#like having darker hair than he's supposed to and stubble and being covered in blood and sweat at the end

[ofpd]

les mis 2012 was so invested in making enjolras sexy which is something that he simply isn't

[theyreonlynoodlesmike]

i have a mad thomas x reader request where reader is forced to marry thomas (idk how just-) and is disgusted about it but eventually ends up liking him.(? idk how to explain myself:’)

No one look at me,,,,,,,,,,also this is heavily inspired by the Scarlet Letter and was supposed to be a tad darker but I copped out (also someone asked for a pregnant reader recently so this + that = this fic)

A Lie They Would Believe (Mad Thomas x Fem!Reader)

Warnings: dark themes, 1600 standards, values, and laws, affairs/cheating, ex-relationship with the pastor is mentioned, Thomas is Thomas, mentions of drinking, webs of lies, public humiliation, AFAB and Fem reader, pregnant reader, pre-marital pregnancy solved a la shotgun marriage, twisted win-win situation turns into love?, slow burn(?),

Word Count: 3.7k

You could accept your punishment with a turned cheek, you told yourself over and over again.

You could stare out at the audience of towns people, even as the sun beat on your face. You could stare out into the angry faces of the elders, into the pitying faces of your friends. Into the ashamed faces of your parents. But, you could not look at Cyrus Miller.

You'd missed your blood two months ago. You'd begged, prayed, everyday that it would come. But, the only thing that came was the morning sickness. You'd tried to hide it, tried to think of what to do. But, when you placed your hand over your stomach, you couldn't bring yourself to find the hag in the forest. And, when your mother held your spotless, white sheets in your face, you'd crumbled. You confessed in the privacy of your room as if you were confessing in church. You told her everything.

Well, almost.

"Tell us his name!" Cyrus said, a voice that you couldn't force to fall into the background. "Tell us the name of your accomplice and you shall suffer no more." He said, and you wanted to believe him. You let your eyes close for a moment, but your lips did not move. Your mouth did not open. "Tell us the father's name, so that your baby will not be born a bastard!" He said, and his hand reached out to grab your arm. His grip was strong and tight, unlike the caresses you'd become so accustomed to with him. While his words begged you to say the name, his name, the action spoke differently. You peeled open your eyes and looked up at him, at his raven hair and kind face. His dark, soft eyes. Tears pricked the corners of your own eyes, hard and glassy as you looked up at him. But, you were silent. Even as some of the townspeople yelled for you to confess.

But, how could you tell them that it was your persecutor who was the father of your child? That your pastor, the leader of this town, had sinned so egregiously? He had a wife, a daughter. You'd known both of those things when you'd fallen for him, but it was harder to ignore in the harsh sunlight. When both of them stood in front of you.

You knew you'd have to face punishment. Sex before marriage was a crime after all, completely forbidden. To think they didn't know you were an adulterer also. You didn't know what it'd be, but you knew you'd have no option but to accept it when it came. You'd already made your peace with it, made your peace with whatever God could condemn you to. Perhaps, you'd have to live alone, wear a scarlet letter on your breast. Perhaps, they'd cast you out completely, and you'd be shunned. Perhaps, they'd hang you. You touched your stomach at that thought. Perhaps, there were certain punishments you couldn't bear.

Your lips only fell open when a voice yelled,

"It was I." And a gasp fell from your mouth. Your head turned, snapped towards the voice. Towards the sea of faces that was the crowd. But, you knew that voice. "It's my child." He said, and your eyes fell on a face you knew all too well. And, at that moment, you knew exactly what type of punishment God had set out for you.

Mad Thomas.

***

The day had gone by in a blur.

Over and over in your head, one question repeated itself. Why? It was almost loud enough to drown out the constant whispers, the stories being spun by every person who seemed to have a tongue.

Union couldn't seem to stop talking about it. Of when it started, how long it'd been going on, when the pair of you had even had time to sneak off. You'd even heard a young Constance Berman whisper about how she'd always known something was going on between the two of you, only to be shushed by her older sister as you passed. As you'd been let free of the top of the church steps.

You'd been left outside, left out in the sun. Inside the church went your father, the pastor, and Thomas. You had no idea what Thomas was going to say, what lies he was going to spin.

You couldn't bring yourself to leave, to speak. You felt as though a blanket of white noise had covered your ears, covered your mind. You were surprised, to say the least. You'd thought a wave of devastation had washed over you the first moment you'd realized you were with child, but this? It made it seem like ripples in a pond. The only thing you could do was stare at the church door and wait for them to come out. But, you felt a warm arm wrap around your waist and you turned to see the face of your mother.

"Come," She said, and you looked back at the door blankly. You didn't want to leave. You wanted to be there when they came out. But, you couldn't find the words to say or the strength to keep your feet firm. So, you let her guide you away from the crowd, and towards your house.

It was only later that you were told you and Thomas were to be married by the end of the month.

***

You and Thomas were never allowed a moment alone. You didn't know whether to be relieved or not, but Thomas, a man who you quickly found was far more confusing than you thought, was playing a charade. He brought you flowers, carried your water pail for you, and even took you on chaperoned walks. You, however, were stony and stiff, barely able to contain your disgust for him. It was on your first walk that you whispered,

"Why? Why are you doing this?" And, for a moment, the incorrigible man seemed to pretend not to hear you. He glanced over his shoulder, as if the wind was at his ear instead, and you saw him cast a sly glance to the man behind them. It was one of your father's friends, walking only about two yards behind you. Finally, when he decided he was far away enough, he responded,

"Would you rather I had let them cast you out? Let you and your child starve in the woods?" Thomas said back, the most sober you'd ever heard him. It seemed that apart of your father's deal with him was that he cut back on the drink. He didn't even stumble as he walked.

"Don't pretend you did this out of charity. Why, Thomas?" You asked, and you, for only a moment, reached out to touch his arm. You pulled it back just as quick, hoping that your chaperone hadn't seen. Thomas looked down at the action, before he smirked and shook his head.

"Aren't we a perfect match?" He asked, and you gave him a look of confusion. He continued with, "You think I don't know what people say about me? Don't you see, girl? It doesn't matter if your father is the best woodworker, or the richest in Union anymore. No one would have you, or your bastard child. Except me." He said, and you almost couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. He continued, his words a whisper now, "Besides, it's a lie they would believe." You stared at him, flabbergasted by his words. Flabbergasted by how right he was.

Thomas had, well, a reputation. It wasn't out of character for his wedding to be one out of necessity, and perhaps it earned you some pity from the townspeople. How many women had Thomas seduced? And how many of them could truly judge you? Not to mention, his words left one thing clear.

So, it was my dowry, you thought. It wasn't an unheard of reason, and it made sense given the man you were talking to. Your father had been avoiding selling you off, even as you reached far into your womanhood. And, surely, your father would never have considered him under any normal circumstance, but now...You didn't seem to have much of a choice.

Thomas paused, picking up one of the wildflowers and handing it to you. You took it, knowing now that you had to play along. That you had to act as if he truly was the father of your child, and not someone as foreign to you as the land outside of Union.

"Your father was going to start building us a house. I was thinking right here," Thomas said, his voice only slightly louder for the chaperone to hear, but you barely paid attention. You were staring down at the yellow flower in your hands, before you glanced up at the man in front of you.

He was tall, but his hair was lighter. His cheeks were stubbly and his eyes- They were a clear blue. Almost the same shade as the sky above you. You watched as he talked, as he laid out his plan. And, while the idea of being married to anyone that you didn't love sickened you, you tried to tell yourself that it wouldn't be as terrible as you felt it would be.

***

You and Thomas sat out in the sun, where you were making a flower crown and he was rambling about one thing or the other. You'd gotten very good at pretending to be in love, even in the span of only a couple of weeks.

You gave him smiles and laughter, and he gave you gifts or stole a caress. It was enough to stir the people of Union so no one would be the wiser. And, with your father at his station a short way across the field, the pair of you could be somewhat alone. But, still within viewing distance.

"You're not listening." Thomas said, and you smiled to yourself for a moment. You looked at the finished crown, before you looked up and reached over to where he was laying on the blanket. He was half-sitting up, and you placed the flower crown atop his head as you said,

"Yes, I was." You replied simply as you adjusted it, and Thomas stared at you and gave a small scoff. He caught your hand as you went to pull it away, his grip loose. He held it almost gently, and said,

"Then kiss me." And your brows drew together. A quick,

"What?" Fell from your lips, and you watched how Thomas smiled. He laughed, letting your hand go as he said,

"So, you weren't listening-" But you were quick to interrupt him.

"Why would- Why?" The idea- the simple idea was preposterous. Why would you kiss him? In broad daylight no less? The suggestion made you nervous, made a weird feeling start in your stomach. And, you ignored how this feeling wasn't entirely unfamiliar.

"They're going to expect us to kiss on our wedding day, girl. Shouldn't we have some practice?" He said, and you thought perhaps the first time he proposed it had been kinder. You stared at him, thinking over his words. Thomas waited, reaching out to touch your skirt. It was only to pick at it for a moment, before he drew his hand away.

You couldn't tell if that was the only reason Thomas wanted to kiss you, if there wasn't some ulterior motive somewhere. You wouldn't put it past him. But, really, he was right. Not to mention, while the pair of you had been affectionate, had you been affectionate enough?

That's what was so aggravating about Thomas. He was always right. He saw clear through whatever facade anyone put up, and saw the truth. Perhaps, that's why he was such a good liar.

Perhaps, that's why he was staring at you.

"Fine." You said, before you looked over your shoulder. You were in the field, but you were more or less a public spectacle. You could hear Thomas draw closer, feel the warmth of his hand reach for your arm.

"Let them look." He said as he gave a tug on your arm, and you turned back to face him. It was strange to hear him say that, such a stark difference from what you were used to. To have him so close was different than before, but Thomas didn't close the gap. You supposed he was waiting for you to do that. He whispered, "Well?" And, finally, you did. It was a short kiss, a quick stolen one. Still, it made Thomas smile. "So chaste." He let out a small laugh, and it was your turn to scoff. "Are you sure-" And you could guess what he was going to say. You kissed him again, if only to silence him. It was deeper, firmer than your last had been. And you hated to admit that you didn't hate it. Thomas was well-practiced, and the feeling of his thumb grazing your cheek was nearly as warm as the feeling of the sun on your back. It made another feeling start, one that you tried to stamp out that very second. You pulled away again, cutting it short. Thomas, for just a moment, tried to follow you before he pulled back. He had a small smile on his face, one he didn't try to hide as he pushed his hair back.

"You're practiced." You said quietly, the closest thing to a compliment you could give him. You'd heard rumors of him galavanting with the likes of Abbi Berman and some of the others. Perhaps, there was some truth to them. Thomas glanced over, and returned the words,

"Aye, so are you." When he smiled and glanced down at your belly, you knew the jab had been intended. And, unfortunately, he'd managed to make you laugh.

***

You knew it was coming. You had prepared yourself for it. Before the wedding, the pastor would counsel both of you. And, he was going to counsel you first.

You stood in a dress your mother had made, with your corset done loosely as not to press on your stomach. You'd been staring out the window, at the cloudless day and the happy faces of your town. Why shouldn't they be happy? It was the day for a celebration.

You'd even caught glimpses of Thomas. Your mother was fussing over him, and Issac had swiped his pouch. He looked- Well, you could tell he'd been scrubbed down. Most of his teeth were still black, but in clean clothes and with a clean face...Perhaps, he didn't look terrible. You tilted your head, and, almost as if he could feel you staring, Thomas' head turned. He caught your eyes, and reflected your posture with a tilt of his own head. It made you smile, something you found was less forced the more time you spent with him. Your head turned from him when you heard someone come in.

"Wonderful day for a wedding." Cyrus said as he closed the door to the chapel, and you tried to manage a smile. "Sit." He said, and gestured to one of the pews. You did, and you both kept your distance. The chapel was dim, only lit by the light outside. The pair of you were silent for a moment, before Cyrus said, "The magistrate is here. He seems eager to start. Do you," He paused for a moment. "Do you have any doubts?" And you felt that the question was not quite as empty as anyone else would think.

You'd been staring at your hands, and you finally lifted your gaze to him. To his deep, dark brown eyes. After a moment, you found your voice.

"None at all. Thomas is- He shall be the father to his child, and he shall be my husband. I shall do my duties, and, I- I love him." It was hard to say, at least when Cyrus sat in front of you. "What is there to doubt?" You asked, your question equally as heavy. While none of you would say it plainly, you knew from the way he looked over your face that he understood you perfectly. The pair of you would never confess your secret, and you'd let the hatchet be buried. Forgotten.

"Does he know?" Cyrus asked, and you knew what it sounded like. In case any of the others were listening. Like he was asking if your soon to be husband knew you loved him. The question couldn't be more disguised. Really, his eyes said, Does he know about us?

"Yes. Or, I think he does." You replied, and you watched how Cyrus reached to touch his clean-shaven face. His face was half hidden by his hand, but you could see his eyes were disturbed. A secret was harder to keep the more people knew, but you said, "And he loves me. He'd do anything to keep this union." You told him, and you hoped he got your meaning. When Cyrus glanced at you, you guessed he did. Silently, your eyes said, If he does, Thomas won't tell. And, after a pause, Cyrus let out a sigh.

"Then, there seems little I have to counsel you on."

***

"Have you thought of a name?" Thomas asked you, and you hummed.

You were picking at your sheet, looking towards the window. It had been months, five if not nearly six. Your baby was due in only a few weeks now, and you still hadn't decided. Your husband, a word to describe him that didn't seem so weird now, laid besides you facing up towards the roof.

Thomas, well, he was not what you thought. He had a good, if not sometimes strange, sense of humor, and did not bruise easily from even the harshest words. He could take care of himself, after years of doing so, and, subsequently, you as well. Your mother and the mid-wife still came by to make sure you were in good health, but Thomas had most of it handled. He was a little lazy when it came to work, especially the work your father tried to give him, but he seemed to find that the work that came with having his own house agreed with him. The pair of you had become- Well, familiar. That was the word you would use. You couldn't say, nearly six months later, that it was still just pretending.

Still, Thomas didn't touch you in any way you wouldn't want him to, and you had to lift your head to throw a glance back to him.

"I have some ideas. Perhaps, if it's a girl," You paused, a sly grin coming to your face, "We could name her Abigail." And you watched him scoff and roll his eyes, even lift his head off of his arm for a moment as he said,

"Absolutely not." And you snickered to yourself as you went back to facing away from him. It was just a jest, a reference to an old dalliance of his, but Thomas, if anything, was fun to tease. The only issue was that Thomas was just as sharp when it came to his wit. "Y'know- Fine. Then, if it's a boy, we shall name him Cyrus." And you let out a noise of protest. You tried to roll over, declaring,

"No!" And now it was Thomas' turn to laugh. He placed a hand on your shoulder, trying to ease you back down. You let him, and even reached to hold his arm. To pull him closer. He followed, and you guided his hand above your bulging stomach as the pair of you adjusted. "Fine- Neither of those names. But, we must think of something." You told him, feeling as he stretched his fingers over where your baby grew. He held you, his warmth against your back. His hand rubbing your stomach lightly.

It made a strange sense of warmth fill you, one you couldn't blame from body-heat. And, it wasn't so terrible that you tried to push it, or him, away.

***

"She cries like no other child in Union." Thomas said as he climbed into your bed. You were supposed to be resting, healing, even weeks, nearly two months, after your child's birth. You felt like you'd been confined to your bed for so long that you were starting to become a part of it. Thomas was only here for the break your father gave him half-way through the day. Still, you smiled to yourself from where you laid on your side, and said,

"Perhaps, it is your smell that disturbs her." You said, your voice thick with sleep but a cheeky grin working onto your face. You shouldn't have prompted him, because he took the opportunity to drape himself heavily over your back.

"Oh, should I sleep outside tonight then?" He asked, and you giggled when you felt his stubble tickling your cheek.

It was already long into the day, and you'd become lazy from bed-rest. It felt far too nice to have his warmth wrapped around you, to where you nearly wanted to fall asleep. You had grown too used to it now, and you could barely imagine a night without it.

"I never said that." You responded, and turned your face back towards the softness of your pillow. You felt Thomas' hand raise, his fingertips brush against your cheek. He was being brave, especially when you felt his lips brush against your neck. It made you bite your lip, a twinge of something not so unfamiliar swirling in your belly. You wondered if he would continue. Hell, you wanted him to. But, it was nothing more than that.

Thomas, to your surprise, had more restraint than you would've assumed. He kissed your cheek, went to stand, and excused himself with,

"Your father will begin to wonder where I am." And you lifted your head to watch him step away, before you settled back down. He was clean, cleaner than he had been when he'd been sleeping in the outhouse. His hair was softer and longer, tied away from his face. And his arms seemed stronger, perhaps from the days of working with your father. He was, if you dared to think so, a kind sight to your eyes now. "Sleep. I'll be back by the time you wake." He told you, and, as he left, you found yourself hoping he was right.

[eirian-houpe]

Breathe - Chapter 4

Read previous chapters on AO3

Chapter 4 - Magnitude

Rush hated when people looked over his shoulder, and as he made his best effort to make sense of Destiny’s interface, he detested it worst of all and bristled - but managed to hold his temper - when Eli started asking irritating questions.

“What’s that? It doesn’t look like life support,” Eli said.

“Yes, I realize that,” he offered, but pressed the button anyway. A hovering, transparent viewing screen illuminated in the middle of the room, drawing a sound of awe from Eli, and a question from Lieutenant Scott.

“What are we looking at?”

“It’s a star map,” Rush answered.

“That’s the Milky Way,” Park offered.

“I believe it’s a… visual log of the ship’s journey,” Rush said by way of agreement.

Eli reached out and pointed to a flashing blue circle on the map.

“So this is where we are now?” he asked.

“No,” Rush answered. “That’s where the ship originally embarked from.”

“Earth,” Eli said as Rush zoomed the display out, and a glowing blue line began to draw itself between that and other blue circles on the star map.

“It’s leaving the galaxy,” Park said.

“It did,” Rush corrected softly, “Long ago.”

“That was Pegasus.” Park again.

“So those points… are more stars?” Scott asked.

“No,” Eli almost sang. “They’re galaxies.”

Rush felt the fear streaming off of Scott as the lieutenant came to stand next to him and asked, breathlessly, “Rush… where the hell are we?”

Rush stared at the console, chin cradled in a finger crooked beneath it as he murmured, “Several billion light years from home.”

Rush threaded his way thought the milling crowd of people in the ‘Gate room, catching occasional snippets of conversation. He knew what he was supposed to be doing, and he knew what he was looking for, and the two were not necessarily one and the same thing.

He suspected he wasn’t the only one with his own agenda, and so his feeling of guilt at not being stuck at some console in the bowels of the ship looking for a solution, looking for a way to restart the life support system, measured at approximately the temperature of space outside of Destiny. Absolute Zero.

He heard Lieutenant Scott giving orders to mount a search of the ship, in teams of three, and he supposed it was a good enough idea. It would give them an idea of what - if anything - they had in the way of supplies other than those they had brought with them, but… it would do them little good if he couldn’t get the life support problem under control, which he couldn’t do with the damned military breathing down his neck every step of the way.

He had to have control.

Finally he found the object of his search and quietly unzipped the backpack that housed the Communication Stones, looking for a moment on their carrying case, before refastening the backpack and putting it at his feet at the nearest console, making a show of examining his broken glasses until Scott had left the area. He did perhaps feel a degree or two of guilt - in Kelvin that was - so thought to stop in and ask the others if they’d made any progress with the life support system, only to receive a barrage of essentially bad news.

Only eight hours of breathable air left. Marvelous! He really did have to do what he could to make sure it would be he that was put in command while Colonel Young was still incapacitated. It was just a shame that he’d have to deal with other military men - specifically General O’Neill - to achieve that.

It went better than he thought it would… though voices were raised and he did find himself on the receiving end of O’Neill’s ire, but he felt - as he sat back on his return to Destiny - that he had made his point and that he had been granted his wish.

”Rush… get those people home.”

An order he could follow…? Perhaps, perhaps not. He was certain that Destiny had a greater plan in mind, following a trajectory that took her beyond the known universe. There had to be a purpose, and he meant to find it. He meant to find the answer. It was, however, an order he could live with, because the way O’Neill had worded it… it gave him plenty of room to argue that the general had put him in charge of the expedition.

He smiled and sat back on his haunches. He closed his eyes and took as deep a breath as the thinning atmosphere aboard ship would allow - he had to do something about that - and began running all manner of swift calculations through his head.

…Rush…

He opened his eyes, and looked around, reaching out to quickly close and stow away the communication stones. No one was there.

…Nicholas…

It was like a breath against his ear from behind and in response he turned full circle on his knees. Christ, the hypoxia was beginning to get to him. It had to be. He was hearing things… feeling things…

The tightness caught his chest and squeezed.

”You’re wrong!”

His face darkened, and he caught the file folder she was carrying by the corner and folded his arms across his chest. She had called him an arrogant bastard, back in the commissary, and he had corrected her that he was confident. In that moment he felt downright predatory, and leaned indolently against the door he had just closed.

“Oh really?” he said. When she didn’t immediately answer, he added, “I don’t think so.”

She stepped toward him again then, her eyes as hard as ice and he felt his blood beginning to head south as she snatched back the folder; watched with half hooded eyes as she opened it to take out a photograph. She waved it in front of his face, and all he wanted to do was snatch it from her, toss it behind him and pin her to the bulkhead while he kissed her into submission. He wasn’t wrong. He was never wrong, not when it came to Ancient, and Ancient technologies.

He blinked, tearing his eyes away from her mouth as she spoke, her own breath coming quickly as she became lost in the passion of her own explanation of exactly how he was wrong. He felt his cock stir, thinking only of leaving her breathless in another way.

“If you translate this strictly according to the matrix and existing lexicon you’ve compiled, there are parts of it that make no sense. So there’s an error, and it’s here .” she held the photograph still for a moment to point to a section of the image. “This section… these letters.”

He began to act on his imaginings, snatched the photograph from her fingers but caught himself and peered at it, hard, before glancing up at her and back down at the photograph.

“And given that some of those characters are number placeholders, I would imagine that’s why your math is off too.”

It was as though she had thrown a bucket of cold water over him, and he spluttered as if she had as well. “My math is—?” then his voice turned darker as he said, “Oh, I assure you, Miss French there is absolutely nothing wrong with my calculations.”

“Doctor French,” she hissed, “And there is if the numbers you're working with are the wrong ones.”

He had heard enough; had enough, and ached with need enough that he thought to hell with the research. He thrust the photograph back into the file folder that he pulled from her hands, and tossed the whole thing toward the bed. Then rounded on her again, his voice hard as he spoke.

“You have the audacity to walk in here--” he began, but it seemed she was not for being chastened, and as her own anger flared, filling her eyes with the rare beauty of life and passion, he felt his need and anger mingle, arousal stirring in him even more than it already was. God he wanted her!

“Audacity?” she snapped, taking a step toward him. “You brought me here, insisted, as I recall, that I was going to join your team--”

“And it seems that I was right,” he cut across her objection, stepping toward her as she had to him, nodding toward the file that had spilled its contents over the top of the covers. Spread there as he was suddenly almost desperate to spread her open… lose himself to his reawakened passion.

“I didn’t have a lot of choice!” she all but growled at him, and took another step his way, pushing him in her obvious frustration. Her small hands felt like brands on his chest. “I don’t--”

He grasped her wrists, tugging her closer and trapping her arms between them, and she gasped as he did, cutting off what she’d been saying. He dipped his head, crushing his mouth to hers, unable not to, her inner fire called to him.

She stiffened, but only for a heartbeat, before she opened to his kiss, kissing him back with equal want - equal passion even as she tried to wrest her hands from his tight grasp.

She tasted sweet. Like summer and honey, and he moaned, turning them, pushing her up against the door, and released her hands, pressing the length of his body to hers. Fully hard.

She ran her fingers into his hair, pulling his head back as she tore her mouth from his, her breathing labored, and began nipping along his stubble covered jaw and neck. He trailed his hand down over her, cupping her breast through her tight fitting bodice, the lacy overlay rough against his palm where her peaked nipple pushed it against him.

She moaned…

A sudden lurch threw him to the deck and he rolled to hit his head against the bulkhead, bringing him to his senses, out of the memory that had come out of nowhere.

He dragged himself upward to a sitting position, rubbing at the side of his head where he’d collided with the wall of the room, then tugged at the uncomfortable tightness of his jeans. The lack of oxygen really was making him lose his mind.

…Rush…

The whisper of his name in the air around him sent another shiver through him. If she wasn’t on the ship, then she was gone… lost with Icarus Base. Why was she haunting him now?

[katianegreyson]

Birthday Bash!

[Warning: Contains mild gore and violence. Read at your own risk.]

She had been back in the city for over a week, yet remained homebound. She had watched the fervor of activity from her apartment window. People flowing through the pathways below, growing bolder as the sunset. Nightlife in the Mage Quarter was always questionable. Drunken behaviors that often resulted in walks of shame out of the alleyways. Fights. Loud tirades. Those manicured lawns housed quite the show, one she wasn't always so hesitant to join in some small part.

However, melancholia had taken root, as it often did after her trips to the mountains. Too many memories, not to mention, the painful reminder of someone's absence. It generally took a week or so before the urge to stop staring at the empty pages of a journey book or out a window took hold. A small span of hope and optimism before reality sunk in once more. Not even time spent in her aerial silks sped up the process or eased her state of mind.

She put off rejoining civilization for as long as possible. In the end, it was the barren state of her pantry that drove her to dastardly things like putting on pants and running a brush through her hair. Sadly, society demanded she not be bare-assed and disheveled looking. Well, most of society. She knew a few who wouldn't complain.

It was early morning when she finally left her apartment, the predawn hour promising her the best choices at the city market. What was the saying? The early bird gets the worm.

Well, this bird wanted steak and eggs.

And bacon. Lots of bacon.

As she descended the steps to the small shop beneath her apartment, it was impossible to miss the brightly wrapped package left for her. The bow was enormous and the counter the box rested on was covered in a gods awful amount of glitter.

Kate loosed a long sigh. Of course her birthday wasn't missed by the proprietor. Such information was required in the rental contract. If it were up to her, she would spend the day like any other. Clearly, her landlord had different ideas. It was as if she could hear her voice, telling Kate in a motherly, (nosey) overbearing tone.

"A birthday should be cherished and celebrated."

Knowing she would be faced with far worse repercussions than a mild annoyance if she ignored the box, Kate huffed out a curse and walked over to the damn thing. Lifting the lid, she found the inside stuffed full of tissue paper in the most obnoxious pinks known to man. Shaking her head, she peeled layer after layer, silently cursing the woman until the last piece of paper was pulled free.

A sharp inhale was Kate's only outward sign of the sight within. No fancy bauble or awful outfit she would have to wear. This was far more personal.

The woman she had been cursing moments before stared back at her with milky dead eyes, a look of pure horror frozen onto her face. Jagged shreds of flesh were spread out at the neck, looking as if it was torn rather than cut cleanly off.

The head rested on a pile of roses, a gruesome message she understood all too well.

Why couldn't things just stay dead these days? 

Floorboards creaked softly behind her, a moment later, quietly letting her know she wasn't alone and the 'guest' was an amateur.

She should have just stayed home.

The sound of a single shot echoed through the empty pathways of The Quarter. While sound would have been drowned out later in the day, the early hour drew unwanted attention to the thunderous boom.

Standing outside the shop that prided itself on pyrotechnics, Maddox sucked in the last drag of his cigarette, flicking the spent butt away. The sound reached him the moment the occasional vice fled his fingertips. Poor timing, or perhaps perfect, and the man dove for it. He was after all smoking near a place that was combustible.

The sudden boom led him to assume the worst. Moments later, when he realized he was still in one piece, more or less, he pushed himself up and began cursing someone's mother. Grass stains clashed with his token grease stains, not that he cared. The noise wasn't a concern either until the sounds of a struggle carried his way.

Lads being lads, likely. At least that is what he thought until he heard the telltale shrieks of a woman.

"Fuck…"

His apathy was overshadowed by his protective nature in an instant. Taking off in a sprint, he followed the muffled sounds of conflict through the manicured walkways. Twists and turns didn't help. Fucking city layout.

When the noise died down, Maddox feared he was too late. Lost in a maze of purple rooftops and decorative fescue. It wasn't until he skidded around a corner that he caught sight of the group of men, fighting to load a bound and gagged redhead into a wagon.

She was giving them hell, small little thing, covered in blood and full of fight. Every time they got close to loading her, she wriggled in the most awkward way possible, causing one of the four brutes to lose their grip. It wasn't until one genius used the butt of his gun to deliver a well-placed blow to her head. It didn't knock her out, but she was stunned enough to go limp.

Maddox wasn't confident that he could take on four men, even if a pair looked wounded. So, he improvised.

Pulling out a stick of dynamite from the bag at his hip, he lit the long braided fuse and shouted to bring attention to himself.

"Oi! How about we put the lass down, eh?" He was walking closer, slowly. "Nice and easy. Then you can leave with what pieces she left you with. Or… I can blow all those pieces up."

"Got to tell ya, I personally would prefer to not spend the tail end of the morn being scraped into a glass jar."

Waving the explosive, Maddox eyed the dwindling fuse, sparks flying as time ticked away. "Tick tock, lads. What's it gonna be?"

There was no nice and easy as they dropped their prisoner, the lawn doing little to cushion the fall. A glaring sneer came from who he assumed was the leader as he pointed with his chin to the lass on the grass.

"You bought her a day, tops. C'mon boys. We can come back later." Clearly they didn't want to deal with an audience. Though as they left, a careful eye was kept in case they had a mind to beat his ass.

Maddox waited until the last few seconds, after the quad of men was long gone, before he pulled the fuse free of the explosive cylinder. Tossing the sparking twine into the grass, tucking the rest of the stick in his back pocket, he went to see to the woman he just saved. From what, he wasn't sure.

With his luck, she might be more hazardous to his health than the men who tried carting her off. Fate was a bitch that way.

"Did you have to bite me when I pulled the gag free?"

Kate didn't answer at first, walking sorely to her bathroom, the bruises she earned making her body ache with every step. Pulling the length of silk free from the mirror, she looked at the sorry state she was in. Busted lip, bruised and bleeding temple. The blood had already started to cake and congeal in her hair, matting it to the side of her head.

Ripping off the sleeve to her bloodied shirt, she uncovered the bullet hole she had been gifted with, if it could really be called that. The shot hadn't buried a bullet in her flesh, but it was too deep to really be called a graze.

She was going to need stitches. First, she was going to need coffee. The blow to the head hurt worse than the wound on her arm, the pain making her nauseous. That alone was a sure sign of the damage it wrought. Sleep was now the enemy.

Grabbing a clean towel, she ripped the absorbent cloth into a few thin strips, shouting out to her guest or... savior.

"There is whiskey in the bedside table. Bring it to me."

Muttering as he fetched the bottle, Maddox brought it to her, standing in the bathroom doorway as he passed it over. He was older than Kate, his salt and pepper hair cropped short. He didn't boast a beard in the traditional sense. Just a thick stubble that shaded his face.

His skin was weathered, Kate's guess was from the sun or some manner of heat. He carried it well, the deep lines adding character to his face rather than make him look old. His eyes, however, were his most striking feature. Shadowed by his darker brow, the pale blue stood out like pools of ice, yet they held none of the expected coldness. Just warmth and compassion.

"Probably not the best time to drink, lass." He commented, catching the look she gave him in the mirror.

"You're not my father or my husband. And while I do appreciate the assistance, it doesn't mean you're suddenly entitled to tell me what to do." Her tone wasn't harsh, just a matter of fact.

Nodding to her words, he shrugged. "Fair enough."

Despite her pointed remark, none of the whiskey made it to her lips once the bottle was opened. Instead, it was poured over her wound. Kate pursed her lips, but the groan of pain and displeasure was hardly muffled.

When she finally spoke through clenched teeth, it was to complain about the waste of good whiskey. Seems she would have rather drank it than use it as a disinfectant before she worked to bandage her arm.

It took her a few clumsy attempts, her guest clearly knowing better than to offer assistance at the moment. Finally, though, she tied the thin strips in place, tying them off and tightening the knots with her teeth.

As she turned, she nodded her thanks and sighed, knowing she was about to ask too much of a stranger.

"Don't suppose you would be kind enough to not mention this to the guard. Chances are, they were bribed to patrol elsewhere. I have a feeling my landlord's death would be easily pinned on me. Would rather not get thrown in The Stocks."

Maddox furrowed his brow. "Dead landlord?"

"Yeah. Her head is gift wrapped downstairs. Literally." She admitted honestly.

Scratching his stubble jaw as he grimaced, he shook his head. "Lass, I don't know what you're into. But smells like deep shit. You sure you don't want to involve the authorities?"

Kate nodded but it was clear the movement brought on a wave of discomfort. Gingerly touching her temple, she felt the abused flesh trickling with fresh blood. Head wounds were a bitch.

"Alright. I'll keep out of it. I take it you've got things handled now?"

It was a polite way to excuse himself and get the hell out of dodge. One she thankfully indulged.

"Mhm." She hummed, waving him towards the door. "Thanks again…"

"Maddox." He finished when she gave him a look to let him know she hadn't caught his name.

"Maddox." She repeated, following up with her own simple introduction. "Kate."

"Stay out of trouble then, Kate." Pointing to her bloodied shirt. "Not gonna die when I leave, right?"

Looking down, she saw more blood soaked into the fabric. Luckily, it wasn't anything to worry about.

"No. Not mine. Compliments of one of my abductors."

There was a grunt of acknowledgment as he waved his farewell, vanishing through the door and closing it quietly behind him.

Alone again.

She waited until she couldn't hear him beyond the door, wanting to make sure he was gone. The moment silence fell, Kate sank down to her knees, letting the pain that she had hidden consume her. She was too stubborn to show weakness in front of another.

Alone, however, she could be hurt and broken all she wanted.

Introducing: Maddox E. Zale

Following the story arc of #Fallen Roses.

[zweiginator]

Good Company- Part Seven

read the other parts here

Summary: After an unexpected bout of morning sickness, the possibility of pregnancy causes untold feelings to bubble to the surface.

Word Count: 6.4k+

Warnings: ANGST, some cuteness and extreme jealousy

Brian sat on his knees behind you, pulling your hair behind you shoulders. His fingertips were warm against the back of your neck which was veiled in a wash of cold sweat. Your skin was blanched; it was as if your veins were sucked dry from any blood, but your tongue felt drier, and unthinkably heavy in your mouth, which tasted of bile--acidic and bitter at the back of your raw throat. Your hands shook against the edges of the small trash bin you had pulled from underneath your cluttered desk. Brian’s keys had fallen from the wooden tabletop of it, and the jagged edges of his house and car keys poked against your knees.

“Brian, pick your keys up.” You lifted your head and turned around to see Brian’s eyebrows knitted together, worried-looking even though the dark hairs pointed in every direction, a side-effect from sleeping on his face. Some drool was dried on his cheek, which he covertly picked off with a painted nail. His eyes were droopy and puffy, his straightly pointed eyelashes only accentuating the sleepiness that bled into wide yawns and heavy eyelids.

“Sorry, do you--” He rubbed his temple, scooting forward so his outstretched fingers ghosted over your waist. “Do you need some water? Do you feel sick?” He shook his head, his curls swaying away from his face, brushing against his chin, darkened by a shadow of stubble. “Of course you feel sick, but do you know why? Did you eat something?”

You flinched away from his touch, grasping his fingers and tearing them away from your skin, even though his calloused digits brought you a deep, indescribable warmth and comfort that your body was craving. “How am I supposed to know, Brian?” You snapped at him, regretting it as soon as the words left your mouth--serrated and impertinent and stinging in Brian’s ears which were already ringing and pounding from his hangover.

“Do you need to go see a doctor?” He crossed his arms, suddenly more sullen but still worried about your well-being. His hand hovered over your lower back, and you felt his sniffling breaths fan over the nape of your neck. He wanted to smooth your hair down and pull your back flush against his chest--but he refrained, opting instead to feed into the resounding silence that pervaded the room, lit by the amber afterglow of the sunrise.

“I’m not seeing a doctor, Brian.” You scoffed, tying your hair back with a rubber band that hung around your wrist, a little sore from Brian’s head resting on it for the entirety of the night, which only made you more annoyed at him and his presence in general. “I’m fine, we all get sick sometimes.” You knew this wasn’t normal; none of the circumstances in your life were. It was almost scary how not sick you felt; it was more like a dull ache in the pit of your stomach, like you just had to rid yourself of toxins and that was that.

“Okay!” Brian stood up, grabbing his keys from the bed where he had set them before, twirling them between his fingers nervously. “I’m just concerned. Excuse me for caring.” His tone had a bite to it you had never heard from him before. When you turned around, he was pulling his socks on; you could tell they were on inside-out but you didn’t say anything.

“You’re just so clingy and overbearing lately! Why would you come here when you know we’re supposed to keep our relationship under wraps? You’re always whining about something, Brian. Always.”

Brian pulled his button-up over his shoulders and lined up the two sides, fastening the buttons quickly. The shirt was taut over his torso; Deaky must have washed it incorrectly, so he left a few buttons undone as he lifted his hips to slip his trousers over his semi-numb legs. “What the fuck do I have to do with any of this? Why are you twisting my caring about you into something I’m flawed with?”

“So you’re perfect, Brian?” You rolled your eyes and straightened some makeup on your desk, focusing intently on a tube of deep red lipstick so you didn’t have to watch Brian’s eyes grow darker, more intense, more attractive. Everything he did drove you crazy and you didn’t want to cave, even though you knew this argument was unwarranted and completely immature.

“Now you’re putting words into my bloody mouth, Y/N. Never did I say that!” He sighed from deep in his chest and you finally turned around, meeting his almost bronzed eyes, framed by dark lashes that extended around them. His jaw was tensed, spasming as he crossed his arms. “You’re projecting something onto me, you can tell me what’s wrong. You know that, right?”

Tongue in cheek, you sat down at your desk chair, the leather sticking to the backs of your thighs as you lifted them to cross them over each other. “Projecting? Really? Stop with the smart-boy psychological lingo, Brian. You’re so annoying.”

“Annoying?” He lowered his voice, realizing how early it was, and then how disruptive you both were being to your roommates, who he desperately wanted approval from. “I’m annoying because I asked you if you were okay after you threw up just now?”

He was right; you were being irrational. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but he was irking you, tugging on your metaphorical leash that was choked around your neck, suffocating you. And it wasn’t that he was being clingy or overbearing as you said; it was simply because you loved him more than you could even fathom. He permeated your thoughts like a pungent smell among a crowded room. But it was a beautiful scent; a buttery vanilla that was easy to take in, impossible to stop thinking about, and ever so pleasant. It scared you how easily you had fallen in love with him; every other time you had felt anything even remotely comparable to these warm, all-consuming feelings you had for Brian, you had had to work at it, to convince yourself you were in love, as if you thought you loved them enough, it would act as a placebo, your body following along with your thoroughly tricked mind. But with Brian, it was too natural, the way you meshed with him effortlessly. He was able to say whatever he wanted to you, and you felt the same; you had spent many nights tipsy on wine on your couch, weaving through embarrassing childhood memories to repressed traumas. You had seen him cry, shoulders heaving, sobs choked, eyes glassy. You’d never done that with Roger, not in the year--over a year--that you had been with him. And it scared you that the mere blossom, the root of a tiny tendril of your relationship had your heart skipping a beat when his fingers twirled with your own, or his knees nudged against yours.

“You’re just--” You rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms, biting your lip. Your mouth had an insipidly bitter taste to it, and you swallowed, grimacing as it slid down your raw throat. “You’re always here. With me.”

“But I’m not!” He ran a hand through his hair and stood up, before he dropped to his knees in front of you, grabbing your hands in his own much larger, much warmer ones. His thumbs rubbed over the back of your hands, tracing over the tendons, feathered over with blue pebbled skin. You were shivering, and Brian wanted to cover you with a blanket, but tears were beginning to prick at your eyes and he decided it might not have been the best time. “I’m not here that much. I don’t see you much at all and not to sound cocky, but you say you miss me just as much as I say it to you!” He bit the inside of his cheek, sighing as you looked down at your feet. “Plus, you just said you wanted us to tell Roger. And now you’re back to keeping it on the down-low?”

You sniffled, wiping your tears away with your hand, hating yourself for manipulating Brian’s feelings like this, but you couldn’t stop, it was a commandeering force that maneuvered you in the opposite direction you wanted to be going in. “I changed my mind, Brian.” You fixed your posture, feeling nauseous again, but you suppressed the feeling, focusing on a breathing pattern you remembered Brian taught you. It made you mad almost, how he had such a tight hold on you; he was always with you in some odd indirectly confusing way that was oppressively uncomfortable, although it wasn’t really his fault in the slightest. But in a way, you wanted the chase. You wanted to know you were--wanted. You needed him to miss you; you yearned to keep him guessing, no matter how hurtful and awful that sounded, and you wondered if Roger’s coquettish nature blighted your ability to trust--to love.

“I don’t get you, Y/N.” His chest was blotched a deep, almost violent red, his cheeks wet with a coat of sweat that seeped into the tears spilling down the soft skin. He slung his coat over his arm, squeezing his keys hard enough so that you could see the veins pulsing in his forearms and down his agile fingers. He was seething with anger, but he kept himself collected, tensing his jaw repeatedly, to the point that it locked for a second. He brought his hand to the protruding bone, massaging the skin as he stepped closer to you, close enough so you saw the speckles of amber and deep greens marbled in his honey eyes. You could see his tanned skin, smooth and pebbled with the beginnings of a new beard. “Last night you insisted on fucking me in the bathroom; you told me sneaking around was hot. Then I come over and you’re fine with it, cuddling with me and telling me we should be public; and now you’re saying I’m annoying and that you can’t stand me being with you all the time?”

You were silent, swirling your tongue around a piece of skin you had bit from your bottom lip, the bitter taste of blood relieving you of the putrid taste in your mouth.

“Goodbye, Y/N.” He zipped his coat up, grabbing a clean tissue from your desk, leaning over you for a split second. The mere shadow of him made your heartbeat quicken, and you shifted uncomfortably in the red leather chair, pulling your knees to your chest. “We need to talk when you’re up for it.” He padded quietly out of your bedroom, and you heard the almost imperceptible sound of your usually clamorous front door clicking shut a minute later.

__

“What was that all about?” Alice peeked into your room, yawning into her tightened fist. Jenny pushed the door open wider, the waves of her chocolatey brown hair making the tears pool in your eyes, red around the rims and irritated from the salty pang.

“What’s wrong? Or should we leave you be?” Jenny pointed a thumb out the door; they were both only halfway inside of your room, wrapped together in a sky blue blanket which had a perpetual home on the living room couch.

“No, no come in.” You moved to your bed, laying down as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“We heard Brian--” Alice faltered, looking over at Jenny who sat at the foot of your bed as your other roommate plopped on the chair you were just sat in, her fingers mindlessly playing with the brass studs that kept the leather tight across the seat. “Yelling.” Jenny finished. “Didn’t think he had it in him.”

“You’d be surprised by a lot of things with him.” You tucked some of your hair behind your ear and sat up, leaning against the headboard. The pillow next to you had a few of Brian’s shedded hairs, deep brown against the white pillow case and tightly coiled. Your voice cracked as you began to cry again. “He’s just,” You began. “He’s just always there. He never leaves.”

“What do you mean?” Alice leaned forward, crossing her hands over her lap. “Where did that even come from?”

“He’s not clingy. He just--” You swallowed. “He’s always in my thoughts; I mean he’s done so much for me and every time I stop thinking about him I think about how I stopped thinking about him, you know?”

They furrowed their eyebrows and looked at each other, shrugging their shoulders, their hair falling behind their shoulders simultaneously.

“And it isn’t a bad thing really.” You sniffled and sat up straighter. “I love thinking about him; Brian’s great. In every single way, he’s great. I mean there isn’t really a single flaw that’s actually truly a flaw.” You knew they didn’t understand; you couldn’t even decipher your feelings; it felt like an outside force was shoving words into your mouth and watching them tumble out, non-cohesive and intelligible. “It’s just like, he’s too perfect. And I fell in love too easily, and too quickly. There has to be a catch.”

“There is a catch, though?” Jenny handed you a tissue. “You dated his best friend for a year. That’s the catch.”

“No.” You shook your head, blowing your nose briefly. “I meant, with him. And his personality. It’s just too good to be true. I mean, look at him!”

He wasn’t there, of course, but you needed to make your point, whatever that was. You held a finger up and leaned over to reach into a small drawer on the side of your desk. You sifted through half-empty perfume bottles and tangled necklaces, finding a wide polaroid picture of Brian, the night he took you to the dilapidated barn to stargaze. He sat on the uneven wooden panels at the edge of the barn, his feet poked through a jagged hole in the side of the building, so his feet rested on the grass, still frozen-over from winter’s toll. He was leaning on his hands; the veins in his arms were prominent, his cheeks a deep red-violet, partially from the frigid temperature outside, but mostly from fervid kisses. His shirt was unbuttoned, but he wore a velvet blazer over it, and you could see his collarbones poking from skin marked by your lipstick. His hair was soaked through from the rain, his smile lazy and crooked, his eyes semi-closed from the flash. You held the photograph to your chest, and your roommates pried it from your grip, wanting to see for themselves.

“It has always been Brian, Y/N.” Jenny grinned at the picture, wiping a dust particle from the glossy surface.

“What do you mean?” You took the photo back, tracing your finger across his forehead--as if that would be comforting. Instead, it only emphasized that he wasn’t there.

“I mean, yeah you dated Roger, but Brian was always the one for you. You and him always clung to each other; every one noticed. I mean, at concerts, you always stood on Brian’s side of the stage and you never really looked at Roger’s playing.” Alice commented, raising an eyebrow, poking your nose lightly.

“The guitar--”

“The guitar is better my arse. You’ve seen hundreds of girls drool over Roger and those drums. They find their favorite boy and cling to them. That was always Brian for you.” Jenny stood up from the bed, opening another drawer, a wider one that extended across the desk. It held a few photo albums; you had had a phase of photographing Queen’s gigs at the beginning of your and Roger’s relationship, and it had lasted for a good seven months. “Flip through these albums and show me one photo that isn’t focused on Brian.”

You yanked the leather bound album from her hands, the thick ivory ribbon becoming untied as you pulled at it. “He’s at the front of the stage!”

“So is Freddie. So is John.”  They added. “Listen, we’re not judging you; Brian is a great guy. He’s hot and you’re right--he doesn’t really have a discernible flaw about him. Roger knew you loved him from the beginning; but you didn’t.”

“You guys are just like him!” You dropped the album on your bed, hitting your head against the headboard as you crossed your arms, uncrossing them as soon as you remembered Brian had done the same before he stormed out. “Always pointing some shit out about my unconscious or whatever. I loved Roger!”

“Why does it matter if you loved Brian while you were with Roger though?” Alice grabbed your ankles, leaning forward to emphasize her point. “You’re with Brian now! You can say if you loved him before, but you’re not because you’re scared.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that.” Jenny acted as the mediator, nodding at Alice’s words but defending you nonetheless. “I just--we just--don’t want you to sabotage this relationship because of whatever you’re feeling right now.”

You inhaled deeply. “Maybe it’s just because I’m sick. I should probably just sleep it off. Plus, I think my period should be starting pretty soon, too.”

“You’re sick? Since when?” Alice felt your forehead, handing you a glass of water as an offering.

“Just this morning, I don’t know--” You grabbed the sheets, and a static grey fizzled in your ears, becoming a deeper, charcoal ember that burned through your arms and legs and ignited in your stomach. You felt as if you were burning from the inside out, and you gulped the water down quickly, slamming the cup back down onto the desk. “Oh my God.”

“Do you think you might be?” Jenny flipped through a small calendar that hung on your bedroom door, her fingers hovering over the square designated for a Friday, circled in red, the eighth of March. It was the seventeenth.  

__

Brian trudged through makeshift mountains of melting snow, the ice soft and pliable against his shoes. His socks were soaked through with frigid water and he could barely feel his feet as he pushed through a wave of tourists, hugging his arms to his chest in an attempt to make himself at least partially warm. He couldn’t stop thinking about you--about what had happened. He had walked past his flat almost six times and was opting to walk in circles around the vicinity of his home instead of actually going inside; he wasn’t ready to face any of them--especially Roger. He knew that even if by some off-chance they all didn’t know about you and him, that Brian’s reddened nose and tear-stained cheeks would give it all away. Brian was excessively predictable now that he was with you; his emotions were almost tangible--he never held back anymore. You made him unafraid to cry, to laugh, to joke, to be angry. And he was always someone who cried into his pillow or plastered on a fake smile even if he was seething under the seemingly tranquil surface of himself. Brian stood in front of the apartment building, shaking his shoes off on the limestone steps. A few teenage girls walked past him, giggling with each other, their arms linked as they watched Brian take his clogs off to pour the icy water out of them. He shrugged his shoulders and gave them a tight-lipped smile.

“Oi! Brian get up here! We’ve seen you walk around the bloody block for an hour now!” Roger yelled out of his third-story window, his arms crossed against his chest. He was wearing a hoodie of Deaky’s and some loose boxers. His hair was a dirty blond from the winter, and fell in loose waves around his face. He moved his arms so they were extended, and he gripped the window pane, cocking his head as a signal for Brian to come up. A few strangers had stopped to look at the exchange, and Brian was embarrassed at Roger’s utter lack of care; he would say or do anything without even batting his oddly large eyes.

Freddie came up behind Roger and rolled his eyes as he nursed a small cup of tea. He swiped his tongue across his bottom lip and sighed. “Brian, sweetie. We know what you did, so let’s talk about it!” He set the cup down on the windowsill and Roger grabbed it, shoving it back into Freddie’s hand.

“Don’t put it there, you imbecile.” Roger shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

Freddie scoffed. “Don’t be a dick, Rog.”

“Stop it!” Brian craned his neck and shushed them. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“This isn’t all about you, Brian. My God; you’re forgetting that I dated her for over a fucking year!” Roger pointed to himself, digging the tip of his pointer finger into his sternum as he leaned further out of the window.

“Christ, Roger get inside!” Freddie pulled his hood and yanked him back.

Brian shoved his numb feet back into his shoes and climbed up the steps, pulling the heavy oak door open with such force that it slammed against the doorframe as the wind blew it closed. Long strides took him to the third floor within thirty seconds. Deaky must have watched him run inside; he heard the lock click as soon as his heels clicked upon the floor on the other side of the door.

“Please be civilized.” Deaky ushered Brian inside, where Roger sat on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table as he pretended to be focusing on a black-and-white movie that was playing at a staticky low volume. Brian peeled his socks off and pushed past Freddie to get to his room.

“Where are you going? We have to talk about this!” Roger yelled, leaning forward to project his voice as Brian got further and further away.

“Can I change my fucking socks?” Brian sat on his bed and pulled on some thicker, woolen socks that were bunched together at the foot of his bed, which looked much more cluttered than he remembered leaving it. His drawers were all opened and his books were piled on the floor. His lamp was teetering on the edge of his bedside table and mounds of dirty clothes were scattered in islands across the expanse of the room.

“I have a question for you, Brian.” Roger was being passive aggressive, giving Brian the most sweetly facetious smile he had ever seen. “Why do you have multiple pairs of Y/N’s knickers in your drawer?”

Brian stood up, bending down to put the sea of clothes scattered around the floor in the laundry basket by his bed. “And why are you looking through my room?” He countered.

“You didn’t come home last night!”

“So that means you can search through my personal belongings? Explain that to me, Rog. I’m having trouble finding the logic here.” Brian popped his jaw, raising his eyebrows at the blond, who stood at his doorway.

Roger was silent; he knew he was wrong, but he would have rather broken both of his femurs himself than admit to Brian that he was mistaken.

Brian opted to break the silence, digging through the top drawer of his dresser, where he found a pair of your underwear; they had black lace along the hem and were silky against Brian’s thawing fingers. “Why do I have these, you’re asking?” Brian found another pair, holding those up as well, but these were white, cotton ones, and Roger’s heart felt heavy and dejected in his chest. He had never seen you wearing any cheap underwear; you must have trusted Brian more, must have been monumentally more comfortable with him. “Y/N and I are together, Roger. You’ve had to know this for months. But you’re dragging it on and on and on, and for what?”

Roger began to speak, but Brian cut him off, pushing himself off of his bed to stand in front of him. “You fucked up, Roger. You cheated. You flirted with other girls. You broke her trust. This isn’t my fault. It’s not my fault I’m in love with her. It’s not my fault--”

Roger pulled at his hair, leaning forward enough so Brian could smell his breath; it was a mixture of peppermint and beer. “Have you ever thought that maybe you’re just her rebound? That she’s using you because I fucked up and she just wants to make me fucking suffer?” Roger was crying now, and beads of his spit flew upon Brian’s chin. “Because I’ve never felt fucking worse! I love her! I was going to ask her to marry me--”

“No you weren’t!” Brian ran a hand through his hair and pushed Roger’s chest so he wasn’t so close; Brian’s breaths were becoming shallower and his head was light--too light--so light, that he had to sit back down on his bed and rest his head in his hands. “You would never marry her. You can’t commit for shit! You fucking cheated!”

“I know I did! I know--” Roger pulled the hoodie over his head, leaving him in a thin t-shirt. “I was thinking about it. And you promised me you wouldn’t date her. You said it to my fucking face and then you did it. Just to spite me.”

“Just to spite you?!” Brian laid down across the bed and hugged a pillow to his chest. “Falling in love with her isn’t to spite you! This isn’t about you--her and me.”

“You know, Brian, you always act like you’re the sensitive sweet one, but you’re a fucking dick! As soon as I was happy with her you always had to butt in and flirt with her and be all charming and bat your eyes and be the good guy!” Roger spat. The veins in his neck were pulsing, angry and blue beneath the perspiring skin. “I’ve always been jealous of you, Brian. Maybe I can get the sex, but you’ve always taken the good ones. You’ve always gotten whatever you wanted at the end of the day!”

“Why are you always victimizing yourself! You’re not fucking jealous of me; that’s a blatant lie, Roger.” Brian threw his pillow against his headboard and kicked some textbooks across the floor. “I’ve worked hard for what I have, Rog! And Y/N isn’t property! If she wanted you back you would be with her right now, and I would be back to wishing I were you, like I did for fourteen fucking months. I loved her since before you even spoke a sentence to her, and you knew that.”

“How would I know that?” He slammed the door shut as Deaky and Freddie appeared there, and the sonic boom echoed throughout the flat. “I can’t detect your feelings!”

“You just said I flirted and was charming! I don’t do that to every bloody girl I meet,  unlike you!” Brian’s voice was cracking, and he took a sip of stale water from a plastic cup by his bed, wincing at the chemical aftertaste it left on his tongue. “Y/N and I are fighting anyway. You should be ecstatic to know that.”

Roger was tired of screaming too, and he sat on Brian’s bed, nudging his shins so he would make enough room for the smaller man. “What are you fighting about?” Roger rolled his eyes and tilted his head back, leaning it against the wall. His adams apple bobbed along the column of his throat as he awaited Brian’s less-than-eager response.

“She got sick this morning, and I asked her if she was okay and she just got pissed at me and called me annoying and clingy. I’m not quite sure.”

“Brutal.” Roger smirked but bit his lip to stifle the laugh that was creeping up his sorely abused throat. “What kind of sick? Did you guys get shitfaced last night?”

“That’s the thing.” The air was calmer now, and the blood in their ears had settled; their faces were only partially flushed instead of feverish and red all over. “I did, but she didn’t drink anything--not that I know of. She just threw up this morning.”

“Oh, fuck.” Roger pinched the bridge of his nose as a knock sounded at the front door. Roger and Brian heard hushed hellos and the rustling of your winter coat, an occasional sniffle.

“They’re both in Bri’s room.” Deaky’s voice was muffled by the door that acted as a partition between you and the two people you wanted to see most--and least--in the world. Roger bit his lip; he wasn’t ready to see you and Brian in the same position you and him were in only months before. He had done nothing but think about the prospect of you in his arms, of you kissing his temple, your fingers running through his hair. Of his best friend’s hands running down your chest as he kissed your neck. And now, with the possibility that you were carrying Brian’s baby, he was livid. He picked up a heavy physics book that was obscured halfway underneath Brian’s bed as you walked in, shutting the door swiftly behind you.

“Roger!” You yanked his arm back as he was about to throw the book at Brian’s face; it was at least five pounds, dog-eared and yellowed at the edges. You remembered seeing Brian hunched over the same book the first time you came over to see Roger, how your stomach felt as if the paper-thin wings of a million butterflies were beating against it. You felt your heartbeat hammer against your chest, and it even felt as if your lungs were beating against your ribcage as you climbed onto Brian’s bed and grabbed his cheeks, sticky from dried tears, kissing his mouth firmly. Brian turned his cheek, and you held his chin--stippled with rough stubble--and tilted his face towards your own.

“I’m sorry, bub.” you peppered soft kisses on his jaw and he sniffled, his hands ghosting over your waist. “I’m sorry for calling you annoying. For pushing you away.”

Roger cleared his throat, wondering if this was how Brian felt when you and him were dating; like an unseen spector watching his dreams vicariously from afar. “Are you pregnant, Y/N?” He kicked a pair of Brian’s trousers underneath his bed.

“I don’t know.” You didn’t; but you had bought a pregnancy test in a small convenience store a block south from their flat, and it sat in your purse, immense and massively heavy although it couldn’t weigh more than a couple ounces. You fished it from your bag and unraveled it from the small plastic sack it was sheathed in.

Brian gulped. “If you are, then it could be--”

Roger shook his head and heaved out a choked sigh. “No! It would have to be mine, right?”

“Not necessarily.” You mumbled and read the fine-print instructions on the box of the test.

“You--” Roger scoffed and cracked his knuckles one by one as he hovered over the bed where you and Brian sat. “You didn’t let me--until almost six months in!”

You were livid, that Roger was continuing to make this about himself, and in the most selfish and irrelevant of ways. “You’re mad because I let Brian do that earlier than I did with you? That’s why you’re mad right now?”

“Do you want me to be pissed about something else, then?” He asked, his blue eyes a stormy navy, speckled with charcoal greys that radiated seething anger. “Maybe the fact that you moved on so quickly from me? That you fucked my best friend and now you’re supposedly in love and possibly pregnant with his--or my--child?” He was screaming, and his voice sounded like someone had scratched a machete over his vocal chords.

“It’s probably not your fucking baby!” You shoved him away and got up, grabbing the pregnancy test and locking yourself in the closet-sized bathroom across the hall. The mirror was fogged from Roger’s earlier shower, and you felt nauseous smelling his aftershave, when at one point it would have made you utterly weak at the knees. There were four personalities shoved into the tiny space, in the form of four types of hair products and four scents of colognes. But they each shared the same toothpaste and they each left the bathroom a complete mess. Your fingers trembled as you took out the test and assembled the odd contraption; you had never had a pregnancy scare when you were with Roger, so you didn’t really know what to do.

You heard a soft knock on the bathroom door, and Brian’s even softer voice, as his head rested against the cracked wood. “Can I wait here?” His voice cracked, and you heard labored breaths fanning through the tiny crack where the door met the frame, which was a tad too wide.

“Brian, please come inside.” You blew your nose in some toilet paper and closed your legs, feeling colossally vulnerable; your pants were pooled around your ankles, you wore no makeup, and your hair was frizzy from the wind and the cool mist that sprinkled outside.

“Are you sure?” He mumbled, his hand splayed across the door. You could hear the soft tinkle of his pinky ring against the hollow wood. You nodded--then remembered he couldn’t see you.

“Yes, please come in. I need you.”

A smile tugged at Brian’s cheeks at those three words, almost more than when you said a different trio, I love you. You needed him and he needed you; you two were each others’ complement, a symbiotic pair that couldn’t be separated by Roger’s discontent, nor the daunting possibility of a baby. Brian wasn’t even reluctant to admit Roger was right as he opened the door to the bathroom and leaned his back against it. You were always his love, even if it were platonic for over a year. Always.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Brian bent down in front of the toilet and took your hands. Your eyes were averted to the pregnancy test that sat on the counter, by the half-used roll of toilet paper that Roger was forever too lazy to put on the holder.

“I’m scared.” You squeezed his hands, tracing your thumbs over the veins that fed into each other beneath the soft skin. You could feel his pulse racing at his wrist, and you sighed. “You are too, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“What if I am?” You let go of his right hand and took the test into your own hand, realizing that that plastic contraption would literally predict your future.

“Then we’ll figure it out.” He was genuine; his teeth poked out from between his lips and his eyes crinkled, his nose widening and cheeks lifting. “I promise, I’m not leaving.”

“What if I am, and it’s Roger’s?” Brian’s grip tightened at the mention of his name, and you felt terrible that you had rendered their once trusting friendship into the mere smithereens of acquaintanceship.

“Then we’ll figure that out too.” He pressed a kiss to your hand. “Now, I don’t mean to be pushy, but I feel like I may throw up, so let’s take the test and get it over with, yeah?”

“Okay, okay.” It was a bit uncomfortable, holding one of Brian’s hands as you peed into a plastic cup.

Brian squinted at the instructions, holding his other hand out. “Give me the cup.”  

“You want to handle my cup of pee? I can do it.” You rolled your eyes and he blushed, taking it from you.

“What? I’m a scientist. This is kind of like a mini lab, you could say.”  He took the small plastic dropper from the kit and dipped it in the cup.

“You’re a nerd.” You kissed his forehead as he used the dropper to put some liquid into the odd contraption that sat by the sink. “How long does it take?” He was trembling with nerves as he washed his hands, you even more nervous, pulling your jeans up your legs.

“Two hours.”

Brian didn’t want to leave the bathroom until a conclusive answer had been found, and neither did you. “Then I guess we’ll need to distract ourselves for a couple of hours.”

Brian nodded and held a finger up, giggling as he pulled a deck of cards from underneath the sink. They were dog-eared and water-stained, but still readable, although the ink had bled through each card just a little bit.

“Why do you have cards under the sink?”

“Kind of funny,” He shuffled the cards expertly as he leaned against the door, trying not to look at the test that sat--idle and untouched--so close to you both. “I used to come in here and play solitaire when you came over. I didn’t want to hear you and Roger.”

You closed the lid to the toilet and sat down, smiling at the innocence of the prospect. “Were we that loud?”

“No, and it wasn’t just sex.” He said, sitting down on the ledge of the bathtub. “I didn’t want to hear any of it; I wanted you so bad. I would come in here and play and listen to music for hours. Sometimes I would fall asleep in here. You reached forward and touched his knee, remembering a time you had sleepily walked to the bathroom while you stayed the night in Roger’s room and found Brian asleep against the wall, his mouth parted as he snored softly. You recalled leading him back to his room and covering him with a soft blanket and feeling guilty when you kissed his forehead.

__

“Has it been two hours?” You dealt the cards out for what was probably the twentieth time, handing Brian his stack.

“A little over, actually.”

You and him had been talking mindlessly for the entirety of the waiting period, your knees touching as you used them as a makeshift table for your game. “Should we look?”

“I can’t do it.” He shook his head, intertwining his fingers as he looked at his lap.

You stood up halfway, just enough to see inside of the plastic box where the reaction had been taking place for the past 120-something minutes.

“Are you?” Brian mustered, standing up and wiping his clammy palms on his jeans.

“No. I’m not.” You felt a pang of emptiness as you said it, even though you were nowhere near old enough to have a child; even though the negative implications of being pregnant greatly outweighed the positives.

“Oh. Okay.” Brian glanced at the kit, to confirm to himself that it was, in fact, negative. It was.

“Are you alright, Brian?” He looked pale, and thoroughly disappointed.

“Is it weird that I wish you were pregnant?” His eyebrows knitted together as he shoved the cards back into the box, unlocking the bathroom door. “With my baby of course.” He added, as if that would soften the blow.

__

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[littlemeowmeowschimmy]

Play With Me [Jungkook x Reader] 3

credit: littlemeowmeowschimmy

Requests opened // prev - m.list - next 

Genre: Thrilling // Mysterious // Smut [later]

Summary: After a fateful night, Jungkook realizes that he was put up against something more dangerous than he imagined. He never thought that through his undercover work that you were much more than just cunning, you were also seductive.

WC: 2.3k

»»————-　★　————-««

Jungkook scowls at his computer screen. Nothing was going right for him, especially today. It had been weeks since he infiltrated Gotham police and he was simply getting bored of it. Not to mention two pairs of eyes watching him at every second he breathed was getting on his nerves. Jungkook would soon regret the day he joined because of his affiliations with the old sack of bags he called “father.”

He throws files in front, their contents spilling over his keys. He was about to tear apart the old computer when he felt a hand on his shoulder. His eyes instantly moving to lock with the owner's fingers. They were smooth, slim and long. Their nails painted what looked like a dark black, only on further inspection a dark navy. They were round at the tips, but not enough to where they could pierce the skin.

His eyes travel up the fingers, across the arm and to the owner. You stood with powerful eyes, yet they were filled with concern as your head tilted sideways. Since you didn’t pay much attention to his screen, you didn’t notice he was looking up your data. Figuring out who you truly were, whilst hiding under cover. You fixed your hand, moving it back as you were afraid that you overstepped your boundary.

“Aren’t you supposed to be home Jeon?” Your question surprising Jungkook. He was surprised you hadn’t noticed what was on his screen, but he didn’t take much notice to it. Instead, he pushes himself around, his chair now blocking its contents.

“There’s nothing for me to go home to,” Jungkook answers shrugging his shoulders. “Other than a bottle of whiskey and some cheap microwavable.” Pausing for a split second only to finish his train of thought. “I’d much rather spend my time at the office, getting as much work done as I possibly could.”

“You just don’t know how you quit do you?” that question sending quirky smirk upon Jungkook’s lips, and earning a low scoff. He crosses his arms, then his legs at the knee. Giving you his full attention now whilst the moon showed brightly through the big windows. You took in his beauty, capturing how his eyes flickered against the pale light.

His skin looking darker now, a few loose hairs dangled in front of his eyes. He seemed clean shaven, but upon further inspection, you noticed he was growing a bit of stubble around his chin and jaw. Making his appearance something that could even make your heart stop. Jungkook usually wore white button-ups or similar fabrics with different colors. He always had his sleeves rolled above his elbows, making his biceps pop.

Whatever top he wore, often reflected in the choice of pants. He didn’t dare wear dress pants, as he pointed out they made him uncomfortable. Instead, he wore black jeans, sometimes a dark navy, once again all depending on the top. Usually, they were black skinny jeans, that made his ass pop. Something you would have nowhere to complain since you loved staring. He often wore a black belt, although he never needed one.

You could see the faint scars upon his arms in the pale light. He often expressed he got them from other raids and being on the job for so long. But you didn’t quite believe him since most didn’t look like bullet wounds. But, you weren’t going to object, since he didn’t elaborate on the type of weapon that was used against him.

Jungkook shifts in his seat, the silence making him uncomfortable since you were clearing taking your time. He reflected the same, taking your features in as well. How your hair was always pulled back into a tight bun, skin paling against the moonlight and the fabric of your dresses always fit snugly against your curves.

You usually wore heels, but mostly wore flats, that would often be changed out for work boots. You mentioned that you didn’t have much for dress shirts and pants, and the commander often let you slid with dresses. Since they weren’t so constrictive, Jungkook found himself amazed by how easily you worked. Never had he seen a lady take down an enemy with just wearing one dress. Your movements were quick, and he had to give you your props.

“Would you like to go for a drink sometime?” Jungkook boldly asks, sending your mind out from wherever it was. You blinked, taking aback by his question but then shaking your head. Jungkook took this as you clearing whatever thoughts you had before, then getting yourself ready. Flashing your pearly whites, you decided to answer his question.

“I’m grateful for the offer,” You start taking a step back. “However, I’m usually busy during the night. My sister has a little one that she wants me to watch as she goes on third shift.” You easily coax a lie, hoping that Jungkook would understand. However, since he knew your true identity, he could see right through your lies.

This was a show that you had to put on. Refusing to go out with anyone as you did Jokers dirty work. You were technically babysitting, but it was mostly his dumb guards and hostages that he captured. Harley ran off years ago, leaving you to take her place. You were too pleased with her decision, but you could understand from her perspective.

She was beaten, tortured and abused by Joker. She found refuge in Ivy, then soon fell in love with her. Harley wanted you to come with her, even begged for you too. But Joker’s claws were already dug so deep into your soul, that it was hard saying goodbye. Harley came by to visit you in your apartment every once and awhile. Checking up on your well being, and trying to be the mother that she never had.

Since finding you when you were young, Harley had been more than just a mother. She had been a friend. Someone you confided in whenever you were lonely, upset, or angry. You went silent once again, thinking about the relationship you held with Harley. Then shake your head and moving forwards. Rounding Jungkook’s desk and heading straight for your own.

“But I will have to decline.” You firmly stated, stuffing your work back and heading back out. Or attempting to head out as swiftly and quickly as you possibly could. You needed to get out at a certain time, especially tonight. Joker wanted to see you, and you weren’t going to allow him to get angry. That was something you where trying to avoid at all costs.

»»————-　★　————-««

Jumping from your apartment window, you ran across rooftops. Making your way down the familiar path you’d always taken to see your “beloved father.” Since Joker had taken care of you, he often expressed that you were his daughter. But he wasn’t doing much of the heavy lifting, so you never considered him to be one. Instead, as mentioned previously, you only considered Harley to be your mother.

You were orphaned from a young age. Jumping from foster home to the next. Trying to keep your head up when one day you were met in an alley with Harley and Joker. Sometimes you regret ever seeing them, others you were thankful. They had taken you out of such an awful system and trained you. Taught you how to take care of yourself, steal and other goodies. Now, you were knee deep in crime and Bats was after your head.

Making sure that you would land in Arkham someday. However, you weren’t as insane as he thought you were. Maybe if you had gone through some counseling you could get better. Shock therapy could work, you hadn’t had your brains fried in a little. Just the thought made a sickening smile creep as you bounced. Just before escaping into the alleyway, you were stopped by a figure leaning against a small structure.

This figure looked vaguely familiar, however, you weren’t going to stop and ask questions. You were already close to being late, you didn’t need any more distractions. Instead, he came from the shadows, his armor wrapping around his body. His almost black hair wild and casting over his bright blue mask. You cursed under your breath, popping a hip out to give him your full attention.

“If you just silently come with me, maybe I could work you out a deal,” Nightwing spoke his tone soft and cautious. He knew what you could do, and it seemed like he was afraid of you. But you pushed such a messily thought to the side, reaching back for a pair of colorful daggers that sat at your waist.

“And what deal would that be?” You snarled wrapping your hand around the hilt. “A comfy room in Arkham? A chance to see my parents graves?” You laugh at his shock, not aware that you were an orphan. Laughing, you took a few steps back. Widening the gap that he tried to consolidate. Your eyes darted around, trying to see if anyone was with him.

It seemed like he had come alone, but you weren’t so sure. Instead, you were trying to find a good way out of this. Simply because you didn’t want to be left with an angry psychopath downstairs, nor did you want to be left with this loon that was trying to lock you up.

“Look, I’m just trying to - “ He paused your words coming out quicker than you had imagined.

“You’re trying to lock me up with the rest of those loons,” you growled. “For doing crimes that I committed.” You pressed on narrowing your eyes at him. “You and your so-called family doesn’t care about us lowly criminals. We’re just numbers for you.” cracking a smile on your face afterward. Nightwing certainly didn’t expect you to come out swinging, but it was your only defense. Even though your words were true, you knew that they wouldn’t last for long.

With your quick mind, you threw the dagger his direction. Letting it graze across his cheek, red blood escaping soon. He brings a hand up, touching the small scar and then noticing that you were on the edge. Nightwing runs at full speed, trying to catch you, but you jumped off. Taking the familiar path you’d always had to run down the alleyway.

Escaping your enemy for the second time now. You weren’t surprised he was after you again, especially since you were on his hit list. You had blown up a warehouse because your troops were looking for some goodies that Joker could use. His obsession with killing Bats was on hold because he was teaming up with the other villains. Wanting to get revenge on Gotham for treating them so horribly.

Their plan was going smoothly, and you didn’t need Nightwing or his cult getting in the way. Especially not when you were in the center of it all.

»»————-　★　————-««

Jungkook didn’t enjoy going back empty-handed. He wanted to catch up to you, but since Yoongi was snapping in his ear, he assumed that he had to go back as soon as possible. Seokjin wasn’t too pleased that he left without saying anything, but then again he wasn’t going to argue with him. Instead, it was Jimin who would give him an ear full once he arrived back in the cave.

Jungkook parks his bite, kicking the stand and ripping his mask off. Jimin was standing in the center, tapping his foot against the steel floor, his arms crossed. From where Jungkook was standing, it seemed like Jimin was the perfect house mother, ready to scold her child for sneaking out. His hair was pushed back from his eye, although a few white streaks fell.

“You honestly thought you could take her in?” Jimin growls, his fingers gripping his biceps. Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, silently telling him that it was worth a try. Instead of getting any answer, Jimin growls at him. His eyes burning with rage as he plants himself. Jungkook could hear the wheels of a chair scrap against the floors.

His eyes moving back towards his eldest friend, quickly moving himself over. He stops right beside Jimin, reaching out and punching his leg. Yoongi turns to look back at Jungkook, now Jimin’s death glare was upon the family friend. “You know going into this was stupid Jungkook,” he mentions crossing his arms and fully sitting back.

He brought a hand up to his hair, pushing some of the loose curls back. Jungkook knew exactly where Yoongi’s concerns were, but he wanted to see for himself. See if you had some kind of change of heart, despite never reaching out to you. Instead, he received further information that he had before. You were an orphan, which means he could look up your files. Yoongi noticed the wheels beginning to click, his own starting as well.

Since he had eyes and ears all over Gotham, Yoongi knew the conversation that went down. With one glance between the two, Yoongi decides to wheel back without saying anything. Jungkook racing after him because he wanted to see where this could go. Jimin shouts, but it was long forgotten since they had much more on their minds.

With a few clicks, Yoongi pulls up a file. Your younger face scowling at the camera and your name displayed right in front of them. It was scary how quickly Yoongi could retrieve data, but Jungkook wasn’t going to complain. Instead, he leaned forwards, reading the last known entry about you. How you ran away and never came back, the center ultimately declaring you dead without finding a body.

“So where do we go from here?” Jungkook whispers, hoping that Yoongi had some kind of plan. Instead, he just raises his hand up to his chin. Grasping it as he purses his lips in thought. Since they had found out your true identity, it was a little more difficult to bounce to the next plan. Whatever this plan was, to begin with, none of them had any clue.

[rougespecial-blog]

sweetheart hand pt. 2 // brian may

summary: a continuation of sweetheart hand. after the party, the (art) studio.

a/n: mostly fluff and then some smut. sorry for the delay! if tumblr hasn’t sorted out their tagging shit by now...... hm. this is around 5,400 words. i was thinking about this twombly work when i was describing the painting. also can you believe this image cause i can’t.

there’s something terrifying and invigorating in equal measure about a blank canvas. you stare the expanse of white down determinedly, crossing your arms and trying to conjure something up in your mind’s eye. it’s a beast of a thing, five feet tall and six feet wide, and anything you try to visualise comes up short. fuck it. you’ve been avoiding it for weeks. you’ll just have to dive in.

you’ve hit almost every mark of your normal afternoon pre-painting routine - the curtains are thrown back to let the natural light in, you’ve made yourself a strong cup of tea and there’s a note on the door in case anyone decides to call around. the only thing left is to take the phone off the hook. it’s an old bakelite monster with a rotary dial - you could afford to replace it, but you’re fond of its look. plus, the horrible, grating sound of its ring is reason alone to stop it from disturbing your painting.

well. not that you normally have any hesitations about it. you haven’t done anything so undignified as waiting around for someone to call since you were a teenager.

———-

it was only after you’d kissed brian on saturday night that you realised you’d probably been a goner since he leaned carefully against the kitchen counter and asked you for a glass of champagne. the hours you spent with him had been so easy, slipping by in what felt like minutes. there was a quiet measure in the way he carried himself, the deliberate way he chose his words even when he was speaking a million miles an hour.

and the kiss itself. not the first, really, but the second one. the one he pressed to the softest part of your inner wrist. watching you with those clear eyes, the whole thing so stupidly intimate that it made your breath catch in your throat. after that, there was no hope at all. you had mumbled something absently about fixing the record, pulled back - hesitant but dimly aware you needed to gather your thoughts for a moment. when you turned away from the record player he was standing there all tall and willowy, waiting for you, arms folded. there was the slightest tilt to his head, the way men ask questions. yes, you had thought, in response to nothing in particular. and you kissed him again.

when you found tom at the end of the night - or start of the morning, rather - and asked him to call a cab, he had taken one look at you and grinned from ear to ear. you knew you were probably an embarrassing colour, lips flushed and clothes slightly askew. you didn’t even want to think about the state of your hair. he was bitterly disappointed, though, when he started to interrogate you in the taxi home.

‘was he good?’ you shot him an incredulous look. ‘that’s none of your business.’ ‘oh, my god. you didn’t shag him?’ ‘don’t make me dignify that with an answer, please.’ ‘i can’t believe you.’

it was a reaction you were accustomed to from tom - the polite term for his taste in lovers would be indiscriminate - but you found that you couldn’t even muster up pretend-annoyance at his prying questions. you were too content, watching the city slip by and thinking that your memory of the past few hours already felt like the kind of vivid dream you have on the edge of waking up - the ones you want desperately to remember. you had just kissed brian - for an age, like a teenager - curled up on a loveseat, paying no mind at all to the few strangers in the room. his hands were gentle at your neck, in your hair, under your blouse. you’ve been a grown woman for a while now, and you still felt your stomach flip when he touched his mouth to the hollow of your throat.

———-

it’s monday morning, now, and you haven’t shaken the feeling. it’s elusive, almost intangible - somewhere between anxiety and anticipation, the feeling of closing your eyes before a kiss. you had taken a pen and scrawled your number on brian’s arm before you left, pressing your lips to the last digit, right at the crease of his elbow. as a joke, mostly. but he had promised he would call so seriously that you found yourself believing him. stupid, you know, the idea that he wouldn’t meet a hundred women as charming as you and twice as good looking every weekend. better to enjoy it for what it was.

still, you leave the phone on the hook.

you’re a little embarrassed with yourself as you make your way to your palette (more of a drop sheet these days, really) and begin to mix. you wonder briefly about the colour of embarrassment, but the more paint you pour the more you realise what you’re after is the colour of a glance. a colour that looks the way someone else’s mouth tastes. it goes on in broad strokes - you want to cover the canvas in it, to feel like you’re wrapped in it. the shade you end up with is a champagne pink like sunburn, streaked through with hints of a vivid red. a little derivative, maybe, but you can work more into it.

your studio is the ground floor of your townhouse, what used to be a fairly spacious foyer and sitting room. creating it had been a labour of love over an entire spring a few years back. your own handiwork, mostly, tearing out walls, painting, varnishing until you ended up with the space you wanted. a good half of the floor space is covered in tarpaulin, with canvases, paint and brushes strewn wherever you like. it looks chaotic, but you know where everything is at a moment’s notice and there’s no one here to ‘helpfully’ tidy up after you - one of the main reasons you had to stop sharing a studio with tom. the rest of the room is still half a lounge, mostly wasted due to your reluctance to let guests in. things you’ve collected yourself and gifts from friends fill the place - huge potted plants, turkish rugs, a gorgeous painted trunk tom brought home from glasgow. and, of course, the ‘lounge’, a low-slung thing that’s mostly an excessive collection of pillows and throw blankets. for when you inevitably need something to throw yourself on mid-work, convinced you’ve never painted anything halfway decent in your life.

your canvas is totally awash in grey and pink, stained with red - like the blood-shock colour around the pit of a peach - when the phone rings. you nearly drop your paintbrush getting to it, only stopping to admonish yourself for being so pathetic. you let it ring once, twice more, and then pick it up.

‘hello?’ ‘hi, er - is this an alright time?’ you smile to yourself, tracing a groove in the wooden sideboard with your fingertip. ‘i’d say so, yeah.’ ‘great, that’s - oh, fuck, sorry. i haven’t - it’s brian. you know, from saturday night.’ ‘brian from saturday night? i’m not sure i - oh - wouldn’t happen to be a maths teacher, would you?’ his laugh is bright and genuine. ‘i think we got halfway through a good chat about fractals and then something came up.’ ‘of course. i’ve really been hanging out to finish that.’ ‘well, does this afternoon work? i can pick you up if you feel like a coffee.’ you pause, glancing over at your canvas. ‘i’m slightly in the middle of something,’ you confess. ‘on a bit of a momentum swing.’ ‘oh, of course. i should’ve - bit of short notice, sorry. are you free next -? i mean, if you’re not -’ your cheeks are nearly hurting from your smile, now. ‘brian. did you want to pop around instead, maybe? i’ll make you some coffee.’ he pauses for a moment, as if taken aback. you wonder if he thought you were just trying to avoid seeing him. silence, still. you falter a little. ‘or - you know, tea. if you’d prefer. it’s not contingent on the drink.’ ‘are you painting?’ the question surprises you, along with the shyly hopeful way he asks it. you look over at the canvas, at the layers of vivid underpainting starting to form something.

‘i am, actually.’ ‘sorry, it’s just - i remember you mentioning on saturday night that you didn’t really like anyone around your studio while you’re working.’ ‘i do make exceptions, you know.’ ‘that’s what i mean,’ he laughs. ‘i like being the exception.’

your exception arrives not a half-hour after you give him your address and hang up, with a knock at the door so gentle you nearly don’t notice it. you know it’s him, but you glance through the peephole anyway. he’s waiting patiently, clutching something in brown paper under his arm. the shade of stubble across his face is darker than saturday, and he’s wearing a pinstriped linen shirt that only makes him look leaner. he grins when you open the door, leaning forward to kiss you on the cheek. ‘this note,’ he laughs, gesturing at the handwritten thing you’d attached to your door. ‘i’ve never known a lady to say such things -’ ‘oh, piss off. artists are persistent types. you have to be clear.’

you lead him in, and it takes you a moment to realise that he’s paused in the threshold of the studio, looking around. ‘this is gorgeous,’ he says. ‘you’re telling me you keep it all to yourself?’ ‘mostly,’ you shrug. ‘i wanted to say - sort of a thank you, i guess, for letting me -’ he holds the paper bag out to you, one nervous hand moving to the back of his neck as you take it. you bite down on a smile. a book, and two blood oranges. you look up to him to say thank you, but he starts rambling before you can. ‘the oranges were just - god, your neighbour has the loveliest tree hanging over their fence, i suppose you’ve noticed, and you mentioned that you forget to eat when you’re painting - so i just grabbed them - and i thought the colour of them was so brilliant -’ ‘thank you, brian -’ ‘the book’s the main thing, of course, it was outside that old bookshop on king and i saw mark rothko and thought of you straight away, so there’s - you might already have a copy -’ ‘i don’t. really, thank you. i love them.’ he finally quiets, smiling softly. you lean up towards him, in what might have originally been a plan to kiss his cheek that quickly became sidetracked. you have never been known for self control. he makes a soft, surprised noise as your lips meet his but responds quickly, bringing a hand to your jaw. ‘thank you,’ you tell him again.

you set your gifts down on the coffee table, gesturing for him to make himself comfortable somewhere among the clutter. ‘i can make you a cup of coffee or something - i’d just like to finish up this corner, and then you’ll have my undivided attention.’ ‘take as long as you like,’ he says earnestly. it’s only then that he takes a proper look at the work in progress behind you. his mouth falls open slightly as he leans forward to inspect it. ‘you can get closer, if you like,’ you smile. ‘it’s not a gallery.’ ‘it bloody well should be,’ he says. you might have rolled your eyes if someone else had said it. ‘did you - this is all you? god, it’s brilliant.’ ‘careful, i’ll get a massive head. it’s really only a tenth done. if that.’ ‘well, yes, it’s unfinished - but there’s such a sense of motion - the colour, it’s like -’ ‘it’s a kiss,’ you say, half unsure of whether you sound insane. ‘it’s a painting of a kiss, i suppose.’ the look he gives you is brilliant, his eyes full of quiet mirth but also a certain fondness. nothing needs to be said, really. ‘i’ll go and get you that coffee.’

when you come back downstairs he’s pacing the room carefully, taking in the works littered around the place. he tilts his head - something you’re starting to realise is a habit - as if considering each one in turn. you’d feel scrutinised if it was anyone else, almost embarrassed. you’ve been painting for half your life and still aren’t really used to the feeling of strangers looking at your work. but with brian, somehow, it doesn’t feel like a stranger. you indulge yourself for a minute, perched at the bottom of the stairs, watching him.

‘fair’s fair,’ you call out eventually. he turns to you, an eyebrow raised in question. you nod at the acoustic guitar leaning against the lounge. it was a gift from a friend, and you’ve always liked the look of it even if you have no idea how to play. ‘i’ve shown you mine. let’s see yours.’ ‘excuse me,’ he laughs. ‘you’ve seen mine. at the launch party, remember?’ ‘that was different,’ you say, crossing the room to hand him the cup of coffee. ‘you had a band, and an adoring audience. that would be like seeing my work with all the trimmings at a big gallery opening. this is just me. now i want just you.’ he chuckles at your point, but doesn’t argue it. sitting down, his legs are almost too long for the sagging lounge. he places the coffee at his feet and picks up the guitar. ‘any requests?’ you know he’s being facetious, poking fun at your total lack of knowledge where his music is concerned. as of last time you met, that is.

you sit next to him, curling your feet under you and leaning on the back of the lounge comfortably. ‘i do have one, thanks very much,’ you say. ‘i forced tom to loan me one of your albums. he had the first one -’ ‘christ, you’re being serious -’ ‘- and it’s the second track, i think about a minute in - there’s this lovely little guitar part. i mean, it might be lovely, i haven’t the faintest if it’s actually special.’ ‘doing alright, you mean.’ he’s smiling the same way he did when you realised he wasn’t a maths teacher - looking perfectly amused. ‘that’s the one. i’m no good with names.’

carefully, he starts to tune the guitar. you laugh at his initial wince - it hasn’t been tuned properly since you got it, you suspect. when he’s satisfied, he strums a tentative few chords and gives you a cautionary look. ‘i haven’t played this song in a little while,’ he warns. ‘i’ll be forwarding all feedback to rolling stone,’ you say, and he huffs out a laugh, elbows you half-heartedly.

the light, pretty melody that’s been stuck in your head since you first heard it sounds infinitely lovelier being played right in front of you. you’re about to say as much when brian surprises you with a line of the song. should be waiting for the sun, he sings, half under his breath. you had no clue he even could.

he looks up and locks eyes with you, plays a few more notes and then falters to a stop. ‘sorry,’ he says, his smile sheepishly crooked. ‘you just - that felt like stage fright, for a moment there.’ ‘i’ve been told i’m extremely intimidating,’ you joke. ‘well, that, and…’ he trails off, looking towards your unfinished canvas, then back to you with nothing but sincerity in his eyes. ‘i’d really love to kiss you again, if that’s -’

you don’t give him time to finish the sentence. he barely has time to move the guitar out of the way, mindful of the fresh mug of coffee on the floor, as you close the distance between the two of you and kiss him resolutely. he cards a hand through your hair to cradle the nape of your neck, and you feel the press of rings you hadn’t taken notice of before. it’s hard to get proper leverage sitting side-on like this, so - without really being cognisant of what you’re doing, more running on instinct - you sling one leg over his and straddle his lap. he breaks the kiss, leaning his head back. you sense he’s thinking the same thing that you are - that this is where you finished off the last time you saw each other.

‘i haven’t stopped thinking about this since saturday night,’ he says. his hand is still resting in your hair, and he curls his fingers in it gently. he has some of the loveliest hands you’ve ever seen on a man, you think. one is resting on your thigh, and you trace a fingertip along the ridge of his knuckles. ‘i always take the phone off the hook when i paint,’ you confess. ‘but i couldn’t. not while i was thinking that you might call. is that ridiculous?’ ‘thinking that i might call? i mean, that’s ridiculous. the idea that i wouldn’t.’ you smirk, slipping a hand under the neck of his shirt to rest at his collarbone. he’s warm beneath you, and you can feel his steady heartbeat. ‘you’re a rockstar, brian. don’t bullshit. i’ll know.’ you nod at your impromptu lie detector, your palm pressed against his heart.

‘no bullshit. alright, then.’ he rocks forward, catching you with a hand at the curve of your back. ‘sunday morning, i called half the artist collectives in london asking after you. i wanted to see your works before i saw you again.’ ‘so you could decide whether or not to pursue me?’ he laughs, ducking his head and pressing a soft kiss to your chest. ‘so i could understand you better. i thought it’d be like a window into your thoughts. but then the only collective who knew you -’ ‘drunk tank?’ ‘- that’s the one - they told me you were all sold out at the moment, and the only gallery pieces you had were at some place that didn’t open until tuesday - so i thought, sod it, i’ll come and see them in person.’ he raises his eyebrows expectantly. you pretend to mull the story over, biting your lip. ‘it’ll do.’ he clasps a hand around yours, clutching it to his chest. ‘it’ll do! have you ever felt a pulse this honest?’

‘alright,’ you concede, laughing. ‘now mine.’ you take his hand, pressing his fingertips against the base of your throat. ‘sunday morning, i woke up at tom’s around midday and the first thing i asked him was -’ ‘hang on,’ brian mutters. ‘can’t quite get it properly -’ you cut yourself off, inhale sharply as he kisses your neck, openmouthed. ‘go on,’ he mumbles. he runs his tongue along the pulse point, teeth grazing against your skin. ‘prick,’ you laugh, curling one of your hands in his hair. ‘the first thing i asked him was if he had any queen records, and he laughed at me, but loaned me your first.’ ‘god, you’re sweet,’ brian says fondly, but he’s distracted, kissing further down your neck. those careful hands at your ribcage, inching the hem of your shirt up.

impatient, you pull the shirt over your head. you’re not wearing anything underneath - you never do at home. he makes a short, pleased noise when this becomes obvious, almost a disbelieving laugh. his hands are fleeting, wanting to be everywhere. his lean fingers, silver-ringed, teasing against your ribcage, breasts, nipples. you arch your back into the touch, feeling - somehow - even less inhibited than you were on saturday night.

you make short work of the buttons on his shirt, parting it to reveal what shouldn’t be the body of a rockstar - there’s a grace to him, a certain lightness - there’s the height, of course, and he’s broad in the shoulders but still somewhat delicate. you love the look of him. the dark hair beneath his arms and between his hips, the line of his collarbones, the pronounced adam’s apple. as you’re taking him in he doesn’t stop touching you, leaning forward with one hand spanned across your back, kissing the inside curve of your breast.

it’s tempting to just let him keep going at this forever. his attention is ardent, eyes closed, taking one nipple in his mouth and running his thumb over the other until they’re so sensitive it makes you whine. when he gently pinches one and rolls it between his fingers you gasp, grinding your hips down against his. he groans, humming against your skin, the vibration sending a shudder through you.

it’s with complete seriousness that he looks up at you and says your name. ‘yeah?’ he presses a wet kiss to your sternum, hands still at your breasts. glances up again. ‘you can have me,’ he says, ‘any way you want me.’ you feel your stomach drop when he says it, taking in the earnest look and the shining eyes and the flush that reaches his shoulders. you press your splayed fingertips into the middle of his chest. ‘finish undressing, then,’ you tell him, half-smiling.

you watch him shrug off the rest of his clothes as you stand and step out of your jeans. before, the sight of him in your studio felt natural, comforting. now it sends an electric thrill through you, the diminishing evening light casts over him as he lounges back and waits for you. you move to kneel over him and he rests a hand on your thigh, otherwise waiting for you to decide. his cock is jutting hard against his lower abdomen. you trace a hand gently up it and feel his palm twitch against you as he tenses.

‘what did you want?’ you ask him, thoughtful. ‘on saturday night?’ ‘i wanted to know everything there was to know about you,’ he says, his voice raw. you wrap your hand around his cock to punctuate your meaning. ‘i mean - what did you want?’ the sound he makes is half laugh, half shaky groan as you touch him. ‘i wanted to fuck you right there,’ he says, ‘everyone else be damned. i wanted to make you come.’

his hand trails up from your thigh to between your spread legs, his index finger tracing a teasing line. when he feels how wet you are, he groans. ‘i wanted to feel this,’ he continues, running his guitar-calloused fingertips over your clit. you balance yourself with a hand at his chest, still touching his cock in slow tandem with what he’s doing to you.

when you edge forward and lower yourself over him, aligning yourself, the head slides against your clit and his breath catches. he’s propped up on his elbows to watch, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. there’s a stillness to him as you take him inside, giving you time as you adjust to the stretch. when you bottom out, all of him inside you, he tips his head back and swears hotly, the end of it turning into a groan. he brings one hand to you, touching your clit as you rock your hips back and forth.

‘just like that,’ he murmurs. ‘get yourself off on me, come on -’ he starts raising his hips to meet your movements, just slightly, enough that you feel impossibly full, the press of him deep inside. when you arch a certain way he hits a spot that nearly knocks the wind out of you. he must see your reaction, the way your eyes flutter shut in bliss, because he laughs, fondly, and thrusts up again at the same angle. you can’t stop the moan that escapes you, then. he hums, delighted, quickening the slip of his thumb over you and touching your face gently with his other hand. ‘god, you’re not far off, are you?’

you can only shake your head no. it’s a little embarrassing, but you’ve been keyed up since saturday and all there is now is the desperate need to finally come. you turn and kiss his palm, bite the heel of his thumb gently. he squeezes you minutely, affectionately. he’s hit your rhythm, in perfect tandem with your body, a shine of sweat across his chest. you clutch at him as the wave of your orgasm starts to pool in your belly. he fucks up into you, gasping, the hands that were gently touching you now gripping your thighs tightly. almost accidentally, he hits that angle and you nearly collapse forward, your orgasm hitting sharply. when he’s sure you’ve ridden it out - sure that he can’t tease anything more out of you - only then does he collapse back against the lounge, stomach clenching with his deep breaths and - there it is - soft laughter.

‘my god,’ he says, slinging an arm across his eyes. ‘i’d imagined it. but i couldn’t- you looked perfect.’

when you think your legs are working again you raise yourself from him, gently, moving to kneel beside the couch. when he realises what you’re doing he sits up, tries to assure you that you don’t have to, but you quiet him. ‘i want to,’ you say. ‘besides, i haven’t got - ah - anything.’ and he laughs at that, laughs until he’s cut off with a groan as you take him in your mouth.

it doesn’t take long, his hands in your hair, warm against the cradle of your neck. when you glance up he’s watching carefully from eyes half-lidded. a gaze that would be filthy from across the room, let alone now. after a moment he finds your hand at his thigh, gives it a polite, if desperate, clutch as a warning. he holds his breath as he’s about to come and then releases it in a string of profanity, of your name, of wordless moans.

lying back against cushions and blankets - half of them strewn on the floor in your hurry to get into his lap - you watch him watching you. you can’t help but be reminded of sitting in that armchair across from him at the party, feeling helplessly seen. not just that appraising look of his but some of the things he said, striking insights into the way you think. he reaches over to trace his fingers up the inside of your arm.

‘penny for your thoughts?’ ‘i never got to finish that corner,’ you say. he chuckles as he pulls himself to stand, tugging his boxers and trousers back on. you take his linen shirt from the heap on the lounge and slip it on, doing up a couple of buttons. as you stand up and step back into your underwear, he’s shaking his head at you. ‘i won’t make you leave without it,’ you laugh. ‘indulge me.’ he relents, picking his coffee up from the foot of the sofa. it must be completely cold by now. ‘did you -?’ you bite your lip, apologetic. ‘i might have to make you a fresh one.’ he waves his hand dismissively. ‘i can manage. do you want one?’ ‘that would be lovely, actually. the kitchen is upstairs, to the left.’

you wander over to your painting, your tools untouched since brian’s arrival. taking a slender paintbrush and a board covered in silver-grey paint, you slowly track a thin line across some of the pink, thick enough that it drips down the canvas. the look of it is ephemeral, spectral over the shocking red. you hear brian’s footsteps down the stairs. they slow when he notices that you’re painting. it takes all of your effort to stay facing your work, finish the line by tapering it off into a swathe of ghostly white. by then he’s right behind you, close enough to lean in and kiss the back of your neck. the work can wait. you turn and he hands you a mug of coffee.

‘so what does a monday evening look like for you?’ shit. you’d mostly forgotten about the outside world. ‘there’s this exhibition opening tonight,’ you say. ‘friend of a friend of a friend. i’ve been sort of dreading it for a while now, but that’s how these industry things are.’ ‘stay in, then. with me.’ he’s so matter of fact that you nearly laugh. ‘i can’t - there’s an expectation, i guess - sort of an etiquette thing -’ ‘you’re sick. you’ve come down with something awful.’ ‘and instead?’ ‘instead we can go up the road for a bottle of wine and some dinner,’ he says. ‘you can complain about these industry types, i’ll make you laugh effortlessly, you’ll be dying to see me again.’ you roll your eyes at him, taking a sip of your coffee. ‘that first part sounded alright.’ he sticks out his lower lip, humming as he pretends to weigh it up. ‘alright. let’s start there.’

you almost feel like you’re getting away with something - the rush of bunking class in high school - as you walk over to the phone and set your coffee down. you don’t realise until you’ve dialled tom’s number and it’s started to ring that brian has followed behind you. you don’t pay it much mind until you hear one knee hit the floor with a soft thud. you look over your shoulder at him, eyes wide, and mouth something along the lines of what are you doing? he only grins. he knows exactly what he’s doing. his broad hands are at your thighs, gently turning you to face him. as he runs a thumb upwards, pressing against your inner thigh, tom picks up the phone.

‘hello?’ ‘hi - tom - it’s me,’ you say, flustered. ‘hello, darling. where am i meeting you tonight?’ brian leans in and kisses the top of your thigh, then noses at your underwear. one of your hands flies to his head, curling in his hair. ‘um - that’s the thing,’ you manage, slightly impressed with yourself. ‘i don’t think i can make it.’ ‘oh, god, why on earth not? don’t make me do it alone.’ in one sudden movement, brian leans in and hooks your leg over his shoulder and pulls the crotch of your underwear aside, pressing his mouth against you. you gasp, leaning back against the sideboard for balance. knowing it’s probably a losing battle, you try to hide the sound in a fake cough anyway. ‘i’m sick, tom - really sick -’ you cough again to stop yourself making a  helpless sound as brian licks over you, hot and insistent - ‘- i’ve been really tired all day.’ ‘oh, you bitch. you’re with him now, aren’t you?’ brian looks up at you, the same dark, intent look in his eyes as the one just before you’d kissed him. one hand holding your thigh for leverage, the other at your cunt, a long finger pressing inside you. ‘yes,’ you say - more of a squeak, really. ‘sorry - i’llmakeituptoyou.’

you all but slam the phone into the cradle, leaning back, finally letting out the sound you’d been keeping in - albeit barely. brian sucks a wet kiss over your clit, then turns his head to graze his lips against your thigh, his stubble scratching gently. ‘that was extremely underhanded,’ you tell him, breath heaving. ‘sorry,’ he says, though his crooked grin tells you he’s not in the slightest. ‘i thought i could wait until you were finished, but the way you looked…’ ‘the way i looked answering the phone?’ ‘yes, answering the phone.’ he kisses your thigh again, nipping the skin playfully between his teeth. ‘or walking to the phone.’ another kiss. ‘or hearing the phone ring.’ you scoff at him, rolling your eyes. ‘come on. don’t act like i’m the first man you’ve brought to his knees,’ he says. ‘oh, that was good! now i know where all these lyrics come from.’ ‘i’ve been told i’m a natural crowd pleaser.’ you slip your leg off his shoulder and nudge him with your knee half-heartedly. too pleased, too satisfied, too smitten to really tease him back. ‘come up here, then. show me.’

[turnupswritessometimes]

The One With the Zombies - AshEiji - Ch3

Title: The One With the Zombies

Chapter: 3

Word Count: 4162

Description:  Another what it says on the tin from me - it's a Zombie Apocalypse AU because how else could this anime/manga get any darker? Whilst on the run from the outbreak of zombies, reporters Ibe and Eiji stumble across a New York street gang, safely huddled in an abandoned warehouse. As if the undead weren't surprising enough, Eiji finds himself becoming closer and closer to the gang's leader, mysteriously dubbed Ash Lynx. But safety doesn't last forever and soon it's only Ash and Eiji. And they're up against more than just zombies.

Note: This is available on A03, and I would recommend you follow it there, as I remember to update it. I would post a link, but then Tumblr wouldn’t include it in search results.

3

Ash had ran out of cigarettes.

Eiji had thought this would mean a good time to curb the habit – to pack smoking in altogether. Bones had agreed with him. Ash hadn’t. He said that it wouldn’t be that hard to get to a convenience store and leave some cash on the side – if the owners were even still there.

So he had lead a small group of them out in the morning, guns slung over their shoulder and provisions shoved into their pockets. Bones started up some songs after a while – after their eyes were starting to water from staring at the horizon for so long. Eiji didn’t know the words or the tunes, but it did ease his nerves.

He glanced across at Ash. He looked tired – his hair hung in front of his face and he had dark circles under his eyes. But then everyone had dark circles now – Eiji didn’t think that he’d look any better. He felt as though he hadn’t slept since the zombie problem started.  His head felt light and fuzzy, like it was full of t.v static.

Ash noticed him looking and he glanced away, feeling his cheeks warm.

“You okay?”

“Mm.” Eiji said. “Tired.”

Ash patted his shoulder and just nodded.

They encountered a few strays on their way through the wilderness. They were dispatched quickly and for a moment Eiji thought that there might be some hope in this after all. Maybe they would be able to survive this apocalypse.

Kong had a compass with him, and he murmured to Ash whenever the red needle wavered. Ash would nod like he was a pirate captain charting a course. No one else seemed to know where they were going.

Eiji hadn’t realised that they’d walked this far out of the city. Once they were out of the woods though, he realised they were walking away from it. He had no idea what was out here.

It was boiling – an unbearable summer heat. Eiji wished he had something other than a button up shirt and jeans to wear because he was baking alive in them. There was a thin covering of sweat over him and he could see the others were suffering too. It was hard work – walking all this way in the heat for cigarettes.

It was mid-afternoon by the time they came to the gas station. It was, understandably deserted. A car was still plugged into one of the pumps, oil leaking like blood out of it’s side and onto the floor. Another car had deep scratches down the side of it and the bonnet was bent like an accordion. The front window was smashed and a sticky lump of flesh was still sat in the driver’s seat. Eiji stopped, staring at it – his eyes making out the shape of a skull against his will. An empty skull – picked clean.

Ash stepped in front of him.

“Come on,” he said, taking Eiji’s arm. “We have to move.” He led the away across the gas station, not looking around him. He leant closer to Eiji a moment later. “Don’t look at it. Look anywhere but that.”

He could hear the flies, he realised. He could hear the swarm of flies that we starting to gather and it turned his stomach. It was hot. Very hot and there would be a lot of flies very quickly if anything happened to any of them.

There was blood on the windows. Smears and streaks and here and there Eiji could make out finger or palm prints. Flies were gathering on them too, looking for anywhere to plant eggs.

The boys around him lifted their guns off of their backs, lifting them to their shoulders. Eiji grasped the pistol that he had been handed, holding it with two shaking hands.

Ash nudged the door open with his foot, poking the nose of his gun into the building. He stepped inside, squinting from the sudden darkness.

They waited behind. Eiji could pick out everyone’s individual breathing and his own was loud in his ears. A drop of sweat rolled down the back of his neck.

Eventually, they got a “clear.”

Eiji stepped inside and felt instant relief in the shade. The air was still humid and hard to take in, but the sun wasn’t pushing against his back.

“Don’t keep your guard down,” Ash said. “And take everything you can carry.”

He glanced at Eiji as he started towards the tobacco counter and Eiji realised that he completely understood the meaning. ‘Stay close.’

So he followed him, his eyes looking over the shelves for any sign of movement. He watched the shop whilst Ash slipped over the counter as nimbly as a cat over a fence. He rustled around in the back and muttered, “fuck.”

“Don’t they have any?”

“Only roll-ups.” Ash sighed. “It’s fine. I’ll take it.”

“They’re better for your health, I think.” Eiji said.

Ash was climbing back over the counter, and he rested on his hands to look up at Eiji, an amused smile on his face.

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn about my health.” He said.

Eiji laughed under his breath, because his hands were still shaking. But the sun had caught Ash’s eyes and they had looked like a green field of grass in the Summer. They were glowing.

“We got a live one!” a voice called from the back of the store.

Ash was up and in front of Eiji in the next moment, his gun pointed at the voice. He was at attention, prickling with intensity.

“When you say alive?” Ash pressed, starting to walk down the aisle towards the others. Bones and Kong were halfway down, in the sweets aisle, and had their guns rested over the top of the shelving. Eiji had never seen the two of them concentrate so hard. “Are we talking alive again? Or just plain alive?”

“Just plain alive,” the voice replied. “I think?”

“You think?”

Ash stopped. Eiji peered over his shoulder to see a man standing in the doorway of the restroom, his hands above his head and a bored expression on his face. He looked scruffy, with messy hair, stubble on his jaw and dark rings under his eyes. A crumbled shirt and torn trousers.

Then again, Eiji supposed none of them looked much better.

“I’m alive,” the man said. “And so thankful that Peter Pan and the Lost Boys have found me. I really am saved now.”

Ash lowered his gun almost immediately. The others followed suit, though much more hesitantly.

“We’ll leave you here if you’re ungrateful.” Ash said.

The man laughed, lowering his hands as the guns were put away.

“Don’t tell me you have a Neverland.”

“We have a hideout, yeah.” Ash said. “If you pull your significant weight, you can have in.”

“What happened to the living being aligned with the living?”

Ash shrugged. “You coming, or not?”

“Sure. Thanks for the offer.” The man was still sarcastic, but there was a hint of genuinity there. He held out a hand to Ash. “Max Lobo.”

Eiji jumped at the name. Without realising it, he had clutched Ash’s jacket.

“Max Lobo?” he echoed.

Ash looked back at him. He hadn’t shook the man’s hand.

“What’s wrong, Eiji?” he asked, with none of the playfulness that had been in his voice before. He could feel everybody’s eyes on him and suddenly felt shy. He focused on the glow of Ash’s eyes in the dark.

“I know that name. Ibe – we were meant to meet this man.”

“Ibe?” it was the man’s turn to echo names. “Shunichi Ibe?”

Eiji almost said ‘hai!’ He stopped himself – forced his brain to go back to English. “Yes – I came to England with him.”

The man’s face lit up. He grinned at them.

“Well then, take me to your leader.”

“I am their leader. Ash Lynx.” He turned away then, tapping his gun against his thigh. “Get ready to move back out, guys. It’s a long walk home.”

They did, all grabbing snacks and stuffing them into their pockets before they were shuffling into the door with heavier garments than before. Max stood by Eiji. He noticed his shaking gun and held out a hand.

“Do you want me to take that for you, kiddo?”

Eiji hesitated. Then nodded – he didn’t want to hold it anymore.

“Don’t.” Ash put a hand over his. He was looking at Max with a heavy gaze. Almost an angry gaze.

“It’s okay,” Eiji said. Ash didn’t look at him. “Mr Lobo can probably shoot better than me.”

“I’m not about to shoot you for a few cigarettes and a chocolate bar,” Max said. He was giving Ash a similar stare.

Very slowly, Ash pulled his fingers away from the gun and let Max take it. He examined it, then shoved it into his waistband and nodded at Ash. It was some significant exchange, but Eiji couldn’t follow it.

They started back. Walking back down the road and through the wilderness with the same quiet determination as before. Ash kept glancing at the sky, his hand never quite leaving his gun. He stayed at Eiji’s side as though he was glued there.

He supposed he should have felt vulnerable. He was the only one without a gun.

But he didn’t think Ash would let him get bitten. He trusted Ash.

He had saved him before, hadn’t he?

*

“If I make a Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome reference, will you understand it?” the man, Max said, after a while.

Ash glanced at him. “I probably wouldn’t. The others might.”

He didn’t want to talk to him. He didn’t trust him – not for any particular reason, he just generally lost trust in people the older they were. Ibe he could deal with – Ibe was very clearly like a parent to Eiji. A real parent.

This man had been in an abandoned gas station and there was something about him that sparked in Ash’s memory. He recognised this man, but he couldn’t think from where. He was sure that it wasn’t from behind a camera. It wasn’t from that mansion in New York.

So where?

It bothered him – the man bothered him because he seemed completely unfazed by it all. Because he had a tongue to match Ash’s.

The man who everyone else clearly trusted. They probed him with questions like he was the most interesting thing in the world. Ash supposed it had been a good week since Eiji arrived – they were getting angsty. Everyone was feeling cabin fever.

But he didn’t know what else to do. When you were lost as a child, the advice was to sit tight and wait for someone to find you. No one was going to find Ash, but staying put seemed like the best option. That was what everyone had planned if they were talking about this situation. Stay put and create a stronghold.

At least they had more food now – even though it was only junk food.

“So, how do you know Ibe?” Max asked.

There were no songs on the way home – the mood was wearier now that the sun was beginning to set. Ash could feel the ears listening to him, even if everyone was looking ahead.

“The boys found him and Eiji stumbling around the forest looking completely lost. We take pity on the lost.”

“Thanks.”

“We came to interview Ash.” Eiji said next to him. He gave him a sharp look and the Japanese boy shrugged, as if to say ‘well, Ibe would have told him.’

“How ironic,” Max smiled and Ash glowered at him. He supposed because he was too upbeat – too carefree about the whole thing. “Guess it really is a small world, huh?”

“You were all in New York. Anyone who stayed in New York is most likely dead by now.” Ash said.

He couldn’t help but wonder just how far the walkers had got. If they had reached Golzine’s place. If they had, Ash supposed he should feel relief. He should be glad that just one good thing had come out of this whole thing. He should feel some satisfaction in knowing that those men would have been torn apart limb by limb.

But it just made him angry. Angry that he wouldn’t have been able to be there himself. That he wouldn’t be able to put the last bullet in the body.

It made him feel empty. Not sad – but – empty.

The thought was a pointless exercise anyway. He didn’t know for sure – would hopefully never know for sure.

Knowing Golzine, he was sat at home with his home comforts whilst soldiers did all the hard work for him. That made him feel sick to his stomach, so he abandoned the line of thought and continued trudging through the fields.

Did they really walk this far? He’d really led them all this far away from the base just because he wanted some more cigarettes? What had he been thinking?

He hadn’t, really. He was just scared – scared about what would happen when he felt the craving arrive and there was nothing to wrap his fingers around. Because memories followed cravings and he had had enough of memories. So, they had to go, even if it meant they were still trudging back as it got dark.

They hadn’t brought flashlights – it was still the general agreement that walkers could still see and could still recognise that light meant living.

But the heat of the day had one upside. It had brought the flies out – huge, black, buzzing flies.

Which gave them plenty of warning when anything was coming. They had all froze before at the approaching sound, drawing guns into hands hesitantly. Ash’s eyes searched the shadows and he put out an arm to keep Eiji back.

He almost jumped out of his skin when Eiji actually held onto it. It was just a warm hand on his elbow, letting him know that Eiji was right behind him. The feeling wasn’t particularly unpleasant – in fact, it calmed his racing heart.

It eventually came into view. It arm had been torn to gory ribbons and Ash could hear some of them gulp. He didn’t stop to think about it, he raised his pistol-

And another shot rang threw the air.

From beside him, he realised a moment later.

Max Lobo was staring down the barrel of his gun at the collapsing walker. It landed in a heap, folding the wrong way like a piece of paper.

“What do you know,” Ash said. “You can actually shoot that thing.”

Max smirked at him. “This old man has a few tricks up his sleeve.”

He rolled his eyes, because there had been a ripple of excitement at the clean shot. Ash waved a hand to tell them they should all push on. Yes, he could shoot a gun, so could anyone else.

Anyone except Eiji.

It should have been annoying. It should have made him a liability. Instead, Ash found it refreshing. Here was a boy completely removed from his world. He was like a miracle.

They finally arrived back at the warehouse, by the time the stars were sparkling in the sky and their legs were weary from the days walk.

Ibe met them at the door. He looked incredibly relieved to see them all in one piece – and completely surprised to see Max with them. He burst out laughing and the two men embraced. It was only ten minutes later that Eiji was bringing them both tea he had made from the travel kettle.

It was back to normal now – to groups lounging on the sofas chatting and laughing before it was time to go to bed. Eiji sat down next to Ibe, so naturally Ash sat next to him. For all his scorn, he couldn’t help but be curious about this man.

Eiji smiled at him as he sat down, and Ash found himself smiling back.

"How long have you been back in New York?" Ibe was asking.

Ash stared out over the rest of the gang, just to make it look like he wasn't eavesdropping.

"Not long."

"Same business as usual?"

"It was." Max leant forward and Ash glanced across at him. His face looked drawn - darker. "But then it led me to something else. I think I found a child trafficking ring in the city." Ash's blood ran cold. He wasn't sure if he drew in a sharp breath or made a face or something - but Max's gaze flicked to him. He stared back with what he hoped was a neutral expression. Maybe he should have looked shocked – or scared, or angry – like Ibe and Eiji.

“That’s horrible!” Ibe said.

“I’m still finding out the details.”

"Ash, would you know anything about that?" Eiji asked.

"Why would I know anything about that?" He had spoken too quickly and too harshly and Eiji had actually recoiled, staring at Ash with wide eyes.

"I just thought - you might hear things,” he said, sounding so much like a lost puppy that it felt like he had wedged a knife into Ash’s stomach.

He took a breath – it did make sense. It hadn’t meant what he thought it would mean.

"Well yeah,” he said, pushing his hair out of his eyes and staring at the ground. This was thin ice and making eye contact with Max Lobo was going to make him fall through. “There are rumours.”

“Not enough rumours to act on?” Max raised an eyebrow at him.

That set his anger off. He was suddenly snarling at him.

“You've done the research. The men in charge are all influential business bigots - No one's going to listen to a bunch of kids!” he snapped. “And anyway, none of us are out of the clear. They like seventeen year olds as much as twelve year olds.”

He hated the way he was talking about it so casually and he knew he was saying too much.

“Seventeen? You're seventeen?”

It was Eiji and he was still giving Ash that wide eyed look.

“Why? Do I look older?” he smirked, because it was strangely easy to smirk with Eiji and see him smile back.

“Smoking ages you,” Max said.

“Speak for yourself, old man.” He barely glanced over. He was done talking about this and he was glad for the change of subject. “How old are you, Eiji?”

“Hm? Oh, I'm nineteen,” he smiled self-consciously.

"Oh." Ash wasn't sure why the information was such a surprise. He sat back, letting the conversation continue. Max and Ibe talked back and forth about locations and suspects and details - too many details.

He had to get out.

He tapped Eiji's elbow before he left- he normally wouldn't have done, he would normally just leave.

Maybe it was so that Eiji would follow him to the doors of the warehouse. It was completely dark now and he missed when that was a comfort - when the dark was completely and utterly comforting because it hid him.

"Its heavy stuff." Eiji's voice was quiet. He was leaning against the door, still half-standing in the doorway.

"Mm."

"You don't like Max."

Ash almost laughed.

"No. He pisses me off."

Eiji was the one who laughed then, a soft breathy chuckle.

"He reminds me of you."

"Eiji?"

"Yeah?"

"Never say that again."

Eiji laughed - and Ash laughed too and for once it didn't seem too loud or jarring.

They stood in silence - they always seemed to stand in silence - and listened to the sound of the T.V.

Skip came for the first watch.

“That guy said that I’m too young to be on watch,” he said.

“What’d you tell him?” Ash asked.

“That I could shoot his gun better than him any day.”

“Good boy.” Ash high-fived him, kicking off the front of the warehouse. He was only heading inside to show Max just how capable Skip was.

“You shouldn’t encourage him to be like you,” Eiji murmured. He was still at his side and Ash normally would have found it annoying. But with Eiji it was different – it was almost comforting.

“What’s wrong with being like me?” Ash smirked.

Eiji stopped and studied him. He was still smiling and his cheeks were pink like his cheeks were two roses.

“I don’t know,” he said.

And Ash felt his stomach flip. He told it to calm down – don’t get excited. That was when the guilt set in. ‘Don’t know.’ That was because Eiji didn’t know. He didn’t know the half of it. Ash hadn’t thought he ever would.

But with Max here, that seemed subject to change.

He came out of the warehouse when Ash was on duty that night. Eiji had actually fallen asleep on the sofa and Ash had slipped out from beside him. That was the only time that he seemed to sleep – when Ash sat by him. Funnily enough, he had been missing the company as he stood out in the darkness. It was easier to pass the time when Eiji was next to him, even if they weren’t saying a word.

Needless to say, Max’s appearance was nothing like Eiji’s. He studied Ash for a moment, and Ash pointedly didn’t look at him, taking a long drag from his cigarette as though he was drinking water in front of a dying man..

“You have a spare?” he asked.

Ash considered denying it. He wasn’t that mean. He handed over the one he had already rolled from behind his ear.

Ash considered denying it. He wasn’t that mean. He handed over the one he had already rolled from behind his ear and stared out into the darkness.

For a moment, he hoped that it would be something like what he had with Eiji. That they could just stare out across the woods and contemplate impending doom.

Of course it couldn't be that easy.

"So, I take it they don't know," Max said, smoke billowing from his mouth.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ash said.

"Yes, you do."

Ash paused - wondering whether or not to lie. No, he wanted the truth on this one.

"Did you see the pictures?"

Max took another drag before he answered, tapping the ash off as he spoke.

"I didn't root them out."

"But you saw."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not like you're the only one," Ash said. He tried to say it casually but his stomach twisted in on itself. He realised that he had to answer Max's first question. "The boys know that I'm tied to him. They don't know how."

"What about Ibe and the kid?" "Nothing."

"Are you going to tell them?" Max glanced sideways at him.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're not going to be able to hide it from him forever," Max said. There was something in his tone that Ash didn't like.

"We could all die tomorrow," Ash snapped.

Max shrugged. "It's your choice."

There was that tone again. That condescending, suggesting something tone.

"He's my friend, okay?" Ash said. "Nothing more."

"I didn't say he wasn't." He still spoke in that voice and it made Ash grind his teeth. He wanted to just leave it - to ignore him and pass of the watch to someone else.

"I'm not." He said instead. He wasnt sure why - maybe it was because Max knew anyway. He was the only person here who knew. "I don't - I don't even think that I - I'm-"

"Gay?"

Ash heard his breath - a short gasp that sounded like he was shocked. "Not anyone," he managed to get out. "I don't think I could have a relationship with anyone."

Max was quiet for a moment and Ash felt his gaze on him. He ignored him.

"You don't have to have sex to be in a relationship." He said it so gently - so pityingly that I made anger ride up in Ash. The same anger that he felt earlier and he hated this man - he really hated this man who thought he knew and understood everything. Who thought he knew and understood everything about Ash.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he snapped. "How dare you - how the fuck can you come in here and start talking to me about whether or not I'm - you aren't! You aren't shit! Just stay away from me!" He threw his half-used ciggie onto the floor, his face twisting up into a snarl. "Stay away from me and don't fuck up our rations!"

Just who did this man think he was? Ash ranted to himself about the idiocy and arrogance and sheer stupidity of the man. Like he knew anything. Like he knew an ounce of what Ash had gone through.

As if the zombies weren't bad enough, now Ash had to contend with Max fucking Lobo.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Blame It On Your Beats (9)

Chapter Content: Sex. Yup. That’s it.

Summary: A brush with the underworld leads you on a run, away from what was supposedly your normal life, with Bucky Barnes. You two do not seem to be in sync as Bucky tries to keep you alive, trying your best not to kill each other. Or that’s what you think you are doing.

Series: contains smut, adult content in there somewhere in the future chapters so please look at the chapter content and warnings before you proceed.

Chapter Warnings: SMUT. NSFW. Do not read this if you are underage or don’t like smut.

A/N: This series is written for @littledarlinhavefaithinme ‘s MK Writing Challenge. Thank you so much for hosting. I am having a lot of fun with the prompts. But I am clearly behind schedule. Eep! Thanks for being so patient!

Tags for future fics are open.

MASTERLIST

When was the last time you had experienced floating over the stars as they tried to come closer to your feet but the force holding you in that surreal space didn't let them touch you?

Today, it was all glittering down inside and around you as your lips tasted Bucky's heated ones, with one elongated collision before you parted, feeling his thick stubble against your skin.

Bucky's dilated eyes were nearly on the roll back when he paused at the lack of your delicious warmth.

And without any delay you both came back again; the beast of need inside both of you already ignited.

You took the liberty to let your tongue linger on his lips, taking in the saltiness of the sea from the oysters he had a while ago. Mm, you thought to yourself, definitely tastes good with him wrapped inside them.

Bucky parted his lips to let his tongue taste yours from the tip to the centre, making you feel crude reverberations down to your centre of gravity, your gasped moan dissolving inside his mouth.

The wind from the ocean grew wild, bringing with it the clouds of the storm, hiding away all the stars.

Your aching bodies wanting to further bury into each other's touch were suddenly soaked with the rain falling over the two of you, not bothering your tongues marking each other as their own, or your hands grasping onto his hair for your dear life or his on your lower back holding you tight, within the confines of his dizzy warmth.

But you both came up from the uncontrollable high once your lungs started giving out, gasping but not letting go of each other.

Bucky finally let your feet touch the wet sand as you took in his blood gushed lips glistening under the raindrops lucky enough to trickle down the entire length of his face before finding their way down his neck and disappearing under the unbuttoned collar, making a path of its own on the body you were really eager to discover right now.

Bucky couldn't believe the amount of effort he was trying to put to breathe in the image of your wet dress clinging on your body, carving all the stimulated curves through and through.

“Room?”

“Room.”

With one worded breathless exchange and hands intertwined, you two walked away from the beach, nearly breaking into a run as you entered the mansion ground.

Bucky readjusted his jacket over you to hide the results of his provocations before pressing the elevator button and dipping his head towards you to kiss you once more, his hot and cold palms around your waist triggering another spark inside your body.

The sound of the elevator doors opening broke the two of you apart but not before Yukio and Sonic had seen the explicit hunger games play in front of their eyes.

With an exchange of a sheepish smile, you entered the square space, Bucky planting himself behind you, running his hands through his dense wet hair, letting the audience see the fire in his cheeks.

You could feel Yukio's knowing gleeful eyes on you reflecting from the mirrored walls, making the embarrassment burn further into you, praying that the floor arrives sooner.

And it did, you and Bucky almost power walking your way as you heard a familiar brunt voice call out, “Remember what I taught you, bro.”

You turned towards Bucky who was already shaking his head at the question building up inside you.

“No. I-she just came to me out of nowhere and-”

“Huh,” you cut your flustered berry short, “so you had to be taught that?”

All the white dither disappeared as Bucky opened the door, stepped in, pushed you inside, closed the door behind you and pushed your back into it before he planted himself his hands on your either side.

Your teasing edge vanished at the sight of that glimmer of voracious beast telling you he didn't need to be taught to know how to make you whimper in pure velvet.

The radio in your room came to life at the surge of the power fluctuating with the storm outside.

Darker than the ocean, deeper than the sea

Bucky's devouring gaze shifted to a softer one before softly pushing his forehead to yours, tilting it to push up your lips, passing your pulsating, swollen pair with his.

You got everything, you got what I need

He looked down, drinking your soft stare with a gulp look at his hands dropping away his jacket followed by running his fingers on the satin ribbon he had so artistically placed around you, undoing the soft fabric with one simple tug, letting the rest of the web  undo itself with a scary grace, making way for your skin to let her lull him closer to give her the touch she had been looking forward to, the tiny hairs already standing in anticipation.

Touch me, you're electric, babe

The first contact his lips made with the nape of your neck let all the neurons inside you fire up like the brilliant glittering crackers from last night, their after-effects already oozing in between your legs.

The kiss came with a swirl of a tongue followed by his teeth gently nibbing at your pulsating layer as you pressed yourself against him to feel some friction in between your legs, making him- and his already hard self- grind into you at your greedy movements.

Move me, take me from this place

Bucky's stubble tickled your layers, increasing the hunger filled ache inside you further as it first travelled up your neck till behind your ears, your shivering body reacting by lifting leg and wrapping it around his thigh- his body eagerly complementing the change- before his tongue marked you as it came down for your valleys.

Movin' to the tempo, show me what it takes

Speedin' up my heartbeat, playin' in the face

“Bucky,” a tremble left you as you anchored your hands in his hair to stop yourself from crumbling as his metal pulled on your dress from behind, allowing him access to your breasts, letting them wake up to the warm wetness spiralling through his tongue; your fingers reflexively pulling his hair as his teeth played with your attentive nipples.

Kiss me, we're on fire, babe

Love me, take me to outer space

His metal gazed your back, inching you closer to him now and then before it found the slit through your dress to access your quivering thighs, travelling up a little before pausing. He parted from your breasts, leaving cold sensations at the dearth of his touch.

Kiss me, we're on fire, babe

Love me, take me to outer space

You looked him right into his overcast eyes as your hands reached down to guide his to where they were always headed, earning a parting of your lips, a silent pant leaving you with the new touch easing around your folds.

Bucky's own breath found itself fluttering at the pool of wetness waiting for him, his erratic breaths audible to your sensitive ears.

Covered in your water and I'm feelin' like a summer breeze

Without a warning he backed his metal away to pick you up, turn, take two long strides towards the bed and drop you down on your back.

You could feel his knees dip the bed as he parted your legs to plant himself in between them. You sat up and undid his shirt halfway before he pulled it over his head in one graceful move, planting kisses up your exposed thigh, nibbing and pecking his way to the waterfall, already feeling your breath caught up somewhere inside you as you twitched under his increasing sensitive touch.

Submitted under power and you brought me to my knees

Bucky moved away the slit of your dress to carefully pull off your soaked panties.

“I know we’re supposed to be on a honeymoon,” your broken voice found some strength inside her to whisper in the air, “but I really didn’t prepare myself for this down there so-hooo!”

Use me, you're electric, babe

Move me, take me all the way

You felt your soul leave your body on his tongue swirling right between your trembling limbs bringing down a rain of fire through your entire body, doing and undoing you, taking you to your high before coming back up to face you in the only light of the striking lightning outside illuminating your features for him.

Whisper in my ear, I'm the only one you're lovin' on

Take advantage of the moment, you're the only one that I want

You felt his eyes dilate into the similar darkness as the sky outside, bursting with flames of godly fire as you arched your back that came down from a surreal high, his gaze not allowing you to break away from this luscious reality too good to be true.

Your hands felt the life of their own as one grabbed his flesh arm to ground yourself, while your mouth latched onto his to let him savour the aching moans you were not able to keep inside you anymore. The other hands went down to undo his trousers, the years of skilful multitasking of unbuttoning your own stuff while you were busy shuffling through your playlists paying off at the moment, freeing his length and releasing a moan out of him as well.

Kiss me, we're on fire, babe

Love me, take me to outer space

Lining himself up at your entrance, he worked his way into you, grunts and heavy gasps filling the hot air around your features- the crystal waters that they were, reflecting the pleasure.

Kiss me, we're on fire, babe

Love me, take me to outer space

With the first thrust, the stars came back behind your eyes, your nails grazing Bucky’s bare back, making him twitch inside you, his heated length already pulsating inside your throbbing walls.

The second thrust came in harder, with a feral purpose, never taking his blue away from your face as you put no effort in hiding how he was making your face crinkle in the best ways you could have only imagined.

Melting like ice on a summer day

Hold me like you mean it, take me far away

The pace increased, coming back for more with a new rhythm, your hips moving up to let him drive himself deeper inside you with every passing stroke, the friction in between the slick walls driving you up to the floodgates faster than before.

And with every rhythm, your fingers clawed deeper into his sculpted back while your teeth docked themselves on his shoulders as the flood waters started rising up to the floodgates, your eyes tearing up at the sensitivity that you’d never felt before.

Bucky felt your nails driving down into him while your legs wrapped themselves around his hips as you got closer to the brim. Bucky’s metal hand went down between the two of you to find your swollen bundle of nerves, the cool digits rubbing the cold hardness into the heated bunch, spiking the rush running down your clenching walls and letting the torrential waters break right through the floodgates.

Bodies movin' and temperature rising

Take me to the top then watch me fall in

Your shattering limbs felt length in between them swell as the pace got sloppier and the grunts got heavier, right into your shoulder before he too anchored himself- and marked your shoulder and neck- with his outburst breaking his rocky shores inside you.

Kiss me, we're on fire, babe

The post-bliss high left both of you breathless in each other’s arms. Bucky rested his weight over his metal as he took your face in his hot palm to plant a gulping kiss and take the time in each other’s animalistic scent to normalise the breaths.

Gently parting away from you, Bucky cleaned you up, helping himself and you get out of the mess of your clothes over your bodies showing all the visible signs of lovemaking- already turning into bruises.

Love me, take me to outer space

The sound of rain outside your window along with the soothing outro over the radio was working as a perfect balm for your aching limbs and tired eyes filled with a new glow inside them. Your shivering naked form was carefully tucked inside the fluffy blanket, but that was not what your mind was searching for on the bed.

And just then, the familiar warmth wrapped its sublime shape around you; Bucky’s metal pulling you closer towards him under the sheets, allowing you to complement his embrace with your own.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go on the couch tonight as well?” you whispered as you planted your head on his shoulder, eyes already shut close.

“Nah,” Bucky whispered back but not before planting a soft lingering kiss on your forehead, “I’m in the mood of hearing you snore right here,” earning a smile from you as you buried yourself in his chest, hearing his heart breathe you in while your own opened itself in his solid grasp.

Kiss me, we're on fire

Concluded here

TAGLIST

Permanent

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[avegetariancannibal]

Boy With a Haunted Past (part 1)

(Formerly known as "Haunted Mansion" when I posted it last year for Hannictober. Takes place in the early 1990s in some *vague hand waving* Southern high school. Brief homophobic interaction. Will is 16, Hannibal is 17.)

Hannibal Lecter was beautiful. He had skin like poets would write about, and a mouth that looked like it would be good at sharing secrets. He was the exchange student from Lithuania, and a grade ahead of Will even though they had two classes together. He was practically a man, really. Will had started to notice just the slightest hint of stubble on Hannibal’s chin by the end of fifth period. It was just plain mesmerizing.

Sometimes, Will was pretty sure Hannibal liked him. As in, liked him. His dark amber gaze always seemed to find its way across the chemistry lab to where Will was running his experiments. But then other times…other times, he thought he might be projecting just because he wanted it so badly.

“Most boys aren’t like you,” his dad had told him. “Most boys like girls. So just… just be careful about who you go confessin’ your love to, around here.”

So Will was determined to keep it to himself unless Hannibal made the first move. He got his chance late in October at the start of lab one day.

“I would like your opinion,” Hannibal said, sliding onto the stool beside him. “What do you think about that big haunted mansion thing they’ve been advertising on the radio?”

“Oh it sounds totally ridiculous,” Will said. “Imagine people paying ten bucks to go get scared by something that’s probably not even a little bit scary. Pssht.”

Hannibal smiled at him. “Does that mean you wouldn’t want to go with me?”

Will almost dropped a beaker of hydrogen peroxide. “Yes! I mean no. I mean no, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to go with you. I’ll go with you. I…yes. Yes, I want to go. With you.”

Hannibal’s smile widened, showing the perfectly imperfect points of his teeth. “I’ll meet you there at 8, then.”

Will debated with himself over whether he should show up right on time, or just a little bit late so he didn’t look too eager. In the end, he was almost ten minutes early.

Much to his relief (and joy), Hannibal was already there, too, holding a place for him in line.

“Hey,” he said, brilliantly.

Hannibal scooted over to make room for him. “I told myself I was going to be too early, but I couldn’t wait to get here.”

“Me, too,” Will said. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I didn’t even finish my dinner!”

Hannibal looked surprised. And gorgeous. He hadn’t shaved, so the stubble on his chin was even darker than it had been at fifth period, and his hair was loose and soft instead of slicked back like it usually was. He’d traded in his usual blazer and button-up for an intricately cabled sweater in deep red, and dark gray corduroy pants that would have looked ridiculous on anybody else. Will was pretty sure Hannibal could make a clown costume look smooth, though. He was also pretty sure he was staring at Hannibal’s pants.

“Maybe we can get a pizza after this,” Hannibal said.

Will stuck his hands in his jeans pockets, fingering the ten dollar bill his dad have given him for the ticket. “Um…”

“My treat,” Hannibal said. “I’m of the opinion that the one who does the asking out should be the one who pays.”

Will’s head swam. Asking out. He’s asking me out. HE ASKED ME OUT. “Sounds fair,” he said, just managing to keep a squeak out of his voice.

“Hey, it’s that foreigner,” a voice said behind them. “And look, he’s here with Geeky Graham. Like two weirdo peas in a pod.”

Will struggled to keep from curling his hands into fists. “Hello, Matthew,” he said. “And look, you’re here with Frederick. What a surprise.”

The two seniors approached–Matthew Brown like a shark and Frederick Chilton stuck to him like a remora waiting for scraps. They tried to edge into line ahead of them.

“No cuts,” Will said, sticking his foot out to block them.

“Aw come on,” Matthew said in an exaggerated whine. “I promise not to tell anyone I saw you here together.”

Frederick tittered into his hand.

“Why ever should we care?” Hannibal asked, seeming genuinely confused. “It’s only the truth. We are here together, just as you two are here together.”

Matthew’s cheeks flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah, but we’re not queer like you!”

Frederick laughed and nudged Matthew. “My father says everyone in Europe is gay.”

“Yes, I recall seeing him at the last meeting,” Hannibal said coolly.

Will’s jaw dropped.

A scowl replaced Frederick’s laughter as he dragged away Matthew, who could be heard asking, “What the fuck does that mean? I don’t get it?”

Hannibal leaned closer to him. “Want to give them something to really talk about?” he asked, his breath warm against the side of Will’s face.

“Um, sure,” Will said.

An instant later, he felt Hannibal’s hand slide down his back and come to a rest at his waist. There it stayed, where Will could feel it burning through his denim jacket and sweatshirt, and he promptly forgot everything his father had ever said about “being careful.”

Customers were allowed into the “haunted mansion” in groups of two to five people with a couple minutes between each group. Will was so relieved he and Hannibal were allowed in as a pair that he almost pumped his fist. Only the overriding desire to maintain some pretense of cool kept him from doing it.

Entering the foyer, they were plunged into total darkness, and silence except for the distant sound of other visitors in the rooms ahead of them. Then, to Will’s complete and utter horror, his stomach grumbled audibly.

So much for seeming cool.

“Clever of you to bring your own sound effects,” Hannibal said.

“Yeah, well, I like to come prepared,” Will said, forcing a laugh.

A dim light flickered on overhead, giving off cold and intermittent illumination. Cobwebs draped the rusty fixture and the chain leading up to the ceiling. Black, gooey-looking paint streaked the walls, spelling out warnings like, “TURN BACK” and “YOU’LL DIE ALONE.”

“Quite atmospheric,” Hannibal whispered beside him.

The door ahead of them swung open with a squeal of its creaky hinges, drawing them into the next room.

This was a formal dining room, lit by a sputtering chandelier and draped in more of the spider webbing. Beneath that, a long table had been piled high with bloody human skulls and glossy pink entrails. A mannequin slumped over the table, dressed as if for a party.

“It looks kinda real,” Will admitted.

Hannibal sniffed. “Even smells rather realistic.”

Will took a step toward the table for a closer look, but the mannequin suddenly jolted upright. “Stay away!” it shrieked through hidden speakers. “Stay away or die!”

Will jumped back. “Gah!”

Hannibal held out a steadying arm just as he tripped over his own feet.

“Just so you know,” Will said, “I decided to show up tonight in my ‘total loser’ costume.”

“I’m sorry to tell you I find it very unconvincing,” Hannibal said. “Nothing about you reminds me of a loser.”

Will risked a glance upward to find Hannibal winking at him. He was especially charmed that Hannibal was kind of terrible at winking, partially blinking the other eye in unison.

As they followed a roped-off walkway away from the scene, Will heard an infant crying in the next room.

“Who the hell brings a baby in a place like this?” he wondered out loud.

“A terribly rude person at best,” Hannibal said.

They got their answer in the next room, which had been made to look like a cross between a bedroom and a surgery. A tray of tools and dirty rags had been strewn across the floor. A female figure had been arranged on the bed in a tattered white nightgown, her belly sliced open and empty. The way the flesh had peeled away from the wound made it look like something or someone had crawled out of it. A trail of blood led to the closet door, disappearing under it.

The baby cried again…from inside the closet.

Will swallowed hard. “Are–are we supposed to open it?”

“Only one way to find out,” Hannibal said.

He stepped back, letting Hannibal do the honors. He chastised himself for feeling so nervous. It wasn’t like an actual monster baby was going to explode out at them…right?

Hannibal slowly twisted the knob and let the door swing open.

Will burst out laughing and laughed until tears came to his eyes. The thing inside was a total letdown after the relative realism of the scene leading up to it. It was so blatantly a cheap plastic doll from, like, the K-Mart down the street or something, covered in red paint. It clung to the back closet wall, taped in place, with a length of its mother’s “intestines” dangling from its open mouth like a deflated balloon animal. A small radio continued to play recorded crying noises, but it sounded so fake and tinny with the door open.

“That is so lame,” he said when he’d recovered the ability to talk. “Right, Hannibal?”

“I want to leave,” Hannibal said, his voice quiet. “If you don’t mind.”

Will glanced over at him, saw him pale and stricken, his chin trembling just a little.

“Hey, are you okay?” Will asked.

Hannibal grabbed his hand and looked at him with pleading eyes. “Can we just leave?”

“Of course,” Will said, giving Hannibal’s hand a reassuring squeeze. He flashed him a bright smile. “I was getting hungry anyway, remember?”

On their way out, Will saw Frederick and Matthew just about to take their turn in the house. When Matthew glared at him, Will realized he was still holding hands with Hannibal.

He also realized he didn’t care.

Whatever had made Hannibal want to leave the “haunted mansion” so suddenly, he didn’t say and Will didn’t feel right asking. And anyway, he seemed like he was back to his regular smooth self as soon as they got back outside.

Will was both thrilled and horrified when Hannibal led him four blocks east to an actual sit-down Italian restaurant with cloth napkins and Chianti-bottle candles on the table. It was totally a date place, and the nicest restaurant he’d ever seen from the inside. He immediately felt out of place.

It must have shown, because Hannibal leaned across the table and gave him a smile. “Remember, it’s my treat, so order anything you want.”

Will thought of half a dozen appropriate things to say, but instead his mouth completely betrayed his brain: “My dad says this is the place people take their dates when they want them to put out!”

Hannibal’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He had been reaching for a complimentary bread stick, but now his hand paused in midair.

“Not that I’m saying you’re like that,” Will hurried to say. “Or that this..um…outing…is like that. I mean, I just… It’s just… Oh God I’m so sorry! I just can’t shut up!”

Hannibal’s look of shock gave way to laughter. “You know, I was worried I would be the only nervous one tonight.”

Will gawped at him. “What? You haven’t seemed nervous at all!”

“I hid it behind my very well-tailored veil of European coolness,” Hannibal said.

“You hid it a little too well,” Will snorted. “I mean, come on.”

“I changed outfits four times,” Hannibal said. “Even my socks. I was worried you wouldn’t like my socks. Convinced now?”

Will’s face was suddenly feverishly hot. He was sure he was blushing redder than a stop sign. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like an even bigger idiot than he already was.

“I’m sure your socks are fine,” he said.

“Well, play your cards right and you might get to see them,” Hannibal said, and gave him another terrible wink.

Will let out a laugh so loud and unrefined that half the restaurant turned to scowl at him.

“Now, hurry up and pick something to eat,” Hannibal said. “I’m starving.”

As Will turned his attention towards the menu, he caught a glimpse at the window. Matthew Brown was standing on the sidewalk just outside, glaring back at him through the glass. Will had never seen him angrier, and that was saying something.

(to be continued)

[thefaeriereview]

Tour: Sleeping with the Enemy

https://ift.tt/3n2JsXV

SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY Jackie Barbosa Historical Romance When Mrs. Laura Farnsworth discovers the blood-stained body of a man wearing the distinctive red coat of the British army, her first instinct is to let dead dogs lie. It has, after all, been just two days since the Battle of Plattsburgh, and the disposition of enemy corpses is hardly her purview. But then the man proves himself to be very much alive by grabbing her ankle and mumbling incoherently. After almost twenty-five years in His Majesty’s service, Lieutenant Colonel Geoffrey Langston never expected to wake up in heaven, much less being tended by an angel. But when he regains consciousness in the presence of a beautiful, dark-haired woman and with no memory of how he came to be there, what else can he think? Except it’s rather odd for an angel to have an American accent. As the long-widowed Laura nurses the wounded Geoffrey back to health, the attraction between them heats from a simmer to a boil. Bound by his oath to the British crown, Geoffrey should be working to find his way back to his regiment and from the, to England. Instead, he’s sleeping with the enemy…and thereby committing the crime of desertion if not treason. But then, who’s going to find out? If only Geoffrey didn’t have a family back home who refuse to take “missing in action” for an answer.

REVIEW

 4 out of 5

Sleeping with the Enemy is a wonderful war-time romance. This is one of those historical romances that you can curl up with a cup of tea and enjoy. I loved Laura. She's strong and independent, but her heart misses having something more than just her son to care for, especially now that he's about to become an adult. Geoffrey is an officer - wounded and on the wrong side of the war. Despite tension from outside, there's an undeniable spark between them, and it was nice to escape for a few hours into their world. 

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  Other Books by Jackie Barbosa:

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  Chapter One Plattsburgh, New York – September 13, 1814 It was the flicker of red in her peripheral vision that first caught Laura Farnsworth's attention. A bright, unnatural red that didn't belong in the tangled underbrush of the forest that lined the narrow dirt road. "Daniel," she said, placing her hand on her son's arm to draw his attention, "stop the wagon." He drew back on the reins, slowing the horses, even as he turned a querying gaze on her. "What for?" In answer, Laura pointed toward the unbroken patch of red that peeked out from between the trees on the left side of the road. "What do you suppose that is?" Her son squinted as if doing so would help him answer her question, then shrugged. "I don't know. But surely it's none of our business." "Maybe not," she admitted, rising from her seat on the hay wagon's bench, "but I'd like to have a closer look, just the same." "Wait." Daniel's tone carried a trace of fear. "It could be some kind of trap." Laura kept moving, gathering her skirts to avoid tripping as she stepped off the wagon. "The battle ended two days ago. If the British were laying traps for average citizens, I should think we would have encountered one before now." "Still…" She turned her most quelling maternal gaze on him. "I will thank you to remember who is the parent and who is the child here." Granted, she had a hard time thinking of her seventeen-year-old son as a child, given that he was a head taller than she and broad as an ox. It had been years since she had been able to get him to obey her by physical means, which meant she'd had to learn a long time ago how to enforce her rules by moral authority alone. He sighed and set aside the reins. "Fine. I'll come with you." Laura waited while he clambered down and then began picking her way through the undergrowth. When she got close enough to make out what she was looking at, she gasped with a combination of surprise and distress. Lying face down on the carpet of leaves and branches was the body of a man clad in the red coat and black breeches of a British soldier. The back of the coat was liberally spattered with brownish splotches that could only be dried blood. His hair, a pale shade of brown that reminded her of fresh apple cider, was also matted with blood at the base of his skull. He must have taken a terrible blow to the back of the head during the fighting and somehow managed to make his way here, where he had expired, miles from the battlefield where his body could be claimed.         Poor man. No one deserved to die alone and lost like this, not even an enemy soldier. After all, attacking her town and killing people she knew had probably not been his idea. And his family should know what had become of him. Have the opportunity to bury him. She turned to look at her son, whose complexion had gone ashen pale. Daniel was hardly a stranger to death, having lost his father at the tender age of seven, but Laura had taken a good deal of care to protect him from the more unpleasant aspects of her husband’s passing. Certainly, Daniel had never before seen a dead person who had not been prepared for burial, and the obvious violence that had been done to this man before his passing was shocking, even to her. “At least he is out of pain and at peace now,” she said gently. “We will have to drive back to town and tell Reverend Shackleford about this. He’ll be able to get a message to Fort Moreau so they can come retrieve the body and return it to the British.” Daniel’s nod was slow, but his color improved slightly. “Makes sense. But…shouldn’t we do something to try to protect the body from scavengers?” That was a good point. It would be hours before anyone from the fort would arrive to collect the corpse. In fact, now that she thought about it, the man must have expired quite recently, for there was no hint of predation. Nor, come to think of it, did she detect any of the foul odors she associated with death. Though she could perceive no signs of life at this distance—no rise and fall of chest, no twitch of limbs or digits, no breath stirring the leaves beneath him—perhaps she should take a closer look, just to be certain. Lifting her skirts again, she edged through the brambles until she was near enough to the body to stoop down and touch it. “Mother?” “We should be su—” Her words ended on a startled shriek because the corpse’s hand shot out and grabbed her ankle, large fingers closing tightly around her boot. “Mother!” Daniel’s panicked tone echoed her own as he thrashed his way to reach her side. The dead man was most certainly not dead, but quite alive, and his steely grip easily resisted her efforts to pull free. Daniel caught her by the shoulders to keep her from toppling over as she continued to yank against the man’s grasp. Over the wild pounding of her heart—not so much the result of fear as of surprise—she could hear the man’s voice, thick and raspy, as he mumbled words she couldn’t make out but that she understood well enough, despite their incoherence. Help me. Please. “It’s all right,” she reassured her son as her shock subsided to be replaced by concern and compassion. “He isn’t hurting me, and he certainly can’t hurt you in his condition.” She ceased trying to loosen the man’s grasp on her ankle and bent her knees to get closer to him instead. Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, she said, “Have no fear, sir. You’re safe now.” At her words, his grip relaxed and his mumbling ceased. He had slipped back into unconsciousness. *** Getting the wounded man—who, based on the epaulettes on the shoulders of his coat, must be an officer, not an enlisted soldier—from where he lay to the wagon was no mean feat. Daniel might be large and strong for a young man in his late teens, but the British officer was nearly as big as her son and a dead weight, to boot. Daniel could not have carried the man more than a few staggering steps without Laura’s assistance. Although she worried about doing further injury, she and Daniel had no choice but to roll the man over onto his back before moving him. He groaned in what was undoubtedly pain as they turned him but roused no further. Laura couldn’t prevent herself from drawing in a sharp breath at her first glimpse of his face, for though his bronzed skin was smudged with dirt and his eye sockets had the sunken appearance she associated with a prolonged lack of water, none of this detracted from the arresting masculine beauty of his features. Several days’ worth of stubble covered his strong, square jawline, which was punctuated by a tidy cleft in his chin. He had sharply delineated cheekbones and a well-proportioned nose that skewed just slightly at the bridge, suggesting it had been broken at least once. His cider-colored hair was a trifle overlong and clung to his well-proportioned forehead, which made her notice that his eyes were well-spaced and possessed of thick lashes a shade or two darker than his hair. She wondered what color those eyes were, and immediately berated herself for giving such a trivial question even a second’s consideration. What sort of woman thought about such shallow, inconsequential things when a man might well be dying at her feet? A shameless one. Or a lonely one. Once the man was on his back, Daniel stooped down and carefully lifted his head and shoulders while Laura grabbed his legs at the knees. Together they managed to carry him the ten yards to the wagon. Fortunately, today’s trip to town had been for household supplies, not feed for the livestock, so there was plenty of room in the bed of the wagon. The jolting journey from there to the farm would likely have been unpleasant for the man had he been awake, but he remained insensible. And Daniel argued with her the entire way. “We should take him to the hospital at the fort. Turn him over to them. It’s not our job to take care of wounded soldiers. Especially enemy soldiers.” “We have a Christian duty to help anyone who is sick or injured,” Laura answered. “Friend or enemy.” “Taking him to the fort would fulfill that duty,” her son retorted stubbornly. She glanced over her shoulder at the unconscious man. His lips were cracked and bloody, and his sun-bronzed skin had a sallow, lifeless undertone. If they hadn’t found him when they did, she doubted he would have survived much longer. “He’s British, Mother,” Daniel continued, his jaw set at that stubborn angle that still reminded her of his father. Her husband, gone ten years and more. If it weren’t for their son, who looked so like him, she wondered if she would even remember Samuel Farnsworth’s face. Sometimes, she wasn’t even sure that she truly did. “What if he’s not as injured as he appears and means us harm? Means you harm.” “What if he is as injured as he appears and dies before we can get him to the fort?” Laura gave her son the hard, narrow-eyed stare that she’d been using to cow him since he had grown too big for her to bend him to her will by physical means. To her gratification, he flinched ever so slightly. It still worked. “He could die on the way to the farm.” Dear Lord, she hoped not. Her throat tightened painfully at the very idea. Something had happened in those few seconds when the man she’d taken for dead had grabbed onto her and begged her for help. A tug at her heart, an answer to a longing she hadn’t even known existed inside her. This man needed her. And it had been so long since anyone had truly needed her. Oh, certainly, she felt she was useful. Her life was positively chock-full of activity, sunrise to sundown, after all. Running both the household and overseeing the day-to-day operation of the farm kept her busier than a flail on threshing day, and there was always someone who wanted an answer to this or a decision about that. But the reality was that very soon, Daniel would take control of the farm. He was, in fact, perfectly capable of managing things himself now, though by legal formality, the farm would not become his until his twenty-first birthday. But whatever the law might have to say about it, Daniel did not need her help any longer, and Laura rather suspected that, should she up and vanish, he would quite handily sort out the household side of things as well. She’d raised a competent son, as she’d intended. She just hadn’t realized what would happen when his competence equaled her own. How…empty it would make her feel. And then there he had been, a person in desperate need of someone to do the right thing, and that someone seemed to be her. Not that there was any way she could possibly explain this to her son, whose concern was not entirely misplaced. So she said, “And if he does, we will know we did everything we could to save him by trying to get him to help as quickly as possible. If we take him on an hour-long journey, we will have no such assurances.” “And if he is too injured for you to help him? If he requires a surgeon to save his life? I know you know what you’re doing when it comes to treating common illnesses and injuries, but for all we know, he has been shot or stabbed or has some other condition you won’t be able to do anything for. Then what?” Laura bit her lip and visualized what she had observed when they had turned the man onto his back before transporting him the wagon. Aside from a few drops on or near his shoulders, all of the blood on his coat had been on the back. If he had been shot or stabbed, there should have been one or more holes in his uniform, but she remembered none. All of his limbs had appeared undamaged, with no evidence that they had been broken or crushed. Everything she had seen indicated that his only injury was to the back of his head, where someone had struck him hard enough to draw a significant quantity of blood and likely fracture his skull. That could, of course, have done serious harm to his brain, but if it had, there was nothing a bonesaw could do for him that she could not. Well, short of amputating his head, she thought with grim humor, but that seemed unlikely to be therapeutic. After a long pause, she answered Daniel’s query. “Then I will have to answer to God for my error. But given what I have seen, I believe all he needs is water and food, once he can manage it, and to be kept dry, warm, and clean so that he can heal. The rest is up to the Lord.” *** Laura’s initial visual assessment of the British soldier’s wounds proved accurate. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises likely sustained on a stumbling trek through the forest to where she and Daniel had found him, the only injury was to the base of his skull. The blow must have been delivered in close quarters when his back was turned, which seemed an odd way for a soldier to come to harm in a battle that had been fought mostly by mortar and gunfire, but then, she supposed it was possible for hand-to-hand combat to occur even under those circumstances. The incongruity bothered her nonetheless. After Daniel and Joseph Robinson, the freeborn Black man she had hired ten years ago to be her foreman and orchardist, had undressed the man, bathed him according to her specifications, and then tucked him into the bed in the downstairs bedroom—her bedroom, normally—Laura undertook the task of his day-to-day care. Although none of them were familiar enough with military insignia to guess at the man’s precise rank, the star and crown on his epaulets certainly suggested he held a position of some importance. Despite the fact that British forces had decamped from the area, Laura could not imagine that no one would be looking for the missing officer. As one day stretched into the next and then into another, however, her concern that soldiers might turn up on her doorstep demanding to know what she had done with the wounded man faded, to be replaced by concern that he stubbornly continued to not wake up. Though he reflexively swallowed the small amounts of water and meaty broth she dribbled into his mouth several times each day and managed the other routine bodily functions often enough that she no longer worried he would die as a direct result of injury or infection, as two days turned into three and then became four, she had to face the very real possibility that the damage to his brain had been severe enough that he would never regain consciousness. At some point, water and broth would no longer be sufficient to sustain him, and he would die. Perhaps Daniel had been right. Perhaps they should have taken him to the fort. At least then, it would not be her burden to watch another man die by inches despite her efforts to save him. It did not help that every day, Daniel pointed out that there was no reason they could not transport the man to the fort’s hospital now. His condition, while not improving, was clearly stable enough to allow for the journey. Wouldn’t he be better off in the hands of people whose job it was to treat the sick and wounded? The worst of it was that she knew her son wasn’t wrong. There was no reason for her to continue pouring so much of her time and effort into caring for a complete stranger. A man whose name she didn’t even know and who, if he regained consciousness, would likely consider her an enemy. A man she ought to consider her enemy, given that the United States and Britain were at war. Part of the reason she resisted was sheer pigheadedness. Laura liked to succeed. After Samuel’s death, she’d thrown herself first into raising their son and then into transforming the family farm from a subsistence-level operation into a money-making enterprise. This she had accomplished by quadrupling the size of the apple orchard and planting varieties good for making cider, which she sold to the local taverns and townspeople alike at a healthy profit. The first few years had been difficult, of course. She’d had to take all her hay fields out of production to plant the new trees, which meant she had to purchase hay for the livestock rather than growing it herself while at the same time waiting for the trees to reach maturity. But she had persevered despite the obstacles now the farm made a tidy profit each year which she reinvested into the continued expansion of the orchard and the equipment she needed to press and age her cider. Giving up simply did not suit her, and turning the wounded lieutenant colonel over to military doctors would be an admission of defeat. But the lion’s share of the reason, she was forced to admit to herself, was curiosity. Ever since she’d found him, she had been plagued with questions. How had he been injured? How had he come to be lying in the woods near her home, miles from the battlefield? What was his name? Where was he from? Did he have a wife and children? What color are his eyes? And so each night, she promised herself that if he did not waken on the morrow, they would do as Daniel wanted and take him to the fort. And each day, she utterly failed to do so. Until mid-afternoon on the fifth day.

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    Jackie Barbosa can’t remember a time when she didn’t want to be an author when she grew up, but there were plenty of times when she wasn’t sure she ever would be. As it turns out, it just took her about twenty years longer to grow up than she expected! On the road to publication, Jackie took a few detours, including a stint in academia (she holds an MA in Classics from the University of Chicago and was a recipient of a Mellon Fellowship in the Humanities) and many years as a technical writer/instructional designer for a data processing company. She still holds her day job, but her true vocation has always been writing fiction and romance in particular. Jackie is a firm believer that love is the most powerful force in the world, which that makes romance the most powerful genre in the world. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise!

 WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:

Website: http://www.jackiebarbosa.com Twitter: https://twitter.com/jackiebarbosa Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JackieBarbosaAuthor/

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[your-highnessmarvel]

Burn - chapter four

link to previous chapters: http://i-did-your-mom.tumblr.com/

Sorry this took so long to update. I promised a weekly update but this took longer to write and I was supposed to update this morning, but my school WiFi decided to crash and so I couldn't edit until about 5 this evening and then supper, and yeah.

But here it is. I hope you all enjoy it!

Chapter four: Vaunting

Like Steve had mentioned, the plane landed somewhere in Minnesota, in an open field in the middle of the night. Addie, in a drunken-like state between sleep and wakefulness, stumbled along the sandy field behind the two men carrying her bags. They hurried onto another airplane, a much smaller and less impressive one than Stark's, and flew off. Addie drifted off to sleep once she was buckled in, her head pressed against the mushy side of the plane.

Addie was not aware of the landing, but as she woke up, she saw rays of early morning sunshine seeping in through he tiny window over James' head. The latter was staring off to the side, his chin jutted out in thought. The brunette took her time to finally look him over when he wasn't staring at her with a frown. He had changed sometime when she was asleep, which made her feel dirty in her old clothes. His long sleeve black shirt was exchanged for a round collar tee the color of blood, which displayed more of his metal arm and more skin of his flesh limb. What impressed her the most was how broad his chest was and the waves the tight shirt made over his biceps. She wondered where the metal met the skin and if the sight was gross or endearing.

His face had the same shadowy stubble as before, but it was darker from being neglected, which made the light blue of his orbs gleam. He was not a bad sight to take in, yet the attitude that steamed off of him was almost disgusting.

"Alright!" Cap exclaimed as he jumped down from the cockpit, a huge pearly white smile on his face. "Time to go."

They marched down off the plane, Cap and Addie carrying her bags and James walking ahead. They had landed on a private runway, a black tower looming in the distance. It was early morning, barely passed nine in the morning, but Addie felt the heat like a brick in the face. Her palms were so slippery with sweat she almost dropped her bag, and she felt like a huge blanket that weighed tons was dropped over her shoulders. When she looked ahead, the horizon was beginning to shimmer.

"Where exactly did we land?" she asked, squinting her eyes through the harsh rays of early morning. Steve laughed coarsely and looked at her with one eye closed.

"We are near the city of Dalhart, but we'll be staying in a nearby compound off the city limits," he answered with a side smirk, sweat gleaming on his nape. The sun was making his skin glow and shimmer in the harsh light of the sun.

"Hold on," Addie said, her mouth dry, "we landed in Texas?"

Steve chuckled, but held back any remarks. They walked off the runway, the heat of the oncoming day making the ground steam and glimmer. They were met with another SUV, a very disgruntled Bucky sitting in the drivers seat.

"Should he even be driving?" she asked Steve as they loaded her bags into the trunk.

"I have a metal arm, not a dysfunction!" Bucky yelled from up front.

They drove for a while, the dry planes of Texas scrolling passed Addie's new eyes. She was drawn to the colors; sandy brown and ocean blue and peach beige. The sky was clear, the sun a huge sphere of orange and yellow shining from right overhead. If it hadn't been for the air conditioning in the car, she would have been sweating bullets and rocks. When they drove through the city, a rather small one, she was glued to the window like Allie was to Noah in the Notebook. She was not used to Southern ways of living, having lived in Canada her whole life. Not only was she strongly unaccustomed to the heat but also to the cities. Everything was a bit smaller, squarer, and short. She could only imagine how unaccustomed she'd be to life in Texas.

"Addison?" Steve had been leaning against the window, but now he was turned around, looking at her from over Bucky's shoulder.

"Where are we going?" she asked in anticipation.

Steve smiled at her eagerness, the sadness that seemed to be perpetual dissipating into fondness. "We're about to arrive at the compound we're staying at," he answered. Addie nodded, her bottom lip trapped under her superior set of teeth. "I don't know who is going to be there, but I just wanted to let you know that they are uhm... eager to see you."

"You've told them about me?" she asked, her brows rising in surprise.

"You expected us to bring you home like a surprise on Christmas?" Bucky groaned sarcastically.

It is in Addie's nature to do unexpected things in unexpected circumstances. She is a girl who acts upon her emotions in the present. So when Bucky's sarcastic remark made her boil up from within, she propelled forward into the front seats and planted her butt onto Steve's thigh despite his astonishment and stared right at Bucky. The latter was struggling between keeping his burning blue eyes on the road and staring wide-eyed at the girl, who was looking at him with a tight, angered look on her sharp features.

"I recall signing up for help and to aid you in whatever you need in exchange for shelter, food, and training," she began, tight-lipped and anger steaming in the octaves of her voice, "but I don't recall signing up for your attitude and your blatant disrespect, James."

The rest of the ride was in silence. They continued until mid-day, rolling over hills of sand and yellowed grass, passing through tiny towns and wooden shacks. The scenery rarely changed, only nuanced in colors like peach and brown. Addie was tired of all the plane and SUV rides, especially with someone who was as disrespectful as Bucky and then Steve who constantly looked at her as if she was about to die. There was something off about Captain America. Maybe it was the sad turn of his eyes or the way he subtly leaned in towards Bucky whenever he had the chance. He wasn't the man that the United States of America made him out to be; tough, emotionless, and rogue. He was quite the complete opposite.

They drove off the main highway (a one lane highway) and onto a rocky road that drove uphill until it reached a square building on top. Addison's heart reached her throat as she eyed the building; a two-story house that was probably ten times the size of her apartment in Montreal.

"We're safe here for the moment," Steve said over his shoulder. "No one will find us here unless we want them to."

They pulled up into the drive way, a paved, dark black entry that led into a garage. The door slid open graciously and opened up to a myriad of cars that Addie wish she could name. The inside of the garage was a sharp contrast to the outside world; sleek black vehicles, bright white walls, and cemented floor.

When all three got out of the SUV, the closing doors echoed in the space, making Addie even more aware of her surroundings. She could feel a sharp and rapid increase in electricity compared to the drive here. Her senses were being tugged, her vision blurring with the usual calls of her ability. She reached out, feeling as much power as she could, embracing the warmth that coursed through her veins.

"There should be a room available for you," Steve interrupted, her bags in his hands, a wide smile on his lips. Addie nodded and followed him up a few steps, the door already opened, Bucky completely out of sight.

They walked into a hall that led to a spacious living room, one wall completely composed of top to bottom windows with an epic view of the valley. Everything was in the same colors; grey, white, brown, and black. Grey sofas and lounge chairs, sleek black plasma TVs, sparkling glass tables, and impressively grand bookshelves filled to the brink with novels. Papers were scattered carelessly over the coffee tables and even some on the lazy-boys. The floor was covered in white marble, a grey, fuzzy carpet to keep feet warm splayed in front of the couches. The place was cozy, yet so starkly serious compared to the warm colors of her home. The lights overhead were sickly white, as if in a hospital.

Footsteps (high-heeled) sounded on the wooden floor of the passage way to their right. "Bucky's grumpy so I guess the new girl's here!"

A redhead appeared in the living room, a bright smile on her pink, plump lips. She was wearing dark blue jeans that hugged her perfect curves and a black long sleeved, round collar shirt that slimmed her waist even more. Her bright, fire red hair was in contrast to her pale, porcelain flesh and her daring blue eyes. She wore a golden pendant around her neck, a green gem resting between her breasts.

She gave Addie a sideways smirk, a devilish look overcoming her features. "Hey there, sweet bird." Her voice was raspy, seductive. It gave Addie shivers in its lascivious octaves and dark, sensual undertones. That woman was made to make men swoon and tremble.

"Addison," Steve said with a laugh, putting a large palm on Addie's shoulder, "meet Natasha Romanoff."

Addison had heard, and mostly seen, the assassin at work. When aliens had taken over New York, Addison had caught herself being curious of the hot redhead with deadly abilities. She was impressive on screen, when she came out of a UN meeting or when she fought against the Winter Soldier, but she was even more impressive in person. She was not a tall woman, but her presence and the way she stared at you was bigger than anyone and anything. She took up the space with her beauty, the fierce and untouchable look in her eyes, and her personality.

"Enchanté," Nat said with a smirk. Addie was at a lost of words, her throat dry, the palm of her hands sweaty. She was standing in a superhero compound in front of one of the deadliest ex KGB assassins.

All of a sudden, the truth of what was really happening fell upon her and she was lost, mind blurry and thoughts scrambled.

"She's shy," Nat laughed, a wide smile illuminating her face.

"I'm just uh, it's just very...very impressive?" she stammered, her statement ending as a question, the squeak in her voice evidence of her nervousness. Nat and Steve shared a laugh, something that sounded familiar for them.

"C'mon," Steve said, pushing her slightly, his fingertips on her lower back. "I'll show you where you'll be sleeping."

Nat followed behind them, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. The passageway was narrow, with closed doors up and down the length of the hall, the end opening up into a star-light kitchen and dining room.

"Wanda and Sam stay in these rooms," Steve mentioned as they passed by some closed doors in the hall. "The rest are storage or empty rooms."

"I sleep upstairs," Nat chimed in.

They walked through the bright kitchen, white everything from counter tops to the dining room to the little bar by the piano and windows. A white, marble fireplace was lit, a burning red fire warming up the stark, porcelain kitchen.

"Most of our dealings happen in here," Steve said, gesturing to the fourteen seat dining table. He steered her towards spiraling steps and beyond that, a short hall that led to metal double doors. "Behind those doors is our precious gym, where everyone spends their time besides the computer rooms."

Addie nodded, her eyes round and wide as she took in all the new information. Her heart was in her throat, beating hard against her chest. She had trouble breathing, trouble getting to terms with was happening.

"Upstairs, you'll find your room," Steve said, stepping away from her. He was looking as if he wanted to give her space, privacy.

"How did you guys even get this place?" she asked breathlessly, looking up to where the ceiling opened up over the kitchen, and where she was able to see the start of the upstairs hallway.

"Even though Tony isn't very fond of Cap, he isn't going to let him and the rest of us be homeless," Nat answered, her heels scraping the marble floor as she walked slowly beside Addie, arms over her chest. "As long as we stay on our side of the playground, he doesn't bother us."

"Weren't you on his side for the Accords?" Addie asked, brows furrowed as she turned her attention to the redhead. Nat had a playful smirk on her lips, a look of deviousness in her blue orbs.

"I don't believe in sides." She looked at Steve with round, blue eyes and chuckled. "I'm all for a united front."

Upstairs, Addie found a very square and grey room that was meant for her. Steve said that he, along with Nat, Bucky, and Clint were just down the hall. The room for her was simple; a double bed with grey, feather sheets and white pillows, a wardrobe the color of dark chocolate, and a small, glass desk with a leather chair for her comfort and privacy. A door beside her wardrobe led to a bathroom that she shared with Nat and Clint. Steve emphasized group life, a way of living that would strengthen the bonds between them all.

"So what do you call yourself?" a playful, unfamiliar voice sounded behind her as she was unpacking her bags.

A man was leaning in her doorway, arms crossed over his chest. His ebony skin worked in wonders with his jet black hair and chocolate eyes, in contrast with his pearly white teeth. Another man with a rough stubble on his chin and playful green eyes was lingering behind the first one.

"Sorry?" she said, her brows furrowing as she tried to determine just who these men were.

"Do you call yourself, like, Elektra?" the second one asked, making the first one laugh.

"That name has actually already been trademarked," Addie answered. "So it's just Addison for now."

"I'm Sam," the one with a dark complexion said, a big, inviting smile illuminating his features. "And this dumbass is Scott."

Addie smiled and nodded, acknowledging their presence. "Nice to meet you."

"Now come one," Sam exclaimed suddenly. "Let's get started."

"What?"

"You don't expect to have it easy here, right?" Sam asked, feigning seriousness.

"Yeah, because we burn down Applebee's and rob corner stores every now and again so we need to stay in shape," Scott said, sarcasm dripping off his tongue like honey. Addie smiled devilishly. Oh, she was going to like these guys.

They were not easy with her. As soon as she entered the gym, she was taken in the hands of the most highly trained humans on Earth. They didn't treat her like a child and pushed her until she was lying broken on the mat. They didn't treat her like an outsider so they surely wouldn't treat her like a doe in the training room. Since day one, they put her in the gym, a room bigger than the house itself, and put her through various, rigorous tests. She was left bruised and bloody and sweaty, tired to the point that she didn't enjoy life after her hours of training. They pushed her to the brink, until she broke and demanded a break. She was left sore the next day, ripped from breakfast to participate in the many training sets she was told she had to do. It was part of being an Avenger.

Natasha took care of most of Addie's training. Being an ex KGB agent with excessive background in almost every form of combat, she was very well placed to teach the girl. Nat had the brunette do cardio and muscular training before anything, insisting she had to have at least a basis of work out. Addison's first week of living at the compound was spent in the gym, running on treadmills and following Nat's specific muscular training program. After each day, she was trembling and wincing whenever she had to move, her muscles jelly under her bruised flesh. Even though it had only been eight days, she had seen a difference in her endurance.

In the second week, Nat decided it was time to show Addison technique. The ex KGB agent said that since Addie got in the game so late, it would be difficult for her to catch up to a born assassin like Nat. But if Wanda had done it, so could Addie.

She had been thrown to the ground so many times she lost count. She almost anticipated every time she'd be kicked or vaulted to the mat. For weeks on end she tried her best to throw Nat or Wanda and even Sam to the ground, but they had been trained so much more than she had.

She decided she would not see it as defeat, but as more of a challenge. Steve mentioned that she needed to control her body, learn to fight and protect herself, before she could train with her electricity.

Over the course of her training, she became close with everyone there. Wanda and her, being of the same age, had gotten closer. She became the only close friend Addie ever had. They shared their secrets and their pasts. There was nothing to hide, no one to fear, and as alike as they were, it was like fitting two broken puzzle pieces together.

With Nat and Steve, the relationship was almost like brother and sister; protective, pushing, and demanding. Nat wanted Addie to be the best she could be whether it be intellectually or physically. Steve wanted to keep Addie from any harm, keep her safe from HYDRA. He spent hours at night with her, mostly out of her own curiosity, briefing her on HYDRA and his experience with the demoniac association.

Sam and Scott were like two big, bear brothers that goofed around all the time and made her training a little bit lighter with their jokes. They hung around the kitchen, their noses in books, or fooled around in the gym, throwing each other on the ground.

Despite Addie having spent six weeks already at the compound, she could feel the palpable history in the group. They all seemed to have this bond; a bond that glued them together inexplicably. They all subtly leaned in towards each other, eyes always searching each other's faces for any danger or pain, and they all touched each other in the most gentle of ways. They have all lived through the most horrid experiences that have created a team of devoted heroes, but also pained humans who relied on each other. And Addie was far from being as connected to them as she would like.

And for six weeks, Bucky completely ignored her. He cast her aside as if she didn't even exist. Whenever he'd find herself in the same room as her, he'd vanish so fast and quietly, it's as if he wasn't even there to begin with. When she'd walked into the kitchen one morning, the sun shining brightly from the windows, and found Steve and Bucky leaned over a bunch of papers, he had looked up abruptly. He'd gathered his papers and said "I got things to do now." He would always grumble or groan whenever she talked, which proved to be unpleasant and embarrassing for her.

There was clearly nothing she could do to gain his friendship and trust. He was a stone wall, hiding behind a mask, looking at her with those cold, cold blue eyes.

I know this time skip can seem pointless, but it was needed in this chapter. So basically she spends six weeks at the compound and becomes closer with them all, except obviously, Bucky. I like to think that they are all inviting, like Steve took Wanda in, he would be extremely happy to help Addie. He also wants to protect her.

I like the idea of Sam and Scott being goof balls together.

Addie's new nickname is Bird, a concept introduced by Nat in this chapter. I like the symbolism of it too; a bird can either be caged or free, and that is up to you to determine what Addison is.

More Bucky and more action in the upcoming chapters. All characters and motion has been set up, so from now on the story will move on.

I hope you enjoyed, thank you for reading. See you next chapter!

JJ

[theglitchedworld]

Glitched - Chapter Twelve

The iron went from warm to so freezing cold it felt hot again the moment it hit my bare skin. The next instant, agony shot through me, sending me to my knees with a choked off cry. Magic surged through my body, much worse than anything Emelia had done with my shoulder, but, unlike then, blessed unconsciousness didn't claim me.

I could feel my bones breaking as the magic pushed new material into them, changing and lengthening them as they rehealed. From my skull all the way down to the smallest bone in my feet, they smashed and burned their way into new forms. My skin tore as the bones forcibly lengthened, shredding apart where it couldn't grow fast enough to adapt. The muscles, nerves, and blood vessels slithered like worms over the pink stretches of freshly exposed bone as they worked to reattach themselves to their traditional places.

I wanted to scream.

I didn't have the vocal cords to do it. My throat was in pieces that crawled like millions of snakes worming their way around the elongated bones of my spine to create a more masculine structure. Somehow, even with my nerves not being connected right, I could still feel the crawly, wormy sensation all over my body under the waves of pain.

My stomach churned. Partly because the pain and slimy, crawling sensation all over my body was making me want to throw up. And partly because it felt like someone had rammed what had to be a white hot iron bar into my groin. If my ears had been capable of hearing sound, I'm sure I would have heard my flesh sizzling as the bar was dragged back out, pulling me inside out as it did. I threw up part of the way through it. Or at least I tried to.

I sobbed for it to stop. Tears streamed down my face from my eyes even as those eyes distorted and reformed. My nose ran even as it broke and pieced itself back together. I clawed at the floor, my skin, the walls, anything I could reach with nails that peeled back and forced themselves out anew on fingers that twisted, shattered, and lengthened as I watched.

I was dying. I had to be. No one could live through being shredded and reformed like this. Only the sheer weight of the magic streaming into me from that damned iron chain forced me to remain in my destroyed body. Forced me to remain conscious. Forced me to be aware of every moment of the torment.

And then it was over.

I lay curled on the cold stone floor. I felt weaker than a newborn kitten. I had no energy left to do anything more than drag in one agonizing breath after another through my raw throat. I shook with the aftermath, shivering violently like someone who'd just had a terrible fever break. I felt completely and utterly drained.

I had been wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. There was no way that chain had been made as anything other than a torture device. I couldn't even imagine how the victims of the crimes it was used as a punishment for could have bared to endure it. It had felt like days that I'd writhed on the floor as it forcibly remade me into a new mold, but later I would learn that bare minutes had past since I'd left the others.

Slowly, my strength and energy returned. I held up a hand before my face, staring blankly at the wider, blockier form. It didn't look like mine any longer, but it wasn't unfamiliar either. I pushed myself to my hands and knees, raising my head to look in the silver mirror.

A familiar face looked back at me. It was similar to mine, enough that we could have been brother and sister back in the real world. We shared the same muddy brown eyes and the dark brown of our hair - though I think maybe his was a bit darker, almost black - but his brow was heavier with thicker eyebrows, the jaw stronger with a wider chin than mine. A dusky haze shadowed the curves of his cheeks, but otherwise he was clean shaven. His nose was stronger, the tip curving up a little more than mine did, yet still having the same unfortunate crookedness near the bridge that had marred my own nose. For the record, I really don't recommend tackling the steepest hill you can find when you're still having trouble staying upright when skating. I was lucky I got off with just a broken nose.

I blinked at my reflection. Raising my hand, I almost clocked myself in the face before I realized my arm was longer than it had been. Once I realized it, I managed to adjust the motion, dragging my fingertips awkwardly over the planes of my face as I stared into the mirror. It was astonishing how much I looked like my father.

I never thought I'd see this face again.

I climbed to my feet. My head felt light as I stood, a rush of vertigo as my body struggled to adjust to the sudden change in elevation. I was taller than I had been before. Maybe six or even ten inches. My shoulders were wider, my arms and chest more developed with muscle. Certain... other dimensions had definitely changed as well. Thank God the men of my family tended to the less hairy side of things. I wasn't sure I could deal with being a bear on top of everything else. But the more I looked into the mirror, the less I could deny it.

This was almost the same body as my avatar from The Bested World outside of the face that was almost creepily like that of someone from my family and a few extra inches of height. Other than that, I was that Theron again. From the top of my head to the four parallel scars on my side where I'd had a nasty encounter with a wolf demon in my first year of play even down to the angle of my... actually, that part wasn't important.

The important thing was I knew this body.

For all that my brain was giving me fits over the height adjustment. I'd kept my height matching my real height of five foot in The Bested World, but apparently this system wanted me to be taller. It was awkward and hard to get used to my longer arms and legs. I'd have to spend time in this body getting used to it before I could even hope to get myself into the corrupted army's ranks.

Which meant no going back to my normal body for a while.

To be honest, that didn't bother me a bit after the experience of changing into my male form. I could only imagine how bad being changed back would be. Actually, I didn't want to imagine it. All it would do would make me try to avoid it and for all the benefits a male body might have, my normal body was more comfortable. And at some point, this thing's power would be used up and I'd have to go through with it whether I wanted to or not.

Oh what a wonderful thing to have to look forward to.

I shook my head at my own absurd thoughts. As it was, Crysal had only just stopped giving me crap about playing a guy in The Bested World. She was probably going to have a regular field day with it now. But however she decided to behave, I needed clothes. The oversized shirt of Crysal's I'd been using wouldn't even fit, let alone actually cover the important bits. Sadly, my new boots were probably in the same boat. And I'd only just gotten them too!

My gaze caught on the heavy armoire as I looked about the room. It seemed promising. And Radani had told me I could use anything I found in the room.

"I just hope everything isn't to the same scale as the rest of the room," I murmured before stopping with a hand raised to my throat. "Ok. That will definitely take some getting used to."

My voice was much deeper than I was used to hearing. It was strange. I'd always had my voice in The Bested World. Hearing what I could only guess were the new normal tones of my reformed throat was just surreal. I made myself ignore it as I crossed the room to the armoire. After all, it was much easier to focus on the fact that I tripped over my own damn feet at least three times before I managed to reach it.

    When I came out of the room, I still felt weak as a kitten and my stomach was growling like an angry dog had taken up residence, but at least I'd managed to find a pair of loose pants that relatively fit and had my older clothes bundled up in one hand. I'd needed to borrow the sash from a weird looking dress to stand in for a belt to hold them up, but at least I wasn't flashing everyone. No shirt though. I was starting to feel like I was condemned to forever only have half of my clothes at any given time.

I'd managed to tie my hair back into a ponytail with a bit of ribbon, so at least I didn't have a bad butter or shampoo commercial moment going on. I really needed to get a haircut. Maybe Crysal could help, though I wasn't sure how safe it was to let her have anything sharp around my neck. Walking was still taking way more concentration that I liked, though I had to admit that I was developing a new found appreciation for why teen boys looked so damn awkward all the time. Growth spurts sucked.

    "Sorry it took so long," I said as I opened the door. My deeper voice still weirded me out a little. "Whatever sick freak came up with this thing needs to be dug up, resurrected, and shot out of a cannon. Preferably into a vat of acid."

Everyone was staring at me.

I suppose I could understand it. I mean I was at least six inches taller. And a guy. Ok. That part was probably a little more surprising. Even if it had been the whole reason I went through with all that crap earlier.

"What?" I frowned, rubbing at my face. The stubble on my cheeks prickled my palm. Great. Now I needed to shave too. Does this place even have razors? "Something on my face?"

"It worked..." Radani's rumble sounded surprised.

"Wait, you thought it wouldn't?!" My voice cracked embarrassingly as I stared at him. "What did you think was going to happen?!"

"Well... we, I suppose," Moreina began, looking aside, a blush tinging the height of her cheeks, "that we weren't certain it would work. It has been more than two hundred years since it was used last. It was possible that the... charge would no longer be strong enough to cause a full change."

"Ugh." I scrubbed a hand through my hair, not trusting my balance enough to do more than glare at the ground. "I can't believe you didn't even know it would work..."

"Hey!" Tomy's outburst accompanied by a surprised little squeak from his little sister made me look up.

Crysal was on her feet. Staring at me. The staring part wasn't new, but the fact that she'd all but dumped poor little Shel on the ground to jump up was. The staring was starting to get more than a little unnerving.

"W-what?" I took a step back almost without thinking. "Crys, come on. You're freaking me out here."

"It's-" She shook her head, reaching up to scrub at her face with both hands. When she lowered her hands again, for a split second, she looked like someone had just murdered her favorite puppy right in front of her and then started cooking it. "It's not fair."

I couldn't find any words to respond. I didn't know how to react. I just stood there with my mouth hanging open like a hanger for flies. I had only known her a couple weeks, so I probably didn't have nearly enough context to base my stunned response on, but I'd never heard her sounding so... I didn't know how to describe it. Her voice just sounded hollow. Like everything that made her her had drained out and evaporated.

I tried to smile, but it couldn't have looked good with how forced it felt. "Not fair? Trust me, you really didn't want to go through what I just did." My attempt at laughing the awkward atmosphere off fell about as flat as a mud balloon.

"You're a girl." Not this again. I really wasn't in the mood. But she kept going, her hands dropping to ball into fists at her side, shoulders trembling so much even I could see it across the room. "Theron's a girl. He's...you're not a guy at all. You... he... you never were a guy, were you?"

I groaned. I couldn't help it. "Dammit, not that again. How many times do I have to tell you that?! I'm me! Yeah, I was a girl! Would you deal with whatever your issue is and get over it already?!" I flung my arms out to my sides, only missing knocking anything over by virtue of not being close enough to hit anything. "I've always told you the truth about who I am!"

"I know." She sounded like a lost little girl as she stared at the ground, her shoulders slumping. The irritation I was feeling shriveled into a tiny knot and faded away as I watched her. "I know you have. I just..." She shook her head, still not looking at me. "It's not fair. I wanted... It's not fair."

Before anyone could stop her, she turned and bolted from the room. The door out to the hall actually slammed behind her, unlike my efforts with the one to the bedchamber. I slowly stopped, staring at the closed door in confusion, having started moving towards her without realizing it.

"What-" I stopped, shaking my head.

It didn't makes sense. Not that much of anything made any real sense in this messed up world. Goat people and bull people and messed up chains that ripped you apart and knitted you back together in a different form and God only knew what else. But even all that made more sense than my being a girl not being fair of all damn things.

"What the hell just happened?" I finally asked. I felt completely bewildered. We'd been getting along. I thought we had a chance of actually getting to be friends. And now?

Moreina sighed and rose to her feet. "Radani, if you'll please see our guests to their chambers, I'll go and see if I can discover what's troubling our young friend. If the records are accurate, I'm sure Theron will be wanting more to eat to replace the energy used in his change."

"Wait. I can go-" I started to protest, only to be stopped by Radani's hand settling on my shoulder. Even as a guy, his hand was freaking massive compared to me.

He shook his head. "My queen can find her much more quickly with her connection to the castle. You have my word that she won't come to any harm while in our walls. Please. Allow me to take the three of you to your rooms. There should be another meal waiting for you by the time we arrive."

My brows furrowed. The whole thing had me feeling uncomfortable but I couldn't really express why. Finally, I gave in to my stomach's piteous grumbling, pushing the whole uncomfortable issue of Crysal's outburst to the back of my mind.

"Alright. But can there please be clothes that fit me too?" I asked, deliberately changing the subject. "I'm getting a little tired of only wearing half an outfit and this place is nice and all, but the floors are a bit cold."

Radani laughed as he led us from the room. "I imagine it can be arranged."

    I didn't realize at the time that it would be weeks before we'd see Crysal again.

[vi-sability]

Rebel of Dimensions Chapter 1

Perched on the rooftop, I watched the throng of people almost breathe as they pushed around each other. The top level of Khido was an open space, and it bothered me. It’s so easy to get caught up here. It's not like the air is clean; far from it, actually, but the lower levels let you hide easier. With my hair, hiding well is essential. I've been told to never travel further up. My family say that the city above ours, Drin, is the worst place to be, but never why. Khido is full of dark walls and streets, which kinda sucks for me. My hair's bubblegum pink, thanks to my mom. I can duck and dive into the shadows, but I stick out like a sore thumb. Maybe Drin is worse? Maybe there's light in every place there isn't here? 

"What are you doing up there, boy?!" I sneered at a policeman and stood up, turning and jumping across the rooftops. Nobody can catch me. Gripping a loose pipe, I swung around and slid to the floor, the metal soles of my boots creating sparks on the brick wall. Somebody yelled after me, and I ducked into an elevator pod, yanking the lever and keeping an eye on the dark streets below as I descended. Khido has like, five different levels of homes and markets, the people getting nastier the further you go down. Me and my family live on the fourth level, so we're kinda in the middle. All I'm doing is trying to get by. 

I still haven't spotted my mark. My uncle said that he needed something specific from them, and they didn't give it up easily. Shaking my mother's goggles over my face gave me enhanced vision, letting me track the data sample in my glove. There. As the elevator pod rocked to a halt, I broke off into a run, using the jagged cliff edges to jump from and keep my speed. Nobody sees me coming unless they know what to look for. As I got above the mark, I held onto a spike with one hand, pushing my goggles back onto my forehead before jumping down and stopping my mark in his tracks.  

"What's up?" I grinned, folding my arms like I've seen my uncle do. It makes me look so cool. "I'm gonna need that Deusum crystal from you."  

"I-I've been told to not let this go!" I shrugged and rolled my shoulder.  

"Well, I've been told to not come back without it." I'm lying, but it makes everything much more dramatic. I did feel kinda bad, because he was wearing rags and tattered shoes, but it's every person for themselves. He hugged the briefcase to his chest, and ran past me, bumping my shoulder. It's not surprising that people run from me, though. I am wearing roughed-up jeans, metal boots, and a set of chest belts instead of a shirt. I look like a thug. Grinning, I ran after him, vaulting up onto a low wall, and then up onto a rooftop.  

The runner wasn't used to this. He kept bumping into people and stumbling over his own feet. I picked up a couple of cuts on my un-gloved hand as I vaulted over low walls and jumped to different rooftops, rolling on impact so I didn't break a leg. He ducked into an elevator pod and slammed the door shut, looking up at me and grinning smugly as I skidded to a halt. Oh, he thinks I'm beaten. How cute. Turning, I looked up to the thick cables that the pod was suspended on. Well, there's a first time for everything.  

Running again, I dug the toes of my boots into the wall, gripping the lower cable with my gloved hand. As I started to slide down to the pod, the runner's expression turned horrified. A few people yelled up to me, but this is a normal day for what I do. As my feet hit the metal pod, I winced at the pain in my ankles. I'm still a teenager, though. It's nothing.  

"Are you gonna give up the crystal?" I asked, gripping the window edge of the pod to lean in. I think the last time I did this, I held onto the cable for about fourty seconds.  

"Get away from me!" He tried to hit my fingers with the case, but I'm a lot faster than him. Gripping the edge again, I swung down, both hands on the window ledge. The runner tried to hit my hands away a couple of times, but I'm still way too fast for him. I pulled myself up, the strain in my muscles starting to burn. As I got at the right height to pull myself in, the pod stopped, and I was thrown forward, onto my face.  

He laughed as he ran again, still thinking that he had me beaten. I got up, brushed my messy hair back into place, and ran after him, using an abandoned cart as a springboard up to a rooftop. We're on the sixth level now. I'd be surprised if somebody didn't grab him. I dropped myself down to slide through a hole in the wall, throwing myself to my feet. The runner started to jog down what was the only staircase in the huge city, which made me stop. I'm not really used to stairs.  

"Kid! Use that pipe!" I looked down to the huge, fat guy, and where the pointed to a huge metal pole.  

"Thanks!" I called back, running towards it. I jumped, gripped it with my gloved hand, and started to slide down the rough surface, my boots creating sparks. There he is! I hit the base of the pipe, pushing myself away from it and catching up with the runner. When he saw me, he shouted in surprise and tripped over himself, falling down the small hill and into the poisonous sewer river that ran the length of the Khido's bottom level.  

"Help me!" He yelled, barely staying afloat. I can't just leave him in there. Digging my fingertips into the gravel and dirt, I edged my feet down the hill, reaching my gloved hand out for him. He gripped my wrist, and I started to pull him up, slowly losing my grip. He did have a damn good grip on the case. When his torso was on land, I pulled myself back up, sitting on the edge of the road and rubbing my sore shoulder. "Th-thank you..." He huffed, trying to catch his breath.  

"Don't mention it." I grinned, reaching over and grabbing the briefcase. "No hard feelings, but I have a job to do."  

"You're not the only one." He sighed. "Looks like I can't go back to the Blood Pack Mob on the second floor."  

"They're the ones who gave you this job?" He nodded. "Damn, you're gonna have to stay away from the top floors now."  

"Who sent you to take that crystal, anyway?" He asked, coping how I was sat. "You seem like a professional, kid." Now that I could look at him more clearly, he was obviously struggling. Underweight, cracked skin full of dirt, clothes that are full of holes, stuff like that. He was balding, and his eyes are dull, like there was no life in him at all.  

"I've been doing this for four years, since I was 12." His face dropped even more, and he rubbed his face in his hands. "Look, if you need help, you could join the Generations team."  

"The rebels?" He asked. I nodded. "That's not exactly a safe place to go, kid. Freedom fighting is deadly."  

"Don't I know it." I grinned. "I'm close with 'em, though. My Aunt founded it." When I looked back, he had an expression of shock. Setting the case down, I brushed my hair back to the right side of my head, showing the thick pink stubble and the 'V' shaved into the side of my head. "But do you have any other choice?"  

"No..." He mumbled, looking at his feet.  

"Exactly." I got up, gripping the case in my bare hand. "Good luck." I said, patting his shoulder before running off. As luck had it, somebody was getting into an elevator pod for the exact level I needed. A lady gasped in surprise as I ducked inside just before the doors closed.  

"The name's Vincent, nice to meetcha." I grinned, holding a hand out for her and the guy she was with.  

"Oh, uhm, I'm Olivia." She shook my hand.  

"Aaron." He shook my hand, too. They're both brunette, with the same chiselled faces and narrow eyes. I'm guessing that they're brother and sister. "We're not going to get in trouble from being around you, are we?"  

"Nah, I'm just heading home now." I lifted the case into my open palm and peeked inside. Deusum crystals are kinda pretty. They look like steel, but the magic inside flows like ink in water. All that my uncle told me was that he needed these, but not what for. "Here's my stop." I clipped the case shut again and jumped onto the edge of the open window. "See ya." They both shouted in panic as I jumped, catching a well-placed wire with my gloved hand, and sliding down until my feet hit the wall of my home.  

Where I live isn't much to look at, but that's how it's supposed to be. There are people out there that would sell my family out in a second. It's made of the same dark stone as any other home, set into the cliffs that loomed over either side of the city. Dusting the gravel and metal shavings off of my pants, I pushed the door open, hearing something fall over as soon as I stepped inside.  

"Yasi, you idiot!" My little brother, Jayson yelled. I poked my head into the room where it came from. Jayson looks nothing like me. Scruffy black curls, wide eyes, and a bright smile. We both have blue eyes, but that’s where the similarities end. "Vinny!" He ran over when he saw me, and I knelt down to give him a hug.  

"What's up, little bro?" I grinned, putting the case down and hugging him back. He and Yasi were only 6. Yasi ran over for a hug, too. They were both dressed mostly the same, in button-up shirts and jeans. Yasi had a darker tone to his skin and deep red hair, thanks to his mother. It was longer than hers, braided so it didn't get messy. But just like his dad, my uncle, his eyes were glow-in-the-dark green.  

"Did you bring us back something?" Yasi asked, leaning away.  

"Not this time, sorry." I grinned. "Didn't have chance."  

"What fell over in here?" My uncle's wife, Alva Bronze, walked down the hall. I'd be blind if I said she wasn't pretty. Dark skin, soft features, covered in tattoos.  

"The small table!" Jayson said, running over to it. Alva shrugged to me as I stood up. I'm not that tall, but she's tiny. She only comes up to my shoulder.  

"Vincent, what have you been doing?" Alva then asked, stepping back and covering her nose. "You smell like sewage!"  

"Well, I did pull a guy out of the poison river down on the seventh level." Her brow creased, and she turned away. "It's probably only my glove that stinks. Oh, and the case."  

"Vinny is stinky!" Yasi laughed, grabbing my bare hand.  

"Take it somewhere else before my sense of smell decides to mutiny." Alva walked into the room, Yasi following her. Smiling and shaking my head, I picked the case back up and jogged to the last room in the hallway. I opened the door slowly, just in case there was any experiments going on. I have a scar on the back of my head from when I was seven as a reminder.  

"Uncle Cable?" I sighed in relief when I saw him.  

"I see you got your job done, Vincent." My uncle is a weird kinda guy. His blonde hair was shaved on both sides, leaving two mechanical inputs open on each side of his head. He and Alva barely had any bare skin left, due to how many tattoos they got together. I always thought it was funny how Alva barely came up to my shoulder, and I was eye-level with Cable's shoulder. I know that they loved each other, though.  

Cable, my mom, and my aunt all escaped from one of the experimental camps that the higher-ups let happen. It's how my mom got her pink hair, and passed it on to me. Cable has sockets on his head, inner elbows, and on the backs of his hands. He uses them to plug himself into the computer systems across the city. He's sat in a chair with an extending monitor wrapped around the front, inputs plugged into his head and hands.  

"I did." I kicked the door shut and put the case down on a clear part of the workbench. "The guy fell into the poison river, though. Had to pull him out." Cable laughed and waved the screen away. The holograms flickered off, and the frame detached, sinking back into the headrest of the chair. I winched as he unplugged himself, but it's just routine. "Found anything in the systems?"  

"The leader of the Two Mark Mob has had a daughter." I laughed as he stuck his tongue out. "Good thing you got this Deusum, though. Otherwise, we'd have had a terrible week." Cable opened the case and smiled at the amount of crystals in it.  

"What do you need them for, anyway?" His green eyes met mine, and he stepped back, motioning to a cybernetic arm that was drenched in blood. "Again?"  

"It's getting worse." He sighed. That's my mom's fake arm. She told me that her real one was blown off in an accident before I lost my memory. To make the arm work, she had to push a lot of tech into her skin. Makes me shudder to even think about.  

"Is she okay?" Cable nodded.  

"Spring made her lie down an hour ago. You better go check on her." Of course. My Aunt is caring like that. Nodding, I pulled my glove off, put it on the bench, and walked out of the workshop, smiling to Alva when she saw me. Now she had her older boy, Nate hiding behind her. He looked more like Cable with his blonde hair and sassy resting expression. Just like Yasi, his skin was a mix of Cable's pale and Alva's dark, but he took after my uncle more in that respect. Even though he's ten years old now, he's still wary of me.  

I was careful pushing the door to my left open. This place was small, but we made it work. My mom and Aunt shared a room, of course Cable and Alva did, I was bunked with Nate, Yasi, and Jayson, the room nearest the door was the kitchen, and the last room went to my younger sister Caylee and Spring's daughter, Tabs. I think that my family is the perfect size. We're all a bit weird because of what happened to my mom, aunt, and uncle, but it's perfect.  

"No, I'm sure that I heard Vincent come back." I walked into the room, grinning to Tabs when she looked up at me. "I was right!" The side effect that my aunt Spring got from the experimentation was discoloured patches on her skin. It used to freak me out because they move. I don't care anymore, but it did pass down to Tabs, even if hers didn't move anywhere. They were both blonde with blue eyes, with Tabs being Spring's spitting image. The only difference is that Spring's hair was longer, going down to her stomach when she flicked it over her shoulder.  

"I saw him before you did." Caylee smiled. Just like any family, we were close. Spring was sat on the end seat of the couch, my mom's head in her lap. I winced when I saw the blood-soaked gauze wrapped around the stump of her shoulder. Caylee and Tabs were sat on the floor against the couch, Tabs turning to smile at me when I walked in. My sister's completely blind, but still sees everything through what she calls her 'mind's eye'. It's kinda freaky. I still don't understand why Caylee or Jayson don’t look anything like me or mom. Caylee's hair was brown, the same length as mine –cut just above the ears- but not shaved on one side.  

"Frost? You still awake?" Spring asked, taking the wet cloth off of her face.  

"Yeah, I'm alive." Caylee and Tabs shifted over so I could sit next to them, and right next to my mom's chest.  

"How's my big boy?" Mom tilted her head to look at me, the cloth falling off her face. She put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me in to kiss my cheek. "Why do you smell so terrible?"  

"Poison river." I grinned. Spring groaned, and mom rolled her eyes. My mom was the most scarred out of all of us. Spring still had the same connections as Cable in her head, but my mom told me that she'd pulled hers out not long before I was born. The left side of her body was scarred by fire, from her ankle to just underneath her eye. She doesn't like talking about it. Her hair was cut to her shoulders in an incredibly messy way, sticking out and a few angles. "I got the Deusum, though."  

"That's good news." Caylee reached over Tabs to pat my arm.  

"You're not gonna talk to 'em, are you, Cay?" Spring asked. Caylee is definitely the weirdest out of all of us. She's obviously a mage, seeing everything with her mind, and she says that she can talk to the magic inside the crystals I bring home.  

"No. It's depressing knowing that they're going to be crushed." Cay and Tabs were best friends, which didn't bother me. They are the only two girls aside from the adults.  

"We should go and get your shoulder fixed before you lose any more blood, Frost." Spring said, patting my mom's cheek.  

"Yeah, you are looking really pale." Tabs said, a wince in her voice.  

"I've survived worse." Mom laughed, letting go of me to push herself up.  

"I've got ya." I grunted as I got up, my ankles still sore from the risky jumps I did earlier.  

"Your bones are grinding together too much, Vin." Caylee said, scaring me.  

"What have you been doing?" Spring asked. I grabbed my mom's hand and helped her to her feet.  

"I need to do my free running to catch people." I said, grinning to mom when she raised an eyebrow at me. "I'm fine, though."  

"A teenager shouldn't have the bones of somebody who's eighty." Caylee said again, turning to look at me with her white eyes. Creepy.  

"We can argue about this later." Spring said. "We have to stop Frost from bleeding out, first." The metal in her shoulder never agrees with her, so we use Deusum crystals to fuse flesh and metal. They never last long enough, though. I hate seeing my mom in pain.  

"If I pass out, don't be surprised." She grinned, walking out of the room with Spring following close behind.  

"Yeah, yeah, just move." Spring shoved her, which made her laugh. Sighting, I sat back down against the couch. My mom and Spring share a bed, which confuses me. Wouldn't they prefer separate beds?  

"How come you're allowed to do whatever you want?" Tabs asked. I looked at her, eyebrow raised. "I want to take the fight to corruption, but mom, Frost, and Cable won't let me."  

"Because I'm the oldest." I grinned, brushing my hair back into place and making sure that the 'V' was still in the side of my head. "You're still twelve, Tabs."  

"Yeah, but you're not even doing anything!" Here we go again. "You could be fighting those idiots that are killing people, but you're just stealing crystals from people!"  

"It's not that simple." Caylee said. "Spring has a small army of people that hang on her every word. Vincent is just one teenager. If he tried to take the fight to them by himself, it would not end well."  

"Did you see that in your future vision?" I huffed, resting my face on my hand.  

"No, it's common sense." Tabs snorted and coughed into her hands. "What you're doing is the best you can do."  

"No, it's not." Tabs huffed.  

"Hey, I got the Deusum, didn't I?" I tried not to imagine the pain that my mom was in as Cable fixed the problem. "I'm doing stuff to help us all."  

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