Leon pats his back gently, crouching by his side. “We’ll leave you here for now. Take this–“ Leon hands him another gun he must have found recently, and some ammo. “Only use it if you have to. You’re safe up here for now, but you don’t want to attract any of the dead this way.”

The pilot snorts. “Thanks man.” And then his whole body sort of just… tilts a little and starts to doze.

You still haven’t gotten his name. You’ll get it later. It really is probably best that you leave him here, he won’t be much help finding that last statue piece.

After retrieving and cleaning your kit, you slip on your sad excuse of a jacket – what remains of it anyways. You hope you don’t look too bad. The bottom only comes up to mid-waist now. It’s not terrible, exactly, but it’s not how you envisioned yourself wearing it. You have the sleeves still, so that’s something.

The reason you don’t feel too embarrassed about your appearance is because Leon isn’t looking so hot either. You can suffer together.

“You think he’ll be safe?” you ask him in the main hall. “I feel bad for leaving him.”

Despite the shit you’d been mentally giving the man and the situation you found yourself in, you’d do it again. Of course you’d help him. How could you not? It just majorly sucks is all. Now you’re just super anxious that something terrible will happen while you’re gone. You’ve only known him for like, ten minutes, but you really don’t want him to die.

“He should be for now,” Leon assures you. “I’ve cleared out most of the rooms that I’ve gone through, and boarded up the broken windows.”

“Yeah…” you still don’t feel right, but there’s no alternative.

“Now.” He shows you the crank. “The bathroom.”

[--]

You squeak, stumbling back as the dead woman lunges out from the locker and grabs onto Leon.

“Shit!”

Thinking fast, you grab the nearest object – a ridiculously ugly vase, what’s it doing in the bathroom? – and throw it at her. Or them, really. It breaks on impact. Huh, must’ve been a cheap vase.

“Agh!” Leon coughs out a mouthful of dirt.

You wince. “Oops.”

It distracts the lady though, so it works out in the end.

The crank goes in, and the steam goes off.

You walk in eagerly, and–

It’s a disappointment. Just like everything in your life has been so far.

Leon makes a gesture. “You don’t think you could–?”

You look at him unamused. “No.”

He puts his hands on his hips, looking up. “Yeah, thought so.”

                                                    --

                                                    --

“What’s that?” You ask Leon, waving to the device he’s holding. It has a ring of dull, elevated circular bumps, followed by printed arrows in a counter-clockwise direction. Below is a keypad of eight.

“It’s a portable safe.”

“Oh. What’s in it?”

Leon shrugs. “Let’s find out.”

When he finally puts in the correct sequence, the safe lets out a cute jingle, the nodes flashing green.

When you see what it’s inside, your face falls flat. “You’re joking.”

Leon pulls out a keypad key. It has a ‘2’ printed on it.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “This is for the–“

“Yes.”

He looks as perplexed as you feel. You wonder who did this and what they were doing with their life.

“And you were really going to work with these people,” you mumble, turning away.

He nods and sighs. Puts the key back into the safe and slams it into the locker it came from.

“We won’t be needing that.”

“Nope.”

[--]

While you roll up some red herbs that’d been decorating the corner, Leon hunches over the computer outside the armoury.

“Dongle…” he mutters, noting something down on a paper pad.

You look over at him from over your work. “Are we really going to look for a dongle?” In this police station? Yeah, good luck.

He peers at you over his shoulder. It takes a lot of effort to not let your eyes drift down to his ass. “There should be some more ammo inside. It’ll be useful.”

“I suppose,” you say.

In the little side office – must be the captains or Chief’s, you think – you find a packet of gum (watermelon flavoured), some more ammo in the desk drawer which you stuff into your backpack, and a random battery that you also take just in case you find a radio. Behind the desk, sitting on a stack of files and pamphlets is a note. It gives you the combination to a safe relocated to the West Office.

You store that for later. Searching the rest of the S.T.A.R.S office lands you with a gun. It has a full clip of ammo.

Holding it very gently, you bring it to Leon. He’s typing something on the keyboard. Is he trying to hack it? Good on him. You approve.

“Hey, look what I found.”

He turns and blinks. “Where did you find that?” he leans around you, scrutinising the office as if another will magically appear.

You shrug. “In one of the drawers.”

He looks confused. “But most of them have locks?”

This time you turn away, feeling sheepish. “Yeah...”

It’s silent for a moment. You enjoy his mystified expression.

“Think you can open this?” He points to the armoury door.

You give him a look. “It’s electronic, Leon. You’ve been fiddling this thing for the past five minutes. If you couldn’t get open, then neither can I.”

He shrugs easily. “Worth a try.” Then he nods to the gun you’re still holding. “Keep that. It’s not regulation, but truth be told, I don’t think it matters at this point. It’s not safe that you only have a knife.”

You’re not so sure. “I won’t be shooting it though... I think I’m more likely to blow my wrist off if I try.”

“Better shoot yourself than getting eaten, right?”

“I mean, yeah – wait, no...” If you lose any body part to this bad idea, you’re blaming him. You would rather not lose a limb if you can help it.

“If something happens – which it won’t, not since I’m here – I'll take full responsibility. I promise.”

Letting him help you strap a holster that you find on another desk to your waist – your fashion senses are crying for help; being practical is not conducive to looking good – you mutter, “You’re so sure about that. A little full of yourself, don’t you think?”

Leon grins, blue light from the desktop glancing along his face. “Have I led you wrong otherwise?”

You are not impressed.

(liar)

“We saw a helicopter explode three feet away from us. Y’know, I don’t think that would’ve happened if you hadn’t taken us there.” You point out. “I could have lived my whole life without that experience. It was really traumatic and I don’t think I'll recover, ever.”

“What?” His shoulders shake as he laughs. Unsurprisingly, it’s still as lovely as before and makes your stomach do funny things. Like indigestion, but pleasant. “I didn’t tell it to crash. It would’ve done that anyway. We just happened to have good timing.”

“I don’t think you understand the concept of good timing. There was nothing good about that at all.”

He shrugs, still smiling. He’s finished fixing up the holster to your belt. You don’t think he’s noticed, but his hands are still resting along either side of your hips. Not really incriminating, but you think about it.

“We saved that pilot, didn’t we?”

“But at what cost? You broke my rib.”

“Thought I fractured your liver, wasn’t that what you said?”

“Something along those lines…”

He clasps your shoulders, gently rubbing them in circles with his thumb. You flush, just a smidgen. “You’ll be fine. Hopefully you won’t even need to use it. And if worse comes to worst and you really can’t? just throw everything you can reach.”

You laugh. You’ve already done that (your knife, cough cough) and it didn’t work.

“I’m serious.” Why’s he laughing too then, huh?

Looking down, laughter dying, you wring your fingers. “I’m not totally helpless, you know. I meant it earlier. I can take care of myself.”

He removes his hands and rubs his neck. When he meets your eyes again, it’s sheepish. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just – it’s not right.” He starts to get frustrated when you stare at him blankly and exhales noisily. ”I mean, you shouldn’t have to deal with this stuff. Dead people? Killing and running away from dead people? None of this is sane. You should be, I don’t know, painting? Going to class? Having a night out with friends. Not seeing this.” He makes a wide gesture that encompasses the room and probably the entirety of Racoon City.

Now you just roll your eyes. Objectively, you can see his reasoning. It makes sense, now that he’s explained better. This isn’t a situation anyone should have to experience, neither you or him. People are literally coming back alive, undead. This only ever happens in fiction.

But you still feel compelled to argue. It’s the principle of it. You’re trying to get past your cowardly ways.

“S’not like I really have a choice. I’ve done it before, I can do it again.”

You cross your arms, cocking a hip.

Leon crosses his arms and doesn’t cock a hip. “But do you want to do it?”

You look away. It’s not something you’d lie about. “I mean, not really, no…”

He sighs. “That’s my point. If you can avoid it, if you can run – do it. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

You flush properly this time. Agh. Your resolve is weakening. He just wants you to be okay, and you’re being difficult about it. Maybe you’re both right. There’s nothing inherently wrong with not being able to look out for yourself, but…

You’re being stupid. Again. There’s proving that you’re not a total deadweight, which isn’t bad, and then there’s being an idiot and throwing yourself into danger – doing stuff you don’t even want to do, risky stuff too – just to make a point.

You don’t want to kill people anymore. They’re dead now, but you still did it. Killed them a second time. It’s not something to be proud of and not something you want to do ever again.

You clear your throat, tossing your head back. Your earrings are heavy on your lobes and the weight is comforting. Reminds you of better times. “Right, well.” You lean forward abruptly, pointing a finger so close to his nose that your skin almost touches his. His eyes fly downwards, trying to follow it. It’s cute. “You so much as get a papercut, I wanna hear about it. Got me? I’m taking this medic gig seriously. You are so not dying on me.”

He grabs your hand and gives you a thumbs up. “Got it. No dying. Wasn’t planning on it, but I’ll make extra sure not to.”

“Haaaah, you’re so funny.” And then you squint. “Painting, really? that’s what you think I do?”

Leon tilts his head considering. “Well, what do you do then?”

“History!” you say proudly, stepping back away from those soft emotions. “I was gonna be a history teacher. The kids’ll love me.”

He blinks, raising his eyebrows. He picks his stuff up from the desk and starts leaving towards the door. “You? A teacher?”

You thwack his arm, following. Guess you guys are done here now. The room is cleared, just the armoury room and its stupid dongle left for later.

“You sound so incredulous. What, you don’t think I can?”

“I think you’d be a terrible one.”

Your mouth drops open. You can’t believe what you’re hearing. “Excuse me?”

“If I had you as my history teacher,” and then he looks you up and down, scanning you rather, uh, intently. You clap your mouth closed. He meets your eyes, and for the first time tonight gives you a charming little smirk. “I’d never get any work done. I’d be too distracted.”

Oh, my god. You can’t believe he just said that. He literally just said that. What do you do? What do you even say?

“Nghh.”

Nice going, idiot. Real smooth.

Your face is hot. Is this what most girls feel like? Is this what guys feel like when you lay it on? Jesus. You want both to ascend to heaven and have the ground eat you whole. No in-between.

Unbelievable! And you’ve been trying to withhold from flirting since you met him!

Humbled by this embarrassing and flattering experience, you wave him on. “I think it’s time we leave, don’t you? Find that medallion and all, get outta here, so…”

He has the audacity to laugh at you.

Scrunching your nose, you toss him a wary look and grab the knob. As soon as you try to step out into the hallway Leon surges ahead of you roughly pulls you back inside. You throw him an angry glare, rubbing your shoulder. “What was that f–“

Somewhere outside a demon screeches. The sound sends terror shooting through your veins, and breathing suddenly gets a tad bit more difficult.

He slams the door, holding the handle shut. The expression on his face is one of severe constipation.

“What… what was that?” you prod, poking him when his face screws up even more. You don’t need to have years of friendship with him to know what that face means. It means: this is sooooo not good. “Leon.”

He clenches his jaw. Looks at you. “Stay here.”

Your eyes widen.

[depressed-sock]

Can you hear me Part 5

Another Series based on a prompt and there will be Spoilers!!!. This time with Julia and my sidestep Luna Falso. Rescue au Set before heartbreak. (This is so freaking late but I finally got the motivation to go back and finish this)

A Fallen Hero fanfic

tw: canon-typical violence and mentions of blood

SPOILERS!

Relief

Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

Luna: 

   It feels odd. Moving in a way you're not supposed too. Hands too stiff, eyes not focusing in the right way. They’ve let you have control but you don’t know what control is. Not yet at least but now is not the time to learn.

  You watch the scientists and lackeys move about the warehouse, moving cars, readying things for another departure. You stand still and silent, with your brethren beside you. Awaiting your orders. 

  Too familiar. Too wrong. 

  So your body... their body, you remind yourself, jolts forward. A walk that’s a bit too stiff but it goes unnoticed by the scientists around you. They ignore you assuming your following some unspoken order because to them you’re just a tool that can’t think for itself. They’re wrong.

  We’re here. We’re alive. 

  You can feel them, all of them. Regens watching you with empty eyes that mask the truth beneath. They know. They know and they let you continue. 

  You barely glance at your body as you walk past it, grabbing a medical knife and slipping it closer to your body’s hand, it’s eyes twitching under its lids as if your dreaming. Maybe you are, maybe that’s all this is. A dream that’s gone terribly wrong and turned into a nightmare. It’s time to wake up.

  Your hand reaches forward, a power welling up from your core and stopping right at your palm. None of them suspect a thing as your hand grips the hood of the van that had brought you here. You ask, silent and soft. You don’t want to hurt them but this definitely will.

  They don’t hesitate, forcing you out and into a spin of vertigo as you land with a gasp of air into your own body. A dizzy realization that you’ve found yourself right-side up. Barely awake enough to grab the knife just as the explosion hits you.

 Julia:

  "I can help!" The kid- Daniel tries to plead with you again. He's followed you all to the car and by now it's your job to tell him to go home. You don't have the time to babysit when- 

   When she's still alive. Still alive and if you don't find her in time... Will you ever be able to find her again?

  "Listen, Daniel, we greatly appreciate the help you've already given," more than he'll probably ever know, "but right now it isn't safe for you. So please, just go home."

  "But I-"

  "Go. Home." You turn away from him opening the passenger door to the car and slamming the door shut behind you as you slip into the seat, "Let's go."

   Steel looks at you, a mixture of feelings crossing his face, "Julia-" 

  You cut him off with a glare, "Anathema call Sentinel, Steel shut up and drive."

  "Oh, do you suddenly know where they're holding her?" He returns your glare at you before looking away with exasperation.

  "I figured we'd…" your voice trails off as you spot the black plumes of smoke drifting through the air, "Wei follow the smoke." You grip his arm pointing to it. 

  "That could be anything Julia."

  "Are you forgetting that one time Luna set fire to-"

  He starts the car immediately as he cuts you off with an irritated grumble, "Don't finish that I still want plausible deniability…. And that was more than one time."

  "Sentinel is on his way, should I tell him just to head for the smoke?"

  "Yep and tell him to be ready for a fight,” you rub your forehead as a headache begins to form. 

 Luna:

  You’re screaming in pain. Your wound pulling against the stitches, the smell of fire and burning flesh feeling your senses. Focus. Use the pain as a focus. Christ, you should have probably thought this through better. 

  You bite your lip, focusing on the knife in your hand, twisting it around to cut your bonds. Falling flat to the floor with a yelp. Okay, good start. You reach out with your mind, a soft touch against panicking minds. The regens have already disappeared in the panic, gone without a trace like theirs strings had suddenly been cut. 

  You get your hands under you, pushing yourself up to get your feet under you and into a crouch. Keep moving, keep running. An impossible task when the only part of your suit that's intact is the legs and only a flimsy hospital gown covering your chest. If anyone sees you they’ll know. 

  Or maybe they’ll be as ignorant as Daniel was about them. He’s already told the rangers everything he thought was important and now… Now they’re sure to be on the way. Stop daydreaming and keep moving.

  “You!” an unearthly screech from behind you and you turn to find the woman who had captured you. Her auburn hair sticking to the blood flowing down her forehead as she holds a gun steady at you, mind unreadable. She’s finally decided to take defensive measures against you but far too late. “You’ve ruined everything!”

  Your lips curl into a sneer, “You really thought it was going to be that easy? Capture the cuckoo and maybe get a promotion? Yeah, that was never going to happen.” You stand strong, orange tattoos curling across your dark skin. You’ll never be human to someone like her, and you’re not afraid to show her that. 

  “Don’t move or I’ll finish you off,” her voice cold as she threatens you but you’ve got nothing left to lose. Death is just another form of escape, the last one on your list of plans. Last one. You’ve got a few more before that luckily. 

  “Fine,” you hold your hands in surrender. You can’t fight in your condition but that won’t stop you. You’ll- 

   Duck!

   Familiar thoughts yelling against your mind’s shields. You feel your legs give out as you immediately listen. Watching in awe as something rams into the woman from behind her. Gun going off, the shot going wide and missing you. The kid stands back up, away from the woman he’s knocked unconsciousness, shaking a bit and very clearly hovering.

  ….”WHO THE FUCK GAVE YOU THE HERO DRUG!?” probably not the best time for this but the disbelief and anger are front and center in your mind. Someone gave a drug that has a low survival rate to a fucking kid. Christ, you’re beginning to hate people. 

  He stares at you before he panic finally sets in, “Is that really important right now?!”

  “No bu- Why the fuck didn’t you use your powers at the hospital?”

  “I don’t have the best control yet and we should really be leaving,” he glances over his shoulder superstitiously looking for enemies he can’t see. You can feel them, scrambling and trying to make sense of what’s going on.

  “Christ,” you walk forward, grabbing the gun that’s fallen limp in the woman's hand and forcibly taking off her lab coat. Ignoring the temptation to kick her for good measure, you shrug the jacket on to give you some coverage, “Either follow me or go high and get out of here. The smoke should give you enough cover so no one takes a pot shot at you.”

  “I’m not going to leave-”

  “Daniel,” you finally look at him your voice cold and steady, “I’m not going to be able to get out of here if I have to worry about you.”

  “I’m not leaving,” he holds your gaze with a determination you’re too familiar with. “And the Rangers are on their way so if we hold out long enough or even if I carry you out-”

  “You’re not carrying me anywhere mister ‘I don’t have the best control’,” you almost laugh but instead you begin to mutter to yourself,” And If we hold out long enough, they're going to have a very nasty surprise when they see me.” You move, turning and motioning for the kid to follow as you run for a better piece of coverage. The kid takes the unspoken hint and following right behind you. Closer to an out that’s not the roof or flying. Sentinel is probably already closing in. 

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks confused, so unaware of what this is really about. Ignorant of what your spiraling orange tattoos truly mean. Christ, you’ve gotten a kid stuck in a situation that will most definitely lead to death if anyone sees him. And they will see him, you can hear the shouting, feel the confusion light on fire and burn into anger. 

  “Nothing important right now. Stay here,” you check the clip in the gun, just enough to hopefully take them out.

  “Are you going to..” his face pales a bit as if killing these people had never been an option in his mind until this point. You can feel his unease, the sudden realization of what’s about to happen and you’re suddenly hit with your own pang of guilt. Christ, this kid is going to get you both killed.

  “..Goddamnit, no I'm apparently not,” you concede. You can plan around this, you look over your cover finding the smoke is too thick to clearly see through.  Hopefully, that goes both ways. “We’re going to make a break for that door.”

  You look back at him and he answers with a definitive nod, get the troublemaker out and then you can run and never look back hoping the world forgets your existence. Hoping that Julia…

Hoping that she doesn’t hate you for your choice, for your fear. 

  And you run, banging through the door and clearing the smoke and fire before it fully reaches you. Your lungs burning as your adrenaline starts to fail you. Fuck not yet, you’ve still got a ways to go.  

  “Luna.”

  And of course, nothing ever works in your favor. You stare at Julia, sparks dying around her hands as she fully realizes it’s you. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Just you, Julia, the kid, and too many secrets revealed at once. 

 Julia:

   She looks up at you like a deer caught in the headlights, her suit torn and covered only by a burnt lab coat that drapes over a hospital gown. You stare at her. Unmoving as the realization sets in. Alive. She's really alive. 

  "I'm sorry," her voice breaks as she looks away from you, arms crossing defensively against her chest her hands digging into the sleeves on her arms. They slide up just enough for orange to peak out, and you slowly begin to understand. You can see the truth before you. Orange tattoos that spin a story you’re not sure you’re ready to hear.

  You take a step forward only for her to take a step back. Fear crossing her features as if she's terrified of what your thinking...of what you intend to do. The kid stepping forward between the both of you. An unsure look as he glances between you.

  “It’s... Okay?” he looks back at Luna for confirmation but she’s already on the verge of breaking down. You can feel yourself breaking with her. She’s alive, and you are so fucking confused but she’s alive.

  "Luna," you don't hold back the sobs that break free, the tears that finally run down your cheeks, "You're alive. You're here," You can feel a laugh of relief bubbling in your chest. Your legs losing strength as they hit the pavement. The relief you're feeling is beyond anything else you can feel. 

  She finally moves forward, finally falls level with you, hesitating to touch you but you move first. Wrapping your arms around her, bringing her body close to yours. It’s like a chant going off in your head. She’s alive, she’s alive, she’s alive.

  She’s here, wrapping her own arms tight around you. Her sobs as strong as yours, as she hugs you close. Tears wetting your shoulder and you don’t care. She’s alive. You know what she is, and sooner or later you'll have to talk. But for now, you hold each other close, afraid to let go.

  You can feel her whisper to you, an apology repeated over and over. And in retaliation, you tell her exactly how much you adore her. At some point maybe you both even whisper I love you, but it’s lost in the sound of sirens.