#making eliot feel just as helpless as before ?????????????

[scattered-winter]

😈🤲🏻 <- guy asking for a winter ramble(TM) about eliot spencer <333

tw for uh. abusive relationships and manipulation and shit like that. like I said. I'm going feral.

LISTEN HE'S SO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm specifically going super insane over his relationship w moreau because it's very clear that there Was In Fact some kind of relationship there. like ?!? the thing I'm the most insane about is how moreau seems to get under eliot's skin in a way that none of the other marks they've had can. I'm thinking specifically about the scene when hardison and eliot go face-to-face with moreau for the first time. eliot actually looks nervous, which is a look we haven't seen on him like .. at ALL. his whole THING is being the unrufflable, unshakeable team hitter who doesn't balk at anything, and so seeing him so visibly distressed was SOOOO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! a collection of some of my favorite expressions in the ep:

he literally ??? has tears in his eyes in the last one as he's begging parker not to ask what moreau made him do ??? i am ??? in shambles??????

and like. any other character showing this amount of emotion wouldn't even phase me because that's like. not a lot of emotion for someone to show but when it's eliot ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, especially since there were so many microexpressions I couldn't possibly get a screenshot of because they're soo blink-and-you'll-miss-it like ,, jaw ticks and lip trembles and voice trembling and shit like that. because it's eliot, the guy who hardly ever cracks, who's showing this much open emotion, it's the equivalent of someone scream-sobbing onscreen. I'm actively going insane

because it's like. moreau must have had ?? so much power over eliot in the past ???? the way he was acting in that scene, the way he was being So confident and almost...mocking .. taking every opportunity to throw the fact that He Knows Eliot into their faces (saying eliot prefers beer, calling him "old friend," reminiscing about "the old days," etc). he was deliberately trying to get under eliot's skin and the thing that makes me insane is that it WORKED. eliot was already so tense and ready for a fight even before moreau showed up, and it was SO !!! so !!!!!! even when hardison was drowning!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! eliot didn't have the luxury of showing his stress and worry on his face because if moreau Knew he was scared for hardison their whole job would be blown!!!!!!!!! and it is SUCH a favorite trope of mine where a character has so force themselves to be impassive while a member of their team (bonus points if it's a S/O!!!!!) is in danger !!!!! so really this concept had me from day ONE

and like. the concept of them being A Thing (tm) romantically before canon. not in a cutesy healthy way but in a "there's 13 layers of manipulation and control and one-sided codependency and moreau was using eliot as a tool and a weapon and it's all about eliot being his possession and eliot was trapped in a cycle of manipulation and wanting so desperately to be wanted and being controlled and even after breaking free from it he still had lasting scars for years" kind of way. for moreau it's all about possession and control and for eliot it's all about having a place to belong even though he's losing parts of himself along the way. because the worst, darkest thing from eliot's past* happened while he was working for moreau, and he didn't tell the team about it. now, that's not really a shocker, because the team lies to and withholds information from each other all the time but !!!! still !!!!! there's been this level of Openness eliot and the team has had in the last few eps I've been watching where like ..... if anyone has any questions abt their past, they'll answer them pretty willingly. but he specifically asked parker not to ask him what he did because he didn't want to tell her !!! (which ALSO makes me insane because .... he literally can't say no to her????????? even though he Doesn't Want Them To Know ,, he fully knew that if she asked he would Tell Her ... aoughhh)

*I don't think they ever confirm what that was but bro.....I Have Theories (tm)

and like !!!!!! eliot being used as a tool by his abuser, and doing the absolute worst things he's ever done in his life, that will haunt him forever, and then even years after leaving moreau behind being shoved face to face with him ??!!?!?! I really hope moreau comes back in later seasons because eliot was DISTRESSED and I was EATING IT UP !!!!!!!!!!!!! and I also have had a LOOONG lasting love for whump/angst tropes where one character has been Controlled And Manipulated by another character and even years later that person still has so much power over them ,,,,,,,,, it's SO.!!!!!!!!

if I take some liberties w all these concepts ,, there's SOOO much potential there. moreau being a "toxic ex" but crank the toxicity up to 11 and throw in a healthy dose of whumper/abuser behavior and he somehow gets a hold of parker and hardison and basically forces eliot to leave the team and come back with him ,, kind of a "you don't belong to anyone but me" kinda deal ,,,,,,, oughhhgogughgghghh

[sixhours]

Chapter 11 - The Ghosts of Babylon

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete

Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut and violence Series tags: Joel Miller x You, Joel Miller x Reader, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, LGBTQ+ characters, y/n is bi/pan, y/n is ~45, violence, pregnancy, abortion, medical trauma, emotional trauma, panic attacks, sex work, suicide, smut, slow burn, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, romance, no use of y/n, reader has longish hair, Joel can lift you, smallish age gap (~11 years), I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

~*~

You’re napping on your cot in the clinic when the walkie at your belt scratches out your name. You rub your eyes, fumbling for the switch.

“Here,” you mutter, sitting up.

“Got a situation, patroller with a busted leg,” someone says.

“Okay, bring them in.”

“Gonna need to make a house call, doc. Meet us at the east gate.”

“Copy that. Out.”

Shit.

Patrol was rough and sometimes things went sideways–Theresa told you as much–but you’ve never had to leave the settlement before. You pick up the med kit, double-check to make sure you have everything you need, and grab your down jacket.

There are two men on horseback waiting for you. You know one is Eliot, and the other…is Joel.

Well, this will be interesting.

Joel gives you a barely perceptible nod. “She can ride with me.”

You raise an eyebrow at the too-easy double entendre, and you swear you see the hint of a smirk before his face drops back into a gruff mask and he puts out a hand to help you up. You can’t ignore the flush of heat that courses through you at his touch, an embarrassing Pavlovian response. You know what those hands are capable of, and you remember all too well where they were last night. You wonder, in a flash of helpless depravity, if you could still smell your slick on his fingers. It doesn’t help that you’re forced to press your whole damn body against his back just to stay on the horse.

Fuck, this is going to be a day.

“You know how to use this?” he asks over his shoulder, holding up a pistol.

“I might.”

He scoffs as you take the gun, check the safety, then tuck it into the back of your jeans.

“Shouldn’t need it, but y’never know,” he says.

When the gates close with a thud , you feel your chest constrict. You’ve lived within the safety of Jackson’s walls for months, too used to its creature comforts. You tighten your grip slightly around Joel’s waist as he nudges the horse to a fast trot, Eliot riding ahead. Your ass is already starting to hurt.

“How far out?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.

“Couple hours’ ride; we’re camped at the southeastern outpost.”

“What happened?”

“Allan’s horse got spooked and threw her.”

“...Theresa Allan?”

There’s a pause. “Yeah.”

“You said it was a break?”

“Uh-huh. Bone went through the skin…can’t move her until it’s set and splinted.”

“Shit.”

You shift in the saddle, trying to take some pressure off your tailbone, your thighs already aching from the effort of keeping your balance. Joel seems to notice.

“Woulda thought you’d have experience on horseback, comin’ from Nebraska.”

“I’m not from Nebraska. I grew up in New York. I was a city kid.”

“So…how’d you end up at the Omaha QZ?”

“It’s a long and uninteresting story.”

“We got time.”

You let out a deep sigh.

“Alright. I was finishing my residency at a hospital in Maine when the outbreak happened. Managed to get out alive with a…group.

“We protected each other. My medical experience was useful, so I guess I had more luck than some. Just happened to land in Omaha at some point, and that was home…until it wasn’t.”

In your defense, this is all true, save for the destination and the fact that the “group” in question was FEDRA. Your story is the same as countless others, and it comes so naturally, it doesn’t feel like lying…not exactly.

“You were right about the uninteresting part,” Joel says dryly, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice. “I’m fallin’ asleep over here.”

You clamp down on a smirk, kicking the back of his leg with your boot.

“Asshole.”

~*~

Theresa is ashen and shivering under a moth-eaten wool blanket when you finally arrive at the outpost, which is little more than a shack in the woods. She greets you with a shaky smile through gritted teeth.

“Hey, babe. Fancy…meeting you…here.”

You wince in sympathy. “Can I take a look?”

She nods, teeth clattering as you pull back the blanket and a blood-soaked bandage to reveal the fracture, the jagged white shard of her tibia poking through the skin of her lower leg. You remember trailing kisses up that leg, her thigh, the taste of her on your tongue, and you have to stop yourself from going further with the thought. 

“Alright. Let’s get you fixed up,” you murmur.

You set your med kit on the floor and kneel, pulling out gauze, alcohol, wrapping, and a tiny bottle of precious painkillers. You hand her three of the small white pills and a canteen. “Take these. They might take the edge off.”

“Might,” Theresa snorts, but she swallows the pills with a gulp of water.

You kneel beside her, taking her hand, giving it a squeeze. “This is going to hurt like a motherfucker.”

“Wow, don’t hold back or anything,” she huffs. “Can…we get it…over with?”

“Give the pills a chance to work. I’ll be right back.”

Joel is waiting for you outside. “I’m going to need someone to help me hold her while I set and wrap the break, and someone to keep an eye on her vitals.”

“We’ve got four. Two on watch, two with you. Eliot’s got field medic training, he can handle the nurse stuff.”

You nod.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice suddenly low.

“Fine,” you reply automatically. Indeed, you’re not looking forward to the next part, but it comes with the territory.

He considers this, then nods. “I’ll hold her.”

~*~

It’s as bloody and painful as you expect. Theresa's screams are barely muffled by the belt strap in her mouth, but eventually, you’re able to get the bone back into place. The sun is setting by the time you’ve finished bandaging, wrapping, and splinting the leg. Your hands, jacket, and jeans are splattered in Theresa’s blood, and Eliot brings in snow and melts it over a camp stove to help you wash up.

Theresa is conscious, resting, covered by the wool blanket. Her blood pressure stabilizes and the painkillers are doing their work. Small favors.

Joel waits at the threshold, arms crossed. “We’ve got a sled fashioned up to take her out, but I don’t wanna risk it in the dark.”

You wince. It’s going to be a slow and painful journey back to Jackson.

He leans in, hand coming to rest lightly on your forearm. You’re glad for long sleeves that hide the sudden rash of goosebumps that pop up at his touch, the low timbre of his voice sending a pleasant shiver through you.

“Sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” you say, giving him a tired smile to prove it. He studies your face, then nods slowly.

“Alright. Make yourself comfortable, we’ll ride out when it’s light. Be outside if you need anything.”

Then he ducks out in a whirl of cold air.

You roll out a spare sleeping bag and wrap yourself in your bloody jacket, easing yourself down onto the floor next to Theresa. Your fingers find the pulse point at her throat and she stirs, eyes opening to you.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, making a mental note of her heart rate.

“Like shit,” she croaks.

“Meds might make you nauseous. Think you can eat?”

She shakes her head, making a face.

“Water, then,” you say, picking up the canteen and putting it to her lips. She takes a few slow sips and swallows, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. This seems to sap all her remaining strength, and her eyes close, fluttering shut.

You think she’s asleep, but then she speaks again, voice rough.

“So…you and Joel.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she cuts in, blinking at you with drugged eyes. “Don’t even try, babe.”

You huff a sigh, and close your eyes. “Thea–”

“I care…about you,” she says, struggling to keep her eyes on you. “You know that…right?”

The sentiment is so foreign, so unexpected, your mouth goes dry and you cough to cover your surprise.

“You’re on drugs,” you remind her dryly.

“Good ones,” she agrees. “But I know…what I see.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, even though you’re not sure you want the answer.

She grins then, a brilliant and wry smile that reminds you why you found her so attractive in the first place.

“You’re…alike, you and him.”

“I’m ‘lethal?’” you scoff. “Isn’t that how you put it?”

“Untouchable.”

The word hangs in the open air like a warning shot.

“Look, Thea, don’t…don’t tell anyone, okay? It’s not serious, and his kid doesn’t know. Would make it awkward if–”

“Secret’s safe with me,” she mumbles. “But I meant it…what I said before. Be careful.”

~*~

You’re jolted awake from a cold and troubled sleep by the sound of gunfire.

“Shit,” you breathe, reaching for the pistol at your back. Theresa is awake, too, looking at you with wide eyes.

“What’s–”

“Shh.”

There’s yelling in the distance. You creep on all fours to one wall. There are no windows, just a boarded-up hole through which you can see slivers of moonlight. You try to peek through the slats but all you see are the shadows of trees on snow.

Where the fuck are the guards?

More shouting, sounding further away, and then…shuffling. A croak that is far too close for comfort.

Your finger flicks off the pistol’s safety and you turn to Theresa, putting a finger to your lips. You put your ear to the wall, trying to pinpoint the sound’s location, when a loud thud lands on the door.

Theresa lets out a startled shriek, and you whirl around, ready to tell her to shut up, but then the door begins to crack and splinter as the infected throws itself against it, pounding and pounding until the sound drowns out Theresa’s whimpering and the infernal racket of your heart between your ears.

You get to one knee and bring the pistol up, holding it steady with both hands, trying to slow your breath.

In. Out. In. Out.

The hinges give a rusty scream as they’re wrenched off the frame and the infected breaches the door.

You take the shot.

It goes wide, but it draws the creature’s attention. Its gaping maw hisses and croaks at you, and when it lurches in your direction, you fire one more bullet into the center of its bulbous forehead. It drops like a stone.

A shadow appears in the doorway, and you aim for the head, finger steady on the trigger.

It’s Joel, wide-eyed, breathing hard. He raises his hands. “Fuck–”

You don’t lower the gun; your muscles are trembling, locked in place by adrenaline and fear. You’re still seeing the infected in front of you, coming straight at you, mouth open and ready to feed.

In. Out.

Another moment passes. You feel your finger ease up, feel yourself standing slowly. Joel switches between watching you with concern and glancing at the gnarled body on the floor.

“Are there more?” you bark, not ready to give up the gun just yet.

Joel shakes his head slowly, hands still raised like you might change your mind and shoot him after all.

“Where the fuck were you?” you hiss, finally tucking the gun back into your jeans.

“Eliot and Ashbury had one to the south, I was watchin’ their six,” he says, looking down at the infected corpse. “Seems like you had it covered, though.”

The walkie on his belt squawks, Eliot’s voice staticky over the airwaves. “Joel, you there?”

“M’here. Found one up by the cabin…we took care of it,” he says, looking pointedly at you. “Clear.”

He steps outside to continue the conversation, although now that the door is gone, there’s not much point. You turn to look at Theresa, who has pushed herself to a half-sitting position against the nearest wall, pale and shaking.

It was already freezing in the shack, and now the wind coming through the open doorway makes it unbearable. The sweat that beaded on your skin in the heat of the moment has cooled, making you feel damp and slimy beneath your coat. You grab one of the scratchy wool blankets and look for some way to secure it to the door frame.

“That was…f-f-fucking impres-s-sive,” Theresa chatters, watching as you move about the shack, looking for a spare nail, a piece of wood, anything to pin the blanket up. “If it weren’t so…fucking c-c-cold in here I’d…b-b-be turned on.”

“It was,” Joel says. You hadn’t noticed he’d re-entered the cabin, but now he’s standing there, still watching you with something like trepidation. “Impressive, I mean.”

You shoot him a look. “Help me get this up. We need to get this place warm.”

~*~

It’s only a couple of hours until dawn, but the time crawls by in a bitter-cold haze. Joel drags the infected corpse into the woods and you manage to get the door covered. You spend the rest of the time curled up against Theresa’s good side under the blanket, trying to conserve body heat.

It’s a welcome relief to be up on the horse, arms anchored firmly around Joel’s waist and heading back to Jackson in the early morning light. Eliot and his patrol partner’s horses are hooked to the makeshift sleigh upon which Theresa is bundled, while Ashbury rides ahead as a scout. You gave Theresa another pain pill before you set off, but you suspect it’s not doing much good with all the jostling on the frozen, pock-marked ground.

It’s been an hour of this lurching, plodding cadence when Joel’s voice drifts over his shoulder. 

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

“Picked it up while I was out there, I guess.”

You feel him shift against you, leaning back slightly. Even sweaty and bloody and in pain, his proximity is unnerving. The constant pressure of the saddle rolling between your legs doesn’t help.

“Looked like a FEDRA thing.”

“That so?” you say, trying to sound disinterested.

“Hell of a shot, though,” he says when you don’t elaborate. “For a ‘city kid.’”

“Mmm. Got lucky,” you sigh, resting your forehead between his shoulder blades, smelling the warm leather of his jacket. You’re so tired you could fall asleep right now, sore ass be damned.

“Right,” he says, drawing out the word sarcastically. “Well, remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“Doesn’t feel so good on the other end of the barrel, does it, Miller?”

He gives a soft, knowing chuckle. “No, I s’pose it don’t.”

~*~

You finally ride into Jackson, exhausted and bruised and desperate for a shower. Theresa is set up at home with one of the clinic nurses as a caregiver, and you promise to check on her the next morning.

Joel disappears without a word as soon as you dismount, trotting off toward the stables. You’re too tired to worry about his suspicious questioning, although in the back of your mind, you know you should be.

When you finally make it home, you don’t have the energy to do more than stumble upstairs and fall into bed fully clothed, still bloody and sweaty. The shower will have to wait.

~*~

A feather-light touch draws itself down your cheek, and you startle awake in the semi-dark, pushing yourself up and reaching for the knife you keep tucked between the mattress and box spring.

“Whoa, s’just me,” Joel says. “Don’t shoot.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What–how did you–”

“Door was open.”

Shit.

In your exhaustion, you’d forgotten to set the lock. Christ, being in Jackson has made you stupid.

You realize his hand is still resting on your cheek, and you sit up abruptly to break the contact. 

“What is it? Is Thea alright?”

“She’s fine. Checked in on her before I came over. Just…wanted to see you.”

He leans in, capturing your lips with his, tongue sliding against yours in a sweet erotic dance, and you moan softly, instantly wet. After a full day of being so close, so fucking close without being able to touch him, to feel his lips on your sensitive skin, you’re like a woman starved.

You pull back with great difficulty, breathing hard. “I need a shower. I’m filthy.”

“Yeah y’are,” he growls, nipping at your ear, sending a hot shiver of delight straight to your core. But then he stands, reaches out a hand, and you take it.

The water feels amazing when it hits your skin, washing off the remains of Theresa’s blood, the dried sweat, soothing the ache in your muscles. He holds you under the stream of rushing water as his hands run the soap up and down your back, and he kisses you and bites at your neck until your legs threaten to give out. When he grabs your ass and presses you to him, nudging his cock between your thighs just out of reach of where you need it, you groan in frustration. 

“Not in the shower, Miller.”

“M’not that stupid,” he says, but you’re not convinced. He leans back but only slightly, forehead pressed to yours, panting through gritted teeth. “God, the things you do to me. Wanted you that whole time, out there. Wanted you to…to–”

“Show me,” you murmur, reaching behind you to shut off the water, not caring that your body is still slick with soap.

You’re going to need another shower after this, anyway.

[monstercollection]

I’ve been slacking with my Literary Tarot Challenge posts so I’m going to do a quick drop with summaries of the ones I most recently finished, and hopefully get around to longer reviews of them later.

The Pillow Book by Sei Shōnagon (Nine of Parchment)- diary of an 11th century gentlewoman in the Imperial court of Japan. Sei is just… the most. She’s so much. She’s petty, she’s decadent, she’s conceited. She’s 100% That Bitch. I love and hate her in equal measure.

This was an absolutely fascinating window into the Heian Era but I had to WORK for it. Reading a book written 1,000 years ago is hard enough, but as someone from the US with only a second-hand familiarity with Japanese culture, Buddhism and Shinto, there were a so many new concepts I had to learn. Lots of good appendices in the edition I read that helped with unfamiliar vocab and cultural references (and I’ll edit to include which one I read when I get home). By far the hardest book I’ve read for the challenge and the first one I thought I might not finish.

“The Outsider” by H. P. Lovecraft (The Tower)- Short story about a sad, lonely haunted monster man, so basically my bullshit. My familiarity with Lovecraft and his mythos extends to having read Call of Cthulhu in college and playing a few board games based on his stories. I think I’d have gotten a little more out this one if I’d known more about his interconnected lore but I don’t necessarily feel the urge to delve further into Lovecraft’s work. It definitely stands on it’s own as a solo story.

“Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall-street” by Herman Melville (Four of Light)- this is probably one of those stories assigned to me in high school or college that I either read just enough to fake my way through or read but remember nothing about.

It’s a short story about a lawyer who seems to collect weird, quirky, flawed little men for employees. He is extremely compassionate and I can’t tell if the lengths he goes to for them is supposed to make him the butt of a joke or if we’re supposed to see them through his eyes and empathize with them the way he does. I feel like it’s the latter. It’s stance seems to be that no one should suffer for being weird, lonely or mentally ill.

I’m sure my high school teacher bent it into some kind of puritan morality tale about how there is no point in helping those who won’t help themselves, but it doesn’t hit that way.

Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery (The Star) - I don’t understand why Emily has not gotten the same attention and love as Anne of Green Gables. This is a beautiful story deeply into the category of Magical Realism, Emily’s world is as full of fairies and nature spirits and prophetic visions as it is the injustices of early 20th century childhood.

It pushes so many boundaries. I can see why it would not have been popular in it’s own time— there is a healthy level of blasphemy from Emily and her father who believe that their loving God exists as a separate being from the puritanical God everyone else preaches about.

It also radically asserts the idea that children are whole beings deserving of the same rights as adults. Almost every child in the book is living with some kind of abuse or neglect— and it’s not treated as “period-appropriate parenting techniques” but as the actual injustice it is.

I’m going to do a longer post on Emily soon because I have SO MANY FEELINGS about it. It might just be my favorite thing I’ve read for the challenge so far.

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot (The Hanged Man)- How are we all sitting around for tea when the slow march of time leads us ever closer to death? The helplessness in the face of existential inevitability made this one feel just right for the Hanged Man

“The Cold Equations” by Tom Godwin (Temperance)- Hard sci-fi short story about a pilot who has to make the choice between jettisoning a stowaway into space or running out of fuel before he can deliver medical supplies to a colony. This was emotional as hell but a really good story.

[ramrage]

here we go round the prickly pear

Rating: T (for now)

Characters: John “Soap” MacTavish, Simon “Ghost” Riley

Tags/Warnings: REINCARNATION AU, Temporary Major Character Death, author is too inspired by ts eliot, suburban AU, will add tags as work grows

ao3 link

chapter 1: welcome to death’s dream kingdom (do enjoy your stay)

A penny for the old guy

“Why the fuck does this keep happening?”

The in-between place—that’s what he called it—was quiet like a held breath, just as it was the last time they were there, and the time before that, too. It didn’t matter what happened or didn’t happen in the preceding life; he and Simon always ended up back in that vast field.

Sometimes Simon would be there waiting for him. Other times he had to wait.

During the waiting periods, he’d walk through the tall grass, feel the blades shimmer against his hands. He needed to. It was one of the few things that felt real. The sky blushed in perpetual twilight—a soft bruise that was sometimes more purple than it was blue, sometimes pink and always shifting though too slow to notice if you were staring. It only became evident when he’d look up after long periods of staring blankly at the shifting grass or occasional tree.

Even the air itself was uncanny.

The air that set the grass in its lazy dance. The air that sometimes carried on it the scent of heather, like home, other times instead burning with smoke and dust, like war.

Always too mild. Never too hot or too cold, neither humid or dry. Blowing soft and gentle until their time was nearly up, and then it would rage. But that wasn’t often. No, more often than not, it passed the timeless time as steady in-and-out breaths, as waves.

The worst was when it drifted past with voices hanging from its tail.

He hated the dying screams.

He hated the sound of his mother’s voice calling him home for dinner.

He hated the distant laughter

and most of all, he hated when it was Simon.

Hated hearing Simon cry out in pain, too far away to help—blew his chest wide open with unsinkable yearning. He hated it all the same when Simon sounded happy, or bored, or angry.

Johnny could walk for what felt like days on end, and sometimes did, but he’d never find the source of the wind-voices, and that’s why he always sunk with dread when they started up again. Whenever Simon appeared, really appeared, he was always close, and his touch always preceded any words.

The voices were just torture, so he tried to ignore them. He could tune them out temporarily, but never for long.

He didn’t like to think of the eyes, so he didn’t. They liked it too much.

Simon was waiting for him this time, looking almost placid within a nest of trampled grass, hand pillowing the back of his head while his unseeing eyes swallowed down the blue-tinged sky. He hadn’t noticed Johnny’s arrival, silent as it was even when Johnny shook the blood back into his extremities, shifted out of place during the undefinable passage out from the past life.

He only noticed when Johnny cried out, helpless and distraught.

“Why the fuck does this keep happening?”

Simon sat up then, offered out his arms as a safe place for Johnny to collapse. The arms wrapped tight, solid, stroking along the other’s back in time with the undulating breeze.

“I don’t know.”

“Is any of this even real?”

“I don’t know. Feels real. You feel real.”

“So do you. You’re the only thing that does right now. Here.”

Johnny pulled back to study Simon’s face, to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. He’d worried that maybe they’d come back here and something would be different—something small, like a misplaced freckle. And then they’d live and die again and when they’d return, something else would be wrong. Cycle after cycle, Simon would melt into a nondescript man and then Johnny would truly be alone and lost.

But everything was as it should be, so Johnny placed those fears aside for when he could dwell them once more. But not now. Simon was there, firm and real, and he smelled like his bedsheets, that unplaceable scent.

Everything was as okay as it could be.

Johnny didn’t expressly think it, but formless and huge hung the the thought:

“at least for now”

Background noise that Johnny wouldn't—consciously or not—give weight to. Let it stay nebulous and almost imperceptible, but only just.

After all, Simon was here and so even the more salient concerns retracted their claws and slouched in on themselves from where they hunched, staring, in the shadows. Their intangible eyes weighed heavy on Johnny and he addressed them in the case acknowledgement would appease them for a moment.

“I just can’t keep losing you, is all,” he murmured and the eyes blinked slowly within their sunken cavities, but cowered from the sound of Simon’s hum.

“I hate it too.”

Simon said this slowly because the winds were calm and that meant they had time yet. While he paused to consider his words, a bouquet of stars breathed the last of their death rattles and extinguished for forever. “But we always find each other again. Eventually. That’s what I have to tell myself.”

Or else it’ll kill me, too.

“What if we don’t?”

“I’ll always find you. Maybe that’s why we’re here. I couldn’t stand to lose you for good.”

“You really think the universe loves you that much, Si?” Johnny asked, actually chuckled. He did that sometimes, here, but not as much as he used to.

Johnny felt Simon shrug against him, felt hands squeeze against the muscles lining his ribcage. “Thought it hated me for the longest time, but maybe it doesn’t. It’s given me forever with you. Or maybe it’s given you forever with me.”

“Ah, so I’m the chosen one then?” Johnny asked, jaw struggling to form words against the crook of Simon’s neck.

“What do you think?”

“Sounds about right,” Johnny decided, and Simon pulled back gently, drew one hand to cradle the base of Johnny’s skull, the other resting on his forearm. He had a strange look in his eyes, one that Johnny could not name but knew the meaning of regardless. It hung softy like the petals of parted lips, the sweet haziness of falling asleep.

“I agree.”

They sat like that for some time, then settled on their backs shoulder to shoulder for some more time, unspeaking because while there were things to say, they were things that shouldn’t be spoken.

Words had a way of urging on the breeze in this land, and so their silence bought more time within the relative peace of the in-between, if just an illusion.

They lay awash in the smell of bedsheets and fire until the winds eventually picked up as they always did. It was inevitable.

The labored, turning gyre would always turn.

Lips that would kiss formed prayers for a kind life. They would find each other as childhood friends and never leave the others’ side, pass the 80 or so years easily and somehow, die seconds apart as they slept in their shared bed.

Smothered by wind, “I love you” sounded like “amen”. Or maybe it was the other way around. When it grew too loud to hear anything at all, lips that would kiss, did, as they always did before the oblivion.

“I fucking hate this town,” Simon groaned. The lit end of his cigarette crawled toward the filter as he inhaled, paused to rest as he exhaled.

“Fucking sucks,” Johnny agreed.

He liked watching Simon smoke, thought it looked cool. This town wasn’t cool. Sitting on the roof of his family’s house was cool, though, probably because they weren’t supposed to. No one was going to catch them in the middle of the night, but they spoke in low voices to be safe.

This was how they spent their summers.

A penny for the Old Guy

“Why the fuck does this keep happening?”

The in-between place—that’s what he called it—was quiet like a held breath, just as it was the last time they were there, and the time before that, too. It didn’t matter what happened or didn’t happen in the preceding life; he and Simon always ended up back in that vast field.

Sometimes Simon would be there waiting for him. Other times he had to wait.

During the waiting periods, he’d walk through the tall grass, feel the blades shimmer against his hands. He needed to. It was one of the few things that felt real. The sky blushed in perpetual twilight—a soft bruise that was sometimes more purple than it was blue, sometimes pink and always shifting though too slow to notice if you were staring. It only became evident when he’d look up after long periods of staring blankly at the shifting grass or occasional tree.

Even the air itself was uncanny.

The air that set the grass in its lazy dance. The air that sometimes carried on it the scent of heather, like home, other times instead burning with smoke and dust, like war.

Always too mild. Never too hot or too cold, neither humid or dry. Blowing soft and gentle until their time was nearly up, and then it would rage. But that wasn’t often. No, more often than not, it passed the timeless time as steady in-and-out breaths, as waves.

The worst was when it drifted past with voices hanging from its tail.

He hated the dying screams.

He hated the sound of his mother’s voice calling him home for dinner.

He hated the distant laughter

and most of all, he hated when it was Simon.

Hated hearing Simon cry out in pain, too far away to help—blew his chest wide open with unsinkable yearning. He hated it all the same when Simon sounded happy, or bored, or angry.

Johnny could walk for what felt like days on end, and sometimes did, but he’d never find the source of the wind-voices, and that’s why he always sunk with dread when they started up again. Whenever Simon appeared, really appeared, he was always close, and his touch always preceded any words.

The voices were just torture, so he tried to ignore them. He could tune them out temporarily, but never for long.

He didn’t like to think of the eyes, so he didn’t. They liked it too much.

Simon was waiting for him this time, looking almost placid within a nest of trampled grass, hand pillowing the back of his head while his unseeing eyes swallowed down the blue-tinged sky. He hadn’t noticed Johnny’s arrival, silent as it was even when Johnny shook the blood back into his extremities, shifted out of place during the undefinable passage out from the past life.

He only noticed when Johnny cried out, helpless and distraught.

“Why the fuck does this keep happening?”

Simon sat up then, offered out his arms as a safe place for Johnny to collapse. The arms wrapped tight, solid, stroking along the other’s back in time with the undulating breeze.

“I don’t know.”

“Is any of this even real?”

“I don’t know. Feels real. You feel real.”

“So do you. You’re the only thing that does right now. Here.”

Johnny pulled back to study Simon’s face, to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. He’d worried that maybe they’d come back here and something would be different—something small, like a misplaced freckle. And then they’d live and die again and when they’d return, something else would be wrong. Cycle after cycle, Simon would melt into a nondescript man and then Johnny would truly be alone and lost.

But everything was as it should be, so Johnny placed those fears aside for when he could dwell them once more. But not now. Simon was there, firm and real, and he smelled like his bedsheets, that unplaceable scent.

Everything was as okay as it could be.

Johnny didn’t expressly think it, but formless and huge hung the the thought:

“at least for now”

Background noise that Johnny wouldn't—consciously or not—give weight to. Let it stay nebulous and almost imperceptible, but only just.

After all, Simon was here and so even the more salient concerns retracted their claws and slouched in on themselves from where they hunched, staring, in the shadows. Their intangible eyes weighed heavy on Johnny and he addressed them in the case acknowledgement would appease them for a moment.

“I just can’t keep losing you, is all,” he murmured and the eyes blinked slowly within their sunken cavities, but cowered from the sound of Simon’s hum.

“I hate it too.”

Simon said this slowly because the winds were calm and that meant they had time yet. While he paused to consider his words, a bouquet of stars breathed the last of their death rattles and extinguished for forever. “But we always find each other again. Eventually. That’s what I have to tell myself.”

Or else it’ll kill me, too.

“What if we don’t?”

“I’ll always find you. Maybe that’s why we’re here. I couldn’t stand to lose you for good.”

“You really think the universe loves you that much, Si?” Johnny asked, actually chuckled. He did that sometimes, here, but not as much as he used to.

Johnny felt Simon shrug against him, felt hands squeeze against the muscles lining his ribcage. “Thought it hated me for the longest time, but maybe it doesn’t. It’s given me forever with you. Or maybe it’s given you forever with me.”

“Ah, so I’m the chosen one then?” Johnny asked, jaw struggling to form words against the crook of Simon’s neck.

“What do you think?”

“Sounds about right,” Johnny decided, and Simon pulled back gently, drew one hand to cradle the base of Johnny’s skull, the other resting on his forearm. He had a strange look in his eyes, one that Johnny could not name but knew the meaning of regardless. It hung softy like the petals of parted lips, the sweet haziness of falling asleep.

“I agree.”

They sat like that for some time, then settled on their backs shoulder to shoulder for some more time, unspeaking because while there were things to say, they were things that shouldn’t be spoken.

Words had a way of urging on the breeze in this land, and so their silence bought more time within the relative peace of the in-between, if just an illusion.

They lay awash in the smell of bedsheets and fire until the winds eventually picked up as they always did. It was inevitable.

The labored, turning gyre would always turn.

Lips that would kiss formed prayers for a kind life. They would find each other as childhood friends and never leave the others’ side, pass the 80 or so years easily and somehow, die seconds apart as they slept in their shared bed.

Smothered by wind, “I love you” sounded like “amen”. Or maybe it was the other way around. When it grew too loud to hear anything at all, lips that would kiss, did, as they always did before the oblivion.

———————

“I fucking hate this town,” Simon groaned. The lit end of his cigarette crawled toward the filter as he inhaled, paused to rest as he exhaled.

“Fucking sucks,” Johnny agreed.

He liked watching Simon smoke, thought it looked cool. This town wasn’t cool. Sitting on the roof of his family’s house was cool, though, probably because they weren’t supposed to. No one was going to catch them in the middle of the night, but they spoke in low voices to be safe.

This was how they spent their summers.

[yardsards]

me: *thinks abt my Issues* fuck, i need therapy

me: *remembers i am already In Therapy For My Issues* oh fuck, what now???

[psychedelic-ink]

kinktober '22 ║ Ⅷ

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

genre: smut, minors dni, dark content

word count: 2.7k

summary: dieter is a mess, but you enjoy being with him nonetheless. but things start to change when a friend of his comes for a visit.

warnings: hollywood cult, dark!dieter bravo, manipulation, gaslighting, blackmail, dubcon, weed use, psychological thriller elements, eerie imagery, piv, creampie, breeding kink

a/n: for some reason I struggled A LOT while writing this (ironically it's my longest kinktober piece) I haven't written dark content for a long time and wrote little of it on this blog so it was hard for me to get back into it-- but luckily @pedrito-friskito is an absolute angel who listened to me rant about this and pitched in amazing ideas to make this whole concept interesting, thank you so much for your support babes, ilysm 🧡🧡

MLISTS .  LIBRARY. TAGLIST . KINKTOBER '22

Dieter Bravo is a dream. 

You don’t know what it is that draws you to him. He’s a mess, you’re pretty sure if you cut into his arm cocaine will pour from his veins. He’s an actor, a painter. Which is how you met him in the first place. You saw him on the beach, painting the sunset. When he noticed you checking him out, he grinned, asking you to be his muse. 

The fact that he’s a mess makes you feel safe. You’re more of an emotional mess yourself. Never showing anyone how fucked up you are inside. His chaos soothes you, and you wrap that same chaos around you like a security blanket. To a degree, Dieter understands you. He knows what it’s like to feel lonely, to not want to get out of bed and just stare up into the ceiling. He understands the need to surrender yourself to another just to escape your daunting thoughts. 

That understanding leads you to the series of best sexual experiences you ever had. Dieter shies away from absolutely nothing. He breaks you apart and puts you back together like a weird, humanoid puzzle. He talks to you in a way that no man, or woman, never has. You fucked on top of every surface his home has to offer, you’ve come on his tongue, fingers, cock. You’ve forgotten about work, friends, and sometimes even yourself. If you could replace the air in your lungs with Dieter, you would have. 

One day you meet one of his friends. It’s a first. His name is Eliot Abbot and he talks a lot about “helping those in need” but it’s condescending. He believes to have control over the human mind, that religion is dying and someone needs to take the helm because humankind is helpless. He argues that the way to do this is subliminal messaging. He boldly claims that he can provide true happiness when people surrender themselves to another. When he leaves, you have an unsettling feeling stirring in your gut. Dieter’s on the couch, a joint between his lips as he scrolls on his phone. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks before you can say anything. 

“Nothing…” you reply, his eyes move away from his phone screen to look at you, his eyebrow raised. A trembling sigh escapes your lips. “Fine, maybe not nothing. He’s a bit weird isn’t he? All that talk about how people need to surrender…Isn't that odd?” 

“He’s just trying to help baby,” Dieter reaches out to you, you take his hand and he pulls you into his lap. “Just forget about him– here,” 

He places the lit joint between your lips, you take a deep puff, the cannabis filling your lungs and making your limbs feel like jello. By the time he pulls it back you’re smiling like an idiot. Dieter brings it to his lips, making a show of sucking on the but of it, his eyes sparkle as your pupils dilate.  He smiles around the joint, his thumb pulling down your bottom lip. You part your mouth for him, and he leans closer, blowing the smoke directly into your mouth right before closing the distance and claiming your lips as his own. 

It’s a slow kiss. Similar to the smoke curling out and away from the corners of your lips. He licks the inside of your mouth, groaning as he guides the sloppy roll of your hips. The blunt crumbles to ashes as it lays against the ashtray. Dieter sucks on your bottom lip while pulling away, a needy breath is forced out of your lungs. 

“Would you surrender yourself to me?” he asks, voice deep and words slurred. 

“Of course,” you answer in a pleading breath. 

“I want to take you somewhere tomorrow,” his lips find the column of your neck, sucking the sensitive skin gently. 

Then, much to your dismay, he pulls away. Suddenly you find yourself back sitting on the couch, he’s heading to the bedroom, not looking in your direction even once. 

“I’m tired,” he says with a groggy voice that wasn’t there before. “Let’s go to bed,” 

He disappears into the large halls of his mansion. Your heart aches. It feels like a knife to your heart. This is the first time Dieter has ever left you needy and aching for him, you were sure he was hard under you, you had felt the length of his cock sliding against your core when you grinded down on him. Have you done something to upset him? Was it because you said his friend is weird? 

The feeling of emptiness lingers and in that moment you swear never to upset him again. 

But then light returns to your world. 

He’s back with a wide smile and open arms. He hugs you close to his chest and lifts you from your feet, heading to the bedroom. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. “That was mean of me, I wasn’t thinking sweet thing,” 

You can barely hear him from the excited beating of your own heart. Dieter lays you down onto the bed, it creaks underneath your combined weight. Your lips part with a gasp. The tip of his tongue slowly goes up and down your sensitive clit. He grins and looks up, meeting your gaze. 

“How did you feel when I left?”

It’s an odd question but you answer him without a second thought. 

“Sad. Empty–” his tongue touches you again, a moan ripples in your chest. You choke out the rest of your answer. “Please don’t ever leave me,” 

Dieter doesn’t answer your plea, instead he asks another question. His mouth opens and swallows your clit whole. Your fingers dig into the soft sheets that lay underneath. 

“What do you want, baby?” 

“Everything,” you gasp. “I want you to take everything and give me everything.” 

“Dieter, what is all this?” 

The atmosphere is bright, the chateau providing an elegant air to the party. You have no idea how Dieter found such a place but it is exquisite. You see actors that you recognize, even some directors. They’re all chatting along as if they were inside a bubble. Champagne glasses are being served left and right, with the corner of your eye you see Eliot. He’s not carrying the same power and charisma he had brought when you first met him. You swallow and Dieter offers you a glass of champagne, you eye the strawberry floating inside of it as if it was a part of meat.

There is cheer and humor in the air, but something seems incredibly wrong. You feel trapped, claustrophobic. You just can’t pinpoint why. Dieter is still the same, making jokes with cannabis filling his lungs. His lips touch the shell of your ear, his breath warm against your skin. 

“This is for you,” 

“For me?” 

Silence cuts through the air, everyone turns to the two of you at the same time, their eyes full of curiosity. The small hair decorating your nape stands up. You back away but Dieter’s broad body is in the way, his hands find your waist, he squeezes. The familiarity of his touch soothes you like a wounded animal but fear still coils around your heart and makes you breathless. 

“You’re our newest addition to our little group,” he chuckles, his breath curling around you like a snake. “I saw it in your eyes when we first met. The world has betrayed you, it betrayed most of us. Leaving us alone, hurt, wounded. You deserve more– WE deserve more– I trust you to behave,” 

The decision has been made for you. A knot forms in your throat, you attempt to swallow around it but you choke instead. The crowd still stares at you. Observing your reactions and waiting, you have no idea what they’re waiting for. Your eyes linger on Eliot, back then you assumed he was in some sort of weird religious cult. You hadn’t expected Dieter to be the ring leader. 

“I want to leave,” you say, voice giving away how afraid you are. “I don’t want any part of this.” 

“But you already are,” 

The crowd suddenly springs into life again, talking, laughing and drinking their champagne. You’re invisible. And so is Dieter. He leads you out of the room, for a brief moment your naivety tricks you into thinking that he’s leading you outside. Instead he leads you deeper into the chateau, pushing you into a darkened room. You can’t see him, however you do feel him moving around the room, the sound of his steps sending spikes of fear into your body. 

“I was hoping it wouldn’t have to come to this,” he clicks his tongue. “But you can’t leave. You told me you would surrender yourself to me, was that a lie?” 

“That was before I knew you were the head of a cult!” you can’t help the high pitch of your voice. “Let me out, please,” 

Static fills the tiny room, light of multiple screens buzzing alive. They’re everywhere, on your left, on your right, at your front, at your back. But they all show the same thing. 

You. 

You recognize the way your face contorts with pleasure, brows knitted together as you shout Dieter’s name. You’re begging for him. Telling him things you have no idea you said. 

“I would kill for you,” 

“I love you and love this cock,” 

“You’re my everything. I hate the others. Don’t leave me please,” 

It continues. Your own voice blaring in your ears. Dieter’s face never shows up in the clips, just you. Your heart nearly stops. You’re positive he has more footage, maybe a couple where he’s in them too. It’s daunting. The moans come from every inch of the room. Dieter finally moves. He stands only an inch away from you and cups your cheeks. He’s looking at you the same way a mother would gaze at her confused child. You feel caged. 

“See how good you feel,” he says, your frantic moans still ringing in the background. “You need me. I need you. Be a part of this, willingly. Don’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.” then he adds, his voice dipping an octave lower. “You’re actually the only person I give two shits about, you’re nice. I never wanted it to come to this, I thought you would understand. You felt the same pain as I did. You shared a part of yourself with me and I accepted you, why can’t you accept me?” 

The question guts you from the inside out. 

Is he right? 

He did accept you didn’t he? He comforted you, showed you love and affection while no one else did. He made you feel safe. Make you feel the center of the universe. He did film you without your knowledge, which is bad, but he had done it as a last resort. 

You part your lips but you’re cut off by your own modulated voice. 

“Sad. Empty–” 

Your eyes flicker to the seemingly endless amount of TV’s behind Dieter. You see that within the recording your chest is heaving, going up and down in a panicked manner. Licking your lips you swallow, you remember this moment crystal clear. It happened the night before. 

“Please don’t ever leave me,” 

Dieter’s voice follows. 

“What do you want, baby?” 

“Everything, I want you to take everything and give me everything.” 

“See,” says the Dieter who is standing an inch away from you. Your eyes move back to him, his face lit by the eerie reflection of the TV’s. “This is what you want. Don’t push your own desires down just because it’s not the ideal,” 

The recording stops, all of them all at once. Your image of feeling unbridled ecstasy frozen in time forever. You lift your leg to take a step back but Dieter’s arm is quick to sneak around your waist, leaving your foot midair. His hand slides down to the curve of your ass, he squeezes the flesh tenderly. 

You stand on two feet. Dieter hooks two thumbs around the straps of your dress, pulling the loose and allowing the fabric to be a pool at your feet. His dark gaze rakes across your illuminated body, you feel as if the screens are eyes and they watch you become bare for a man who promises you understanding, love. 

“You don’t want to be alone,” he purrs, lips pressing into your collar bone. “You said it yourself. I’ll never leave you, I’ll stay. But it’s only fair if you promise it too,” 

You’re trembling when he mouths your breast, he draws in a nipple between his lips and sucks. Without even thinking your head falls back, chest pushing forward. He grins into your skin, grinds into your aching core. You’re already wet for him, the middle of your thighs sticky. His fingers slowly trace between your folds, ghosting across your clit. Your body tingles. 

“If you don’t promise I’ll stop,” 

“Don’t stop,” you say without a second thought. “I promise. I’ll stay, I want to understand,” 

“Good girl,” 

He whispers the words nonchalantly, but your skin burns at his words. Dieter finally gives you what you want, what you need. His fingers are replaced with the fat head of his cock, dragging his length right below your folds, fucking your thighs. 

“Want me to fuck you right here right now, pretty girl?”  

The images start to move again. Past moans filling the room and making your core spike with heat. You close your eyes, nodding as you still feel his lips around your nipple. He lays you on the floor, there’s screens on the ceiling as well. You hadn’t noticed. 

When he pushes inside you, you feel whole again. His strong arms are wrapped around your waist, thrusting into you like a wild beast. Dieter pins your hips down when you try to raise them, his teeth deep in your skin. You hiss out a breath. Your mind spins, you feel and see pleasure. It’s mind numbing. The sound of your slick combines with the moans coming from the countless TV’s. He slams into you without a second thought, his cock coated in white. 

He kisses you hungrily. Tongue all consuming inside your mouth. You inhale his scent, he smells like pine. 

“I’m gonna cum,” he groans into your mouth. “Want me inside of you baby? Want me to fill you up so you’ll be carrying my babies? Hmm, would you like that?” 

You remember the time you first met him, the time you thought about replacing the air in your lungs with the presence of him. 

“Yes,” you moan, throat sore. “Please Dieter– Want you inside, want you everywhere,” 

“Touch yourself,” 

When you do he chuckles, you’re too dazed to put any kind of meaning behind it. You draw quick, rough circles around the bundle of nerves, cunt squeezing around him. Dieter props himself up with his elbows, grinding his cock into you, he looks down at you fondly. 

“See,” you can barely see his expression with the way he pushes in deeper, jaw-slacked, you try to focus. “Don’t you feel better now that you surrendered yourself to me,” 

You did. You fucking did and you aren’t sure if it’s because you’re fucked up or he’s just that good at fooling people. 

Or maybe he’s just right. 

Dieter fucks you full of his seed, you can feel him pumping into you. The pressure makes you unravel around him, you see black dots across your vision, the TV’s showing nothing but blurry images. When he pulls out a string of slick follows the tip of his cock, cum slowly dripping out of you. He watches, and you see the way he licks his lips. 

Again he makes you feel like the most wanted person in the universe. 

The TV’s finally shut down with a jarring click and the room lights up. The white light scolds your eyes but they’re quick to adjust, you blink as you continue to lay on the floor. 

“Our room has a beautiful view,” he says, hooking his arms under your knees and carrying you out of the room. “We can initiate you tomorrow. You can learn more about the way,” 

Your eyelids flutter closed, sleep quickly seeping its way into your muscles. 

“Okay,” you mutter, head falling into his chest. 

Before you black out completely you feel a pair of soft lips against your forehead. 

kinktober tags: @tusk89 , @amneris21 , @witchisenpai , @pedrito-friskito , @tom-whore-dleston , @lola766 , @batdarkladyvampir , @dindjarinswhore , @dnxgma , @eyelessfaces , @queenofthefaceless , @softtdaisy , @saintlike78 , @timpletance , @xdaddysprincessxx , @stardust-galaxies , @spacecowboyhotch, @queenofthecloudss , @prettyouttherethoughts , @reaperofmen , @partr1dge , @bbyanarchist , @alwaysdjarin , @thevoiceinyourheadx , @absurdthirst , @levi-llama

[kookicat]

The Kitten Job 

He's helpless against the assault. His jeans offer some protection, before the tiny horde reaches his torso and the claws go right through the layers he's wearing to puncture his skin in more places than he can count. He bites back a yelp, reaching down to grab the first offender just as a third reaches his hip. The motion startles the tiny animal and needle sharp teeth nip at the skin between his thumb and finger. It hurts, more than he'd expected, and he glances at his hand, spotting blood welling from the punctures, only holding a vehement curse back because of the two toddlers staring at him, wide eyed and fascinated by the scene. I am never going to live this down, he thinks savagely and sighs. 

"Here," he growls, and hands the first kitten to Parker, knowing that the act isn't fooling anyone. There's laughter in her eyes and it breaks free when the third kitten scampers up his back, climbing on his shoulder and batting at his hair with a tiny ginger paw. She laughs, and he frowns, which only makes her laugh harder. It's a nice sound, and one he likes hearing, but he wishes he hadn't been the one to attract the tiny but ferocious kitten horde. He's always had a way with animals though.

Sophie is sitting next to their client on the sofa, lips pressed to hold back a grin together as she watches the kittens climb. The mama cat is napping on her lap, quiet and peaceful in a direct contrast to the kittens. 

"Hey!" he says, as the third kitten reaches his chest and freezes there, clinging to him like he's some kind of momma bear. The tiny animal is tabby, with a pink nose smaller than his thumb nail, and he almost smiles at the sight, only holding back because Nate and Hardison have just come back into the room and he figures his reputation is damaged enough. The kitten on his shoulder gives up on the attack on his hair and settles down, snuggling against his neck in a tiny purring bundle. Eliot closes his eyes, mustering up every technique he knows for keeping his composure, and tries to ignore how nice the tiny purrs feel against his skin. 

Hardison's lips twitch, and he swipes a hand over his face, dredging up his best poker face. "I think they like you," he says, mildly, and has to turn away when Eliot's expression turns murderous. 

There's a fourth and fifth staging a new ascent on each leg and Nate takes pity on the other man, scooping up one kitten before it clears jean territory and passing the squirming bundle to Hardison. The kitten looks less than impressed with the change. 

"Can we go now?" Eliot asks, hoping he can escape before the kittens do much more damage to both his person- tiny claws are sharp- and his reputation. 

"I think we've seen enough," Nate says, and he's enough of a professional that the laughter doesn't quite make it into his voice. 

Eliot carefully lifts the kitten that's clinging to his thigh. The kitten is small and black and bats at his hand as if protesting the move. "Stop that," Eliot mutters, and passes the feisty bundle over Sophie, reaching up to move the kitten from his shoulder. The spot feels cold and bare without the critter there and he almost wishes the kitten was back. The tiny ginger animal seems content to sit in his hands, and he's surprised by just how soft and fluffy the kitten is against his skin. 

"Do they all have homes?" he asks, and joins in when his people all start to laugh. 

[smallfrost]

The Source of Spree Compulsion Work

HELLO! Oh my goddess. So much information in the first episode alone. And in the clips and trailers. Where even to begin!

I think the thing that stuck out the most for me during our RI rewatch was Tally’s lucid dream at the end and what it provides for a) the military history of this timeline and b) the source of the Spree’s compulsion magic. Disclaimer; I am certain these thoughts have been chatted about here on Tumblr, Twitter, and Discord. I apologize if I do not properly credit people but with so many convos going around, things have been swept up in the storm. But I wanted to highlight some thoughts to share with the world. So these are my interpretations but shoutout to those who have made these associations before me, I always encourage people to write their thoughts and share them with all of us. (And feel free to @ me or send any my way so I know of them please!).

Specifically, though not yet mentioned in the show, Eliot reveals in interviews that the flashback is from a “dirty colonial war” about 25 years prior to when the show takes place. So… this would then be during the Proxy wars (ongoing) but before the rise of the Spree. So are colonial wars “Proxy wars”? Is it a resistance to previously sovereign people to being conscripts if America colonizes, forced into service? Keep notepads out, ears and eyes ready.

Next, and perhaps the most important: The contained compulsion sound work of the Spree was/is Military canon.

In the flashback we see Alder, biddies, and Co. getting attacked by giant insects, controlled by the colonials. 

apologies for the horrible quality. iTunes gimme my HD when? (still won’t let me buy my season pass).  They’re helpless against them until a soldier smashes a bottle which releases work that causes the colonials to stop controlling the insects and start attacking themselves. It’s the exact same effect the Spree attacks had on civilians.

Now, military canon had to come from somewhere. It is entirely possible that the Spree learned this work from the same source the Military learned it from, or, a different source. BUT this flashback makes it seem as though Eliot is hinting that this work more likely came from a Military deserter as witches (in America at least) only learn military canon work AFTER they take the oath. Military canon is kept under lock and key otherwise.

I think of this scene and flashback as a: Alder is Dumbledore looking through his memories in the pensive for clues about horcruxes sort of deal. She’s searching her memories for the leak. The source of the Spree to try and route it out from the inside. 25 years ago… that may be too early to be Willa (though we don’t know her exact age). Is it someone else? Are they still in the military?

Petra as head of intelligence may just, well, have access to intelligence collected by spies, but it definitely seemed like a perfect coincidence that she found out about the Belgium attack by the Camarilla EXACTLY at the same time Willa reveals this to Scylla. 

Now... this was BEFORE Anacostia cast the Fetch to creep on Scylla and Willa... A favorite theory floating around since last season? Since Petra was Willa’s CO on her last drop... did she help Willa defect? Did Petra help Willa fake her death so she could become a Spree operative behind Alder’s back? Perhaps Petra was behind the leak of the Military canon magic to the Spree and Alder is searching through her memories to make the connection? What do you guys think?

Remember, the @mfs-research-institute Discord Server is always open! Please feel free to DM me or the official account for an invite.

[luthienne]

Hi ! I was wondering if you had quotes / thoughts about feeling lost in life, when nothing feels right and choices have to be made even though they all feel like lukewarm water when you wanted a hot bath. That feeling of losing a sense of grounding and not seeing the direction in which to move. thank you xx

(I’ve been wanting to compile this from the moment I received your ask in my inbox. I know the feeling intimately, and I love the way you articulated it. Hope any of these quotes resonate w what you were looking for xx)

“What shall we do my darling, when trial grows more, and more, when the dim, lone light expires, and it’s dark, so very dark, and we wander, and know not where, and cannot get out of the forest…”

—Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters

“She had never figured out how to figure things out. She was only vaguely beginning to know the kind of absence she had of herself inside her.”

—Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star (tr. Benjamin Moser)

“But as it is / I lack myself.”

��Anne Carson, Grief Lessons; “Herakles”

“Even now I can’t explain. Something happened, a kind of earthquake that shook everything and I lost faith and touch with everybody.”

—Katherine Mansfield, Letters of Katherine Mansfield

“She felt suddenly as if she were a ghost in her own life—”

—Catherynne M. Valente, The Orphan’s Tales: In the Night Garden

“I hate seeing myself dissolve and slip and separate so that I’m living in one half of my mind, and I see the other half of me helpless and frantic and driven and I can’t stop it, but I know I’m not really going to be hurt and yet time is so long and even a second goes on and on and I could stand any of it if I could only surrender—”

—Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House

“It makes me tremble. (…) To think back. I remember exactly how I thought life would be.”

—Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband

Emily Dickinson, “I felt a Funeral in my Brain”

“and I didn’t care / and I was alone / and there had been war / and that thing (my soul) / was a lost star / or a lost boat / adrift,”

—H.D., Child Poems: “Dedication” 

“She had a perpetual sense (…), of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.”

—Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway 

“You know the feeling? One lies in a kind of daze, feeling so sensitive—so unbearably sensitive to the exterior world and longing for something ‘lovely’ to happen.”

—Katherine Mansfield, Letters of Katherine Mansfield

“I don’t care a bit—about anything—I just seem to be asleep and can’t wake up—”

—Georgia O’Keeffe, Art and Letters of Georgia O’Keeffe

“Life is what happens to someone else; / I stand on the sidelines and wring my hands.”

—Lisel Mueller, Waving from Shore

“…it is a little thing to say how lone it is — anyone can do it, but to wear loneliness next to your heart for weeks, when you sleep, and when you wake, ever missing something, this, all cannot say, and it baffles me.”

—Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters

“My life now is a dream too, semi-detached, and seems to happen to somebody else.”

—Martha Gellhorn, from Selected Letters

“I don’t know—I don’t know anything. There is no one here I can talk to—it’s all like a bad dream.”

—Georgia O’Keeffe, Art and Letters of Georgia O’Keeffe

“…she does not know whom she wishes to catch, only that she wishes to catch someone, anyone, to be anchored, to be connected, to not be abandoned.”

—Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

“I had lost my true rhythm. But what was my true rhythm?”

—Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin: Vol 1, 1931-1934 

“People kept saying It’s only a matter of time so I persevered in the hope they weren’t lying. At the same time beginning to think I might’ve been lying to myself. Wasting everyone’s time with fantasies of this career I couldn’t have. The person I could never be. There was just so much rejection and not enough of me. I got so afraid. And I lost my nerve—”

—Eimear McBride, The Lesser Bohemians

—Denise Levertov, Life in the Forest; “A Daughter (I)”

“I’m not lost. Or not lost much. Lonely. It is that and … I don’t know what to do. So I move. And cars move. And it’s almost life.”

—Eimear McBride, The Lesser Bohemians 

“What prevents you? The future. The future tense, / immense as outer space. / You could get lost there. / No. Nothing so simple. The past, its density / and drowned events pressing you down, / like sea water—”

—Margaret Atwood, “Up”

“What is there to say? I became physically ill. It was as if I had fallen into space and hung there while life passed me by.”

—Boris Pasternak, Letters Summer 1926: Pasternak, Tsvetaeva, Rilke

“And nothing else happens. The days go by, lost, wasted, and I have no drive to write, no words come… And I grow more and more solitary.”

—Martha Gellhorn, Selected Letters

“I cannot write anymore, dears. Though it is many nights, my mind never comes home.”

—Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters

“As time goes by, especially in the last few years, I’ve lost the knack of being a person. I no longer know how one is supposed to be. And an entirely new kind of ‘solitude of not belonging’ has started invading me like ivy on a wall.”

—Clarice Lispector, Why This World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector 

“There’s a loss of personality. / Or rather, you’ve lost touch with the person / You thought you were. / You no longer feel quite human.”

—T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party

“My wings are cut and I can-not fly I can-not fly I can-not fly.”

—Katherine Mansfield, Letters of Katherine Mansfield

“Me, as ever, gone.”

—Anne Carson, Decreation; “Despite her Pain, Another Day”

“…and I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.”

—Emily Dickinson, Letters

“…why this doubt that I have about everything I do, this void that frightens me, all these lost illusions?”

—Gustave Flaubert, Intimate Notebook 1840-1841

“What I fear I avoid. What I fear I pretend does not exist. What I fear is quietly killing me. Would there were a festival for my fears, a ritual burning of what is coward in me, what is lost in me. Let the light in before it is too late.”

—Jeanette Winterson, “The Green Man” 

“Around. Around. There / should have been / a lesson somewhere.”

—Louise Glück, “The Game”

“Only occasionally do I find I have to break my peace: shout or be lost in the shuffle. But mostly I am lost in the shuffle.”

—Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible

“Things went wrong. She lost confidence. She became apprehensive in crowds. I recognize how that she was feeling then as I feel now. Invisible on the street.”

—Joan Didion, Blue Nights

“She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible; unseen; unknown;”

—Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway

“You might not remember me, dears. I cannot recall myself. I thought I was strongly built, but this stronger has undermined me.”

—Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters

“I have no world to go back into, or to go forward into. Because these years have cut me away from many things – from everything: not only materially, but also mentally, spiritually.”

—Martha Gellhorn, Selected Letters

—Rita Dove, “The Venus of Willendorf”

“…for we are in such fragile skin, so close to getting lost in the in-between.”

—Eimear McBride, The Lesser Bohemians

“I do not want revenge, I do not want expiation. / I only want to ask someone / how I was lost, / how I was lost,”

—Margaret Atwood, “Owl Song”

“I felt as if the sky was torn off my life. I had no home in goodness anymore.”

—Anne Carson, “The Glass Essay”

“Let it be over, she pleaded within herself. Let it never have happened—any of it. Let me be young again, and the story just starting.”

—Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

“The ultimate fantasy: the recovery of an irrecoverable past. But if I could daydream about an invented happy future…”

—Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh

“Tell me what’s the difference / between hope and waiting / because my heart doesn’t know / It constantly cuts itself on the glass of waiting / It constantly gets lost in the fog of hope”

—Anna Kamienska, Astonishments

—Denise Levertov, To Stay Alive

“I long to—ah, so much!! If that were possible I’d get back to my spirit.”

—Katherine Mansfield, Selected Letters

“I told my Soul to sing— / She said her Strings were snapt—”

—Emily Dickinson, Complete Poems; “The first Day’s Night had come,”

“Surely it is a privilege to approach the end / still believing in something.”

—Louise Glück, Averno; “October”

“There is a wild raging river flowing inside of me. I can’t dam it. I’m hurt so badly. Believe me—oh shit! Believe, believe—what’s there to believe anymore?”

— Henry Miller, A Literate Passion

“And life tasteless. And so eager, so eager that I should accomplish a miracle. People always expect miracles.”

—Anaïs Nin, A Literate Passion

“I want to be filled with longing again / till dark burn marks show on my skin. I want to be written again / in the Book of Life, to be written every single day / till the writing hand hurts.”

—Yehuda Amichai,“I Walked Past a House Where I Lived Once,”

“I want / my heart back / I want to feel everything again—”

—Louise Glück, Averno; “Blue Rotunda”

[howlingsaturn]

the grievance of stars

i cannot begin to understand

where your mind goes sometimes

but know that i will wait patiently 

for your self to come back 

— you got me

eliott struggles with a minor depressive episode but lucas shows him the light.

read on ao3 or

As Eliott stares out of the window and watches the rain crash ruthlessly onto the dark streets of Paris, he feels hollow. His muscles ache from sitting in the same position for so long but he can’t bring himself to move, he simply doesn’t have the strength to. It’s how Lucas finds him a couple of hours later, curled in on himself on the floor as if he’s been bound in chains, his eyes fixated on the ocean of blues and greys mixing in front of the window. 

Lucas’ heart sinks upon seeing him, this tired shell of who he used to be, but it doesn’t surprise him, he’s noticed the signs. It’s frustrating, being aware of Eliott’s changes in mood and behaviour and not being able to do something to prevent it. Lucas feels heartbroken and wishes he could make it all go away, pull the darkness out of him and replace it with sunshine. But it’s Eliott and the darkness is as much a part of him as the light and Lucas loves him so much, everything and all of him, he wouldn’t want to change a thing.

Still, Lucas feels his chest tighten with worry. He swallows past the lump in his throat and calls out for him, taking a few tentative steps into the room as if not to frighten him. Eliott doesn’t react, doesn’t even move his head in Lucas’ direction but he flexes his hands, visibly anxious. He opens his mouth to say something but his voice comes out cracked and so he stays silent. 

“Eliott,” Lucas tries again, sitting down on the edge of the bed and making sure he leaves enough space between them so Eliott doesn’t feel cornered, “What’s wrong?" 

It’s a stupid question, Lucas knows, but he can’t help himself, he feels severely out of his depth. 

Eliott unclenches his hands again, frowning, but Lucas doesn’t know if he’s frustrated because of him or because he can’t seem to find the words. He clears his throat again and swallows.

"You said you believe in parallel universes right?” is what he says eventually and it’s totally not what Lucas had expected. “You said you picture hundreds of other Lucas’s who make different decisions and live different lives. Doesn’t that make you feel small? Knowing there’s other versions of you that might be more successful, more talented? Doesn’t that make you feel worthless? Like you don’t have any purpose in this life, not a reason to live at all because you already exist a hundredfold?" 

Lucas is quiet for a moment, watching the way Eliott’s chest rises and falls quickly with what Lucas assumes is rising anxiety. 

"Here’s how I see it,” Lucas whispers into the space between them, “There are an infinite amount of universes which means there are an infinite amount of galaxies too. And galaxies consist of stars, don’t they? So if you picture a sky with billions of stars in it, they’re all shining right? Not all of them are visible to you, not all of them shine the same way, some are brighter or bigger than others but that doesn’t mean they’re not shining right? Somewhere in a different universe, in a different sky, the one star that you can’t see might shine the brightest. So the existence of other versions of yourself in other parallel universes doesn’t make you less special just like the lack of visibility or brightness doesn’t make a star any less of a star.”

Lucas continues to observe Eliott and the way he’s looking up into the now clear night sky as if it provides all the answers to his questions. Lucas hopes he can give him at least one, if only just soothe him. 

“Does that make sense to you?”

“I don’t know,” Eliott says as he stares at something that is far within Lucas’ sight, “Aren’t galaxies just giant holes of nothingness? An infinite path of silence and darkness?” He’s quiet for a second, clearly thinking about something, and the way his face twists suddenly makes Lucas wonder whether he’s in physical pain too. “That seems pretty lonely to me.”

“Well,” Lucas tries to explain, “As far as I know stars appear in constellations. That means there’s never just one single star in the sky. And galaxies might be pretty silent but they’re always lit by stars, aren’t they? They’re not pools of darkness as long as you know where to look for the light.”

“But what if you don’t know how to look for the light? What if you can’t find it?” Eliott sighs and tugs at his hair, not knowing what to do with all that restless energy inside of him, “What if you’re so far up in the sky that you can’t see the other stars? What if they’re too far for you to reach? What if the only thing that you can see is darkness?”

Eliott turns to look at him for the first time that night and the haunted look in his eyes tugs at Lucas’ heartstrings. 

“Then you’re not looking closely enough,” Lucas argues gently, “You’re not alone, Eliott, not anymore, remember? There are other Lucas’s in those parallel universes who would find you and who would bring you back down into the sky.”

“I don’t know,” Eliott repeats, more to himself than to Lucas, and he sounds so devastated that Lucas can’t help but rise from his position on the bed and reach out a hand for Eliott, sitting down right in front of him. 

“Hey,” he says, gently tapping Eliott’s wrist, “You’re Eliott number one. You shine the brightest out of all the other Eliotts. I would always find you in the darkness. And I know you’d find me too if I needed you to." 

Eliott stares down onto the point of contact, his body a mirror of sorrow, and Lucas feels like crying. He’s helpless, it’s the first time he’s experienced an episode like that and he doesn’t know if he should be touching Eliott or if that will only drive him further away. Eliott didn’t flinch or take his hand out of Lucas’ grasp but he feels so far gone, so out of Lucas’ reach already that Lucas is scared he’ll never find his way back home.

"You’re the light, Eliott. You’ve shown me the way out of my own darkness so I know, without a doubt, that you’ll never get lost in the galaxy. You just shine too bright for that." 

Eliott looks up at the exclamation, his eyes finding Lucas’ own, and he stares at him so intensely that Lucas fears he’s going to drill a hole into his head. 

"Don’t you get lonely sometimes?” Eliott’s voice cuts through the silence, barely rising above a whisper, “Knowing of all the darkness outside?”

“No,” Lucas breathes out, “I haven’t been lonely since I met you.”

Eliott looks at him for what feels like hours but can only be more than a few seconds before he turns his wrist and laces their fingers together.

“And the other Lucas’s?” He asks. 

“What about them?”

“Do they feel the same?”

The question makes Lucas’ lips curl into a soft smile and his eyes fill with tears before he can stop himself. He tightens his hold on Eliott’s hand, whether to ground himself or Eliott, he doesn’t know. 

“Yeah they do.” He says and Eliott frowns again, desperation clinging at his features. 

“How do you know?" 

"Because, my dear heart, there’s a you in every universe. And as long as there’s an Eliott, all the Lucas’s in all the parallel universes will never experience loneliness again.”

Lucas tilts his head as if that answer was obvious, reaching out a hand to cup Eliott’s cheek in his palm. They’re quiet for a long time as Eliott finally evens out his breathing and allows himself and his mind to calm. Letting his eyes fall shut, he leans forward to rest his forehead against Lucas’, taking comfort in his presence. It takes a while for Eliott to reassemble his thoughts and when something clicks, he begins to smile. 

“So you’re basically saying we’re together in every universe?" 

"Maybe,” Lucas exclaims with a smile of his own, “Maybe not. After all there is an Eliott who responded to Lucille’s text. Eliott number 452 if I’m not mistaken." 

That startles a laugh out of Eliott, memories of a failed double date and first kisses rising to the surface, and Lucas swears he has never felt his heart sing like that before. 

"That Eliott is probably regretting his decision as we speak,” Eliott muses but his smile is wide enough to reach his eyes. 

“Could be,” Lucas shrugs with a grin, “Or he could’ve left Lucas’ room early that morning and gotten back together with her.”

Lucas laughs when Eliott gives him an exasperated look.

“Listen, all I know is that we meet each other in every universe,” he says sincerely, “and I fall in love with you each time, without fail.”

Eliott’s breath catches in his throat at Lucas’ words, his stomach filling with butterflies, and he can’t help but tug him close and breathe him in. He closes his eyes, welcomes in the darkness that lays heavily across his mind and searches. He finds what he’s been looking for these difficult past few days and surprisingly, it doesn’t take long at all: It’s a bright glowing star, bathing his galaxy in a soft white light. How he managed to miss it before, Eliott doesn’t know, but like his very own Polaris, it shines a vivid path through the emptiness and guides Eliott home.

“Je t'aime, Eliott,” Lucas suddenly whispers against his hairline, unaware of the sudden change in Eliott’s galaxy, and the warm sound of his voice fills Eliott with renewed strength. As Lucas squeezes him tightly against his chest, slowly swaying them side to side in a soothing rhythm, Eliot feels a little bit of sunshine return to his aching heart. 

“Je t'aime tellement, mon étoile.”

[weirdochick56]

Trapped- Campbell Eliot Imagine

Campbell Eliot x Reader

Warnings: Explicit language. Dark!Campbell (obviously)

Disclaimers: This isn’t a light character and this isn’t a light relationship or situation. This is dark and violent so please read with care if abusive situations aren’t your jam!

Word Count: 3,914 words

Summary: Campbell Eliot is your bestfriend’s, Sam, brother. He’s a disturbed individual who doesn’t feel emotions like the rest of you do. His gaze and heart are dark and sadistic and yet- you’re drawn to him. So when he comes looking for Elle and no one gives her up, he offers another aleternative; he’ll take you instead. But he’ll only keep you for a limited amount of time. If by the end of that time you still want to leave him, he’ll let you and Elle go-- definitively. If not, you’re his. Should be easy right?

***

(Gif is not mine!)

You lick your lips, flipping through another page of the book, eyes intensely seeking out every word, soaking every syllable in your head.

This was you third time reading Jane Eyre, but each time it just got better.

You’re so immersed in the fictional world of the young woman, in fact, that you don’t notice when someone comes in until he speaks- voice gruff and bemused.

“Good book?”

You jolt off the couch, heart instantly clenching in shock as your gaze flickers to person which has spoken.

“Campbell,” his names leaves your mouth in a barely-registered, unintentionally breathless mumble.

He grins at you. “Did I scare you, doll?”

You swallow, avoiding eye contact. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Shrugging, he steps closer to you. “As happy as I am to see you, I’m here for Allie and Will. They’ve got something that belongs to me.” He motions loosely around you. “You wouldn’t happen to know where they are would you?”

You shake your head. “And even if I did why the hell do you think I’d tell you?”

He pauses suddenly, face falling and the move is so startling, your heart does too.

He stares you down as he steps closer. You refuse to move or maybe you just can’t- his gaze paralyzing you entirely.

It isn’t until he’s a mere foot away from you, scanning you from head to toe pensively, that he finally speaks.

“You’re too fuckin pretty and smart to be aiming this low, Y/n. Always were.”

You scoff at him. “And according to you what the hell is so low that I’m aiming at?”

“This. This house, these people. You don’t belong here.”

You laugh wryly, shaking your head. “And what the hell would you know about belonging Campbell? All your life, all you’ve done is not fit in. You try- you hang out with the cool kids but even you can’t make yourself believe that you actually feel good with them. That you actually fit in.”

He clenches his jaw, clearly on the verge of snapping, before a small ominous smirk grows on his face. “Yeah. You’re right, dollface. But at least I’m actually going for the people that matter. Allie and her pathetic little crew won’t stay in power of this town for much longer and then you’ll be on the losing side.”

You smirk. “We’ll see about that.”

At the smugness in your face, something suddenly snaps in him and he laughs.

“You’re so fucking lost. I’m willing to show you the way though, Y/n.” He tilts his head mocking, eyes scanning you from head to toe with a malicious glint in those mysterious eyes.

You swallow your fear. “Yeah? And how’s that?”

“If you open those long legs of yours for me, I’d be more than willing, dollface.” He licks his lip mockingly.

You’re sure he doesn’t actually mean it; Campbell is always playing games and this is another one of his sick manipulations to get you riled up.

And it’s working.

You first your hand, raising your arm in a flash, ready to punch the living daylights out of him, but he catches his arm just before your fist connects with his annoyingly sharp jaw.

He yanks your closer to him, clicking his tongue with pretend disapproval. “Now, Y/n, that’s not a very nice thing to do to a guest, is it?”

“Listen, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I’m not your fucking toy, Campbell,” you hiss at him, despretely trying to tug your arm from his painfully tight grasp, fighting the panic rising in you at your vital mistake.

No one else was at home and they wouldn’t be for a while. It was just you and him— no one was here to save you if he decided to do something.

Truth be told, he terrified you. But that didn’t mean you’d let him know that. You knew the sick motherfucker got off on that shit, and you weren’t going to become just another helpless victim trapped beneath his sharp claws.

Not you.

At your venomous response, Campbell simply raises a dark brow at you, scanning you from head to toe with decisive carelessness and a cold indifference that made you feel like a minuscule bug beneath his shoe.

That was one of the things with Campbell- he had a way of making people feel like worthless little things. Especially in comparison to him. It was this effect that made you detest him even more than usual. He wasn’t just a jerk, he was manipulative in the worst way possible because he didn’t only manipulate you for his own benefit, but against your own. He made you hate yourself so much you’d have no choice but to comply with him.

And you weren’t immune to it, no matter how much you tried to deny it.

And yeah, sure- physically speaking, Campbell Eliot could more than easily overpower you. No doubt.

He was taller, towering over you like a damn mountain. And he was clearly stronger- the lean muscles that flexed beneath his shirt anytime he took a menacing step toward you were enough evidence.

But somehow you knew it was stripping your mind of its power that he really enjoyed. Being able to trap you in your own fucking body- that’s the real power trip he craved.

He raises his hand, fingertips softly brushing a few strands of hair away from your face as you stubbornly stare him down.

The touch is shocking in its contrast to the death grip he has on your arm and it nearly makes you whimper.

He curls his hand over your jaw, placing his thumb under your chin, fingertips softly brushing against your neck.

You watch him so closely that your heart nearly drops when he suddenly twitches- it’s very small, but seeing as you’re quite literally holding your breath for his next move, you catch it- and it’s as his hand sweeps lightly over your neck...over your throat.

You watch his face closely. His lips part, his breath hitches and his eyes darken even more beneath the dim light of your living room.

He catches himself quickly, though. So quickly in fact, you’re sure if it weren’t for the fact that he were so close and you were so fucking scared of him, you wouldn’t have even noticed.

But you did. And a chill runs up your spine when you think about what he must’ve been thinking in that messed up head of his.

This fear grows when he uses his thumb to force you to look up at him, leaving your jugular totally exposed and vulnerable to those big hands.

“Oh, dollface, but you are,” he responds with sardonic sympathy. “You all are. Now, tell me where they are.”

Your breath hitches when he abruptly digs his fingers into the skin of your arm, sinking his claws into you.

Tears prickle your eyes at the sudden and sharp pain. You try to blink them away and hold back the tiny sobs threatening to exit your slightly dry lips, but a few of both escape anyway and you hate yourself for being so damn weak in front of him.

That is why, to reserve your dignity (or what’s left of it anyway), you don’t dare back down, looking at him dead in the eye and gritting your teeth as you lean in.

You wait for him to expect something of you and then you talk.

“Fuck. You,” you grit out with biting anger.

He smiles in a sickengly smug way, dark eyes practically drinking in the sight of you twisting in pain beneath his touch, of the humiliation embedded deep beneath that fake bravado of yours.

And as much as you hated admitting it, despite it all, there was such beauty in that gaze, such intriguing depth.

God, if it weren’t for the fact that you could see the sadistic joy -far darker than you had initially thought- clearly swimming in them as well, you could’ve confused him for handsome. If for a mere second.

If for a mere second, you could make out a striking resemblance between him and Dorian Gray in the infamous painting- the version before he turned into a monster that is.

His face was structured in that same classical beauty kind of way- high cheekbones, sharp jaw, bold brows, delicate pink lips, and a thick set of long lashes encasing a pair of piercing blue eyes.

But seconds go by and that mere second sure as hell did.

And all it gives way to is the pain you’re currently feeling and the perpetrator behind it. His beauty is dangerous. It’s deceiving to what truly hides beneath it. The ugliness simmering beneath, just waiting for something to snap from within to explode and take with it everything in its path.

He leans into you all of a sudden, making your heart jump all the way to you throat at the abruptness of the movement.

Not go mention; you’re fucking trapped between him and the wall now.

You catch a whiff of his cologne- a subtle but manly scent and the musk of his sweat and it makes your head spin. That along with the bitterness of the situation you’re in, nearly makes you faint with fucking desperation.

A trapped animal. That’s what he was minimizing you to. A fucking animal.

You swallow past the lump in your throat, hard. Licking your dry lips, you anticipate with almost overwhelming anxiety his next move.

His gaze flickers down to your lips as he laughs softly.

The warmth of his breath as it brushes against your face sends another chill down your spine and you can’t quite decipher if it’s because you’re shitting your pants or because he’s abandoned his indifference and is now looking at you like you’re his next prey and he can’t wait to chase you down and devour you.

His thumb softly caresses your chin, fingers moving into your hair. Your lips part at the delicious sensation and despite yourself, you lean into his touch.

“Careful what you go wishing for there, Y/n. Might just come true,” he warns mockingly, his whispers hoarse. His gaze sweeps over you- shameless as ever.

He made you feel invaded in your own body, the way he looked at you. His gaze and the liberties he took with them as he roamed your body and face made you feel like you were mistaken and actually his to look at. Like you were his to undress with his eyes.

It was a strange feeling to have him close after watching him from afar for years. Even as Sam’s best friend, you’d only ever talked to him twice before in the past.

Both were calling him out on treating Sam like trash.

To which he’d only laughed and walked away as if you were but a pesky little thing. After that, you had made it a point to stay away from Campbell. He was intimidating even in his nonchalant disregard.

But now, after what has happened, after almost everyone in your town had disappeared- he was making you question everything you believe in. And he seemed to be targeting you rather than just shake you off.

The fucker.

You suddenly can’t breathe, your heart beating so fast, you feel feel fucking dizzy with all the adrenaline it’s pumping through your veins.

You inhale shakily, trying to keep your fitting in this slippery slope of a situation you’d gotten yourself into.

“Let me fucking go, Campbell. I already told you I don’t know where they are,” you say- tone far too soft to be anything even remotely close to imposing.

He clicks his tongue at you mockingly and when you feel him tangle his fingers into your hair, wrapping the strands around his hand, you know something bad was going to happen.

Suddenly, he yanks your head back. The searing, burning pain coming from your scalp was unexpected and lethal and you cant help but let a loud yelp escape your lips.

“I’ll let you go when I fucking feel like it, you got me? I still don’t think any of you fucking understand, so let me make it crystal clear,” he snarls, forcing you to look him in the eye.

They’re stone cold, emotionless, the only emotion he had -sadistic joy- is gone and in its place there’s only searing, voidful, palpable anger.

“Everyone in this fucking town is scared of me.” He briskly releases you, knocking you back into the wall as he takes a few steps away from you. “And it’s for good reason.”

With a tiny grunt, you glare up at him. “Asshole,” you mutter.

He ignores your petty little insult, scoffing down at you like you’re a worthless piece of shit.

“Even you.”

You scowl. “Well I don’t know about everyone else but I, for one, am not afraid of you, Campbell.”

His lips curl upwards as he stares at you with a bemused look on his infuriatingly attractive face. “Sure you fucking aren’t. You know,” he clicks his tongue. “I always found it strange that even when you and Sam were attached at the hip, you never tried to get even remotely close to me. I mean aside to give me shit about the way I chose to treat Sam.”

He suddenly grows serious, a predatory look instantly growing on his face. Then he clenches his fists so tight, his knuckles turn paper white.

“Oh, the things I could do to you,” he mumbles, eyes zeroing in on your chest and then your neck. He drags his tongue over his thin upper lip, eyes flickering back up to you.

If that asshole knew how bothered his eyes on you made you feel, he ignored it. Or perhaps he enjoyed watching you squirm. Probably the latter.

They’re so dark now, that under this lighting- they almost look black. Far from his natural pools of blue and strikingly menacing.

His silver earring glimmers dangerously under the light and then you catch a glimpse of something else in his hand as he holds it up to the light.

Your blood runs cold when you realize it’s a blade.

He casually plays around with it, twirling around his hand with ease.

“You wouldn’t just be afraid...” he closes his eyes for a second, as if imagining it in his mind. A sick, perverted smirk instantly curls his lips and his cold gaze pins yours down once more when he releases a tiny hum.

“You’d be begging me to hurt you some more. Hell you’d get on your fucking knees and ask me to like the nice little girl you make everyone think you are.”

Your chest rises but doesn’t fall as you hold your breath. You’re trembling at this point, but you hope to god he doesn’t fucking notice.

“You’re sick,” you whisper roughly, eyeing him cautiously.

He shrugs nonchalantly, fingers running the knife some fucking idiot had left lying around.

“Maybe. But at least I’m not weak.” He looks at you pointedly. “At least I know how to take care of the things that belong to me.”

You huff, swallowing down your fear and letting your mouth run. “See, that’s the fucking problem with you Campbell. You think you’re entitled to owning people. But I’m not going to let you manipulate me.”

He raises a brow. “Oh, trust me, Y/n. Right now, with you- this is as real as I get. If I was manipulating you, you wouldn’t know it.”

Despite how much his words chill you to the bone, and your strangely strong urge to ask a whole bunch of questions, you merely chuckle sarcastically at him, putting on a brave face.

“Fortunately, that’s never going to happen.” You smile before quickly letting it drop. “Now if you’re done, get the fuck out.”

He sighs with fake defeat, putting the knife down casually.

“Fine. I’ll go.” You don’t budge, refusing to drop your guard at his words.

He smiles and even though you know that it’s not real- for a split-second you forget who he is because of how damn charming it is.

“Tell your friends I was here, will you doll?”

You almost let out a sigh of relief when he spins on his heels and begins to walk away but that gets trapped in your windpipe when suddenly pauses near the doorway, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“You know, it’s a shame.”

“What is?” You snap.

“That we hadn’t talked like this earlier.” He grins darkly. “I actually kinda enjoyed this little convo of ours.”

And with that he walks out, slamming the door shut.

Once you’re sure he’s gone, you release a huge breath, falling against the wall.

Your arm was throbbing aggressively and so was your scalp, your chest aches with pent-up anxiety.

And yet....

And yet all you can really think about is those eyes. That smirk.

The darkness inside of him wasn’t entirely empty, you conclude the more you thought about the genuine joy he had as he saw you in pain.

It was fucked up for obvious reasons, but you couldn’t help but think that what he held in that gaze was far more than that emotionless exterior he showed everyone. It was darkness nonetheless, but it wasn’t entirely devoid of all emotion.

Everyone said he didn’t feel like the rest of you did. But he felt something didn’t he?

There was something almost mesmerizing about figuring out what he was thinking. What he was feeling. About what made him tick.

It was crazy, but he’d always seemed like a sad person to you. Even underneath all that hard skin he’d built over the years, underneath that emotionless existence he’d been living, he seemed sad.

He scared you so much, it was practically impossible for you to comprehend why he also intrigued you just as much- if not more.

His darkness was as terrifying and unpredictable as it was alluring to you.

You sigh a little, glancing the already-forming bruises marring the skin of your arm. They were dark imprints of where he’d sunk his fingers into you.

You shiver just thinking about his hands on your skin.

You can never forget how dangerous he is.

Because if you do, you could find yourself trapped under his claws.

*

You tug on your long-sleeve subconciously, looking at Allie with furrowed brows.

“He said he was looking for you guys.”

Will shares a look with the blonde girl before looking back at you. “Did he specify why?”

You shrug. “No. Just said he needed to talk with you because you had something that belonged to him.”

Pursing her lips, Allie sighs. “We’re sorry for leaving you alone, Y/n. We should’ve had someone from the guard here. But he didn’t like-” she hesitates, watching you closely. “He didn’t hurt you or anything, did he?”

You look down, tugging even more at the sleeves and shake your head. “No.”

Allie had enough on her plate as is, you didn’t want to add another thing to it and be a bother.

She nods and sends you a look, fairly enough not looking convinced at all by your meek firmness.

“Well-” just as she begins to speak, a loud knock at the door abruptly cuts her off.

All three of you share a look this time, and you swallow harshly, heart racing. “Campbell?” you mumble with dread.

Allie motions to Grizz to check who it is. He nods, prying the front door open only slightly.

“What do you want Campbell?” He spits.

The small, indifferent, mocking, cold laugh he gives as a response floats in from the other side of the door and sends a shiver down your spine.  

“I need to talk to Allie,” he says simply.

Grizz goes to protest coldly, but Allie shakes her head at him, motioning for Campbell to come in. Grizz clenches his jaw, but complies, stepping aside for him to step in.

Campbell smirks sumgly, leering down at Grizz -who looks just about ready to explode- as he passes by him.

Then his gaze shifts to you as you stare at him and he grins brightly. You instantly look away, scrutinizing your hands.

Your spine goes rod straight as his footsteps near the kitchen, where you currently sat on a stool by the counter.

“What the hell do you want Campbell?” Allie raises a brow at him.

He slightly glances at you before smirking up at her.

“Elle. Where is she?”

Allie shakes her head. “She’s not your property Campbell. And you can’t just barge in here like that.”

His smirk drops and he glowers at her. “Give her to me or I swear to God-”

“Or what?” Will interrupts. “What will you do?”

Campbell refuses to back down. “Or I will come over to your house every fucking night and make your life miserable until you do.”

Allie heaves a heavy sigh. “Campbell-”

“Unless...” he softly sing-songs.

Everyone pauses, staring at him.

And when his gaze gently glides over to you, you know what he wants before he even says it.

“Unless?” Will murmurs.

Campbell bites his lip delightfully, gaze never leaving you. “Unless you give me her instead.”

All at once, everyone around you protests.

“What are you crazy?!”

Campbell shrugs, mumbling beneath his breath . “A little.”

The outrage continues. “No fucking way we’re doing that.”

“Listen,” Campbell shushes them. “The way I see it is; this town is fucking sick and tired of you Allie. So I really doubt they’ll have a problem helping me make all your lives a living hell. Now, I can take Elle and keep her because she’s mine. Or I can take sweet little Y/n here and return her after I’m done with her. That is; if she even wants to come back after I’m done with her.”

None of them even consider his offer. They start protesting again against him.

You just sit there, staring off blankly. And when you finally speak up. moments later, everyone falls silent.

“I’ll go with you,” you whisper.

“W-what?” Allies sputters. “Y/n, no.”

You look at her. “Allie, this is my choice, okay?”

She purses her lips in a silent reprimand.

Campbell snorts at your words as you look up at him. “But you have to give me back after a month.”

“Two.”

“One and a half.”

“Deal.” He smirks with satisfaction.

He looks at Allie pointedly. “Deal?”

The blonde glances at Will, Grizz and finally you. It’s clear she hates this; they all do.

You take a deep breath, getting off the stool. You walk towards her, taking her hands in yours.

“Allie please,” you murmur. “Elle has been beaten down enough by him. He’s broken her.”

“And that’s exactly why I won’t let him take you too,” she insists freverently, squeezing your palms tightly.  

You deadpan, lowering your voice to a whisper only you two can hear. “Allie, Elle is a badass, but I’m stronger than her, we both know it. I’ve known Campbell my whole life, I know his startegies. I know I can hold out for a month and half. I know that I’ll come back to you and he won’t be running a damn campaign agaisnt you then. It’s a win-win.”  

“But-”

“This town needs you, Allie. Even if they don’t see it now. Don’t let us down.” You smile reassuringly for her sake more than yours. “I need you to trust me on this.”

She blinks back tears, nodding lightly.

You nod at her, fighting back your own tears and you step away. You turn to Campbell; your fucking nightmare incarnate.

“Let’s go,” you say softly.

What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

***

Why is there such a shortage of fics on Campbell? He’s such an interesting character and let’s be honest; fine as hell. 

(with that earing bruh?)

I definitely have a thing for hot psychos and it concerns me a lil bit.

A special thanks to:

My forevers

@jessikared97​

@ladyofletters67​

@sammykb1994​

@lilypalmer1987​​

@mogaruke​​

[idrawstuffidk]

This is just a short story, so read it or not :/

Ring Around The Rosie

By: Ro

“Hey, it's ok, you're in a house owned by the chief of police,” Rosie assured, rubbing her thumb over his hand “protected by yours truly, and a million dollar security system, but mostly me.” Eliotte chuckled, nearly forgetting his fear. He didn't know how Rosie could be so confident in their situation, maybe being the daughter of the chief of police had more perks than just the money. Her optimism was such a stark contrast to his own outlook, or lack of one. Eliottes vision of his future was as blank as his vision of the world around him.

“Alright,” Eliotte agreed, smiling at his friend “I trust you.”

“Stairs down.” Rosie spoke calmly, Elliotte gripped the railing with his spare hand as they descended. “Last step.” Rosie spoke again, he followed her instructions, stepping down once more before ceasing his descent. The smell of coffee and pancakes wafted through the air indicated they were passing the kitchen, and soon after the carpet ended, replaced with cold wood floors as they entered the unnecessarily large living room.

“The couch is right here” Rosie patted the cushion, Eliote’s hand reaching out toward the noise until his hand made contact, he sat down carefully so as not to fall off, the last time he’d done that he had almost broken the, apparently, mirrored coffee table. The cushion dipped next to him as Rosie sat down, clicking the remote buttons as she flipped through tv channels, she stopped as Eliotte recognized the opening of a soap opera he had long since forgotten the name of.

“You want me to turn on audio description?” Rosie asked as she leaned back into the couch

“It’s a soap opera, they loudly exclaim everything that's happening anyway.” Rosie laughed at his comment, pulling him into a side hug.

“You’re not wrong” she agreed, momentarily pulling away to shout towards the kitchen “CHEF! Can you bring breakfast for Elliotte and I to the living room!?”

“Of course, Miss. Abbot” her chef called back, soon arriving and placing the platters on the mirrored table in front of them, Rosie carefully explaining to him what was there. That was until he heard an unmistakable sound of a thump on a door. His first instinct was to assume it was coming from the entry hall, but that was behind them, past the kitchen, and the thump had sounded close, kind of like…

“Is something banging against your cellar door?” he asked, sitting upright and turning his head to face the noise, feeling a cold bead of sweat drip down his brow “could that be…”

“No, I doubt that's another killer or whatever'' Rosie assured him “even if it was, the cellar is locked tight, no one without a can get in or out of there.” Rosie’s arm snaking around him and her ring dug into his arm like a thorn. Another sound could be heard, this time it was a sob.

“Rosie” he whispered after his moment of shock “there's someone in there”

“NO.” Rosie hissed, her nails digging into his arm as she pulled him closer. “No, there is not” Elliottes blood ran cold, but he still found himself instinctively curling into her side, like she would protect him from whatever was happening. He tried to tune out the crying, and begging for help he heard, his face must have been drained of colour, but Rosie seemed to be getting hotter, and her posture stiffened with each choked scream until suddenly, she stood up.

“I'm going to check it out” Rosie spoke, her voice was sharp and forced, likely spoken through gritted teeth. Eliotte tried to stand, to stop her, to run, to do something. Rosie shoved him back down. “NO. Stay. Here.” she instructed. Eliotte heard her footsteps begin to walk away, the feeling of unease was so thick he felt he could taste it. He stood up again, this time intent to follow her, until a sudden crash right next to him stopped him in his tracks, he stepped on something sharp and realized, belatedly, that Rosie must have broken the mirrored table. His feet were planted in place as he was surrounded by glass.

“Wait.” Rosies departing words lingered in the dead air as her footsteps carried away, properly this time. He heard the faint sound of the door being unlocked and opened, crying as someone was kicked down the stairs. He was barely listening to what she was saying, but he could hear her tone. He heard the familiar lisp, the way her voice went up in octave at the end of each word. Exactly like Maya Heller’s voice had in that video, that “missing persons” video.

It all made a shocking amount of sense. Why Officer Abbot was torturing confessions out of suspects, why Tommy Kent hadn't seemed in distress until after Rosie went over to “de-escalate” the situation, why Rosie had let go of his hand to make her way over to Carlie Jamison before she was shot, just as Carlie was about to film Officer Abbot harassing the Walker family, and Rosie hadn’t put both hands on him because she was holding the gun. The timeframe of the murders, how they never occurred while school was in session or when Rosie was with Elliotte, unless, of course, they were there at the scene. As his hearing returned, Elliotte could no longer hear Maya at all. Just the door opening again and the familiar footsteps as Rosie walked back into the living room.

“It was you.” Elliottes voice was breathless, he stared, unseeingly, towards his best friend. She chuckled as she started walking forward again, her feet making noise only as they uncaringly stepped on shards of glass, like how a spider would step on the silk strands of a web towards a helpless blind bug.

“I’d never hurt you” Rosie walked closer, a coppery smell strengthening with each step.

“That doesn't make it ok!” Elliotte’s voice shook “it- it’s still wrong, it’s still sick!” he wanted to run, but there's no way he could ever navigate this house, he may as well have been a rat in a pitch black maze, desperately trying to escape only to be discarded as he failed.

“Yes” Rosie drawled out, her now wet, sticky hands suddenly clasped his face, reeking of blood, he tasted copper in his mouth. Her breath was warm in his ear as he struggled to breath.

“Now what are you going to do about it?”

@frozensriracha here it is.

[kookicat]

When Trust Becomes Sound

He can't bring himself to drink it. The coffee steams gently, the scent tempting him but he hadn't made it himself, doesn't know if it's safe. He feels the team's eyes on him as he gets up and starts a fresh pot, keeping his back turned against their questions. 

It's been one day since Stirling drugged him. 

----

Hardison sets the bag of sandwiches on the table, handing them out. They're all the same, turkey club and the rest of the team dig in eagerly. Eliot touches the wax paper, bruised knuckles throbbing along with his jaw. His stomach rolls at the thought of eating unknown food and he pushes it away gently. 

"Don't you want it?" Parker asks, one small hand already reaching for it. 

"Naw," Eliot says, and hesitates, because they're all looking at him and he's not sure which raw spot to expose to their eyes. He gestures vaguely to his face, the bruises there already dark and deep. "Not really feeling up to chewing right now," he says quietly, letting out the easier excuse. 

He can barely explain it to himself but he just can't eat anything he hasn't made himself. 

It's been three weeks since Stirling drugged him. 

----

The job had been a tough one and he's battered, bloody and bruised by the time they get out. Hardison drives them back to the hotel and Eliot limps up to their room, the familiar post adrenaline feeling stirring in his gut. He needs to eat something to settle his stomach but they're in a small town where everything closes after dark and his only options are the various snacks scattered over the two hotel rooms. 

They're all open, chips and nuts and candy and he stares at the mess. Parker offers him a bag of popcorn and he shakes his head. "I'm going to shower," he says and barely gets the door closed before he's retching. He hangs over the toilet for seconds-minutes-hours, until he's pretty sure there's not even bile left to come up, then forces himself to his feet and into the shower, knowing that everyone in the other room must have heard his little performance and he's not ready to face the questions in their eyes. 

When he steps out, dressed in a baggy hoodie and sweatpants, no-one says anything but there's a neat pile of unopened protein bars on the table. 

His team is starting to catch on. It's been four weeks since Stirling drugged him.

----

"Just drink it," Hardison insists, quietly, holding out a bottle of water. He's watched the other man navigate the past few months, avoiding food, avoiding consuming anything that isn't sealed or that he's made with his own hands. It's taking a toll. The jeans hang a bit more loosely on his hips, the tshirts have space where they didn't before. 

Eliot takes the bottle with shaking, soot stained hands. The bad man they've spent days chasing had set a trap, lighting the building on fire and they'd only just made it out. His throat is raw, mouth parched but he struggles to lift the bottle. It's his, from earlier, half full, but it's been out of his sight and while he trusts his team more than anything, his emotions are having a hard time 

 "What's going on, man?" Hardison asks, keeping his eyes up, on the horizon. It's the wrong time to be asking, so soon after a near miss, when he can still see the cost of escaping on his friend's skin, but the question has been trying to escape for weeks and he can't hold it back any longer. He expects Eliot to walk off but he doesn't. He stays where he is, sitting on the curb, the bottle of water clasped between his hands. 

"Stirling drugged me," Eliot says, a snarl in his voice that doesn't quite cover the shake. "He drugged me. Put it in my coffee." He pauses, swipes his hand over his mouth. "I woke up and I had no fucking clue if you were all alright. If he'd hurt you. He could've, because fuck knows I was no use." The last words come bitterly, and Hardison expects him to stop talking but he doesn't, just draws in a quick breath. "Drugs mean bad things," he says, and there's something so remote in his voice that Hardison breaks his self imposed rule and looks. 

Eliot senses the attention and turns his head, making no effort to hide the pain in his eyes, to hide the betrayal. "He was supposed to be on our side." It's a childish thing, and he knows it, but it's also not wrong. Trust is everything in their business, and Stirling had shattered that. 

Hardison isn't sure what to say, what to do, because he rarely gets to see this side of Eliot. It's as enlightening as it is unsettling. He sits down, bumping the older man gently with his shoulder, getting the expected bump back, but he senses this conversation isn't quite done. 

Plastic crinkles as Eliot tightens his hands on the bottle. "The first time I was captured, they gave me drugs. I spent three days awake, in an unlit cell, seeing the faces of my squad." He tips his head forward and something shiny drops to make a tiny splash on the floor. "The fuckers lined them up and shot them in front of me. Made me pick who went first." Another splash on the floor. Eliot drags his hand over his face, not quite hiding, but wishing he could. 

"I'm sorry, man," Hardison says quietly, leaning over just a bit, so their shoulders are touching. He's got a powder keg with a lit fuse on his hands and he's not quite sure what move to make next. He knows the words are pointless, helpless against the depth of hurt. He's putting the pieces together and he's not sure that he likes them. "Want me to ruin the dude? I can wipe his finances like that." He snaps his fingers to illustrate his point, but he's not kidding. Hell, he might just do it anyway, because Eliot isn't the only one with a protective streak a mile wide. No one fucks with his friends. 

"No, I have my own plans for him," Eliot says, voice harsh. His throat is dry from the smoke and he needs a drink, lifting the bottle, but his hand falters before it reaches his lips.

Hardison takes it from him silently and offers a bottle of unopened orange soda. Baby steps. He'll do what he can to help his friend recover, even if it means giving up his favourite drink. 

Eliot nods, and twists the lid off the bottle, gulping a few mouthfuls. "Thanks, man." The soda is overly sweet but washes the soot out of his mouth. 

"You're welcome," Hardison says, and plays a hunch, reaching into his pocket for the bag of gummy frogs. He selects one and offers the bag to the other man who hesitates, eying the candy like they might explode before he takes one, turning it round in his hands before closing his eyes and popping it in his mouth. 

It's been seven weeks since Stirling drugged him. 

[elysiumwaits]

Leverage Not!Fic - Accidental Baby Acquisition

Also on AO3 with a deeper explanation of where this came from: You’re So Precious to Me (Baby Mine) - Roughly 2500 words of baby and working through thoughts about children and childhoods. Heavily influenced by some internal turmoil I got going on about parenthood vs choosing not to have children.

I want to see Eliot - big, tough, punch his way out before he talks his way out Eliot - with a kid around 1 or 2. 

Nate, of course, knows how handle a kid, but it’s painful, digs at wounds he’d rather not reopen, and while Sophie’s not the best with children, she can get by - they’re just not her forte at that age. They offer to come by and help out, fly in from wherever they are this week, but Eliot comes in and tells them that he’s got it.

Hardison has to Google everything about taking care of such a small child, Parker has no clue about children that small and is, frankly, very perturbed by the fact that a 1 year old is basically helpless.

So you have Eliot, who does have experience with kids and babies, and, more importantly, a strong protective and nurturing instinct. They’re pretty much stuck with the kid until the end of the con for one reason or another, and Eliot is officially appointed babysitter. Eliot, who understands that a child at this age has a pretty intense fear of strangers and works to soothe and distract and appear trustworthy. Eliot (thanks to his culinary and nutrition skills) knows what a kid actually eats and how to serve it, instead of the bulk barrel of Goldfish that Hardison was going to panic-buy off Amazon along with a massive delivery of milk, toys, furniture, and other baby-related items. He keeps the order for some of the furniture, clothes, and toys, and adds a metric ton of diapers just in case.

And eventually Hardison becomes Eliot’s assistant in their brief stint as caretakers - Parker is good for entertainment, but she really has no desire to be left responsible for the baby. If Hardison or Eliot is around, she’ll turn the place into an impromptu jungle gym, but the crippling fear of something happening to someone so vulnerable on her watch is too much for her to deal with (she remembers the bicycle, after all, and the last time she was any kind of mentor to a kid). She’s got a protective streak a mile wide too, though, especially with kids, so she’s the one who kid-proofs the apartment, to an almost ridiculous extent.

(”Parker, is this a pool noodle on the table leg?” Eliot pokes it - it does look like she’s butchered a pool noodle in the name of safety. There’s another one across the edge of the table, and on all the corners.

“Yeah, kid can barely walk, he could fall and crack his head on the table. I also stole a helmet. Do you think he needs a helmet?” Parker gestures at a backpack by the door, outside of the baby gate they’re using to block off the living room from the kitchen. Eliot can probably safely assume that’s where the stolen helmet is.

He looks back at Parker, who’s sitting in front of the bookshelf with books on the floor around her in stacks. He notices belatedly she’s got a drill in one hand, one of his. “Are you screwing that into the wall?”

Parker throws up her hands, glares at him like he’s said something horribly offensive. “What if it falls, Eliot?! He’s tiny! The hysterical strength response doesn’t happen in toddlers!”

There’s two packs of those outlet covers on the coffee table too, and Eliot decides then and there that the apartment has probably seen worse. He’ll let Parker do as she pleases.)

Hardison is also really good at entertainment, and can do high chairs and naptime and playing while Eliot’s out doing Eliot-things that only Eliot can do. He can put the kid to sleep, but he can’t transfer him, meaning that he’s pretty well stuck under him in a rocking chair for an hour and a half to two hours. He gripes about it, but he doesn’t mind, not really - he likes the feeling of something small and practically helpless trusting him enough to use him as a pillow, relaxes in the calm of the gentle scientifically-proven-to-be-relaxing lullabies playing through the speaker, remembers doing this with a couple of the other kids that Nana fostered for a short time. He usually ends up falling into a light sleep, too. He knows how to be a caretaker in theory, and could easily work up the ability to be a parent - he studied early childhood development, after all - and now that the initial panic of surprise baby acquisition is over, he can handle this.

Parker, quiet as ever, doesn’t know how to feel about Hardison holding a baby, gentle and sweet - she doesn’t want kids, but she wants Hardison to have everything he wants out of life, and she worries that maybe being with her is denying him something.

They talk about it, later, of course. Hardison easily figures out that something’s bugging her, and she comes clean about her insecurities and how she knows that she’s not the type of person that can raise a child and have that child come out healthy, whole, and normal.

(“I don’t even think I want to try.”

Hardison turns in his chair. She loves that about him, the way that he gives her his full attention every chance he gets, even when he’s in the middle of a game. “That’s okay. I’m not gonna ask you to.”

“Do you want kids?” Parker asks, and listens with one ear to the distant, almost-unintelligible sounds of Eliot singing Journey and walking across the floor of the guest bedroom that’s serving as a nursery.

Hardison blows out a soft sigh - it’s not his annoyed one, she’s learned, it’s his thinking sigh. “I don’t… know. Maybe? I don’t know. We don’t exactly lead a stable kind of life.” He gestures at his computer, presumably to encompass all of his illegal activities.

Parker’s quiet for a moment. “I’m not a mom, Hardison. I never even had a mom. I could be an aunt, maybe? What do aunts do? Archie worked for me, but not every kid needs an Archie.”

“Parker,” Hardison says, in that gentle and loving tone, “Being a parent is all about loving them and doing your best. There are books and stuff out there. If you ever decide you want to, and if you don’t want to, that’s okay, too. Hell, someday we might adopt baby grifters just like Nate and Sophie did.” He reaches, grabs her hand where it rests on the desk. “You’re… you and Eliot are enough for me, okay? So, if you ever decide that having a kid is something you want, then I’ll be here. He’ll be here. And if you never want a kid, then I’ll still be here, and he will too.” 

Parker can breathe a little easier after that, but it makes her think.)

Hardison knows she could do it if she wanted to - thinks about how much she wants to do the right thing, about Serbian orphans, about a kid stealing cars to survive, making sure kids didn’t get their Christmas ruined by arrests. He knows that Parker can do anything she wants to, learns new skills and concepts with an intense, single-minded focus. Any child she chose to have would be the best-protected kid in the world. 

Growing up with the three of them would probably end up in a strangely competent and paranoid kid, but ultimately a pretty well-adjusted one. He wonders briefly about what a baby of theirs would look like, if it would be a little girl wreaking havoc at a computer or a little boy climbing through vents. Maybe more straight-and-legal with tech summer camps and ballet or gymnastics.

He thinks about it, lets himself want it for a moment while he gently rocks a sleeping baby that isn’t theirs, one that they’re protecting just long enough to get home. Hardison adds it to the “maybe someday” list, the “pretzel” list, where it’s there if Parker wants it, and only if Parker wants it.

But it’s Eliot who is good at walking the kid to sleep and actually getting him into a crib/bed, Eliot singing classic rock and country songs as lullabies, Eliot who patiently sits through overtired tantrums, Eliot who can understand and respond to the baby babble interspersed with random words. After a few days, Eliot is the one that the baby cries and reaches for. He’s the one getting up with him at four in the morning, long past his not-safe-enough-to-sleep days where he only slept 90 minutes a night. Now he tries valiantly to listen to the baby play on the floor (completely safely thanks to Parker’s intense baby-proofing) while laying on the couch with his eyes closed.

And so it goes, for about a week and a half, maybe two. They manage to run the con and balance pseudo-parenting - Hardison does most of his work from the van, after all, and he’s not above handing the kid an iPad with a YouTube playlist of Mother Goose Club in the name of keeping his family safe (Eliot, even in the middle of fighting off hired guns, bitches mightily about screen time and child development). At one point, Parker spends a terrifying (to her) hour alone with a baby that is fast asleep, while Hardison does some intense hacking and Eliot does some good old-fashioned B&E to send a message. 

The day comes that the con works. The mother is freed and can return to her life, now that she’s not being hunted or threatened. Eliot, Parker, and Hardison have to say goodbye to this tiny human that they’ve grown super attached to. No one cries - not even the baby. It’s part of the job, never mind that they have an apartment full of baby stuff now and a year’s worth of diapers they don’t need. They hug the baby, they hug the mom. Eliot holds on a little tighter and longer than Hardison, and Parker holds the baby just for a moment, just long enough, before passing him back. 

And then they walk away - job is done, after all. 

Hardison’s gonna miss the kid, but in that way where he got attached but he can let go easily enough. It wasn’t his kid, it was never his kid, and he made himself remember that so he didn’t get too attached. 

Parker is quiet. The baby had reached for her, just once, and she’d given him the hug he wanted. She doesn’t know how to feel about any of this, so she makes the choice to stuff it in a box in her mind, where she can open it slowly and pick things out one-by-one.

Eliot, though, Eliot doesn’t look like he’s processing it well, which is actually pretty expected - Hardison knows a lot about psychology and even more about Eliot, after all, and Eliot in another life was a family man, Eliot in another life was a strict but fun dad, Eliot in another life made PB&J sandwiches and played soccer in the mud in the backyard. 

Eliot in this life, though, isn’t the marrying kind - he’s made a promise, after all, “‘til my dying day,” and that’s probably as close to commitment as Eliot Spencer will ever get. He’s chosen his path, walked it since he was 18 and signing up for the army, has spent close to fifteen years choosing it again and again. This is where he stands his ground, with Parker and Hardison, and there’s no room for some suburban house with a white picket fence and 2.5 kids. He’d wanted that back in another life, with Aimee, thought about it again with Kaye Lynn in their passing moment together. It was never even on the table with Mikel. He can’t drag some poor woman into his life, into what he’s done - he can’t have a relationship with a “civilian,” not without unintentionally grifting. He doesn’t want to build something on lies, doesn’t want to bring a kid into the world and expose it to the ghosts that haunt him from the past.

Besides, he doesn’t think he could even begin to fall in love with, let alone trust, someone that isn’t Parker and Hardison. In another life, where he’d never met them, maybe he could have had that. But here he is, for better or for worse, ‘til his dying day, just as good as any official wedding vow he’s ever heard.

(“It’s not something we can do,” Hardison says later, in the quiet of a closed bar. Parker is somewhere, dangling off of roofs and recovering from the overwhelming sensation of emotions. “It just isn’t. We can’t… you’re wanted in like five countries-”

“Seven,” Eliot corrects automatically. “Well, maybe eight.”

“Parker’s wanted in nine, and I’m just… wanted. In a lot of places.” Hardison taps the table. “It wouldn’t be… we’d be giving a kid a life of crime from the very beginning. And if certain people found out, the kid would be in danger literally all the time.”

Eliot nods and doesn’t say anything. “You and I know that, but…” 

A beat. They think of Parker and Serbian orphans, Parker and Christmas, Parker and a look of astonishment and joy for a split second as a baby reaches for her to say goodbye.

“If she decides it’s something she wants,” Eliot says slowly, softly. “And only if she decides it’s something she wants, we’ll make it work.”

“I got lots of identities,” Hardison agrees. “We could go straight if we wanted to.”

Eliot takes a drink of his beer. “We’ll donate what we’ve got upstairs,” he says - the furniture, the diapers, the sippy cups, the toys, all of it can be used by another kid. “And if she brings it up, we’ll deal with it then.”

“Pretzels,” Hardison agrees.)

Somewhere on a rooftop in Portland, in the gray and the misting rain of the Pacific Northwest, Parker dangles her feet over the edge and allows herself to think. She thinks of foster homes and stuffed bunnies, of bicycles and Haagen Dazs. She wonders how many other kids there are out there like her, picking pockets and surviving day-by-day, waiting for an Archie if they’re lucky. She remembers wanting a “real family” at one point, remembers the bone-deep longing of it back when she was young and alone, back when she was stealing cars, back when she wasn’t rich and wasn’t a master thief and wasn’t one of the good guys.

There’s potential, there, she thinks, in the same analytical way that she processes cons and jobs and plans. She’d have to shift her plans, that’s for sure. It’s all hypothetical anyway - it can sit with her awhile, and she can figure out if she’d like this particular bowl of pretzels or not in as much as time as she wants to take.

Potential, though. Daydreams. What has been, what could have been, and what still might be.