#its just that i was angry that we had spent a good half an hour waiting in line while we could have seen *dinosaurs!*

[swallowtail-ageha]

My start of evil was that time me and family went to zoomarine and the time was running out and i wanted to go to the dinosaur exhibition but they all decided to go on the water rollercoaster and when it was finished the dinosaur exhibition closing time had already come 😔😔😔😔😔

[alchemistc]

Y'all were so insistent that I keep going with the Eddie Fixes It By Making It Worse post breakup fic.

This is officially a three-parter. Sorry. Or you're welcome.

You can read part one here

We have to make out in front of Tommy.

Buck's in the ice cream aisle, reminding himself that he has given himself three more days of moping and ignoring his diet before he gets his ass in gear and starts to live a life again. The Halo Top is mocking him, jeering and heckling as he goes for the Blue Ribbon. Mint chocolate, because Buck always loved it and he can almost forget the mock fight he'd had with Tommy three months in when he told Buck he refused to allow toothpaste flavored treats into his home, and how they'd barely gotten back to his place without a public indecency citation.

He stares at the text until his eyes cross.

What, he sends back, and slowly, cautiously, returns the pint of ice cream to its spot in the cooler. Maybe he should lay off the sugar. He's had enough.

Trust me

It comes in almost immediately and Buck tries to rewind, tries to figure out what any of this means, what the context is, why he's getting an actual Trust Me Bro from his best friend.

You've already met your last and it's not me comes crashing back to the forefront of his mind. He's had a full 36 hours to forget it, and he had been nearly there, nearly ready to chalk it up to Tommy trying to make him angry. Which he's been doing a really fucking excellent job of, lately. Almost like he knows all the buttons to push. Like Buck had given him the owners manual.

Tommy had meant Eddie? How could Eddie have possibly come to that conclusion? What the hell was he doing sending Buck half across town to the market for snacks when -

Buck judges the distance from this market to Eddie's. Then to Tommy's.

"Oh you mother -."

A woman squeaks by with her kid in the cart seat and glares.

---

Are you at Tommy's right now

No question marks. This is an accusation. Buck's thankful there are no perishables in his cart as he abandons it in the lane and hikes it towards the door. It's a dick move, and Buck feels, a little spitefully, like if anyone remembers him they'll remember him from the times he and Tommy giggled and play-fought down the aisles, so they'll think of Tommy when they think of the cart left behind. Resent him for it, maybe.

Not like Tommy isn't particularly good at just leaving things behind.

Yeah. Join me.

Buck breaks through the doors and feels a little woozy. This might be a panic attack. His chest fucking hurts.

🖕just get my stuff and meet me at yours. tell Tommy we burned all his shit

Eddie is an asshole. I'm not gonna LIE to the man. Also he definitely doesn't have an Evan box ready to go, so take what you will from that

Buck's still in that vicious cycle where he goes from angry to upset to sad in record time, no barriers in between, where every bruise feels like it's healing too fast so he keeps pressing in just to watch the color muddle. He hates this.

It'd be a Buck box, Buck texts back, just to release some of the pressure behind his temples, and he pulls in a few deep breaths before he jogs for the Jeep. He's gonna go home. Throw on the DVD copy of Sleepless In Seattle Tommy left behind and then maybe once that's done he'll throw the damn thing in a blender.

Are you coming or not?

Buck turns the ignition and peels out in a direction that won't lead to his own home, or the things Buck has been too much of a mopey bastard to pack up and return to their owner. At a red light two miles down the road, he shares his location.

Eddie sends back an ominous Hope you brushed your teeth today.

---

Eddie gets the door and it sucks just as much as if Tommy had. They barely ever spent time at Tommy's, and Buck can see it now for the boundary it was. When they had, though, their time had been split pretty evenly between Buck picking him up for a date, and Eddie wanting to leave the quiet echo of his own house to hang with them - a car on a lift and beers shared between them, Buck watching the pull of muscle beneath Tommy's shorts as he took Eddie down to the mat, Tommy's fingers drifting through the short curls at the back of Bucks head while Eddie yelled about triple-doubles and chatted with Tommy about how impossible coverage was for some guy named Joker.

Buck has never actually figured out who that guy was. Eddie hated the Mavericks and he hated the Lakers but Eddie also complained about the guy so much he definitely wasn't a Clipper.

Eddie gets him by the forearm when Buck shows clear signs of regretting this. Drags him through the front door before Buck can fully execute his spin and stomp back to the Jeep.

Tommy's next door neighbor had waved at him from her yard where she was doing something new with her display of bird sculptures, and Buck hadn't had the heart to do anything but raise his hand back.

It's less than ten seconds before Eddie is steering him down the hall, into the living room. It's cozy in here. Lived in. Mismatched furniture that somehow fits, a blanket thrown over the side of the couch, dark wood tables and light wood flooring and lamps that look like they came from an estate sale up in the Hills. A huge ass TV set above the mantle of a gas fireplace that Buck never even had the opportunity to see working before... Before.

Tommy is a shadow coming out of the kitchen, and Buck can't help but be a little pleased that he looks as crappy as Buck feels.

---

Eddie claps his hands together before either of them can get a word in. "Okay. Here's the thing. You're both dumbasses and there's a lot of shit that you guys gotta figure out on your own. But apparently you," he points at Tommy with the lip of a beer bottle. Corona. Tommy hates the stuff, and Buck is reminded once again how dearly Eddie loves him, "need empirical evidence that there's no deeply repressed sexual tension between Buck and I. So."

"You're insane," Tommy says, and Buck feels like snapping at him. He's probably right. This is an insane thing to do. Eddie ambushed his ex and then ambushed Buck in the frozen treats aisle and now he wants to kiss Buck to prove a point? What??

Eddie ignores it. Turns to Buck. "How do you wanna do this?"

And now would be the time, actually. Now would be the time to cut the thread, make it clean, break it for good. Only despite his protest, Tommy is staring between them and his expression looks almost... hungry. Frightened, at the same time. Oh. Oh.

He really had thought...?

Eddie's a fucking idiot. Buck doesn't want to kiss him. He's squared with the fact that he definitely had a crush when they first met and he's definitely been attracted to Eddie and just not realized it but he doesn't want Eddie. He doesn't want a life with Eddie, not like that. He doesn't- He isn't -

He loves Eddie more than almost every other person on the planet, but he's not in love with him.

Buck squares his shoulders. Nods. "Yeah, okay," and then he's taking three strides to meet Eddie at the coffee table.

---

"Oh come on, are you serious?"

Buck ignores the exclamation from the peanut gallery. Tries to figure out where to put his hands. He's never really noticed the height difference before. It's barely anything - a couple inches at most - but it feels like he's looming, this close. Which is stupid. He's been this close to Eddie a million times.

Eddie bends his knees to set the beer down. Darts his gaze back up to Buck.

Buck's seen him pull this move before, and has to bite down the urge to cackle because those big brown cow eyes have charmed women up and down California and probably plenty of Texas too but the only time Buck's ever seen them look genuine was when he was looking at Shannon.

He's got a good face. Angular in all the right places, expressive in a way a lot of men try to hide. Good eyelashes, clear skin.

Eddie gets a thumb in one of Buck's belt loops and tugs.

It's a good move. It's a move that has inspired Buck to sink to his knees on more than one occasion with the right men. Man. Just the one man.

He desperately bites back a giggle when the front of their thighs brush and Buck feels nothing more than the heat coming off Eddie.

Eddie's flushed, just a little, like he's well aware how ridiculous this all is, but he's got his I'm So Fucking Serious face on and there is a part of Buck, something fucked up and broken and wrong, that wonders how Tommy would feel to see it. To know that Buck is out there in the world kissing people who aren't Tommy. It's not like he'd ended things because he didn't care for Buck, because he wasn't attracted to him. It's gotta sting, right?

Buck gets a hand on Eddie's waist, just above his hip bone. He's never actually paid attention to how much more slim Eddie is, before, how big Buck's hands feel against him.

The night Tommy had first kissed him, Buck had spent an indeterminate length of time replaying every second of the interaction. The lead up, the frank honesty, the way Buck's entire body had followed the flow of Tommy's. Heart racing, body thrumming: when Tommy had ducked his head, when he'd laughed, when he'd opened up his body language and dropped a tiny morsel of his heart, Buck had felt himself drawn in.

The lips that had caught his had set him alight.

Eddie shifts his weight and blinks up at him and for half a second Buck wants this to be a good kiss - earth shattering, life changing. He wants to feel it. Wants it to be better than every kiss he and Tommy ever shared.

The pointer and middle finger he uses to tilt Eddie's chin up are petty as hell.

[kenmakodz]

it's hard :/

── .✦ yuuta x reader.

syn: sorcerer!yuuta has been neglecting doctor!reader in their relationship recently.

angsty angst, swearing, implications of a breakup, gn reader.

take everything from me, don’t care ‘bout this money,

you didn’t miss the way yuuta’s eyes glazed over, a reflection of the ring you just tugged off your finger shining back at you. it was a beautiful, princess-cut ring, with a big fat gemstone in the middle.

“it’s my promise to you”, he said.

“that i’ll stick by your side. forever”, he said.

he said a lot of things, didn’t he?

the ring never left your finger since that day, your first anniversary. he couldn’t have been more proud to be your boyfriend, parading you around like the two of you had just gotten engaged. holding your hand out towards your mutual friend, maki, as if you were royalty. of course, she played her natural indifferent facade, yet gossiped with you later on about how the hell he could’ve afforded that.

you don’t miss the way he flinches when it’s slammed onto the marble countertop, the palm of your hand covering where it’s sat.

“your promise, to me huh? what a joke, okkotsu.”

i just need you by me, need you right beside me.

“okkotsu…?” he shakily lets out, his voice merely higher than a whisper. he was scared to speak even half a tone louder, scared that you’d be caught like a deer in headlights and run off.

“really, that’s what you’re calling me now?”

as his final question leaves his mouth, he’s left staring back at you as a laugh he’s never heard before escapes your mouth. it’s not your normal, sweet, beautiful laugh. no, it’s something sinister- something laced with hate.

“what do you expect?!”

another laugh comes from you, almost as though you have gone completely manic. if he squinted, though, your pupils weren’t blown. you knew exactly what you were doing. it was simply a breaking point.

“you never put in any effort anymore! why should i address you with love in my heart, when i barely even get a ‘hello’?”

you throw your hands up into a shrugging position, causing him to flinch once more as he watches them fly right back down onto the ring. his head is in his hands now, and a long, deep breath is had before he formulates his next response.

“y/n, i love you.” brows furrowed, his gaze flicks down to your hands on the countertop, before reluctantly raising to make contact with your own.

… really?

before you can even take a breath and begin your next quip towards him, he continues. his tone isn’t angry, nor is it upset. you’re usually very good at pinpointing yuuta’s emotions, why is it so difficult now?

i remember watching the sunset, my world, it got darker

my life, is it done yet? wrap it up like a spider.

“ever since our two friend groups formed into one, when i saw you from the first time, i’ve loved you. ever since those same friends planned a picnic and we were the only ones who actually showed up, i’ve loved you. ever since the night we went to the beach and i watched you pick through sand for hours looking for sea glass, i’ve loved you. through the countless nights we’ve spent driving around going absolutely nowhere, i’ve loved you. it’s always been you, ever since i met you, and you want to throw it all away?”

the smallest, almost unnoticeable glimmer of hope spreads through his face, as if he’s gripping onto his final life force.

you missed it, for the very first time.

“don’t guilt trip me, please. you know that’s not what i’m doing.” you sigh, almost getting angry at yourself. a world of guilt is tumbling down on top of you; you shouldn’t be feeling like this, he’s been neglectful. you know giving into him is wrong, just like it always has been in the past.

why are you letting him get to your head again?

he’s hurt, and that you don’t miss. his left hand starts to tug at the chain around his neck, which holds his matching ring. it didn’t fit when he got it for himself, and the two of you constantly forget to get it resized. so, putting it on a necklace was the next best option.

i know that it’s hard to be with me.

and i’ve been trying to hard to be what you need.

“i’m not guilt tripping you, i’m trying to make you see my side! i know i haven’t given you much attention, and i know it’s my fault, but you know how taxing being a sorcerer is! for fucks sake, y/n, your everyday life is filled with aiding to them! it’s not an excuse, and i know that, but just because life has been hard lately isn’t a reason to throw four years away!” he allows his tone to rise, to let his raw emotion bleed through, which he almost never does. sure, the two of you have gotten into ‘fights’ before, but never in his life has he raised his voice at you. you deserve better than that, he thought. he never wants to take his anger out on you.

you shove the ring into your pocket, and turn on your heels, finished with the conversation. he isn’t hearing you, and frankly, you don’t want to hear him either.

yuuta almost goes to grab your arm, plead for you to stay, practically get on his knees and beg for your forgiveness if that’s what it came to. but something inside him told him to let you go, let you clear your head. he loathes leaving things unresolved. the nights with you in the guest room, and the side of the bed where you usually sleep being cold. the nights where he stays up staring at the ceiling instead of being fast asleep with you in his arms. he hates it. but this time, he lets it happen.

i had to take a walk, i’m nervous, wonder when you’re coming back. and i can feel the distance growing, was it something that i said?

⤷ © kenmakodz

[starfall-spirit]

Precious Collateral

Read on Ao3 // Fic Masterlist // SJM Omegaverse Masterlist // Dark Feysand Masterlist

Summary: When Rhys set out to collect his dues from the head of the Archeron house, he knew the man would be begging for more time. What he didn’t expect was to be offered the youngest daughter as collateral.

After spending only a day in the temperamental woman’s company, he found himself utterly enthralled with his new guest—and with no intention of letting her father scrape together the funds that would grant her her freedom.

CW: None

Chapter III

She’d be fine. She’d been fine before now. Feyre had presented nearly three years ago and while she had never gone into a true heat or mingled with alphas of either gender, her omega traits were still very much present. So why after three years of being without a proper nest was she so eager to create one now.

Everyone claimed an omega could only be comfortable enough to nest in a place they considered safe. Here she was, trapped and terrified—though she’d never admit her fear—and on the verge of tearing apart her bed and closet just to have something resembling nesting fabrics.

So what the hell was wrong with her?

There was a soft knock on the door, making her pause her pacing.

“What?”

It swung open to reveal a blonde bombshell with a quick smile. “My, you do have an attitude, don’t you? Good. Rhys needs someone to give him a hard time for once.”

“I—”

“I’m Mor by the way. His cousin.”

She eyed the female for a moment, noting she too was an alpha. Not exactly rare, but not something you see every day either. Feyre wondered if the woman had as much control here as Rhys and his goons seemed to. “I’m Feyre. Why are you here?”

Mor waved off the rude tone, her smile only seeming to widen. “I know if my life was flipped upside down in a matter of a few hours I’d want a girlfriend to help me through it. I might not be able to change Rhys’ mind about this, but I’d like to make it easier. If you’ll have me as your friend?”

A friend. More likely someone to babysit and spy on Feyre while her cousin was off killing people. Or whatever it was he did for entertainment. But maybe Feyre could manage to turn things in her favor. Put the woman at ease and learn the weaknesses of this place—more importantly, of its master.

“I’d like that,” she said, turning away as her nervous energy returned.

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well at the moment.”

“Well, of course you're not. You haven’t done anything to settle in yet. Are the things the boys brought you for your nest in the closet? I can help you if you’d like. Or not. I know some omegas can be rather particular. What did you bring from your room at home? We can work around that.” Feyre blinked, watching Mor march over to the walk-in closet Feyre had spent an embarrassingly large chunk of the morning sifting through. “I swear those boys don’t have half a brain cell between them,” she said, seeming genuinely angry on Feyre’s behalf. “Hold on, hon. I’ll handle this.”

Breezing out of the room, Mor left her alone, the door cracked open enough that a shrill, “Rhysand, you idiot!” rang back up from the ground floor. Was the woman that careless, or was it a trap?

Whatever the case may be, it would likely be her only chance of escape. Picking up her sandals from the night before, Feyre eased the door open, thankful for the well-oiled hinges. From her place on the landing she could see the entirety of the impressive foyer. The only sound throughout the house at the time was from a room somewhere beyond it—Rhysand and Mor’s verbal volleying over what Feyre assumed was the bedding situation. Unless the woman had been putting on an act, after all.

She had to gather her courage and run before they were done with their discussion. Loosing one last nervous breath, she descended the steps. ~~~~~ Cassian

“What a ballsy little thing.” Mor paused her rant at the comment, eyes sliding his direction. “I thought she’d at least wait a few days before trying to run.”

After the fit she’d pitched last night, the whole house had been convinced she’d be on her best behavior. Rhys had never been shy about handling defiance in the ranks of those he employed, and while the girl was in a very different role here, she had earned it from what Rhys relayed after putting her down for the night. Maybe the fact any of that was necessary to begin with should have told them the lesson wouldn’t stick.

“You put a camera in her room, Rhys? Seriously?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Morrigan,” his brother scoffed, holding out a hand so Cassian would return his phone. “I showed her to a room that already had a surveillance system installed. Months ago.”

“Rhys!”

His brother chuckled, turning to face the wall that shielded their escapee from view. “Want a turn, Cass?” He blinked. “Mor here let her out and after least night’s… lesson, we may need to try a new approach. Az won’t be back for a bit.”

“I’ll leave the discipline to you, Rhys.”

He shook his head. “Another punishment will only make her more mulish right now.”

“So what, I go out there and haul her back inside to show here we’re all on your side in this?”

“Aren’t you?”

Rhys raised a brow as they heard the front door briefly open and click shut. “Unbelievable.”

Pushing to his feet, he headed for the foyer, taking his time about it. It wasn’t like she’d truly get anywhere with the border guard active twenty-four hours a day. The first thing he heard was a yelp. Feyre had foolishly rushed down to the gravel drive before fully putting her shoes on, scraping up the bottoms of her feet if the colorful language to follow was anything to go on.

“Couldn’t even wait until someone told you we’d left the house?”

He only let her make it a few more steps before throwing her over his shoulder and stalking back into the house, chuckling at the little fists she beat against his back. “Put me down, you oaf!”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Not gonna happen. I’ve got to admit, I was sure that last night would have knocked some sense into you.”

Feyre froze. “Last—You know what happened last night?” she whispered, sounding horrified.

He chuckled. “Feyre, everyone knows what happened last night. You didn’t exactly take it with grace. So what happened to all of those pretty promises about being good, hm?”

She made a pitiful sound, going limp over his shoulder, apparently resigned to her fate. That is until she realized they weren’t heading back to her room. “Please, I don’t want to see him.”

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little bad about it. Regardless of what trouble the brat had been stirring the past two days, Cass had always been a sucker for a pouty omega. But if the girl was going to be staying here he couldn’t afford to let her put that together.

Trudging back into the main living room, he hunched over enough to drop Feyre on the cushion beside Rhys. Mor rolled her eyes. “Get the shit I told you to,” she muttered, before making the sort of dramatic exit only the Sterling cousins seemed capable of.

“Feyre darling.” She refused to look at either of them. “Petulance won’t do you any good here.” Locking a hand around her ankle, Rhys yanked her down the couch until she was close enough for him to lean over. She wasn’t stupid enough to lash out at Rhys from her position. Then again it could just be her sore backside ensuring that much cooperation at the moment. “Let’s get these cleaned,” Rhys murmured, reaching for a first aid kit someone had brought in the time it took for Cassian to retrieve their guest.

“What?”

“You’ve cut your feet, darling. Perhaps you thought not wearing your shoes helped you keep quiet, but it did you no real favors today, did it?”

“Mor was testing me.”

He stayed silent, apparently unwilling to incriminate his cousin in the girl's eyes. Cassian took a seat at the other end of the sofa, lifting Feyre’s head enough to wedge a pillow beneath it as Rhys started tending to the minor cuts she’d earned. She looked up at him, clearly confused by his attention beyond bringing her back to the house, not that he had a good explanation to give her. Or himself for that matter. She was distracted soon enough anyways, whimpering when Rhys took an alcohol swab to the worst of the cuts. He tried not to think about why the sound unsettled something in him. Why he wanted to distract the sweet thing beside him from the small hurt. She’d certainly earned it, bolting without any solid plan.

She wasn’t going to be here forever. Eventually Rhys would get bored or Archeron would make another shady deal to scrape together the money he owed them. And the omega would leave.

He couldn’t get attached.

He wouldn’t get attached.

~~~~~

Taglist: @whatishowedyouinthedark // @ninthcircleofprythian // @sajirah // @acourtofladydeath // @lulling-night-sky // @edgyellie // @shallyne // @the-lonelybarricade // @darling-archeron // @goddess-aelin // @the-lost-changeling // @faeriequeensuriel // @pandavelaris // @s-uppertime // @elentiya-whitethorn // @acotar-fanns // @jealousveronya // @acourtofwips // @reverie-tales // @gwynkyrie // @corcracrow // @thelovelymadone // @rosanna-writer // @toporecall //@popjunkie42-blog

[givemea-dam-break]

5 Times George Missed Lucy + 1 Time He Admitted It

a/n: this was co-written by the phenomenal @ikeasupremacy i quite literally had the time of my life writing this with you, and i think we broke our own hearts quite a few times during the process. we really, really hope you enjoy it <3

warnings: big sad (i beg, listen), language, spoilers for the end of the hollow boy words: 5k+ taglist: @neewtmas @waitingforthesunrise @wellgoslowly @irisesforyoureyes @aayeroace @flashbackwhenyoumetme @ettadear @ella23116 @mirrorballdickinson @magicandmaybe

5. More Chores

The basement was too cold, but George persevered with the chores. If he turned the thermostat up, Lockwood would probably have him beheaded, meaning he had no choice but to grin and bear it.

It was meant to be early spring for heaven’s sake, but he was stuck in the depths of the Earth to do the cleaning, while Anthony Bloody Lockwood was off frolicking in the sun with Holly to Satchel’s and Arif’s and God knows where else! Probably buying doughnuts or something! The favouritism at Portland Row was blatant that day.

He carefully laid Lockwood and Co.’s dozens of chains out across the hardwood floor, with some oil and a rag sitting on his desk, ready for Lucy. While she oiled them, he’d polish the rapiers and make sure they had enough salt bombs and lavender bundles. Not the worst job by far, but he would’ve definitely preferred to be outside or better yet, in the air-conditioned, cherry-blossom windowed Archives.

Heaving a sigh, he stepped over the thick iron links and trudged to the bottom of the stairs that led up, up, up into the kitchen.  

“Luce!” he called. “Need you to come oil the- ”

Oh. 

How stupid. Within a moment, his shoulders had sagged as he remembered; Lucy was gone. He suddenly became very aware of how alone he was in the house, the gentle hum of peaceful silence suddenly the disconcerting emptiness of a black hole.

Lucy had been gone for at least a week now, so how could he forget? He’d cleaned everything once without her already! She had been careful not to disturb anyone when she left, but George was a notoriously light sleeper. He had wordlessly sat in his room the morning she crept out, knowing she was gone for good as soon as he heard the third step creak. He heard everything, but he didn’t move an inch. He just listened as she crept out of the house that morning. Even though he didn’t do anything about it, he knew just as well as anyone that she was gone. And she wasn’t coming back.

A self-pitying laugh tore through his lips, resounding in his solitude, a moment meant for him alone. She had left them. Her absence was impossible not to notice, filling him with something distinctly empty. Hollow. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. A bittersweet nostalgia for something that hadn’t really left. Call it cheesy, but she’d started actually accepting him for who he was, and then she left.

She left.

For a moment longer, he lingered there, staring up at the spiralling stairs with a half-glare. Daylight glared back at him, causing him to squint and furrow his brows in frustration while the sun tried its best to burn his eyes right out of the sockets.

As he stared into the sun for whatever self-inflicted reason, a single quiet thought made him soften his gaze in defeat. He had nobody to be angry at but himself.

Turning with a dejected sigh, he rested his gaze upon the rapiers and the chains.

Once more, he’d have to do them both. 

4. Food Gone Cold

Silence. Terrible, uncomfortable silence.

George stared down at the food that he’d spent the better part of an hour making, and a pit formed his stomach. There was Lockwood with his meal, Holly with hers, food left over, and an empty plate. Just sat there. Waiting. It haunted the dinner table more than any Source ever could.

When would he stop doing this? Lately, every single meal he cooked ended up with four portions, even though there were only three of them there. He could already see the concealed remorse on Holly’s face as she thought about stuffing yet another spare portion in the fridge in hopes that someone would eat it later. Usually, no one did.

The thought of it apparently made Lockwood “sick to his stomach” and, well, George couldn’t say he was nauseous, but he had definitely lost his appetite when he saw the leftover food in the pan, regardless of whatever it was that he’d made.

Worse still, he should’ve realised the moment that he’d set it down that it was wrong. After Lucy had left, they’d begrudgingly swapped the thinking cloth out for a new one, folding it up carefully and placing it on top of the fridge, scribbling back on George’s stray research from the last, any pending tasks from the last one, and new doodles had taken residence everywhere: George insulting Lockwood; Lockwood’s loopy handwriting forming a shopping list or writing reminders for everyone. Hell, even Holly had started adding to it, normally with little smiley faces or cartoony flowers, but it was something at least. 

Then there was Lucy’s spot.

No one dared sit in her seat. It felt like an action that they would be scolded for, by either Lockwood or some incorporeal voice that was haunting them, like a strange shared conscience between the three of them. Maybe it would even be Lucy’s voice, scolding them like she did when, every day for a week or two, Lockwood would sit in her place just to annoy her. She would jokingly tell him off every time, and force him off of the seat in a light-hearted push-and-shove. A sweet memory came to mind of Lockwood falling off the chair, and they had all doubled over laughing until their ribs pulled and their cheeks ached, the kind where anything sets you off again. A sweet memory indeed.

And, so, there was a portion of the thinking cloth that was entirely blank. Not even George’s messy and rushed research passed the invisible line that marked Lucy’s section. Maybe a mark of respect, of not wanting to let her go, of fruitless ambition and silent mourning.

Even the biscuits. The biscuit rotation was all messed up. With Lucy around, they would know who had last taken a biscuit on their little mental rotation, a fine-tuned seventh sense (after being a Sensitive, naturally), but every time George reached for a custard cream, he mentally hesitated as a ghost of Lucy’s voice went to whisper in his ear, “Have I had my biscuit yet, George?”

He wanted to say something; he was desperate to end this stifling, choking silence that plagued them all like a hand to his throat, a gag in his mouth. What could he even say? Jokes often ended up turning sour nowadays. Holly had the (albeit little) decency to give George a polite laugh at the predicament, but on the other hand, Lockwood would simply sit and stare at the empty plate as if he could summon Lucy back to her plate if he just thought about her hard enough.

George had already tried that. It didn’t work. 

3. Patience Lost

Lockwood was like a cat, George observed. When he had a goal, he was a machine; a well-oiled, slit-eyed, prowling machine. He waited for his prey, and he attacked just as gracefully. He was always waiting, watching for his next move, the next opportunity, with careful focus, and George could see why Lucy liked him. It was a skill neither he or Lucy possessed, yet one they both admired. All the same, he thought Lucy was bonkers for it.

When Lockwood had no purpose, he was a cat stretched out in the sun, ambling with no real purpose and slinking around in his suit and tie, waiting for the next thing to do. George generally found this habit of his incredibly pointless anyway, but with Lucy gone it was just worse. For the last year, Lockwood had the goal of thinking about Lucy.

If she were here, Lockwood would be moving. He’d be yelling at her from the foot of the stairs to turn her music down before marching up and doing it himself. He’d be prancing around, animatedly talking about the latest gossip from his magazine and how it was so important that they knew what colour of dress Penelope Fittes wore to a meeting with Steve Rotwell. Green meant it was about new gear, purple about the future of their agencies, blah, blah, blah. George had no mind for it.

But now? Lockwood slouched in his armchair in the library, flicking through a magazine, entirely devoid of emotion. His freakish poker-face had come out strongly as his eyes darted from line to line, occasionally lifting a finger to flip the page he was on. A cold mug of hot chocolate sat abandoned by his side that George had, yet again, accidentally made out of pure muscle memory.

Lucy always drank a hot chocolate with him. 

George was now completely out of his book. His eyes remained on the pages, reading the sentences over and over again, but they weren't what was running through his head. What would Lucy be doing right now if she were here with them? No, he couldn’t let himself linger on that thought. He tried to bring his attention back to his book.

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might ngo fda bfgn tj Sorgfn. Teh womha wsa llysmengia attached nto go teh ewfifng band bug hre hgusadn. Hre source, sj tja ragen sons folsa ojn, wfg npt wutg hwt bones, bgk tkh husbnfks. This wfd a frveol...”

She’d have complained that the fire was dying down and added a log to it, her frame sinking into the seat near Lockwood yet again to continue her new crochet project of the week, as the calming click-clack of the plastic needles against each other melded wonderfully with the crackling of the (now revived) fireplace. A song would be stuck in her head, and she’d quietly hum along to it, none the wiser that George and Lockwood could both hear her. 

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might not have been the Source. Teh womha wsa llysmengia attached nto go teh ewfifng band bug hre hgusadn. Hre source, sj tja ragen sons folsa ojn, wfg not with her bones, bgk tkh husbnfks. This wfd a frveol...”

She would have called them all boring for just sitting there, and gotten out the chess board to entertain herself. She was always freakishly good at that, George recalled with a slight smile. There were quite a few times where Lockwood had gotten so frustrated at her that he resigned and stormed off into his bedroom, leaving George to get absolutely throttled by Lucy every time. Every. Single. Time.

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might not have been the Source. The woman was sentimentally attached to not the wedding band, but her husband. Her source, as the agents soon found out, was not with her bones, but the husband’s. This was a revolutionary discovery for many reasons, one being the realisation…”

George gave up on the book, gently closing the hardback cover with a soft thump.

At the time, nothing could’ve annoyed him more, but George was bored of winning chess games now. Lockwood was somehow even worse than he was (and that was saying something), meaning the games lasted forever. Neither of them had the patience to sit for hours going back and forth. Lucy did.

That was the refreshing thing about games with her. It wasn’t relevant if the game lasted fifteen minutes or two hours, just sitting there with her gave the game an entirely more interesting feel. Especially when she swore under her breath after a bad move. George was a sore loser, and a gloating winner, but Lucy always took her losses humbly and her wins even more so.

Unless she was playing Holly. When Lucy won against Holly, it was as if the Heavens had shone a spotlight onto her face with how proud her smile was.

Lockwood missed that smile, and in some (pretty fucking irritating) way, George thought he did too.

It didn’t matter now. He’d have to deal with Lockwood’s doubled pawns and forgotten rooks, which was much less preferable. They would have to bear the silence of nobody humming as they crocheted, painfully watching a chess board gather dust, and having to live in the house that was no longer a home.

2. Ducks in the Wash

George could hear Lockwood rattling around in the basement incessantly, and he could only sigh. This all over again?

Surely there were no more socks missing - every single wash, Lockwood checked, and every single time he came back empty handed. It wasn’t like the washing machine was going to gobble them up. (And there was definitely no need to lift up the whole washing machine.) However, Lockwood always folded the washing better than George. That was the one reconciliation about the whole thing, thank goodness. Once George heard the telltale thump of the washing machine being on solid ground again, he assumed Lockwood was folding the clothes. Feeling less worried that Lockwood was going to break the washing machine this time around, he unpaused the telly and kept watching Pointless, or whatever crappy gameshow he had chosen to put on that day.

It wasn’t long before Lockwood came trudging up the basement stairs and through to the living room, a pile of neatly folded clothes in his arms. But it wasn’t the neatness of it (usually they were folded haphazardly until Holly came along and fixed it up) that had George pausing the telly once more. It was the bright blue thing on top.

“Lucy’s,” Lockwood said, not even trying to conceal the miserable look on his face. “She left a sock.”

George wondered if Lucy had noticed that it was missing. Unlikely. She had so many pairs of socks, all the same shade of tell-tale royal blue, she could probably provide a few dozen to each family on Portland Row and the next few streets over and still have enough for the next two wash cycles. Besides, it was such a small thing that she’d never notice. She’d never. Never. She wouldn’t have. It’s just a sock. She’d probably lost another one and she had perfect pairs again.

But, an irrational part of George couldn’t help but blurt out, “Are you going to call her?”

There wasn’t really any need to call her. She’d survive without one bright blue sock, even if there were cute little silicone ducks on the sole of this one to keep her from slipping. But George found himself wanting to hear her voice through the phone, strangely enough. The way she said “Hello?” in her Northerner accent on the phone, her little inquisitive chirp, even though she usually knew who it was, always used to make him laugh, and he was sure it would now.

It was clear Lockwood wanted to call, what with the twitch of his fingers, and the way he longingly stared at the ducky sock. It was easy to read him after a while of knowing him, and as he observed Lockwood, he saw a strange, stone-like look on his face. He knew that expression. The barrage of emotion he was holding behind a facade of stoic presence. The way he didn’t blink while he looked at the piece of fabric in his hand, not once. His eyebrows furrowed so slightly it could even be mistaken for natural.

George knew that expression. He saw it in the mirror every day.

“No.”, Lockwood muttered breathlessly.

He placed the washing down, balanced precariously on the back of the sofa, threatening to tip over. George had bigger things on his mind than the laundry, observing it as it teetered in the balance, but his mind was in a different place as he watched the washing basket lean forward.

He simply remained on the sofa, entirely sunken in his armchair, feeling as frozen as a marble-cut statue, and staring at the sock in Lockwood’s hands. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, as if it held some piece of Lucy that was finally attainable now that they had found it - something that could connect the three of them once again. For a moment, he wished that you could have Sources for a real person.

It’s just a sock, George told himself. There was nothing outright special about it and there never would be.

So what was their deal?

What had them reeling over a sock of all things? Was it because they could both easily imagine Lucy’s laughter as she tried to skid over the kitchen floor, only for her socks to keep her from sliding? Those stupid ducks on the bottom of her socks? Was it because of all things to have been left by Lucy accidentally, this was it? This was the last thing they had of her in the house? A literal sock?

Then again, it wasn't unwelcome. It simply brought with it a reminder of the gaping hole in their household, and dragging behind it the ugly emotions of guilt, and the hurt of a betrayal.

“I’ll wait to give it back to her,” Lockwood murmured in the same tone.

But they both knew the time would never come. Lucy wasn’t coming back, no matter how tightly Lockwood held onto the sock now, knuckles turning white. No amount of socks stolen by the washing machine would bring her knocking on the front door, or bursting through and demanding them back. The sock would simply sit, gathering dust and harbouring feelings that had no need to be felt. 

But George still agreed, holding onto whatever tiny shred of hope he still had that she would come back. George knew as well as anyone else that it was fruitless, but even he didn’t have the heart to extinguish the hope that their paths would cross again.

It felt like something was destroying him though. He had gotten to a point where it was getting unbearable, the pain of all the reminders of her everywhere, it gnawed at him and ate away at his focus, at his time, at his brain, at his happiness. He should’ve put into words, and he knew that inside him, but that would destroy all the work he had put into coping with it; for both Lockwood and Holly. Lucy was an unnamed ticking bomb, ready to cause an explosion at 35 Portland Row anytime soon, and George was reaching his limit of how many more reminders of Lucy he could take.

The washing fell over. Once upon a time, Lucy and him would have laughed together over the thought of watching Lockwood fold it all again. They would’ve giggled until their cheeks were on fire, their ribs felt tangled in knots, shrouded by the ecstasy of simple delights.

“Lockwood? The washing’s just fallen over.” George called, entirely monotone.

1. Someone Familiar

The early spring air clung to George as he stepped through the front door, shopping bags in hand. Really, London had no excuse to still be so cold, but, alas, he still shivered as he kicked the door shut and placed the bags down. The warmth of the hallway was incredible, and he could’ve just stood there forever, feeling his skin grow warm. It was only when he eventually tugged off his jacket that he heard the laughter.

He peeked into the living room, where Lockwood sat in his armchair, and Holly on the sofa beside someone else whose hand she held and squeezed. The sight filled George with warmth. Holly’s last relationship… Well, it had ended badly, and she was a wreck for a little while, so to see her happy now felt like something, finally, was going right. George was genuinely happy for Holly, and for everyone. They really needed something to go right, all of them did.

He hadn’t realised the ache in his chest until his eyes lifted to the girl whose hand she held.

How did he not notice? The bobbed brown hair, the wooly jumper and denim skirt, it was…

“Oh, George!” Lockwood said, grinning as he set his mug of tea down. “You’re back! Hope you don’t mind, Holly brought her girlfriend over for a bit.”

George tried to move, but he found himself stuck in place, simply staring at the back of her head. Surely he was dreaming. None of this was real. It couldn’t be her. No, he was still sleeping soundly in his bed and his alarm hadn’t gone off yet. It was a lie. This couldn’t be real. A dream. A nightmare.

But- But, still, however he hated to admit it, there was hope in him. She had come home. She was back. She was here. She had finally come back to them after all these horrible months and he would never let Luc-

“Lucy” turned and flashed a grin at George, and he felt a little pang of nausea in his throat. This girl, she wasn’t Lucy. He’d mistaken her just because of an outfit and a haircut. How stupid of him. As he scanned her up and down, within a matter of seconds he had noticed the pristine white trainers she wore rather than plasm-covered, chunky black boots, her jumper was purple instead of blue. Her eyebrows were prominent, pointing upwards and giving the face an inherently sharp aura about it, combined with long features that he could never even imagine on Lucy’s round face.

He saw it all clear as day, all of it. The freckles Lucy lacked and the blue eyes she didn’t have, the mascara-caked lashes and the pointed chin.

“You’re George?” she asked in a high-pitched tone that Lucy would’ve definitely later made fun of. “Hol’s told me all about you.” 

Lucy would make fun of the nickname too.

He felt insanely stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he should’ve realised sooner - she had been introduced as Holly’s girlfriend for Heaven’s sake! There was a higher chance of Lockwood and Kipps dating than there was Lucy and Holly. But, he would’ve preferred Lucy over whoever this was. He didn’t hold anything against this (probably lovely) girl, who just coincidentally managed to look uncannily like Lucy from the behind, but George couldn’t help but bite back a sob.

The bittersweet lemon-curd hope now tasted rotten and acidic in his mouth. The taste of his idiocy coated his tongue and twisted his insides, and he hated every moment of it. He hated that for a moment he’d believed it to be her, that he had been ready to smile and accept her back without a word’s notice. He hated himself for having hope, and he hated Lucy for leaving, and he was entirely ready to be sick to his stomach.

He was impressed he managed a nod in her general direction, before abandoning the shopping bags on the floor and storming upstairs. Up, up, up, until he found himself in the doorway of the attic bedroom. The door was forced open, and he stared inside the stripped down room, the same way she’d left it, with her Blu-tack stains still on the walls and a leftover Polaroid of the three of them to the right of the bed. He couldn’t help but stare at the photo, as a tonne of weight settled on his shoulders as he stood unsettlingly alone in the attic bedroom. The weight of Lucy’s memory, perhaps. Because that’s what had made him feel so terrible these last few months, wasn’t it? It was never just throwing away the food, or being bored with a chess game, or seeing a sock with ducks on it, or any of it. Everywhere he looked, he saw Lucy, but he didn’t have her at his side, bickering with him and making her little remarks, lifting his spirit a percentile at a time, and dropping him down to ground level after he finally felt valued and appreciated by someone, after he found a friend who made him laugh until he couldn’t anymore, even though he absolutely hated her sometimes.

He had never hated Lucy Carlyle more than that moment.

He flung his clothes off the vanity chair, mad that he’d even had the gall to put them in this room, and sat on the bed, trying to arrange his thoughts. 

It was like cutting himself open to admit that he missed Lucy. This girl he’d detested for months; this girl he’d slowly learned to appreciate, and even cherish. He looked for her in every room of this house - the little crocheted coasters she had made, her abandoned mugs in the cupboard with awful sayings on them, the honey jar in the kitchen that only she had used for her tea.

Hell, even whenever he took out his favourite mug, because she had accidentally chipped it her first week there, and George had sworn he would never talk to her again after that, decreeing it on the Thinking Cloth with so many swears that he lost count.

Every moment of regret, of sadness, of longing he had felt since her leaving seemed to add up and show itself proudly to him now, sending him into a rabbit hole of falling into emotional turmoil. The solitude of the basement every month, the quiet of the evenings without the click clack of a crochet needle, the way his socks were never mixed up with hers anymore, the way nobody stopped him from researching until 5 in the morning-

Fuck.

George sprinted to the little bathroom and unloaded the contents of his stomach into the toilet. When his quaking body had finished purging the contents of his (again) too-large breakfast, he crumpled onto the floor beside the bowl. The sour taste of bile was heavy on his tongue, and it slicked along the sides of his throat.

He looked up at the abandoned room around him. Just the sight of its sorry state was enough to tempt him back into throwing his face over the toilet bowl once more, but he resisted. He leaned his head against the cool tile behind him, trying to hold back the tears in his eyes, the mucus in his throat mixing awfully with the vile taste in his mouth.

Lockwood had come upstairs at this point, the door being thrust open as he rushed to George’s side. His expression was pained, as he looked at George with concern in his eyes, but a resigned light to them as well.

“You’re okay,” was all he said.

0. Confession

Moonlight streamed through the attic window, splitting across the clothes-covered floor in beams of silver. It was a peaceful kind of light - the sort that would have Lucy standing by any window in the house, staring longingly up at the sky. She always spoke about how she missed the stars, stars that glittered for her back home but were now hidden by the dozens of ghostlamps scattered across the city, and the haze of pollution in the city.

As George sat on the edge of her bed alongside Lockwood, he wondered if Lucy was looking up at the moon now, too.

Oh, the horrible feeling of knowing they shared a sky but not a roof.

Lockwood heaved a sigh, playing with the polaroid in his hand. He’d plucked it off the wall not long ago and had taken to staring at it, occasionally brushing his thumb gently over where Lucy was. Maybe he thought it was like a genie’s lamp, that if he rubbed it three times some otherworldly being would come and grant their wish of bringing her home. 

No genie appeared, no wishes were granted, and Lucy didn’t return.

George remembered the day that photo had been taken. Lucy had taken the last jam doughnut, the one he had wanted, and they had argued the entirety of breakfast. Holly had trotted into the kitchen, polaroid camera in hand, grinning about how she’d found it in a charity shop and had to buy it. She wanted her first photo with it to be of her friends, the agents of Lockwood and Co., but no matter how much she and Lockwood tried, George and Lucy wouldn’t stop arguing. So there was Lockwood, smiling, albeit awkwardly, between George, who looked like he was about to implode with anger - anger he now saw as an overreaction, even if she was a thief - and Lucy, whose cheeks were flushed pink, as she waved the half-eaten doughnut in the air. The camera caught the moment some of the jam in the middle had dribbled out onto her brand new jumper.

“I thought it was her, too, at first, you know,” Lockwood said after what felt like years of silence. “Holly’s girlfriend. I thought it was Lucy as well.”

With a shrug, George said, “Doesn’t matter now.”

“You miss her, and that’s okay.”

“I do not miss her.”

But it was a lie. That’s all George had been doing since she left, wasn’t it? Lying to himself and to everyone else that he didn’t miss her.

He had hated Lucy for so long. From when she had first joined the company and the few months that followed. Then after she left them, giving some bullshit excuse and a secret escape. But he had never allowed himself to miss her, not really. He had only burdened himself with the memory of her, looking for her in anything he could find but not allowing himself to grieve the girl who hadn’t even died.

His fingers hurt from clutching the duvet cover so hard. “Maybe I miss her a little.”

Lockwood’s laugh was breathy, filled with tears he wouldn’t dare shed. “You can give up with the pride, George. She’s not here to make fun of you.”

“But you are.”

The words resonated between them both, and for a moment George truly realised how alone they were. Yes, Holly was there daily, mourning Lucy’s resignation in her own detached way, but George and Lockwood… Lucy had been everything to Lockwood, and somewhat less than that for George. They were a trio. George couldn’t even remember the agency before Lucy, so now it felt like a machine missing a cog - it didn’t function properly, and wouldn’t until it was put back into place.

“I’d never make fun of you for this.” Lockwood’s smile was nowhere to be found. Not in the corners of his lips or the dark of his eyes. It was as if it had been torn from him the minute Lucy stepped out the door for the last time. “I miss her, too.”

Of course Lockwood did. Missing Lucy was second nature to him. Any time she’d gone off on a case by herself he had missed her. Hell, he probably missed her when she went to bed a few floors above him. But this was unfamiliar territory for George. He wasn’t used to missing people. Not his parents who still lived in London, who occasionally visited and checked in on how things were going. Not his siblings, who were also still nearby muscling on with their careers. He’d never experienced loss like Lockwood and Lucy had.

Was that why it felt like he had been hit by a ten-tonne brick? He hated this feeling more than he’d ever hated anything.

“She’s not coming back,” George said, blinking away the sting in his eyes. “We’ll cope. We have to.”

But, staring at the room she once lived in, straining to try and feel any remnant of her presence, he wished that the genie would finally appear.

[kindnessisweakness2]

2

The next morning Emily woke up at 7am, anything but well rested. She didnt get into bed until 3am and despite being exhausted sleep would not overcome her. She tossed and turned for hours, her mind going round and round yesterdays events. Coming home to find that girls underwear and dirty sheets. Her explosive episode at Teller Morrow that left her extremely embarrassed. She spent all last night crying and packing away Noah’s things. 6 years. Gone in the blink of an eye. Tears welled in her eyes at the painful thoughts, the ache in her chest something she was already becoming familiar with. NO. She’d done enough crying, especially over that asshole. Pulling herself up from the warmth of her bed, she forced herself into the bathroom to get ready for what she already knew was going to be a long day. 

Jax watched from the office as Noah leaned against the boxing ring chatting to one of the clubs many hang arounds. He really was never gonna learn. Something about him didnt sit right with Jax. Jax messed around with more than his fair share of women, and he had no doubts about the broken hearts he left in his wake, but Piney was right. Half the men in the Club would kill for a woman like Emily to hold them down, and the likes of Noah just threw it away. He thought he knew everything but the reality was the little runt didnt know his arse from his elbow. “You wanna tell me why your glaring holes through that kid?” His Mom spoke without even a glance away from her paperwork. Gemma Teller really didnt miss a beat when it came to her son. Jax shook his head before turning to his mother. “It just dont sit right with me thats all. Got a bad feeling.” Gemma raised a knowing eyebrow at her sons vauge response. “Oh so its got nothing to do with you being curious about Little Miss Angry?” Jax smirked at his mom. “No. Just looking out for the good of the club, as aways. And trust me, Noah isnt good.” Gemma nodded as she poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. Before Gemma could continue her questioning, they both turned at the sound of a knock on the open office door. There she was. Little Miss Angry. Stood in the doorway looking uncomfortable. "Sorry to interrupt. I'm just here to sign the paperwork for the bike." Emily wanted the ground to swallow her up as she stood there awkward and red faced. "Oh, and here." She thrust the large baking tray full of homemade lasagne and Garlic bread towards Jax. "I made you guys food to say sorry for erm. What ever that was yesterday." Jax gratefully accepted the tray. "You really didn't have to darlin. Come this way, you can fill the paperwork out in the clubhouse." Jax jerked his head in the direction of the building but regretted it when he saw her face change as she clocked Noah still stood by the boxing ring. "How about we sit on the benches instead?" Emily visibly relaxed at the suggestion. She wanted to be the furthest away from him she could get. "You guys head over, I'll bring the paperwork out." Gemma spoke as she took the tray of food off of Jax. "I'll put this in the clubhouse kitchen, the guys will be all over it like pigs if they see it now." Smiling at the pair as she left. Jax couldn't help but shake his head at his mother. She really was obvious. Leading her to one of the picnic tables, Jax sat down opposite Emily. "So stupid question but how are you holding up?" Emily's eyes widened at the question she wasn't expecting. "Yeah I'm fine. I'm always fine." Emily may have convinced her self she was fine but Jax wasnt buying it. The bags under the girls eyes were dark, she looked exhausted. She glanced over to where Noah was stood talking to some girl. He really didn't give a fuck about her. Clearly. "He's been busted back to prospect." Emily couldn't help the shock that spread on her face at Jax's comment. Before she could speak jax answered the question that he knew was coming. "For the disrespect. He didn't earn his place at our table. How he treated you? It wasn't going to go unanswered." Emily Shrugged her shoulders. “Not gonna lie i wasnt expecting the club to do that. The way you tend to treat women isnt exactly good, So i wasnt expecting you guys to care. Thought i would have my angry outburst and you guys would go on about your day. You hardly know me anyway, he always kept me seperate from it. He used to tell me it was because of how dangerous things got. I thought it was sweet, him looking out for my safety. When really its because he wanted to  fuck around behind my back.” Emily smiled at Jax through watery eyes. “First love dies hard ya’know? I’ve stayed loyal to a sad excuse of a man for 6 years thinking he loved me. He was my first everything. Pretty pathetic right? 25 years of age and I’ve only been with one man.” Emily sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Yeah love will make you do stupid shit, until one day reality smacks you in the face. Hard.” Jax smiled at her. “I get it. Fuck, if i could tell you what my first love did to me, you wouldnt believe it. Had me proper twisted up. Even debated leaving club for her.”Emily’s eyes widened. “Fuck thats messed up. Im sorry. Loyalty is hard to come by nowadays.” Jax couldnt agree more with Emily. He couldnt understand why but he felt he could talk to her without being judged. She was different. Beautiful, but different. “Em?” Jax watched as she visibly stiffened at the sound of his voice. “I didnt know you’d be coming in? What are you hear for?” Emily ignored him completely, still staying focused on Jax. “Did your mom say how long she’d be with the paperwork?” Jax Frowned at Noah, “No Darlin’ Ill go and check now.” Fucking Noah. Was all Jax could think as he stood from the bench and headed into the office to get the paperwork his mom had clearly forgotten. 

Outside Emily was praying  Noah would disappear into thin fucking air but god had other plans. “Hey, are you gonna talk to me?” He placed a hand on her shoulder to get her attention. Emily instantly jerked away and stood up from the bench, trying to create space between them. She could feel the anger burning in her stomach again as she looked at the man she once loved. What she ever saw in him she would never know. Its as if the blind fold she had been wearing for the last 6 years had finally been lifted and she saw him for what he truly was. A Pathetic Sad little man. “What are you doing sitting with Jax? You know his reputation. What you wanna get back at me so your gonna fuck a brother?” Noah’s voice carried across the busy TM Lot. Everyone from the Mechanics working away, the rest of the club coming out of the club house, and even customers heard the accusation spill from his mouth. “Are you fucking kidding me?” There it was. The anger she was trying to hold back came spilling from her mouth. “What i do, Who i speak to and who i fuck is none of your goddamn business anymore! Stay the fuck away from me.” Emily tried to leave it at that. She tried to walk away. But Noah made the mistake of grabbing her arm and trying to pull her towards him. And before he knew it Emily’s clenched fist was making contact with his nose. The crunch was loud. Satisfying even. “Carry on and I will FUCK every single man that sits around that fucking redwood table that doesnt have an old lady waiting for them. 6 years of shitty sex i think im owed a good dicking down. Maybe ill save Jax for last, from what i hear he’s second to none in bed.” Emily spat as she smacked Noah again, ignoring the searing pain in her hand. “And im pretty sure as prospect they can make you watch.” The loud whoops and whistles that came from the rest of the club, shocked Emily. Noah sat on the floor holding his bloody nose as she turned to walk away shaking her quickly bruising hand. Jax came rushing towards her with the paperwork in hand. “Come on, after that you can definitely fill this out in the clubhouse. I’ll get some ice for your hand aswell.” Emily nodded as she followed Jax. Her anger gone, and embarrasment quickly taking over. 

[compassionatereminders]

Lord. Today has been such a day. I hope it's ok to just rant about it here, if not obviously feel free to delete!!

Got woken up at 1am because my mom needed to go to the ER for excruciating pain. So we load up and I take her. It takes an HOUR for them to even pay her any mind- and it's not because it was busy. We live in a small town, and there was literally nobody there waiting to be seen. We think they were ignoring her because she looked like she was having drug withdrawals (shaking, pale, she couldn't stop moving/fidgeting). They only came out to see her when I brought my little brother in, and they realized that she wasn't just there to try and get meds from the hospital (this is all speculation ofc, but I really can't imagine any other reason that 'nobody saw her'). I'm still so mad because she sat there for so long, crying in pain (my mom NEVER cries, so that's how I could tell it was really bad) and nobody even bothered to check on her for over an hour. It took another hour for her to get any pain relief and while the nurses were all really nice, I'm still incredibly upset that she had to endure it for so long.

Anyways. Mom's going to be fine, she's getting flown to a better hospital a couple hours away to get the problem dealt with. That's all good. I'm staying home with my brother, and my aunt is going to pick her up later today (hopefully; it might take a few more days). The only issue is that I'll need to meet with my little brothers father (not my dad) to drop him off for the weekend, and I hate the guy, but I can easily ignore him so it's fine.

I think it's the stress of coordinating 4 different people's schedules that put me so on edge (my aunt needs to know when my mom is leaving, my sister is coming 1400 miles to Nevada from Texas, my little brother needs to do his homework/get ready to go/be dropped off). Family keeps calling me because I'm the one who lives with my mom, but I don't have any updates, because I'm home looking after my brother. I feel terrible that I can't tell them anything else, but it's still frustrating when I'm trying to get the house cleaned up, take care of a worried 7-year-old, and answer calls just to repeat the same thing.

The final straw though was one of my cats. When my brother and I finally got home around 8am, we were having breakfast. I look over, and my cat is peeing on my moms lunchbox. I freaked out, because that's disgusting, and he had NO reason to do that- their box is perfectly clean, he's not a serial pee monster, he's never been in competition with the other cats. I don't understand why today, of all days, he would choose to make a mess.

I've spent the past hour and a half trying to clean it by hand because I can't just throw it in the washing machine (it has a cloth outside, but its not removable). He ALSO managed to pee on my brother's homework tower (a short, plastic 'filing cabinet' with drawers we keep his stuff in), and of course, it got inside some of the drawers. Luckily the only stuff I had to throw away was some construction paper and white printer paper, and the rest was untouched, but I still had to clean up a MASSIVE puddle of cat pee on the floor, and empty + wipe out four of the drawers.

So. Anyways. I'm not feeling solution-oriented right now, I'm just really angry that this is all happening at once and there's not really anything within my control besides making sure my brother keeps to his schedule. At least he's not too worried, but I've kind of been avoiding talking to him at the moment because I feel like I might snap at him when it's not his fault at all. I'm also avoiding the cat because, while I would never hurt an animal for doing something dumb, I'm still so mad about it. I'd much rather he'd have peed on something of mine.

Now I just feel super on edge, and I keep waiting for ANOTHER bad thing to happen, because at this point it just feels like the universe is out for blood. It's not even noon yet. It's barely 10am

I'm so sorry about all of this. Anti addict ableism is completely unacceptable and literally kills people. It's not like an addict can't ALSO be in excruciating pain/genuinely need urgent care. I'm glad your mom will be okay, but it makes me furious that she was neglected for hours because of prejudices against a potential addiction. And I completely understand that you're not in a good place right now. I'm sorry about the pee situation also, though it's important for me to note that the cat didn't CHOOSE to "make a mess" just to bother you - either he was a bit ill or it was simply an unfortunate accident.

[heathersbutincorrect]

Time for a chandsaw oneshot to add to the collection!

The taste of drain cleaner hit her tongue before Heather realized what was happening. This was no prairie oyster, but a liquid death. She choked immediately, trying to expel it. A hand that wasn’t hers shoved its way past her lips. Fingers down her throat. Veronica? She gagged and gagged. How long can a person go without breathing? The next thing she knew, she was retching and finally ejecting that horrible drain cleaner.

“T-that’s it Heather, get it all out…” Had Veronica been crying? “I’m so sorry. He tricked me. I never, ever wanted to hurt you.”

Heather threw up on her own this time. The taste was even worse coming back up. It was startling to see so much blue. How much had she consumed? Her chest heaved as she caught her breath. Veronica was kneeling in front of her. The phone was sitting off the hook. She must have called 911.

At the hospital, doctors frantically ran about and provided treatment. There were second degree burns inside her throat. They said she was lucky to be alive. Veronica was frantic to explain that it was a freak accident. There was a mixup in the kitchen. Heather had never seen the girl have so many panic attacks in a row. And yet she could do nothing. It wasn’t until several days later that she got the full story of what had been done. And really, she knew JD was bad news but how dare Veronica try to undermine her and take power for herself? If her guilt wasn’t so genuine she would plot revenge against the girl too. But for now, ending JD was a good enough goal. As punishment, Veronica would have to help.

“Anything! I’ll do anything!” Veronica was so quick to agree. She hadn’t left her side since she was admitted, missing school. That was unheard of. Heather tried to speak, but it still hurt too much. Instead she had to write out what she wanted to say. She handed the note over.

“Yeah, I can help come up with a plan. Hey uh, Heather and Heather wanna stop by today to see how you’re doing if you’re up for that. What should we tell them?”

Heather glared and shook her head. Too embarrassing to give all the details. “Okay! I’ll just give them the same story I gave your parents. I promise, JD will get what he deserves. Just hang in there.” Veronica squeezed her hand and walked off for a moment. She was doing that a lot. Touching her, then isolating herself.

Heather and Heather visiting was a drag. McNamara just played twenty questions with a doctor. Duke spent half the time in front of a mirror, not even fully present. Veronica was the only one that actually seemed to want to be here. After half an hour, the pair left, and Heather was just relieved. It was less lonely to be alone with Veronica. Where was she, anyway?

“V…” Once again, her voice died in her throat. She’d get it back if it was the last act of her short life. She wandered towards the bathroom and saw the door was shut. On the other side of the door, she could hear panicked sobbing. Heather knocked.

“I-I’m fine.” The worst lying she’d ever heard. And she heard bad lies before. But she wasn’t trying to lie.

“Let-“ Heather burst into a round of wheezing and coughing. “P-pl-“

“Okay. Okay. Please don’t…don’t strain yourself.”

She opened the door. Her eyes were red, wet, and swollen. Her makeup was completely smeared. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I can’t make the…guilt…go away. I was just so angry. I fucking slept with JD and said I was done with you. He took it too far.”

Heather could only nod in response. She hated not having her voice yet. There was a lot she wanted to say about JD.

“I know you’ll probably never forgive me. I’ll do whatever it takes to bring him down. And I promise, I won’t let a boy sweep me off my feet like that ever again. I can’t be trusted.” Heather raised an eyebrow. Veronica was really talking down on herself about this. It must be destroying her. It was then she wondered, when was the last time this girl had even slept?

“Well anyway. Enough about me. They’re gonna take a look at you tomorrow and if you’re able to talk by then, you can go home.”

Thankfully, things looked far better in the morning. Although she was still on the mend, doctors were stunned when Heather was capable of saying a few words at a time already. Her recovery was praised in the whole wing as she was sent home with Veronica. Her parents had found an excuse to be out of town…in other words, not deal with the embarrassment.

Back in her room where it all happened. Heather saw the blue stain on the carpet and nearly cringed. While Veronica religiously started to scrub at it, she noticed a couple things out of place. Her copy of The Bell Jar sat on her bed instead of the nightstand. And there was a crumpled paper with some pencils on the floor. She cast a glance at the brunette who was still cleaning.

“My book.” She couldn’t say much more to clarify what she meant, but Veronica followed her gaze and got the point.

“That must’ve been what JD was doing…he was convinced you’d die and wanted to stage something. Obviously, I didn’t listen to him.”

For the first time, Heather was afraid of JD.

“I know. I didn’t want that either. I was lucky to even be able to save you at all, really.” Two more words came to mind. Something she thought she would never say.

“Thank you.”

The blush in Veronica’s cheeks gave her new life. And so they spent the afternoon together, cleaning and plotting the demise of Jason Dean.

[waterfallofspace]

could i maybe request 32,47 and 52 for vash? 👉👈 (ft his bf wolfwood)

side note i love all the trigun and jjk fics you've been putting out and the buddy daddies fic,,, omfg i Love them sm

Aha- yes you can non, and I'm so sorry for the wait!! (Honestly I'm not even sure if you'll still be around, so I'm really really sorry if you're not~ But thank you so much for the praise, and the request~)

1.8k words, prompts 32, 46, and 52, story under cut!

32. “Are you sick?” 47. Hiding sneezes  52. “Did you just sneeze?”

~~~~~~~

There are moments that Wolfwood would swear Vash is born of the suns.

A muffled thud pulls Wolfwood from his coffee induced trance. Stumbling into the kitchen, Vash appears to have walked straight into a wall. Eyes half closed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the only response to this abrupt chance of pace is a yawn. 

“Mornin’,” Wolfwood laughs, the greeting nearly knocking Vash off his feet. As the messy hair tilts in his direction, he notes the sweater hanging around Vash’s shoulders. “Ain’t that mine?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, and they both know it. Wolfwood acquired said hoodie a few months back after some particularly intoxicated gentleman tried to purchase his jacket with it. The refusal was met with some slurred ‘k’p it an’way’ from the form stumbling out of the bar. 

The sweater was much too loose on Wolfwood, the gifter having stood at least two heads taller. Still, Wolfwood was never one to toss out something of possible use, so the hoodie found itself stashed in some corner of a motel closet. It wasn’t until a chance encounter left Wolfwood staying in the same room a few years later that the sweater made its reappearance. 

“Hey Nico, someone left a jacket in here!” 

“Hm? Oh. Forgot about that.” 

“Wait, this was yours? I didn’t know you’d been here before!” 

“I’ve been ‘lot of places, blondie.” 

The second he’d put it on, Vash’s entire face had lit up. The sleeves hung far past his hands, flapping at each movement. He spent the next couple hours just waving them around, convulsing with a laughter that left even Wolfwood smirking. It quickly became his nightshirt, though he’d normally be changed out of it by now. 

“Makin’ a fashion statement today, are we?” Pulling his mind back to the present, Wolfwood catches up with his mouth, gesturing to the outfit. 

Vash seemingly attempts a response. Instead, he only succeeds in a strangled noise that leaves them both wincing. With a light cough into his sleeve, he clears his throat and tries again. “Morning! Sorry about that.” 

Raising an eyebrow, the silence echoes through the room. Wolfwood’s learned by now that commenting on the apology only leads to a never ending loop of ‘quit ‘pologizing’ followed by Vash’s instinctual apologies for apologizing. 

“Want some?” Wolfwood offers instead,gesturing to the coffee leaving trails of steam drifting through the chilled morning air. The response is a chuckle, Vash shaking his head in time with his sleeves. 

There’s a slight shake in his legs, accompanied by his fingers fidgeting through the holes in his sleeves. Once he picks up on this, Wolfwood’s eyes soften. Yeah, definitely not a coffee day. Vash can handle it occasionally, but if he’s feeling heightened anxiety already, caffeine tends to leave him jumpy.

 It’s been a good week. Relatively calm, no angry mobs chasing him out of town. Hardly surprising he woke up anxious. Seems the universe can never cut the poor guy a break. If he has even a moment of peace, something has to come along to ruin it. 

Wolfwood reaches up, lazily grabbing Vash’s hand and begins to rub soft circles against his palm. Vash gives him a soft smile in return, sinking into the chair closest to his and pouring out a serving of juice. 

He’s barely taken a sip before a far off look consumes his eyes. Wolfwood squeezes his hand. Not a word spoken, but a question asked. Vash answers in the form of a hum, laying his arms on the table and resting his forehead against them. 

“Gon’ suffocate like that, needle noggin,” Wolfwood says, noticing Vash’s shoulders shake lightly. Laughter? Didn’t think it was that funny. After a moment Vash emerges, mist lining his eyes. Okay it can’t have been that funny. Maybe… crying? 

“Y’alright?” Despite the rough grammar, his tone is soft. Gentle in a way the blue-eyed dipshit just seems to pull out of him. Despite countless attempts to maintain just a touch of his previously rough exterior. 

Vash shakes his head, which Wolfwood takes to mean no. Before he can ask any further questions, he realizes he misinterpreted the action. Vash’s eyes remain hazy, his metal arm raising to meet his face as he flinches against the back of it. 

“tnsshiew-!” 

“Blessin’,” Wolfwood pauses, analyzing the man sitting in front of him. There’s a pinch to Vash’s brows, his teeth beginning to show as gasps fall from his lips. The light reflecting from drops hanging off his lashes matches the metallic sheen coating his hand. “More?” 

“Y- yeah…” Vash manages to choke out. One breath, two, and he ducks again, this time his voice crackling through the pitchy sounds. “in’kasshhiew-! hh’akkshihiew-!” 

“Another blessin’.” 

“Thanks,” Vash smiles, raising his other hand to swipe away some stray drops migrating down his cheeks. After a breath he pipes up again with a “Sorry-” before seeming to catch himself, and trailing off into a light cough. His knee brushes against Wolfwood’s as it resumes its trembling, dipping in rapid succession as the table shakes. 

Wolfwood reaches down, placing his hand against Vash’s leg. Meeting his gaze, the tone used is lower. “You okay? If somethin’s the matter, you know you can tell me.” 

Blushing under the scrutiny, Vash lets a sniff escape before verbalizing his response. “Yeah, sorry, I’m alright.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Yeah, definitely,��� Vash nods enthusiastically, though Wolfwood clocks the way he flinches at the movement. “I’m gonna sit on the couch, put a little music on, you wanna join?” 

Pressing a kiss against Vash’s temple, Wolfwood stands, heading towards the sink to rinse his mug. Not waiting for a more solid answer, Vash heads off towards the radio with a touch more speed then he should have this early. 

A sweet melody begins to swirl through the air, followed by a muffled sound Wolfwood can’t quite make out. Electing to ignore it, he hums along with the rising beats, settling into the couch next to Vash. A few words slipping out as the song begins to slow again, he raises his arm so Vash can settle against his chest. 

The singing soon fades away, a light instrumental taking its place. Wolfwood feels his eyes begin to shut, starting to drift off. The light in the room dulls as a few clouds cover the suns, everything bathed in a peaceful haze. 

A sudden jerk snaps the room back into focus. 

“What w’s that?” 

“Sorry,” Vash shrugs, snuggling deeper into Wolfwood’s chest. “Arm fell asleep.”

“Oh, s’all?” Clearing the sleep from his voice, Wolfwood lets his chin rest against Vash’s hair, breathing in the floral notes. As the rise and fall of his chest leaves them both slightly rocking, Wolfwood lets his eyes shut again. Still, a nagging suspicion keeps his consciousness focused on the form in his arms. 

Sure enough the shudder comes again, this time with an audible “engnkt-!” 

Gazing down, Wolfwood leans back to get a clearer view of Vash’s face. “Did you just sneeze?” 

Vash’s eyes are cloudy, his fingers still pinched round his nose. “S- sorry… I’b dot… dot fidished…. hH’ingkt-!” 

Letting his lips meet Vash’s forehead, Wolfwood whistles. The warmth is low enough that it was easily missed earlier. Combined with the shivers bounding through the frail form huddling in his arms, the fever is obvious. 

“Let ‘em out, blondie. Can’t have you blowin’ a fuse on me.” 

There’s no reply, but considering the panting, it’s not for lack of desire. Wolfwood feels his heart skip a beat as Vash’s canines peek out from between his lips. It’s not unusual for his teeth to show in a smile, but Vash isn’t the type to snarl, so watching them get bared is a rare pleasure. Dropping his fingers, Vash aims for cupped hands, spinning himself towards the couch.

“hh’kNZSHhuh-! hk’PTZSHh-! ARKSHh’oo-!” 

“Bless,” Wolfwood chuckles, the harshness never failing to get a jump outta him. They’ve never seemed fond of being held back, reaching a vocal quality the timid man producing them seems utterly incapable of. 

“Thagks.” 

“Are you sick, or is somethin’ settin’ you off?” Brushing loose strands from Vash’s forehead, the heat seems to have rapidly increased. “You feel a bit warm.” 

“It’s not-” Whatever denial Vash was attempting to produce fades away as his voice breaks, leaving him descending into a rough cough. He begins to lean away, attempting to aim himself towards the floor instead. A squeak breaks free as he slides towards the edge of the couch, only being saved as Wolfwood grabs his arm. 

“Vash.” 

The coughs halt immediately at the name, Vash’s head swinging around to face Wolfwood. The look that he gives could melt anyone, okay? It’s not a him problem, no one could resist those puppy-dog eyes. No one. 

“You sick?” 

With a faint nod, Vash sniffles again. His eyes begin to swim, lip quivering with what seems to be only half irritation. He knuckles his nose, a light huff slipping out. It’s obvious it wasn’t aimed at anyone but himself. 

“That’s not a crime, blondie,” Wolfwood pauses to cup Vash’s cheek, thumbing away a stray tear. “ I’m not gon’ be mad at you for gettin’ ill.” 

“B- but… if I get you sick, I’ll be mad at myself.”

Wolfwood chuckles, a smirk breaking loose as the corner of Vash’s mouth twitch up. He’s never been able to hear someone else’s laughter without joining in. “I won’t let you. Jus’ means you’ll get a chance to take care of me back.”

 “Back?” Vash pipes up, tilting his head in one of his many acts of pure innocence. Ironic, given all he’s capable of. Ever the walking contradiction. 

“Yup. Starting right now, you’re under my care.” Wolfwood grins, starting to sit up. Vash feigns a shudder, earning himself a light slap upside the head. Still, Wolfwood doesn’t miss the way his leg is bouncing again. 

“Vash.” 

Those eyes turn to look at him again.

“I love you.” 

Vash pales, the rose stain against his cheeks blooming up to his ears. It doesn’t matter how many times it’s said, blondie always reacts as if it’s a revelation. “I love you too, Nicholas.” 

Wolfwood slides onto the floor, standing up and pulling Vash close in one graceful movement. Suddenly playful, he lets his lips brush against Vash’s ear. “That’s my shirt, ya know.” 

Vash hums, leg going still. “Need to take it off me?” 

Wolfwood grins, lips greedily meeting Vash’s. He sighs against the feeling, the world dissolving away as the two draw closer until even they can’t tell where one ends and another begins. 

Finally Vash pulls away to direct a “knshhiew-!” into his collar. 

Catching his breath, Wolfwood addresses the earlier question. “For now, you can keep it. At least until you’re better. In case you need some motivation.” 

The laughter that follows pulls the air straight from Wolfwood’s lungs. 

There are moments that Wolfwood would swear Vash is born of the suns. 

[punchdrunkdoc]

Part 2, Chapter 15

Summary: After the events of S3, Matt Murdock is trying to once again balance life as a lawyer and a vigilante. But he’s been scarred by loss and betrayal - will a mysterious new neighbour help him heal? Or will her secrets drag him back into the darkness?

Notes: This is a slow burn romance with an original female character, told in 3 parts. There is mystery, intrigue, action/violence and angst - all the good stuff!

Also available on AO3 and Wattpad

Masterlist

Reference pics

————–

Posting this a bit early because I’m out of town the rest of the week.

Enjoy!

————–

PART 2

Chapter 15

20 minutes earlier…

Calina picked the lock on the rooftop access door, relying on feel rather than sight. She'd stashed her motorbike in an alleyway two blocks over, then scaled the back of her and Matt's apartment building under the cover of darkness. Suddenly waving a flashlight around up here would defeat all her attempts at stealth.

And she needed to be stealthy - if Volkov's men were watching this place, she couldn’t let them see that she'd returned.

The lock gave way with a quiet *snick* and Calina slipped down the stairs into Matt's apartment. It was empty, as expected. At this time of night, he’d be out Daredevilling, and would be gone for another few hours at least.

She dumped her bag on the floor and flicked on the lights…then stifled a laugh at the sight of the new sofa sitting in the middle of the living room - with the plastic wrap still on it.

“…the new couch was delivered yesterday. But I couldn’t bring myself to sit on it. It feels like our couch. And it didn’t feel right for it to be there, in the apartment, without you…the place feels so lifeless now. So cold and empty without you…”

The suppressed laughter turned into a sob and she covered her mouth to hide the sound. Her emotions were all over the place. And all the joy and love and guilt and fear that she was feeling kept spilling over as tears - she’d spent half of the four-hour ride here crying beneath her motorcycle helmet. Thankfully the roads were fairly deserted, so her blurred vision hadn’t endangered anyone apart from herself.

She just...needed to be here. Despite her annoyingly fragile emotional state, and her barely-healed wound, and the risks involved…she needed to be here.

She needed to see Matt.

Yelena had freaked out at the idea, of course. “It’s too dangerous! Volkov knows you spent months living in that apartment building - and now that we got rid of the trackers, its the only place he has to start his search for us.”

“I get that, Yelena,” Calina had argued. “But I still need to speak to Matt.”

“So call him!”

“I’ve been calling him. For hours! He won’t pick up.”

The moment she’d finished watching the footage of Matt’s confession…she’d pressed play and watched the whole thing again, unable to believe the words spilling from his lips.

“I deluded myself that I didn’t feel this way about you…”

“You need to wake up so that I can tell you I love you.”

“You’re…everything.”

“There was just something about you, standing there on that rooftop”

“I’ll always be here - if you’ll have me.”

“Please come back to me…”

Each line was a euphoric, impossible jolt of pure joy to her heart. And watching him say those words while clutching at her hand and stroking her cheek and pulling her into his arms to hold her all night had been like watching all her dreams play out before her.

He loved her.

He really and truly loved her.

He’d dropped everything to come to her. He’d put his life in the hands of women he barely knew and didn’t trust, and he’d bared his heart and his soul to her.

And then she’d ghosted him for a week and a half.

She couldn’t imagine how he must be feeling. He must think she was still angry with him. That she was still hurt by what Foggy said in the bar and was ignoring him on purpose.

After the second viewing of the footage, she’d scrambled off the bed and grabbed her phone then punched in the number she’d memorised months ago, desperate to tell him the truth - that she’d been sick. That she hadn't known about his visit. That she felt the same way he did.

But he never answered.

She’d paced the floor of her room, the device pressed against her ear as she listened to it ring and ring. She’d stood on the balcony and stared out over the harbour, the phone clutched in her hand as she’d tried again.

And again. And again.

But each time it just rang out.

And with each failed connection she started to worry that they’d missed their chance. That each miscommunication and separation was pushing the possibility of them further away.

The need to speak to him grew more urgent with each passing moment. Until she’d finally given up on the phone and grabbed her rucksack from under the bed. If he wasn’t answering…she would just go to him in person.

That’s how Yelena had found her - shoving clothes into her bag and trying to ignore the twinge of pain in her side from the rough actions. “At least wait a while,” Yelena had said, trying a different tack. “You only got back on your feet a few days ago.”

“I have to go now, Yelena. I can’t explain it - at least, not in any logical way. I just…need to go. I promise I’ll be careful. And I’ll be back as soon as I’ve talked to him.”

“So you are coming back?”

The hint of vulnerability in Yelena’s voice surprised Calina. She paused her packing to look at the other Widow, who seemed uncharacteristically…anxious.

“Yes, of course,” Calina answered. “I know the risks about staying in New York. I know it would just put Matt - and us - in danger.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“What’s this about, Yelena?”

Yelena picked at the chipped polish on her nails. “I was worried that you hated me. For what I did. And that you were leaving for good.”

Calina laughed bitterly. “You’re not exactly my favourite person in the world right now…but I don’t hate you. You made some choices - some very questionable choices, like dumping Matt in Connecticut and then not telling me - but I know you didn’t do it out of malice.”

Calina zipped up her bag and slung it over her shoulder then grabbed her winter biking gear from the closet. She stopped next to Yelena on her way out the door and issued the ultimatum she’d been contemplating ever since she found out what Yelena had done. “But you have to accept that Matt is part of my life now. You can’t keep making unilateral decisions that affect both him and me - especially decisions that serve to keep us apart. If you can’t do that, then I will find somewhere else to live.”

Yelena shook her head. “This is your home, Calina. As much as it is ours. I’ll…respect your relationship with Murdock.”

Calina squeezed Yelena’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Be safe.”

“I will.”

“And keep in contact. I don’t want to have to send any Widows to come find you in New York if you go off the grid.”

“I will,” Calina had repeated.

And in that spirit, she fired off a quick text message to Yelena and Katya: Arrived safely.

Then she shrugged out of her leather jacket and unzipped the heated liner underneath. It had done a good job of keeping her warm during the ride here but she was starting to feel over-heated in Matt’s cosy apartment.

She wandered over to the new couch and started stripping off the plastic wrap, eager to have something to do to pass the time. It felt wrong to just make herself at home again after everything that had happened…but she wasn’t sure what else to do while she waited for Matt to return.

Halfway through the task, there was a loud banging on the front door, quickly followed by Foggy’s bellowing voice. “Matt? You better be in here, you son of a bitch! MATT!”

Calina raced to the door and swung it open.

“Calina?” Foggy’s double-take at her sudden appearance would have been comical under other circumstances, but he looked frantic…and scared. And she started to get a very bad feeling.

“Foggy, what’s wrong?”

“Is Matt here?”

“No. I assumed he was out…doing what he usually does at this time of night.”

“Shit!”

Calina pulled him into the apartment and closed the door behind them. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

Foggy raked his hand through his hair. “I met up with a contact tonight, to see if he knew anything about our fear pheromone problem. And he did know something. Something bad.”

“What?”

“Whoever’s in charge of the operation - and my contact didn’t know that, unfortunately - knows we’re snooping around. They know Daredevil is snooping around. So they set a trap for him.”

“What kind of trap?”

“They’re going to lure Matt to some old base of theirs and blow it up.”

Calina's bad feeling exploded into full-on panic. “Where was Matt going tonight, Foggy? You guys must have narrowed the next location down by now. Where was he going?”

“He wasn’t supposed to be going anywhere tonight. He agreed to take a break - he hasn’t been doing so well these past couple of weeks.”

Guilt slammed into Calina, but she pushed it aside. There would be time for that later - once Matt was safe. “Regardless of what Matt was supposed to do, he’s obviously out there. So where, Foggy? Give me somewhere to look!” She was practically shouting at the other man, and she had to fight the urge to shake the information out of him.

“Down by the Chinese Consulate. But I’ve just come from there - there’s no sign of him.”

Calina pushed passed Foggy on her way to the stairs. “I’ll look again. I’ll look everywhere.”

She raced up to the roof and backtracked her earlier movements. Within minutes, she was swinging her leg over her bike and roaring down the street towards the Hudson. She didn’t have a plan beyond getting to Matt’s last known location then scouring the city - street-by-street and building-by-building if she had to.

But it turned out she didn’t need to. She’d only managed to travel a few blocks when thunder rocked the night and a fireball lit up the horizon.

Matt!

Calina stomach tried to lurch out of her throat. But she ignored the spike of terror and steered the bike towards the site of the explosion. She rolled the throttle and accelerated, veering in and out of the sparse traffic at a reckless speed.

Minutes later she skidded to a stop on the street behind the destroyed building. Her throat went dry as she imagined Matt beneath that flaming pile of rumble.

No. She couldn’t think like that.

Matt was smart. He wouldn’t have fallen for a trap like this. He would have made it out before it blew up. She just needed to find him - preferably before the sirens in the distance got here - and the best way to do that was from a high vantage point.

She dismounted her bike and ran through the lot behind the building - it looked like a taxi depot, with rows and rows of yellow cabs. She jumped up on one and used the extra height to grab the drain pipe of the adjacent building. She shimmied up it onto the roof then ran along the edge, peering over the side to survey the damage below. 

But her view was obscured by all the smoke.

“Matt, where are you?” she whispered, her voice tight with fear.

She swore as she saw the firetrucks peeling down the street. She heard sirens come from the opposite direction and swivelled her head to see a bunch of cop cars racing along the greenway.

And then a sliver of dark red caught her eye, peeking out from the other side of the water tower.

“Matt?” she called. “Is that you?”

There was no answer.

On alert now, she inched around the structure, until she could make out more than a sliver - it was an arm, clad in familiar material, holding an even more familiar baton.

She exhaled sharply in relief. “Matt.”

She reached out her hand to touch him…and he exploded into action.

He batted her hand away and swung his club in her direction. She ducked, and just managed to avoid taking a hit to the side of her head.

“Matt! It’s me!” She grabbed the baton before he could swing again, and hit the nerve cluster in his elbow. His fingers jerked as a result, making him drop the baton to the ground. The move had been a reflex on Calina’s part - she’d seen a weapon and disarmed its holder. And a moment later she was glad she had, because Matt attacked her again with a fast series of punches.

She blocked most of his strikes, but took a few hits to the arms and one that glanced off her cheek. “Matt!!” she yelled again, her voice desperate.

What was wrong with him?

Had he been dosed with the fear pheromone?

Her confusion led to a moment of distraction, which Matt used against her. He grabbed one of her arms and trapped her wrist. Then he spun her around and caught her other arm, pinning both behind her.

It was a familiar hold - and one she knew she could escape. She used her Aikido training to free herself and send Matt rolling to the ground.

He sprang to his feet again, but the move was clumsier than usual. Slower, and less graceful.

And that’s when she realised - he wasn’t in the grip of some adrenaline surge.

He couldn’t hear.

The blast from the explosion must have damaged his ears. She’d seen that type of injury before when one of the widows she’d trained with had strayed too close to a bomb while out on a mission. The Widow had suffered tinnitus for a week and never recovered her full hearing.

And she'd never returned to the Red Room as a result.

“Matt?” Calina called, testing her theory.

There was no response. He just stood in front of her looking lost and confused.

“Oh, Matt.”

He must be so scared. Without his hearing, he was as good as blind. She remembered what he was like when his ears were affected by the common cold. This must be a million times worse. A million times more disorientating and terrifying.

And she had no way of reassuring him that he was safe. No way of letting him know who she was - the minute she got close to him, he would interpret it as another attack.

The sirens were right below them now, and the night sky was lit up by the flames of the building next to them. They were completely out in the open, visible to anyone who looked up at this rooftop too closely. And she had no way to get him out of here if she couldn’t convince him who she was.

“C-Calina?”

At the sound of her whispered name, she nearly cried with relief. He recognised her somehow!

But he sounded so tentative and unsure, as if he couldn’t believe that it was true.

To be fair, from his perspective, her presence here was a little unexpected. She took a few steps closer to him, until his body blocked the warm heat radiating from the fire behind him. She carefully took his hand, and tugged of his glove, exposing his bare palm.

And she spelled out a single word in braille in answer:

YES.

He grabbed her hand and let out a shaky breath. Then he dropped his head to rest his forehead against hers. “Hi,” he breathed.

“Hi,” she replied, despite knowing he couldn’t hear her. She wound her arms around his waist and leaned into him, the waning adrenaline making her feel unsteady. She’d spent the last twenty minutes terrified that she would never see him again…

The thought made her clutch him tighter.

He seemed to need the contact as much as she did. He wrapped his own arms around her shoulders and dragged her close, until every inch of them was pressed together. He dipped his head and buried it in the crook of her neck. He breathed deep, as if trying to capture her scent, but ended up barking out a series of hacking coughs instead as whatever was in his airways protested.

She leaned back and used her hands to lift his head up, wanting to look at him properly. Black soot rimmed his nostrils and there were streaks of ash on his skin. There were no major injuries that she could see, but she’d need to get him home to check more thoroughly.

And they needed to get off this roof before anyone saw them.

She grabbed his palm again and tapped out the braille for ‘GO’, trying to use as few a words as possible to get her message across.

It seemed to work. He nodded and grabbed her hand. “Lead the way,” he croaked out. It sounded like he was trying to make light of the situation, but she knew him. She knew how much his helplessness must be killing him.

She squeezed his hand and used it to guide him along the rooftop, back the way she’d came. Luckily, the first responders were all congregated at the front of the building, and the back route was still clear.

But getting Matt down to ground level would take a bit of work. They couldn’t descend the drain pipe she’d used earlier - Matt’s spatial awareness had been thrown off by his deafness and there was too much risk that he’d fall.

So she found the access door leading to the stairs and kicked it open. Then the two of them slowly descended through the - thankfully - deserted building. When they reached ground level, she disengaged the tight grip he had on her hand and tapped out another single word, ‘WAIT’.

He nodded so she took a couple of steps away, ready to scope out the street for any bystanders…but he immediately tensed up, his hands clenched by his sides, and his his head locked at an angle, as if he was desperately trying to hear the world around him.

The sight of him - the man who normally seemed so strong and invincible - standing there, seemingly lost without her guiding touch made her heart ache.

She rushed towards him again, uncaring of the time she was wasting, and the risk she was taking with their safety. She grasped his head in her hands, leaned up, and pressed her lips against his cheek. She lingered there in the kiss, trying to convey everything that she couldn’t say with words. She wanted him to know that she knew he was scared, but she was with him. That he could trust her. She would get him home.

That she loved him.

He leaned into the contact, his own hands latching on to her waist and holding tight.

After several long moments, she broke away and approached the front door. She checked the street outside, but it seemed deserted - all the action was taking place around the corner where the firefighters were still tackling the blaze.

She twisted the lock and stepped outside. She raced to her bike and wheeled it closer to the door, then rummaged through the top box for her windbreaker. It was sized to cover her bulky winter riding gear, so it should hopefully fit Matt and hide his suit on the ride home.

She dashed back into the building and shook out the coat. She guided one of Matt’s arms through the sleeve, and he seemed to grasp what was happening because he took over and slipped the jacket on. It was snug across his broad shoulders and wouldn’t zip up, but it would do the trick.

The last thing to do was remove his mask - there was no point hiding his suit if he still looked like The Devil from the neck up. She reached up and tucked her thumbs under the edges of the mask - and his hands immediately shot up to stop her.

She paused, and brought her thumbs down to stroke his cheeks, trying to calm his fears - it must make him feel even more vulnerable to be without that last layer of protection.

She kept caressing his face, running her fingers over his cheeks and his lips, even down the back of his neck where she pressed into the knotted muscles beneath his skin. She kept soothing him with her touch until she felt his spike of anxiety pass.

Eventually he nodded and dropped his hands, permitting her to remove his mask. The fact that he didn’t do it himself, but left it to her, felt symbolic of…something.

Something she really didn’t have time to contemplate just now.

She allowed herself a second to smile at his ruffled hair, before smoothing it down, knowing how much the wayward strands annoyed him. Then she pulled the hood up over his head, grabbed his hand again and led him onto the street.

She guided him onto the back of the motorcycle then slipped into the space in front of him. His arms immediately wrapped around her waist, and she smiled again. Her grin widened further once she kick-started the engine and accelerated away from the burning building.

Away from danger, and towards home.

Matt shifted his weight until his front was pressed against her back, and tightened his hold on her. She had the feeling it had nothing to do with the unfamiliar mode of transport, and everything to do with being close to her.

She knew the feeling.

She leaned back against him and tilted her head to the side, allowing him to rest his chin on her shoulder. She ignored the smoke and ash she could smell on his skin and tried to imagine they were just two people in love riding together through the streets of New York for the sheer joy of it.

Maybe she could convince him to try this again, under better circumstances. Once they’d cleared the air between them. And once the Widows had resolved the Volkov situation and she was free to live her life again, maybe they could just…enjoy each other. Without mind control and misunderstandings and explosions.

They could just be two people in love.

The thought kept her warm as they sped through the cold, dark night.

----------

Chapter 16

Be sure to check out the reference page - updated with the building on Google maps that I decided to blow up!

@hollandorks @acharliecoxedfan @yanna-banana @tearoseart-blog​ @chezagnes​ @stilldreaming666​ @freckledbabyyy​ 

If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know!

[autumnalwalker]

Find the Word Tag

Thank you for the tag, @ahordeofwasps.

My words to find were open, onward, ongoing, & own.

Passing the (optional) tag to @meerawrites, @midnight-and-his-melodiverse, @dyrewrites, @sleepyowlwrites, @pluttskutt, and the usual open tag for anyone else reading this who wants to join in.

Your words to find shall be pillow, plant, particular, & perfection

Open: A Dream About An End To Loneliness

We have stopped for the night and I am in bed in my room alone, nearly asleep, when I feel light footsteps pressing into the blankets and mattress, stepping over me and settling down on the other side of me.  I roll over and open my eyes to find myself staring into twin glowing red pinpricks illuminating empty dried out sockets.  There is a mummified, bandaged, and animated corpse lying atop the bedsheets, resting its head on the pillow next to mine. 

I do not cry out.  I do not flee.  Perhaps I am just frozen.  Fear is not quite the right word for what’s thrumming through my veins.  Trepidation maybe?

She begins to speak softly.  Gently.  By her voice alone one might think her still alive and whole.  It does not occur to me until the next morning to question how she knows my language.  She is not angry at us for disturbing her rest, but grateful for being set free.  

We lie there whispering to one another into the small hours of the night, telling each other of our lives and worlds.  And, against all good sense, falling for one another.  We are both terribly lonely. 

Onward: The Archivist's Journal, Day 47

Once it was gone, Butat made an awed exclamation confirming the being I had just witnessed was in fact the Wandering God I had heard of.  With less caution than I would like to admit, but still more than Cass ran forward with, I moved to examine the fallen log that had been planted on the side of the trail.  Somehow half-expected, but no less amazing for it, green buds of new growth were forming on the jagged top.  In the time that it took for Daianna to finish urging us onwards I saw yet more new buds forming fast enough to be made out by the naked eye.

Ongoing: Empty Names - 7 - Compilation

“Most of these trees shouldn’t be growing together,” Eris observes aloud.  “You’ve got a white pine next to a mahogany, I’m pretty sure I saw a baobab back there, and,” she points at a nearby tangle of above-ground roots, “somehow you’re growing a mangrove without a coastline.  I’m not going to ask how, because I know the answer is just going to be some magic BS, but why?  Even with magic that still has to be a Hell of an energy expenditure to maintain.”

To Lacuna’s surprise, it’s Glassheart that answers the question in an awe-tinged voice.  “They’re all bridges.”

“Right on the first try, wizard boy,” says Bridgewood.  “We are right now walking through the eponym to the family name.”

Wait, wizard boy?  But he’s so…  Lacuna glances again at Glassheart practically gliding down the path before shoving down the implications of this particular case of gender envy for the time being.  As it is, she’s already flustered enough to almost miss the ongoing conversation.

Own: Kindly Basilisk

I spent a long time in front of that mirror in the ship’s head, memorizing every plane, curve, and angle of the precious gift you had given me.  I stared into its eyes, trying to see the both of us in there.  Over and over again, I traced my fingers along the borders of where you had once tried to mar the designed perfection in a failed attempt to mold the face into one that felt like your own.  You may have given up in favor of simply hiding it all, but to me it is all the more beautiful for its imperfections having been wrought by your touch.

[tendertenebrosity]

Another Hollow piece! Masterpost for this character is here. This is just some getting-to-know-you.

While the sun was up and shining green through the canopy, I spent an hour or so wading in the streambed until my legs were numb with cold below the knees, gathering specifically shaped stones. Then I spent another half hour arranging them just so.

I ran my hand over the piece of wood I’d scavenged from the fallen giant the other day. Wide and flat, as long as my arm. Almost straight. I hoped it would work; I spend another period of time fiddling with it trying to get it to sit stable on top of the stones.

I wracked my brains thinking of what to offer, trying to recall the stories my grandparents had told, the things people left in fairytales. I didn’t have much.

I used my belt-knife to cut a lock of hair. A pretty stone I had found a few days ago and carried in my pocket, banded in white and red. After a minute’s deliberation, I picked a double handful of starry white flowers and pretty ferns, tied it into a posy with a loose thread from my shirtsleeve, and left it in the centre.

I knelt in front of my makeshift altar, feeling a little foolish.

“This does not really count.”

Something touched my ankle, making me jump despite myself. You’d think I’d be used to the forest god jumping out of every shadow by now, but in my defence, this time it was a snake.

“No?”

“No. Everything that you have is technically mine already.”

I hummed, bowing my head. I had felt the god’s attention looming over me the entire time I had been constructing the altar, in a way I didn’t usually, unless I was doing something very important. “Yeah, but you like it anyway. Don’t you?”

The snake, thin and banded in different shades of green, wound delicately over the stones that propped up the altar, lifting a coil up onto the flat surface. It investigated the flowers and the red and white rock with a flickering tongue.

I remained silent, awaiting its judgement. Maybe I should have offered something else. Maybe I should’ve waited to do this until I had something better.

“It is… good to see again,” the god said, sounding grudging. “Even though it does not count.”

I let out my breath carefully.

“That pile of armour, and jewellery, and stuff,” I said carefully. “The one you let me take things from the other day. People left you that, at altars like this?”

“Yes. Many other offerings as well, but the things that were not metal or stone have long since decayed.”

“Is that the sort of gift you like, then? I wasn’t… really sure what you would do with jewellery. Is it useful to you?”

“It isn’t about it being useful,” the snake said. It heaped shining coils on top of the banded rock. “It’s about it being offered to me. ”

“I… see.”

I sat there for a minute longer, my legs protesting, but this seemed important enough to put up with a little aching thighs for. The snake had settled into motionlessness on top of the altar, the red stone underneath it, and I wondered how much I should read into that.

Did it like the stone best because I had carried it longer than the flowers? Because I had thought it valuable enough to hold onto?

Maybe it just liked being in the sun. Maybe the god’s presence had left it and it was just doing what snakes did. I wished it had chosen a slightly more emotionally evocative mouthpiece for this conversation.

“If you had a choice,” I said. “If you could get rid of the humans, send the boats back or… whatever. Would you?”

The snake’s tongue flickered. “No. Why would I do that?”

“Well, we are a lot of trouble.” I looked down at my hands, curled into loose fists against my knees. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. You were… very angry.”

“You did not ask.” The snake resettled its coils. “Neither to be present, nor to take, and those trees were very old. You should have made very valuable offerings to even ask permission to take them, and you gave nothing. I thought I had explained this. If your kind would only adhere to the rules, there would be no conflict between us.”

“Right. Of course.” I looked at the altar. And if humans left again, there would be nobody to make you offerings.

And you miss it.  

“If if would please you,” I said, “I can bring things here sometimes - just until the villages start to make their own. I know, I know, it doesn’t count, but if you’d like it….”

The snake was silent and still as a few long seconds ticked by.

“You may do that,” it said eventually. “It does not displease me.”

I bowed my head. “I will, then.”

[sir-arlieosaurus-lung-struggler]

Unconventional: A Short Story of Hiding in Plain Sight

Is a short essay written in 2023 on my personal struggles being Native American and AroAce, and how both subjects intersected in a small window of time.

Disclaimer⚠️:

anti-Native American racism

Use of "noble savage"

I think its fairly good, weather the writing is good or not i think it has a good message anyway.

Notes:

In the writing I use the name Wallace to refer to myself, but for context I present fem & still mostly go by my birthname, the people talking to me were using my birthname.

Info aluding to location is removed.

This also relates to my expiriences as a trans person but I'm closited to most people, so is not included

The names of others is changed cause it was fresh at the time and i didnt want to hassle reporting them.

Slightly edited from origonal

History has always been one of my favorite subjects. There isn't much reason aside from that the past fascinates me. Native units are different though. I was ecstatic! Beforehand, that is.

Walking into class on the second day, I already dreaded sitting down, only to be called an "American Indian" through the scribbles of graphite on worksheets. The teacher listed name after name of tribes nearby, he got to a tribe with a well known casino, its famous add campaign was shouted out from the kid beside me, with near no objection. All we are to them; our casino's tagline.

All throughout page after page, side conversation to worksheet, "Indian" rang through my head like the caws of blue jays. Imagine the discovery of discomfort displacing you far from anyone's mind when your history teacher reads blindly from a paper without a second thought.

Through the day, peeve soaked my clothes and I stomped on every drip and caw with the vexation of a murder of flustered crows as I ducked through crowded halls.

I wasn't even there. Not that I made that known.

I wasn't content to sit angerly in my hamster wheel of a head, If I was going to be angry, I didn't want to go through it alone, I was happy to at least vent to someone.

I sat down later for advisory, still soaked in irritation head to toe, I yanked my computer out of its sleeve and clanked at its keys till my frenzied fingers were sore, all class I deliberated my days into a lengthy group-chat email. Saying I was- am annoyed is an understatement, my eyes were incandescent as I slammed down each key. Whether I had history work or not I didn't care enough to do it, I wasn't in the mood to be called an "American Indian" for the next half hour by a paper for answering X Y & Z. I value my sanity over that any day.

I trampled the keyboard with every example I could think of, the textbooks, the kid next to me, the fact that in any history class I've been in all the natives are put under the blankets of numbers. I ended my rant venting, "Sorry if this is out of the blue or off topic or if I 'ruined tha vibe' or whatever maybe I'm just 'over-exaggerating' but I don't care right now… I can only hope we get more than a geography lesson in this unit." I took off my obnoxiously bright hat to see my Aro and Ace pride pins lining its rabbit face.

I've always "identified" as native, there was just never much else. Dads side is just smaller, and out of touch with one another. None of them ever talk.

My weekdays are spent looking at my grandmothers' walls, beadwork, and Formline, and family photos framing it from corner to corner. I've always been a Tlingit Kid. Through my mom and generations of women back till who knows when, I am my clans child. But my dad's side of the family being white, and me taking more after him, the impression I get, when I tell some people I'm native, is that I'm one of those "my grandmother was a Cherokee princess" girls. And that just puts me off from telling people I don't know in the first place.

Once a girl responded to my invisible native-ness with "... so you're white?" I can taste her entitlement every time I repeat her, as if she were owed any sort of "truth." What's the point? What do you want? To see proof of my brown family? My tribal ID? Me to wear my regalia 24/7? My blood quantum painted on a sign above my head?

In attempts to connect with my roots I picked up a book from the library, #ImNotYourPrincess seemed interesting by its title. There was one page that stuck to my skin. "It's strange to me how people always want me to be an "authentic Indian" when I say I'm kanyen'keha:ka. They want me to look a certain way, act a certain way. They're disappointed when what they get is.... just me. White faced, light haired... They want my culture behind glass in a museum. But they don't want me. I'm not Indian enough..." that page was part of the poem, Invisible Indians, by a Mohawk woman named Shelby Lisk.

Advisory September 29, still angered from history just an hour beforehand, I was already unamused with my day. Sitting down for class, I noted down any other things I'd heard from my peers for safekeeping on a word document. Today there was nothing, but I was irritated so I noted any semblance that could have been something as an angered precaution.

From there I went with the motions and hid my face from the dim windows and lights to avoid a worsened headache. I sat to chip away at the little work I had, seeing as it was a Friday, only to be met with an unwelcome whine of my name. "Wallace? Wallace? Wallace? Hey Wallace?" It rang in my worn-out ears like early morning bird disputes from the trees, "Wallace? Wallace? Waaaaaaaalllaaaaaace? Don't be rude Wallace. Wallace Wallace? Wallace?" Frustrated in giving him the time of day, I swiveled my chair in Gabriel's direction for just enough time to send the message of hey, bud I hear you, and twirled back, my face growing more and more sour as the moments inch by. All just for him to spit "Anthony likes you!" For the whole class to feast their ears upon.

His caws stained my expression as we shuffled our chairs around and he continued "Wallace? Waalaace?" We moved again, and without fail he still was in his territorial dispute with the neighboring crows. Get my name out of your mouth I thought. I just continued to angrily lean tired on tables.

We shuffled chairs again, (admittedly this advisory was, not productive.) too tired to take it much further than I already had shoved it, I pulled it past the backpacks flopped on the floor and stopped it by the counters on the wall. Another voice, chimed in "You like Jacob, right? That's why you're sitting so close to him?"

I sat with my right leg crossed over my left, my shoulders slouched to the back of my chair. All I could muster was a glare and stern "No."

The class ended, nothing productive coming as a result of it, and I continued onto lunch.

As I walked the hall, my tiresome time trickled down my cheeks. I was done. I crimpled my face in my light blue hood and sleeves and broke my voice as I shrunk on my lunch. A moment went by when I heard a voice through my whimpers.

"Are you ok?" Rea was sat at the other side of the table with her friends, all seeming concerned.

Through my hiccups I answered. "No." I've always wondered, why even ask? By the time you want to ask you've already answered your own question. That's my case anyway. As I explained my past few days, I was practically reciting the email I wrote yesterday. How I'm not an Indian, the kid at the other table in 1st period, how in my nine years in schooling all the white men had the privilege of being referred to by name while all us sliver of native kids had to go off outside our families is Billy Frank JR. How I wanted enough respect to not have words put in my mouth. How I already have enough on my plate. How I was overwhelmed.

Rea and her friends watched me concernedly as I sat shivering. They let me go on with my rant till I crumbled past speech, and they had some room to ask, "Do you want a hug?"

"Yeah."

I stood up in anticipation. She speed-walked over in open arms, her friends following close behind her. And we hugged in the aisles of lunch tables as she let me cling to her back and cry on her leather shoulder.

I doubt they anticipated many native kids' reading the textbook, not like there's many of us here, four of us in the whole thousand-plus kid school.

Being called something I'm not, in more ways than one, just felt- I couldn't explain it. The concept was quite earthly, grounded to me. But putting it to words others could understand, and so that I understood that feeling before sharing it, was foreign.

Later that night, I wrote to myself and the void in a journal on my phone (was what i said for the school asignment, it was really tumblr drafts). About my eventful last few days, my frustration, my exhaust, and I said as much. Reflecting on my week, I wanted to have a vocalization of just how, weird it felt. I doubt Anthony "liked" me, I barely knew his name, let alone had we talked. The concept of someone liking me romantically is foreign, unwelcomed. Can't be controlled by either side, still just as off-putting.

I image they were antagonizing Anthony alongside me whether he did "like" me, it or not. I don't make it too well known verbally, but I'm Aromantic. No romantic attraction. In my case specifically the type where any romance involving me feels, for lack of better, more concise words, gross. It's purely alien to me. I just don't understand it.

My first "crush" was conveniently chosen at the end stretch of kindergarten. It was almost cartoonish how much I faked it, even to myself.

By the time 6th grade rolled around, I had counted about 5 "crushes" up to that point. I made it to my 4th period world history class and while playing "would you rather" I talked with a girl who agreed that pineapples on pizza was delicious, we concluded it was because their sweet-savory-ness. We were sat close together, and we talked a lot. I figured out she was gay from her telling me she was excited to meet her crush at the park later for a mini date. I didn't even care there was "someone else" I was just perfectly happy that she was so happy. I felt weird, not feeling weird, but it took another year to read between the lines, to figure out it was admiration and close companionship. (And more like queerplatonic attraction, but I didnt want to delve into ALL that for a school asignment)

The night of the 30th, it took till I was pacing lost in thought and song lyrics till I thought of how to word it, "Just the idea of someone feeling a romantic way about me feels gross. Let alone a kid 1 barely know... like it feels so gross I wish I was more articulated to explain it, the best synonym I have at the moment is that I need a shower. It feels like, sticky- like the equivalent of I just got dunked in syrup and it dried a bit then my hair being covered in gum to the point I may as well just shave it."

I realize now, I'm not any of these people's "truth," I'm not what they expect. I'm native, but I'm not dark. I don't want to be a prince charming, or to be "saved" by one. I'm not what any of them name me. I'm not a "hostile Indian" or, better yet "Noble Savage" (both attributed to a documentary we watched in class). I'm not going to find "the one" nor do I want to. I'm not the words they put in my mouth, what they decide I am.

The days moved on. The class moved on.

The boys mostly stop bothering me.

The second of October, a new kid at the same table as add reading kid, chirped the headline of my morning, "If these people were still around today, Bugs Bunny would be their god." The only context I had was I think they were talking about aspecific region that used rabbits a lot in clothing and food, but the statement they were gone was laughably triggering.

From there kids didn't say much else. All I heard was my personal broken record.

From then on, I made sure I had my Aro and Ace pins, and my native pride shirts as often as possible, to show what I really am. At least if people don't know what the pins are they can assume I'm somehow queer and back off. At least I started wearing the pins at home. Not that many people would notice; or know what any of it means to me. But at least someone would. At least I know there are 3 more of us here, somewhere. Hiding in plain sight. At least I ultimately don't care for why people I don't know would care enough to comment. Or why I comment on them in all honesty. At least I can decide it doesn't affect me so I can scrub the stains gone. At least I have pretty good luck charms. At least I have Redbone's Come and Get Your Love.

I don't think its that I don't like history anymore, more often than not, I've learned, my favorite part of history is what is never taught.

[angelofrainfrogs]

Spend the Night: Ch. 7

~Coauthored by @zeitghest~

Fandom(s): Five Nights At Freddy’s: Security Breach

Description: The familiar melody of Grandfather’s Clock chimes through the echoing halls of the Pizzaplex…

Charlie wakes up in her Puppet’s vessel yet again with one goal in mind: to stop William Afton’s reign of terror for good. She enlists the help of Glamrock Freddy, the emphatic leader of the newest iteration of the Fazbear Band. But there seems to be more to this bear than meets the eye—and the same goes for the mysteriously familiar kid the duo find tinkering with animatronics down in Parts & Service.

With some help from friends new and old, Charlie’s journey into the bowels of the Pizzaplex will unravel mysteries none of them ever expected. 

Rating: T

Read on Ao3

It is just a glitch scattered in the system Tell me that it's wrong, never gonna listen World won't understand till they stand the vision Mayhem, mayhem, three, two, one

~Under Control by Tryhardninja, Ivy Marie~

“We must prepare to move,” Freddy announced, releasing Gregory and snatching the next access card from its little bear-shaped holder on the desk. Now they’d be able to get into higher-level areas than before—including another security office.

As Freddy grabbed for the card, Charlie reached for Gregory. Of course there was always another hurdle to overcome. With it barely even being 2:00 in the morning, they still had a long time before the main doors opened again. God forbid something else went wrong; Gregory could be trapped here with them over the weekend, too...

“Freddy? There's a place around here with unused characters right?” Charlie asked, bouncing Gregory soothingly in her arms and they readied to speed from the security room. “I think I have a solution for you and Michael's problem.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, there is a basement warehouse near Parts & Service; I believe unused characters are stored there as well,” Freddy responded a bit absently, watching the monitor as Vanessa approached the door.

“Freddy?” the guard’s voice soon rang out and she knocked harshly. “I can hear you in there! What the hell are you doing?! I gave you instructions to stay put, and now none of the Glamrocks are in their rooms!”

Vanessa sounded well and truly angry. She’d been running around searching for this phantom kid for nearly two hours, and she was tired.

“Ah, I was… using the cameras to see if I could track the child down!” Freddy replied, refusing to open the door until they absolutely had to. Speaking of cameras—

Another glance revealed yet another threat: Roxy was prowling through the arcade, directly in their path to the exit.

Charlie had half a mind to just press her face up to the double-walled security glass and scare Vanessa away. She didn't exactly deserve to be frightened so badly, yet they couldn't afford her slowing them down anymore. It seemed that right after she showed up so did the other animatronics, and that bunny might not be far behind either...

Roxy looked worse than before. What was she doing? Rolling in the left over oil at the Raceway? She normally held such pride in her appearance, reasonably grooming herself and making sure her model was in perfect, working condition before performances and “bedtime.” Now the cracks were showing—her metal chassis forming hairline fractures at stress points. Dirt and grime matted in the faux fur atop her head, smattering her cheeks and covering the paint-job makeup that the designers spent so long creating for her.

“You like playing games, Gregory?” growled Roxy, her voice heard past Vanessa in the arcade. “I know a game we can play—I'm a pro at hide and seek.”

The wolf was seething; her sharp maw would probably be dripping with drool if it could do such a thing.

Gregory held in his fearful sounds, choosing to close his eyes and bury his face in Charlie's thin shoulder. They knew he was there… but how?

If Michael had a body, he’d be shivering with fright at Roxy. Objectively he’d seen much worse over the years, but something about her tone, the way she was so clearly out for a child’s blood… that was utterly horrifying. Even the Funtime animatronics that were literally designed to capture children for William’s sick research purposes didn’t act like this. They behaved like relatively normal robots until a kid was close enough to grab, then they snapped and it was over in an instant.

But these Glamrock models… these were aware. And that made their actions so much worse.

“Bullshit!” Vanessa snapped as Michael fretted. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you guys, but as soon as I get in there you’re going straight back to your room and I’m putting you on extra-lockdown!” She wasn’t entirely sure if they actually had that protocol, but she couldn’t think of a better threat right now.

“Charlie, you must focus on getting Gregory out,” Freddy murmured. “Find somewhere safe—I will keep the others occupied as long as possible, then come and find you.”

“Are you talking to someone?!” Vanessa chimed in, and it was at that moment the door power failed. The distinctive sound of electronics shutting down could be heard as the lights in the security office went out. The door soon raised, revealing Vanessa standing there with hands on her hips. She let out a gasp, eyes widening at the sight of Gregory and the Puppet.

“What the—what the fuck are you?!” She shook her head with an annoyed growl, starting forward. “Whatever; hand over the brat. He’s caused enough trouble tonight.”

Charlie was aware that Vanessa had been in the dark about everything just like them. Really, the woman didn’t deserve most of the frustrations of tonight. Even so Charlie’s arms coiled around Gregory, almost constricting him as she let out an inhuman hiss.

“He didn’t do anything wrong! Leave him alone!” she warned, backing slowly away. She attempted to match Vanessa’s pace, planning to run out the opposite door. The goal would be to hightail it out of the arcade without Roxy catching either of them, but with the speed demon hounding for their blood she’d have to time it perfectly.

Gregory looked up to Vanessa, the fear in his face knotting into anger. “Hey! Who are you calling a brat, dumbass?!”

“Clearly you, kid.” Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Ugh, why do I have to find the one with the biggest attitude? Look, I just need to take you to a safe area so we can call the police and get in contact with your parents. You can even take your weird, clingy robot with you... What are you, anyway?” The guard paused, staring at the Puppet with a pinched expression of confusion. “Some knockoff Daycare attendant model? Or—oh my god, Freddy, get out of my way!”

The bear had placed himself directly in Vanessa's path, holding his arms out ready to physically restrain her if need be.

“I am sorry,” he said with a shake of the head. “But my child safety protocols indicate that, at this moment, Gregory is safest with me and Charlie.”

“What?!” Vanessa shrieked, clenching her fists so hard her knuckles went white. “There is absolutely no way your protocol would tell you that a kid is safer with a robot than a human! You're so malfunctioning right now; we’ve got to—ouch!”

Suddenly, Vanessa's face twisted into an expression of extreme pain and she doubled over, clutching her head.

“Officer Vanessa?! Are you alright?” Freddy asked, instinctively reaching out to help.

“Mmph, y-yeah... just... just a migraine...”

And major amnesia to follow, Vanessa thought, but there was no need to tell the robot about her chronic health issues. She remained hunched over, temporarily blocking out everything around her as she tried to get over this sudden attack. She couldn't afford to lose the kid again...

Gregory was ready to push Puppet aside just to fight Vanessa for her rude nature towards his friends, though Charlie held fast to the squirming child with her arms laced around his small frame. There was no room for arguing between them. With Freddy intervening and trying to talk some sense into Vanessa, Charlie put more space between the humans.

“Freddy—” she said, calm and collected as she watched Vanessa curl at the pressure building in her skull. “—Vanessa needs first aid. She doesn't look too good...”

“Who cares about her?!” Gregory snapped, eyes narrowed at the night guard. His sympathy was clearly thin for her right now, having been tracked down by her for over twenty-four hours by this point. “She's the weirdo who's been trying to kidnap me, remember?!”

“Gregory, please have some empathy. She's hurting...” Charlie remarked. All the while, they were completely unaware what was really happening inside of Vanessa's head.

Ẅ̴̛̪͍̽̑̈́͌͌̄͛̏̏̃̅͝h̵̻̉a̸̺͆t̶̬̿'̴̡́s̴̱͛ ̵̮̅ẃ̸̨r̴͔̐ō̷̖n̷̠͝g̵̦̑,̷̼̔ ̷̳̿f̷̰̽u̷͔̿n̶̝̿n̷̠͒y̷̺͂ ̸̲͋b̴̟͆ǘ̷͇n̵̺͝ṅ̸̪y̴͓̒?̴̡͝[1]

Ä̵͉́r̵̼͑e̶̟͐ ̸͉̓t̵͉͊h̴̜̓ë̶͎́y̷̞͊ ̷͎̒b̶̯̊ẻ̷̟į̶͑ǹ̶̜g̸̤̎ ̵̯̿m̸̝͝è̴͚ȃ̴̠n̶̳̂ ̴͚͒t̴͉̚o̷͉̽ ̶͎̔y̴͓̕o̸͇͌u̶̼̔?̸̻̈

Ș̵̢̡͉̘̊̆̈̎͆ḩ̵̓o̵͎̍w̸̨͒ ̵̮̽t̶͔͋h̵͉̆e̷̪̓m̴̙͊ ̴̻͝w̶̖̚h̴̯̕a̶̰̒t̵̝̂ ̵̼͑h̷̨̒a̴̩͘p̷͚̀p̷̥͌e̴̡͐ṅ̸̺s̴̛ͅ ̶͖̈́w̸͕̔h̸̛̜e̴̤͋n̶̠͒ ̵͖̋ţ̷̀h̶̞̓e̴̼̎ỳ̸̡ ̴͉̓ḏ̷͂o̶̫̚n̴̻͛'̶̤̓t̶͍̄ ̶̫̄p̷̥͐l̵͈͌a̶͈͌y̵̪͌ ̴͕̇n̶̯̓ỉ̵̲c̴̯̓ė̷ͅ.̸̣̊.̶̼̉.̵̨̇ ̵͖̓

The playful voice inside the guard’s mind tried to soothe her, pain increasing the longer she denied it.

“N-No, I... I don't... What...?” Vanessa was mumbling to herself, a nonsensical string of words for the nonsensical voice. The ache was so intense all she wanted to do was curl up on the floor and sleep for days. She resisted as long as she could… but as was the case nowadays, that wasn't more than a few seconds.

“Oh?” All of a sudden Vanessa perked up, releasing her head to stare at the little group in the office. An eerie smile stretched her mouth wide, and her gaze was somehow both vacant yet very sharp. She glanced down at her body, tugging at the crisp, white uniform shirt.

“Oh no, no, this won't do; these clothes are so stiff! She keeps misplacing that thing...” She let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head for a moment before abruptly snapping her gaze to Freddy's. “I'll be riiiiight back~ But while I'm gone, you can play with a friend!”

Without warning she whipped around to dash away through the arcade, her goal known only to herself. For just a second, it seemed like Freddy and his friends' prayers had been answered. That is, until they heard Vanessa shout at the top of her lungs:

“Oh Roooooxyyyyyyy~ Gregory's in the security office, and the power's out! Better go find him before Monty does—you want to make sure you're the best, don't you?”

The mumbling had only raised more questions at Vanessa's strange behavior. But when her whole demeanor changed from agonizing in pain to practically frolicking away to alert the others, Charlie recognized what was happening. Scampering towards Freddy, she raised Gregory up to the bear.

“Put him inside your chest, now!” she begged. “It's her! I recognize the voice now—it's the bunny lady!”

The sound of stampeding, metal feet began to tear straight for them.

“What?!” An incredulous tone could be heard, Roxy flabbergasted that Vanessa would even imply that Monty was better than her. She was the best. An obvious fan favorite! 

And she was going to make sure the others knew it. She barreled for the office, feral and growling even as she skidded and slid painfully into the walls.

“Gregory!” Roxy snarled, “Get over here, you snot-nosed punk!”

Freddy knew there was no time for questions, and Michael realized the same. The ghost resisted the urge to argue with Charlie’s instructions, sucking up his personal correlation with shoving a kid into an animatronic’s chest cavity to let the bear do what he needed to. Freddy was safe, and that meant Gregory would be safe, too. Without hesitation Freddy helped Gregory scramble into his surprise compartment, closing the hatch just in time for Roxy to slam into the wall outside the open doorway.

“Roxanne!” Freddy exclaimed, eyes wide at the sight of her in person. Along with the dirt she had a plethora of tiny dents and scratches, presumably from running into things during her frantic search. “What happened to you?!”

“Not the time, Freddy!” Michael reminded with an edge of panic to his voice. “Get Gregory out of here before she figures out where you hid him!”

Freddy stared at Roxy for a moment longer, his face twisted in an expression of genuine hurt and confusion. He hated to see his friends like this—it scared him. Until tonight, Freddy thought it was impossible for him to feel such things as fear…

But that existential crisis was for another time. Michael was right: they had a mission.

Slowly, Freddy began shifting around the wolf, trying not to make any sudden moves that would startle her or give any indication that the child was nearby. Roxy huffed, a simulated sniffing coming from her nose as she glanced around the room in a jittery nature.

“He was here! I just heard him…,” she said, pushing past the Puppet as she inspected the room, practically ignoring Freddy until all hope of finding Gregory had been lost to her.

“Freddy... Buddy, amigo...” She looked to the bear, clasping her paws together as she approached. “You've seen the kid, right? You have to by now. C'mon, help a girl out...”

Charlie already stood in the doorway, making sure the coast was all clear as she motioned just outside Roxanne's line of sight for Freddy to follow her. The wolf’s unsettling appearance, both out of character and alarming, became more apparent the closer she drew.

“Ditch the creepy Puppet! Come hang out with me and help me find that brat!” Roxy begged, yellow eyes desperate for help.

“I... I cannot do that, Roxy,” Freddy replied with a shake of his head. He’d been inching away successfully until the wolf stepped up to him—now she was a bit too close for comfort. Freddy knew she was much faster than him, especially in this virus-induced state, and the last thing he wanted was for her to somehow finagle his stomach hatch open in a frenzy. He just needed to move her a bit and then he could make a break for it.

“You likely will not accept this, but there is something wrong with you,” Freddy continued, gently putting his hands on the wolf’s shoulders. As he spoke he shifted her sideways, ever-so-slowly moving her out of his path. “Something is wrong with all of you—Monty, Chica, even Moon and Officer Vanessa. I am trying to figure it out and return you all to normal, and it would be a great help to me if you would stop trying to pursue the child.”

Freddy’s grip tightened on Roxy’s shoulders. He moved her a little more forcefully, tapping into his animatronic strength just enough to match her resistance. Just a few inches more, and the path would be free.

Roxy's expression turned from one of mild annoyance to complete offense. Her eye's flicked over Freddy's face as if looking for a sign that he was joking.

“What?! There’s nothing wrong with me! I-I'm... I-I—” She stuttered, not for lack of anything to defend herself with verbally, but literally shorting out as she was made to think about her and the rest of the Glamrocks’ actions.

She resisted Freddy’s shifting, trying to push back. But as she glitched, her strength faltered. She was pushed into the desk, a few loose bolts clattering as they toppled to the ground. Before she could explain herself, Freddy and the Puppet were already speeding away.

“W-Wait! Freddy, I'm sorry!” Roxy attempted to call after them. With the child momentarily out of sight and mind, she was granted a minute of lucidity and couldn’t help but feel disgust.

But this quickly faded, as everything did thanks to the malware infecting her very core.

She listened to the voice inside her head that told her to get the child. Her goal was to bring him to the basement without maiming him too much. The rest of the plan was so genius Roxy couldn't even comprehend why they were doing it in the first place.

***

Freddy gritted his teeth as he ran, trying to forget that look in Roxy’s eyes. For just a moment she’d been herself again, trying to break through whatever was controlling her. Her apology echoed heavily in Freddy’s mind, and he suddenly had the strange urge to yell out in frustration. He resisted of course, not wanting to alert anyone to their position more than his heavy footsteps already would. Instead he pressed on, thinking of the best path to their next destination.

“The stage!” Freddy exclaimed, falling into step with Charlie. “It will take us directly to Parts & Service. But we need to activate the sound booth first—hopefully there is a showtime disk already in place, but if not we will have to locate one.”

“How hard could that be?” Gregory asked, relieved when he heard a plan coming from the outside of his little enclosure.

Freddy then took the lead, guiding Charlie back through the arcade and El Chips. Soon enough they’d re-emerged in the main atrium and made a beeline for the sound booth. Thankfully it was also on the third floor, not far from their current position.

“Is a showtime disk like a record?” Charlie felt the need to ask, her voice not above a whisper as they curtailed themselves into the booth. Overlooking the stage and all that sat before the concert area, they sat relatively in the open. With the strange sounds emanating from the third floor backrooms, Puppet wanted to get the show started and leave as soon as possible.

“Yes, it is a CD—like a smaller version of a record,” Freddy explained as he rapidly scanned the area. To his great frustration, there was no such item anywhere in sight. “It is not here—we must take the long way around, back through Rockstar Row. Follow me.”

Not wanting to waste time Freddy urged the Puppet to trail after him, adding in a hushed voice as they moved: “We can use Roxy’s service elevator for the time being, although once we return from Parts & Service we can rest in the security office near Rockstar Row—it is accessible with our new clearance level. From my recollection the showtime disks are often stored there as well, so hopefully we can pick one up in case we need to activate the stage lift later.”

Freddy was hesitant to jinx anything, but in a way it seemed like things might be turning in their favor, if only for a moment. Hopefully Charlie was onto something with regards to Michael’s predicament, and this task wouldn’t be fruitless. Although even if it was, at least it would keep Gregory moving. Freddy dreaded the thought of getting cornered again. If Roxy was already this bad, he didn’t want to know what the others were like.

Having watched the head of security change right before their eyes into someone so completely different than before only told Puppet one thing: this virus didn’t just affect robots. It’d been spreading through people as well.

It just went to show how they needed to work together to keep Gregory separated from whatever the hell was going on around the Pizzaplex. This virus, whatever it was, must have something to do with William's return. Should they make it to Parts & Service in one piece, Michael's experience with dealing in his father's villainy would help them immeasurably.

Again they moved, all too scared for now to let Gregory leave Freddy's chest. It would be bad enough if the robots were seen out and about—though to their benefit Freddy's bandmates only seemed interested in human blood and flesh, not metal and oil.

With Rockstar Row in sight and all its residents currently looking high and low in more complex places for their little gang, they snuck in undetected. Through Roxy's more inexplicably damaged backstage room they crept, right as Gregory broke the silence.

“Freddy? Is it safe to come out yet? My legs are cramping!”

Don't think about the meat pretzel..., Gregory mentally noted as a means of staying calm in the tight closed in space for so long.

Freddy winced as a barrage of images suddenly flashed through his mind in response to Gregory's innocent comment. Most flew by too fast to catch, but three kept repeating themselves over and over again:

A smiling little girl with long, red hair, green eyes, and a red bow in her hair...

A clown-themed animatronic Freddy recognized a Circus Baby...

The same animatronic standing exactly as before, though there was a distinct trail of dark, red liquid leaking from her chest cavity.

“Michael, stop!” Freddy exclaimed, jerking his head in an effort to quell the ghost's memories. Whatever those images represented were so painful even Freddy was starting to feel an ache deep in his core.

“O-Oh god, I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean to—is Gregory okay?! I don't like the thought of him being uncomfortable in there w-with... with the cramps, and all,” Michael managed to say, reigning in his wayward thoughts. Clearly this wasn't the only issue at hand, but he didn't want to freak Freddy out and somehow cause exactly what he was afraid of happening.

“Yes, he is fine—Gregory, please come out.” Freddy heaved a sigh of relief as they entered Roxy's service elevator and closed the door. He opened his chest cavity and freed the kid while checking his power meter. “I must charge before we progress—there is a station just outside the main area of Parts & Service. We can stop there before going to the warehouse.”

Helping Gregory down from his spot inside of Freddy's torso, Charlie suggested he sit and stretch his legs before they left the lift. Safe Mode may not be the best way for Freddy to be traveling throughout the night in regards to the draining battery power, but it also still might be one of the only things keeping him safe from the virus spreading around.

“Don't worry you guys,” Charlie tried to comfort. “Gregory's a tough kid, right?”

Gregory plopped to the ground, stretching out his legs and reaching halfheartedly towards his toes.

“More like a kid who's about to have a charley-horse...,” he griped in reply.

He was still having a tough time moving past Vanessa's odd behavior from earlier. He knew she was weird, but that smile... It didn't even look like it belonged to her. It was uncanny—as if someone had copied an eerie grin and pasted it over Vanessa's mouth. Not to mention her words, and the way she said them.

It’d begun to hit Gregory too that something was controlling the minds of people along with the animatronics. That wasn't something he could fathom—the idea of losing his mind inside this nightmare was already becoming too real for him to feel comfortable.

Eventually the lift brought them to the hallway leading towards Parts & Service. If one were to peer into the actual workshop and the safety cylinder, the Map Bot Gregory attempted to reprogram was notably gone...

“The entrance to the warehouse is just around the corner from the charging station,” Freddy informed the group as he led the way out of the elevator. He frowned slightly upon seeing the empty cylinder, wondering who exactly moved the defunct robot. “However, I suggest that you—”

“Ehehehe...” A distinct cackle filled the air, and Freddy whipped his head to find a glowing set of red eyes peering out from a dark corner. Moon crouched low to the ground, swaying slightly as he slowly reached one hand up towards a nearby light switch. Before anyone had time to react, the room was plunged into almost complete darkness. “Nighty-niiiiight~”

“Go!” Freddy exclaimed, thankful that Charlie had already scooped Gregory up at the first sign of danger. As the others moved towards safety, Freddy hung back to distract Moon. However, when he turned back the Daycare attendant was already gone from the corner.

“Why the fuck can he crawl on the CEILING?!” Michael screeched as Freddy's eyes roamed up to find Moon literally scuttling upside-down over their heads like some sort of weird, lanky bug.

The bear simply shook his head at Michael's comment, calling out to the Daycare attendant in an attempt to distract him: “Moon! I... I know where to find another child! Come down here and let me tell you!”

Charlie hand to clamp her wiry hand over Gregory's mouth. The last time she tangled with Moon, she ended up in an unconscious heap on the ground with no way to protect anyone. Vanessa had followed them before, and if last time was forewarning then maybe she wasn't far behind.

As they rushed to tuck themselves safely in the recharge station, Charlie and Gregory could only watch in horror at the way Moon moved, lurching and crawling like something from a horror film. If he was made like this, how could any kid sleep with him around?

“Oh, Freddy, Freddy...” Moon paused to stare down at the bear, his static grin impossibly wider than usual. “Don't you know it's naughty to lie? And naughty ones must be punished...”

“What the hell is he—oh no, Freddy, MOVE!” Michael yelled as Moon suddenly released his grip on the ceiling. The animatronic dropped, twisting his body like a cat to land on top of the cylinder with eyes locked on to the bear.

Freddy, however, was starting to struggle.

“I am almost out of battery power,” he murmured as the LOW POWER alert flashed red and ominous across his vision. Apparently, carrying Gregory inside his chest cavity drained him more than he'd initially thought. He spared a glance to the charging pod, then back to Moon. Thankfully, the Daycare attendant didn't seem interested in Gregory at that moment—he was solely focused on Freddy. “Michael... I think he wants me. For what, I do not know, but... are you able to get out?”

"What?! Freddy, I'm not just gonna bail—”

“GET OUT!” Freddy shouted, stumbling backwards as Moon slunk closer. His vision was fading fast, and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before he shut down. As darkness closed in around him, the bear intoned in a sluggish whisper: “Please... You have to... help them... please...”

And then Freddy collapsed in a heap, Moon cackling all the while.

With both fists, Gregory hit the inside of the charging pod in an attempt to open it. He was quickly snatched backwards by Charlie, and they could only listen helplessly as Moon encroached upon Freddy. Charlie had to remind herself that, even if he got out of this in one piece, until the bear was recharged and with Michael attached to him, she'd be the only one to watch Gregory.

Trembling and forced to be silent inside Puppet's arms, Gregory strained to get out and help. Rationally though, he knew there was nothing he could do—and Moon may just in fact tear his new best friend apart.

[1] What’s wrong, funny bunny?

Are they being mean to you?

Show them what happens when they don’t place nice…

***

Previous Chapter ~~ Next Chapter

Looking for more? Check out the Chapter Masterlist on Tumblr!

Or check out the entire Wires that Bind Us Series on ao3!

[thearchivistsjournal]

Day 210,

Morning thought: Cass will be in town today.  I should not be dreading that as much as I am.

*******

Well, we didn’t have that conversation, but I did tell Cass about the catacombs.  As expected, she was angry at having been left out and kept in the dark, and I didn’t blame her.  I don’t care to recount the specifics save to say that it took a while, but we worked through it and she shifted to bombarding me with questions trying to extract every possible detail from my memory, both the translated chanting and the open sarcophagus.  Interwoven with those lines of questioning were threads of ideas for other things to try.  Opening the sarcophagus again to see if the shade came back.  Copying down the symbols from inside the sarcophagus and seeing if we can write them on something else to trap a shade.  Or keep them away.  I drew the line at the suggestion that I try sleeping down in the catacomb on a mist night.

In an attempt to redirect and channel some of that enthusiasm I suggested we do that thorough examination comparing the chant transcriptions we’d been meaning to.  For a few hours anyway, then we’d need to get ready for tonight’s telling.

Of course, Cass jumped straight to examining the period between Maiko and I going downstairs and our return.  I made a point of complimenting her good archival work in annotating that.  It was a genuine compliment, but I’d be lying if there wasn’t some preemptive guilt contributing to my verbalizing it instead of just thinking it.

After another round of questioning me about how fast I was going down the stairs and at what point I had my vision she narrowed down what she claimed to be an excerpt containing the translated portion somewhere within.  She even tried reading it aloud to see if that triggered anything for me, but it all still sounded like gibberish to me.

As before, working too long on denotation-less strings of phonetic symbols still gives me headaches, but while I was taking my breaks from that, Cass kept going.  When I returned to find her rapidly flipping back and forth between several pages she had bookmarked I asked the obvious question of whether she’d found something interesting.  Of course, she had.  Not so much a pattern, but a break in one.  While we’d not seen any full looping segments yet, we had identified a few words or phrases that, whenever they showed up, were always followed by another specific word or phrase.  She’d found one of these phrases that seemed to be missing its second half.  Excited, I joined her and confirmed what she was seeing.  Even cross-referenced it with Lin and Vernon’s transcriptions.

We spent longer than we meant to on examining the preceding and following passages around that breakpoint (which Cass claimed had been seamless enough not to notice while listening, especially after having been at it for hours), but eventually we figured out the other thing that had been bothering Cass about that segment.  We figured we’d missed it at the time due to not comparing the notes before and after our rainless lunch break combined with fatigue from hours of listening to gibberish and writing it down, but somewhere around the time we started going back downstairs and putting hands on top of sarcophagi to listen to them, we starting finding repeated segments from around the time we’d first arrived that day.  The implication being that there is a looping nature to the chants, but it’s hours long and opening the sarcophagus may have caused the loop to restart from the beginning prematurely.

A potential discovery worth the price of once again not having the proper time to practice and prepare for the telling.  We wound up sort of winging it once again.  We had fun though, both the telling and the research.

If only it could always be like that.

<==Previous          Next==>

[magiclwritings]

None of this had felt real. Not the little one off Renly and Quin had on the balcony, Cesare and Quintus sleeping together and now the two of them standing in the stables with his cousin beaten half bloody just a little ways from them. But as he stood in front of this man all he could feel was sad and hurt. Loving Quintus wasn’t for the faint of heart and he was anything but that. It still didn’t stop the tightness in his chest from grabbing hold of him with no mercy. Tears welled in his eyes and he quickly had to blink them away turning from the prince for a moment to gather his composure because he wasn’t entirely sure he was hearing everything right or even at all. 

His vision blurry but his wits about him once more, he didn’t let a single second waste after that. “You cannot just go and sacrifice yourself every time the opportunity presents itself. I knew I should have told my fath- .” Cesare stopped himself because the more visibly angry Quintus saw, the less it would help. And while he was pissed, he couldn’t afford for him to go and do something else just as reckless or worse. “You’re not going to Vivec alone. You’re not going to Vivec with my cousin. Max is alive because if he were dead that country would be in a full upheaval and despite what you may think, people are capable of being just as clever as you when it comes to espionage.” Gods his blood was boiling and his fingers were itching to reach out and strangle that man. No matter how blissful the hours were before, Cesare couldn’t let this go.

He let his hands fall onto his hips and he stalked forward, not close enough to be touched be near enough to see his face. “Was it all a ploy to just get me to fuck you and you’d just leave? Because if that was your intent I don’t think I can forgive that, Quin.” As much as it hurt, the prince meant it. He’s spent too many years of his life loving this man for it all to come down to a trick like that. It made him sick to his stomach and he even swallowed a little faster just to keep the bile burning the back of his throat at bay. “You have no idea what was going to happen and you just thought dying was your best option? What would that have done to Max? Who would he have then?” His lower lip was trembling and this time he didn’t blink back the tears but let them stream his face because Quin had to know. He had to see what he was doing to himself, to his brother. To him. To them. “Who would I have?” He added selfishly, almost too quiet for him to hear but Cesare knew he did. 

“And now.” He sniffled, kicking the hay pile under his foot and then the stool. His hands caught the nearest stall. “Now there’s a very good chance that one of my only living relatives is going to be put to death because of all of this.” He slammed his fist in the wood and then did it again and again, his hand balling into a fist as he wailed on the wood until he felt the skin on his knuckles break. “Because you couldn’t wait Quin. There’s another person going to die because you couldn’t just give me a chance to get something together.” His head whipped around and he straightened, hands down at his sides to keep him in place. “The doctor, your brother, your friend you left with Max, my men and now my callous and greedy cousin have all fallen victims to this game between you and that fucking pig of a man. And it is finished.” 

Cesare stalked up to Quin and grabbed his face in both of his hands. It was only then that he’d realized more than just a few drops of blood were pumping from his knuckles. “This game between you and him is done. You are mine. And I refuse to lose you to him.” His fingers flexed and he saw the bit of blood he’d smeared on the prince’s cheek. Cesare couldn’t stop looking at him and without hesitation the rest of his body found its way back against the other. “Don’t you ever disappear from my bed like that again. You wake me and we work it out if what was said was not enough for you.” The prince pulled the other’s face in and he breathed in his scent, just giving himself that moment to realize he’d caught him in time. That he wasn’t mad dashing through the forest to stop him instead of standing in this stable and bleeding on him. “Because I have loved you for longer than I think I even know. I can’t lose you, Quintus. I won’t.”

Renly hurried into the cloak he’d come with and his own pair of boots. It wasn’t in his wheel house at that moment to truly give much thought to anything not in front of him at that moment. The only downside was that he’d have to listen to Quintus for the rest of this trip. But he took in what he’d managed to spit out at him. While he couldn’t deny most of it, he was wrong about one thing. They both acted selfishly no matter how they thought it would help those around them. 

They quietly walked along the corridors with nothing but the stones kicking under their feet occasionally for company. And after a few staircases Renly finally found it in himself to say something to the prince. “You of all people I would think could understand my plight.” He spoke so casually, as if he weren’t escorting this man to his own death. Because there could be nothing else for Quintus once he was back home. And Cesare would never forgive something so ugly. Not when he had looked at the man beside him as if he’d hung the moon and stars himself. “It’s suffocating to be linked to someone but never be considered the same or even equal. Good enough for entertainment but never enough to stand on your own.” The words were bitter because it wasn’t that he hated his cousin. He just had the unfortunate luck of being born into this family. His fists clenched and loosened over and over again. He didn’t expect Quintus to comment or even care but Renly had carved something out of his own. And once this was done he would find his own way in this world. Perhaps even start a new life with a new name and no association to those he once clung to and called family. “Just shut up and walk.” He growled after another moment, he slid up around the corner and peered around, just another two floors and they’d be near the kitchens and the stables were just a ways from that. 

__________________________________________

“Sir”

Cesare kept waving off whatever was trying to pull him from this beautiful night. He’d held Quitus, had him in his bed and they’d finally stopped playing their games. Things were finally going right and he couldn’t be bothered to leave it. 

“Your Highness!”

The voice was too stern to ignore now. “Someone had better be dead.” The prince’s eyes fluttered open and he stretched out, reaching for the body that should have been in bed with him. And when he found nothing he flipped over, the bed empty and a guard standing at the end of his bed, eyes diverted towards the ground. Cesare clutched the furs to his chest and grumpily huffed at the man. “What the hell is going on. What are you doing in here?” Cesare felt his stomach bottom out before the guard even opened his mouth. A light sheen of sweat coated his body and the prince did everything in his power to listen to was this man was saying. That his cousin allowed Quin into his room and then he was dismissed. Why the hell would he do that? They talked about speaking to his father and getting ahead of this before his uncle could know that Renly would be compromised.  

Cesare jumped up from his bed, not caring that he was stark naked. He searched his room, not a scrap of Quin’s clothing were anywhere and he began to feel the tightening in his chest become damn near unbearable. He raced to tug on a pair of pants but stopped on the way past his desk. A fresh piece of parchment laid so neatly out and Cesare instantly recognized the penmanship. Without warning a tear fell from his eye and he took the parchment between his hands and read it at least five times over before he felt himself in the very room he stood again. 

“Sir?” The guard took another two steps towards the prince. He just stood there, slumped over that parchment in his hands as if he were in a trance. It was too dark for him to make out anything on it before he was staring eye to eye with the crowned prince once again.

“Call for the bells. Wake my father and the men. We have a traitor in our midst and a stolen prince.” 

The guard fled from his rooms with haste he'd not seen in a long time. "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill you both when I get my hands on you." Cesare crumbled the paper and spat at it as he went for a shirt and his coverings. "Tell your story. You self entitled prick." He swore and pulled on his jacket, pausing once to look back at the bed and the disheveled covers that held so much warmth and love just a few hours ago. "Fuck you, Quintus. You're not doing this to me."