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kalmiaphlox · 4 months ago

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Damn, this is what it feels like to be you?

AO3 Link / Masterlist

Part 2 / Part 3

Don't Touch That!

All it takes is one little touch and now they are no longer where they should be. Hircine is Astarion. Astarion is Hircine. Hircine knows better than to mess with mysterious eldritch artifacts, and so should Astarion. This knowledge does not stop them from looking into the unknowable. Chaos ensues as they learn what it really means to be alive and undead.

Pairing: Astarion x Named Female Tav (Hircine)

WC: 6.7k

Main Tags: Body Swap, Humor, Fluff, Astarion loves himself and boobs, smut coming in later parts, Touching things you shouldn't, Astarion now has an eldritch being in his brain.

Tag list: @zozoparsnips

Dredged up from the deepest bowels of the Underdark, the three mystery artifacts now lie before them, foreign and incomprehensible in their geometry, protectively encased in enchanted glass on the marble slab table.

Hircine claps her hands together softly in excitement, rocking back on her heels, eager to inspect these things in whatever capacity she is able.

His knowledge of abyssal is worthless here; unfortunately, there will be no wowing his wife by name dropping Ubothar and Malcanthet, or monologuing about the caste system of the tanar’ri—or lack thereof.

Clearly the subjects of her fascination tonight are from the far realms, a topic Astarion has been learning diligently about, even if it is all a bunch of incoherent devilshite. At the end of the night, eldritch horrors beyond their wildest imaginations are one of the few things that breaks Hircine out of her melancholy, so he’ll indulge her when he can.

The three scavenged objects were somehow so similar to each other in their aura, yet so completely different in their makeup. One warps and writhes in place, as if tentacles might sprout forth from its shell at any moment, but nothing ever happens as the intangible masses flow beneath the surface. The middle object floats a few centimeters off the table, morphing between geometrical and amorphous shapes, hovering within its glass encasing, pulsing an ominous purple, a beacon of nefarious purpose that could easily fit in his palm. The last is a green ball-shaped rock, unassuming in its appearance.

Hircine tugs at his sleeve, pointing at the relatively normal looking rock. “Husband, that's a dormant slaad egg! They are typically implanted into a host and then burst out in a shower of blood and guts. I’ve only ever seen a red egg before… The green ones are more rare since they require a high concentration of magic from the host.” She sighs dreamily, hugging onto his arm and leaning her head on his shoulder.

Astarion fails to ignore the way her breasts press against him, the warmth all too pleasant as it radiates from her body.

Ugh. If he humors her now, she’ll humor him later. “Will the egg stay like that or is a host-eater about to make us dinner?”

“Hmm, we should be fine. They need to feed on their host's insides to hatch, so keep it outside of your body.”

“Good to know,” he mutters. “What are the other two?”

To his disappointment, Hircine releases her hold on him, moving in to inspect the more ‘active’ objects. “That's what I'm hoping to find out. I brought some books to help with identification, but I don’t have a lot of confidence that we can glean their true purpose from some texts.”

She reaches forward, carefully removing the boxes encasing each of the eldritch… baubles—that probably isn’t a good idea, just giving the things open access. They stay in place, but Astarion swears the purple glowing one begins to pulse faster now that it’s ‘free’.

“Don’t touch them.” Hircine says.

He nods, not needing to be told twice as he takes a step towards the table, careful to stay slightly out of arm's reach. Astarion won’t be getting infected with slaad parasites tonight.

While he stares between the artifacts, Hircine flips through books on another table off to the side, reading aloud as she tries to find any useful information hidden in their pages.

Like a fish caught on a line, Astarion can't take his eyes off the amorphous orb-thing as it begins to blink between flashes of purple and white, its buzz drowning out all thought. Astarion makes another move closer, a tug within his mind calling out to him, begging for his touch. It whispers inchoate nothings, a madness so real and tangible he could grasp it easily in his hand, feel the coil of its vibrant light as he slips into its unreasonable cocoon.

E̸̳͙̖̟̳̰̟̜͈͙̪̖̲͗̓͗̅́͗͗̚͜͝͠X̵̛̤̟̲̜̳̤̠́͌̈́̈́̓̇̈́́̋̀͘C̵̢͇̤̩̹̬͎̱̀͛H̸̤̦̙̳̬̪̫͇̭̼̩̱̗̅̀̌͋͘͘͜Á̷͎̣͓̓̂̾͂̽̊̂̈́̂̀̀̚͘̚ͅN̸̢̨̧̛̺̟̭͓̖̅̈́̇́̔̓̈́̀̆̈́̚͝ͅG̸̡̠͕̣̝̝̺̗̘̟̺͕̼̗̅̿͂̓̔̈́̏͛͂̋̽̕̚͝͠E̷̡̙̟̔̒͐̅̽̌̕͘

All he has to do is release it.

Hircine’s voice, a distant melody floating through time and space, reaches him within the fog of irrationality. “Husband, did you hea—No! Don’t to—”

Astarion’s fingers brush against the object, a hard jelly beneath his touch, incomprehensible visions flashing before him and—

++++

c̴̛͎̓͌̾̀̓͋̒̋̇͘͝ą̸̫̱͔̥̝͎̯̦͈̼̮̂͂́̊̈́̇̽̿̓̈́̚̚͝͠ĩ̸̡̜͖̫̥̮̬͆́̄̀̒̃̎͒͂̍͑̾̈́̕͜s̷̢̛͇͖͇̰̰̱̻̬̄͂̇͑̕̚ľ̷̩͕̟͕̃̃ȉ̵̙̼ǫ̶̡̲͎̰̗̻̺̦͚̙̼̱̳̌̈́͐͂̒͐̿͆̓̓͛̓̕͝͝ả̵̛̝̞̭̙͖͚̟̻̼̲͑̍̓̋̂̌͗͛͒̉̽ś̸̢̛͖̹̲̖̻̫͉̘̥̮̉̈̃̆̆͝͝͝

Oh gods, his body aches, muscles tight and strained as if he spent days in the kennels under Godey’s watchful care. Even his eyelids are heavy, unwilling to open as Astarion slowly stirs back to consciousness.

What happened?

He had been watching the eldritch things while Hircine was reading, and then… nothing.

Did he pass out?

̴̨̨̢̤̘̞̹̲̻̻̦̓̆̊͜͜h̴̛̗̰̝͚̔̑͜͜͠ḱ̶̮̝̠̜̙̜̤̞̣̗̟͖̑̑̀͌̈́̒̾̔̄̕͠H̷̛̺̟͓̳̱̝̜͈̺̥͉͇͉̖̱͛̂͒̓̿͛̌͘O̴̮̮̞̱̰̙͖̼̹̽͆̒̓͆̿͛H̵̡̨̻̭̗̤̥̰͕̱̘͗̅͑́̓̂̄͛̅͆̾̿̑̕͘g̸̭͚̬̻̻̤̦̺̏̈́̈́̾̏͜͠

There’s this alien warble that ebbs and flows within his head, discordant and atonal, but just as it appears, it is gone, fading from his mind without a second thought as to why it is there to begin with or where it came from.

A twitch of his finger confirms he’s regaining some mobility, slowly working inwards as joints are flexed and rolled around, anything to feel something more than this soreness.

But why do his legs and feet feel bare? Astarion was definitely wearing pants and shoes when they entered the mines.

Perhaps someone brought them back up and Lexi stripped him down.

Except his shirt is still on and strangely tight against his chest.

He tilts his head side to side, a new feeling other than the ache permeates under his skin—a soft, blooming warmth, so welcoming in its arrival. Not the kind brought on by lying beside a roaring fire, but one deep within, as if Astarion gorged on a mass amount of blood. It's been a few days since a meal like that.

Finally, his eyes open.

The hewn rock ceiling greets him. So, he's still in the mines.

Then where is Hircine?

Everything feels so… shrunk down, like his limbs aren't where they should be. He raggedly groans as he struggles to sit up but a breathy rasp is all that rattles out of his chest.

Bones in his neck pop as he stretches upwards. Hells, since when has he been so tense? There's such a heaviness to the back of his head too, a weight pulling him back down to the ground.

And then he feels it, that constant rhythm pounding against his ribcage.

A heartbeat, powerful and steady, screaming that he's alive once again.

His hand shoots up to place itself over his chest but collides with something much too soft and squishy to be him.

Astarion looks down and—

What in the nine hells is this?!

Fleshy mounds protrude from his(?) chest, draped in skin-tight silk dyed a color only one person wears everyday of her life. Strands of gray and silver streaked hair spill over his(?) shoulders. The hand grabbing at his(?) chest a pearly light gray with neatly filed nails rounded at the ends.

Astarion has no pants on because he's now wearing a dress that is a little too form-fitting, and there's no shoes since his wife hates those.

He is no longer him.

He doesn't want to be something else again. Isn't one horrific change enough in his terrible, no good life?

But Astarion is alive, literally. His(?) heart beats a familiar cadence, one he knows well from so many nights resting his head right atop where it lies, while the fingers he now controls stroke through his curls or down his arms.

If Astarion is here, inside of Hircine, then where is she?

That ever-present hunger for blood is now gone. He’s at peace—mostly. He recalls Hircine ate a few hours before they started their artifact inspection and now there is an emptiness within his—her—stomach, though it does not compare to the cavernous, never-ending desolation of being unable to truly sate oneself.

He should be fine without real food for a little longer.

Struggling to stand up, Astarion grips onto the table, unsteady on his(?) feet. His balance is completely off center as he uses the table to hoist himself into a standing position but he tips forward, leaning against the cool granite in an effort to not collapse completely.

Gods, how does she walk around like this, so top heavy all the time?

No wonder Hircine never complains when he holds her tits.

Now, where is—

Ah, there is his body, face down on the ground, one arm outstretched as if reaching for something.

The steady pace of his heart quickens, his breathing—gods above, I'm breathing because I need it and I didn't even notice!—hitches as he chokes for air.

What if Hircine is gone because he took her place?

What if his body is now an empty husk, never to move again?

There's no sign of life from his actual body, and of course there wouldn't be because he's an undead vampire!

It's not time to stand yet with these legs, they feel so… thin. Astarion gets back down on hands and knees, crawling his way over to his prone body. With shaking hands he tugs at his body, failing to roll himself over.

Am I that heavy or is Hircine really weak?

Adjusting himself so his—her back is pressed against a table, Astarion pushes with shaky legs, slowly working his body over onto its side before it flops onto his back, head lolling around limply.

When Hircine learned that Astarion no longer remembers what his face looks like, she immediately hired a painter to capture his—their likeness together. In Darkfire Hall, there now hangs a single portrait of Astarion and Hircine in the sitting room and he might spend a few minutes a day staring at it, memorizing that face so he will never forget it again.

But this is his actual honest to gods face, in the flesh, laid out on the stone ground where he can touch it.

Astarion leans in close but is stopped by his head throbbing with more of that accursed fuzziness.

ḏ̶̢̼̹̤̣͕͉̘̼͈̑͒̓͌͑͌s̸��̡̖̟̝͚̜̙̣̖̘̪͍̀̐͒ṣ̶̪̭̙̻̐͑̔̒̂̄̃̄͂̈́̓̚̕͝͠ķ̷̡̧̻̮̹̼͓̦͙̫̩̭̤̝̉͌i̷͎̠̰̠͕̊͌͋̕ͅͅ

And then it's gone again.

Good riddance. He has more important things to think about.

The painting is nice and Astarion will forever be grateful, but nothing—nothing—compares to the real thing.

A strong, sharp nose stands prominently at the center of his face, accentuated by high cheekbones and sunken smile lines that must have formed from times long forgotten, never to be remembered again. Thick, dark lashes line his shut eyelids, no movement to be seen beneath them, and right now he wishes more than anything they would open, even if all he’ll see is the same eyes as his siblings.

The same eyes as Cazador, yet Astarion’s all the same.

He moves on, roving over his features, impressing them upon his memory.

I will not be forgotten again.

To think all this beauty has been kept from him, and all because of the eternal curse Cazador has subjected him too. He won't be thanking whatever plight they've fallen into, but Astarion can certainly take the time to enjoy what's before him now: the most beautiful man in all the realms—Hircine would agree.

He uses Hircine’s slender fingers to trail delicately from his full gray brows, down the slope of his nose to the bow of his lips, feeling them give as he presses lightly upon them. His hummingbird heart flutters in his chest at the sight, relishing every moment. Raising a lip, Astarion finds those pesky fangs that speak to his vampiric nature, never perfectly hidden but can be easily explained away with enough wine and sultry stares—not something he has to worry about anymore, being married and out of Cazador’s iron grip, at least for a little while longer.

Oh, and his hair. Styling it without a mirror, he knows it is perfect, but seeing it like this is much better. Those silver curls, softer than maratman silk and styled with more care than a mother would lay upon her babe.

The incandescent glow of the magic lamps does nothing for his pallor, casting a sickly sheen over his skin that highlights and enlarges his pores, and turns the dark spots under his eyes into something garish, harsh.

How awful. He needs to get his body out of here and into better lighting to remember it by.

Not that Astarion can carry himself like this, not with Hircine’s willowy frame that bows against the slightest breeze in its frailty.

And what if she is gone?

A lump has formed in his—hers? Fuck it, his!—throat and he swallows it down, rough as sandpaper.

It was fake to begin with, yes, but their marriage is real as it can be under the current circumstances… It doesn’t feel fair to lose her like this.

Please, be here.

Steeling himself with a deep breath, Astarion winds his hand back and slaps it across his real face, watching it snap away. His palm stings something fierce, good gods, no wonder Hircine is pain-averse. Her skin’s so sensitive.

It worked though.

The eyelids flutter as a strangled growl gets caught in his body’s throat, head rolling side to side when another pinched groan rumbles from his chest. Red flashes, catching the light as his eyes open completely, searching crazily around the room until they land on Hircine’s face. Scared recognition flares in those molten garnet pools.

Gods, I’m beautiful.

“Hircine?” Astarion says in her feminine voice, barely speaking above a shaky whisper.

His body’s jaw drops open, clicking and choking noses eeking from his throat as he sits up, scrabbling at his neck.

What is happening?

Astarion watches a moment longer in confusion before it hits him. He lunges forward, failing to grab the hands clawing at his real throat as they wrench out of his grasp easily. “You need to breathe! You can’t speak unless you take a breath! I know it’s strange, but you’ll get used to it.” Those words work, his body’s panic calming as a gasping breath is taken in. “Is it you, Hircine?” Astarion needs to know if he’s speaking to his wife.

A nod while she practices breathing in and out, no doubt alarmed by how unneeded it is.

Oh, thank fuck. He isn’t confident in his ability to kill anything right now, let alone a vampire being controlled by an unknown entity, and he's unbelievably relieved that Hircine is mostly safe and mostly sound within his body.

“I—I don’t—” She chokes on her words, struggling to get anything out. All in his voice, with his accent and it’s very, very strange. “I can—member…”

“I know, I don’t either, pet. Take your time, get your bearings,” he moves in to hold her cheeks between his hands, disturbed by the noticeable coolness of his body’s skin. How does she not flinch away everytime he touches her? “We’ll be fine.” Astarion has survived much worse transformations, this is a lot less awful than being turned into a vampire.

Finally, she tests her speaking abilities again, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to be a man.” Tears prick at the corner of her eyes, making those beautiful eyes shine with more polish than a red dragon's scales.

Pinching the high cheekbones, Astarion focuses her attention. “Don't you cry with my face! There are worse things than being turned into a man!”

Hircine rejects his words with a head shake. “You don't understand, this is awful! I can't be a man! Mother will—”

His eyes nearly roll back into his head permanently and he drops his hands from her face. “Keep the man hating inside, you little brat. Come on, get up.” It’s a feat of wills as Astarion staggers to his feet. “Do you feel sore as well? Gods below, I’m just aching all over…”

Hircine shakes her head again, the silver curls atop the crown of his—her!—head loose enough to wiggle with the movement. “No, not really…” She gets up fine, maybe faster than expected as she stumbles backwards into the table that holds the eldritch items.

That’s it!

Holding himself steady along the table edge, Astarion crosses over and finds nothing. They’re gone! “What happened to the artifacts? I think I… might have touched one before we… passed out, but now they’re just gone.”

She turns around, eyes wide in panic. “Even the slaad egg?”

“Yes.”

“Oh gods.” She clutches at her broad chest. “I don’t—I don’t think it’s inside me—you… I’m not sure how I would know, though I would imagine it hurts since they need to feed on your insides.”

Astarion looks down, worried there might be a lump nestled under his skin when all thoughts of slaad eggs invading his body are replaced with other, more lustful urges.

While Hircine searches around the room, flipping over sheets and muttering angrily, Astarion takes this opportunity to really learn his wife’s body—for his eternal obsession and her future enjoyment, should they ever return to their bodies.

He loves her breasts.

A lot.

They’re perfect in every way. Impossibly soft, round, and heavy with the slightest, barely there sag that makes them even more delightful, always overflowing in his grabby hands, but aren’t so large that they dwarf her toned body. He also can't forget the ghostly white nipples that are not too good to eat, especially since they match her pretty little mouth when her lipstick has been wiped away.

He cups them, her small hands sinking into the malleable flesh, though the tight silk of her dress keeps them from moving around too much.

There's never been a lot of thought put into how this feels for Hircine other than that it's very, very good when he's pinching or pulling on a nipple if her moans and gasps are anything to go by.

The fat of her breasts being touched, it doesn't feel good or bad, mostly neutral as if he's grabbing at any other part of his body.

Maybe it feels different with someone else touching them… Experimentation can come later if they don't change back soon.

His lively heart thrums in anticipation of his next move.

The pads of his fingers brush over where he’s sure her nipples lie and—

“Ahhh~!” A high-pitched whine breaks past his lips as his legs squeeze together involuntarily. Gods below, that was—

Hircine looks up from her destructive scavenge, a scowl furrowing her manicured brows and twisting her mouth down. “Seriously? Stop touching me!” She hisses, just the same as he has in the past when telling Petras to get his mangy hide out of the way.

“How do you keep your hands off yourself all day?!” Just that touch sent the most delicious tingle down to his nether regions.

“I don't have much desire to touch myself,” she says, stepping beside him, “especially while out in public.” She grabs his wrists firmly, pushing them from her breasts and Astarion yelps with shock.

“Ow! Can't you be more gentle?” He demands, yanking himself out of her grasp to massage his probably bruised wrists. “You damned brute!”

Red eyes blink in surprise as Hircine looks down at her—his body’s hands. Oh gods, this is so confusing. His body is now hers, he needs to commit to that. She speaks quietly. “I thought I was being gentle… I barely touched you.”

Oh, dear. “Is this how it feels for you all the time? Am I too rough with you?”

Turning away with a noncommittal shrug, she says, “I don't know. Things feel the way they feel, I never put much thought in it.”

Her non-answer tells Astarion that yes, he probably is too rough, along with everyone else. No wonder she was so touch-averse in the beginning.

Well, it could be that, or her intense hatred of men…

Or a certain other bastard.

Actually, Hircine lets him know when she doesn't like something. She would have said by now if Astarion wasn't handling her with care.

He’ll still be more gentle going forward.

With a shake of her head, Hircine groans in frustration. “The artifacts are gone without a trace. I don't know what to do!”

Knowing the far realms, they’re probably gone for good. “Why don't we go home and ask Lexi? She can undo curses.”

“I-I guess, but what if someone needs me here in—”

Astarion interrupts her. “Pet, I am in your body and we both know I can't hold a passable conversation in undercommon. I won't be able to answer any of their questions when they only come to you.” He takes her large hands in his, startled again by the room temperature coolness of them. “Besides, I'm always telling you to take a break. It's a sign from the gods—or the unknowable!”

She chews at her lip, a fang peeking through before Hircine nods. “Alright. We should go quickly though.”

They exit into the hallway of the mines, luckily clear of any employees but that could change at a moment's notice. Swiftly winding their way down the hall to the elevator that takes them back home, they are stopped by the disgusting jermlaine, Thirsk, who holds a tiny hand-made shiv in his hands. His beady little eyes dart between the two of them, but they both know he's going after Astarion's body.

The vile thing lusts after his wife! It's only goal is to remove Astarion from the equation now—too bad for Thirsk, Astarion isn't going anywhere.

“Oh, someone's in a bad mood.” Hircine whispers. she scans along the ground, pointing out broken glass along the ground. “Watch your feet.”

“I wouldn't have to if you wore shoes!”

“Not happening~” Is her sing-song response that falls very flat in his voice. “You have no idea how badly I want to tear yours off right now.”

“Ugh, whatever! Just kick that thing into oblivion so we can go!”

Hircine gasps. “How dare you! I will not allow you to hurt Thirsk!”

“You and you're—” Astarion's grumbling is cut off as another idea comes to him. “Carry me and then just run for it! He's not fast enough to keep up.”

If Hircine has any doubts about this plan, she keeps it quiet. Quickly placing her arms under his back and knees, she lifts him up with so much ease that Astarion gasps as they make their break for it, sprinting past Thirsk before the ugly beast even knows what's happening.

The elevator entrance is slammed shut and latched before the lever is pulled, beginning their ascent home.

Getting carried is nice. That won't be a common occurrence when they return to their original bodies so he'll make the most of it while he can.

“Will you carry me back to Darkfire, my love?” He asks, fluttering his lashes with the sweetest simper.

Hircine’s face twists with disgust. “Begging with my face does nothing for me… but yes, I think I can do that.”

He throws his arms around her neck, pressing kisses to her smooth cheek that earn him nothing but an eyeroll. “I could kiss myself all day.”

“Ugh,” she scoffs.

They settle into a silence as Astarion enjoys being held by himself.

He would very much like his body back, as soon as possible, but a day or so of play shouldn't be so bad. Especially when he gets to experience living again.

“Are you always so… hungry?” Hircine asks eventually, strained and quiet.

His last meal was two nights ago, and a quite filling one at that with a deer and Hircine’s blood to top it off.

But yes, he is always hungry. An eternal thirst that will never be quenched no matter how hard he tries.

“It's just the nature of being a vampire, Love. Don't worry about it too much.” He sweeps a hand across her face, tucking loosened curls back into place.

“How do you ignore it?”

“Years and… years of practice. It does get easier, but it will never truly disappear.”

Those sparkling red eyes find his, wide and frightened. “I'm not feeding you enough, am I?”

“No, no. Don't think that. Trust me, Hircine, it's enough, more than enough actually. You give me more blood in a week than I've received in probably ten years.”

Bringing their lips together, they share a hesitant kiss before Hircine pulls away fast, disgruntled. “I really don't like kissing myself.”

Astarion laughs loudly, echoing off the cavern walls. “How could you not? You're so beautiful!”

“I'm not attracted to myself. It's weird.”

“Fair enough. I'll be attracted to us both then.” He taps her nose, getting ready to say more when that atonal droning shatters his thoughts once again.

ļ̴̨̻̝̻͙͚͙̔à̵̡̢̼̖̞̺̝͍̻͕͊͛̍̈̍͑͘͠d̶̹̬͖͔̩̯͉̳͔̍̓̈́̅̌́͋͛͝Ỳ̴̰̬͙͓̤̹̬̠̳͖̰͋̓̄U̵̢͖̜͚͎̼̙̱̦̲̮̻̦̔̇̿̉̃̈́̌͑̅̍̏̃̕̕͜

Wincing, Astarion kneads his fingers into his temples. He can't be the only one, right? “Do you hear that noise? It's like, uh, a voice but not. I can't understand it. Do you think it's—”

“It's Herma-Mora.” She says definitively.

“As in the far realm entity that corrupted your mind at too young an age?”

She rolls her red eyes. “Yes. Just avoid actually reaching out to him. It’s not like he’s actually meaning to communicate through our connection, they just slip through. I’m able to block it out for the most part.”

Great, so Astarion is stuck with her mind invader, unable to silence him completely. The only upside is that Herma-Mora can’t hurt him… allegedly. What if his mind just isn’t equipped for it’s irrational chatter?

They depart from the elevator, and make it back to Darkfire without any interruption. Astarion doesn’t fear faking his somber and quiet wife—anyone can do that since that would be easy. It would be the cornering by one of her brothers or her mother’s sharp eyes, catching any wrong movement or inflection when they are always looking for Hircine's imperfections.

If anything, Hircine is the one in trouble should they be caught by one of her siblings. They both know she can’t make passable conversation on a good day, and having Astarion who is always loudly speaking with his hands be still and stoic would be instantly suspicious.

Nothing to worry about, of course.

The doors to their hall are opened, greeting them with silence. Sometimes Lexi is standing here waiting for them…

Ah, right. “How do you do that mind talking thing? Isn’t that how you summon Lexi around?” He asks as he’s set down on the ground.

Hircine is quick to shed the shoes and socks Astarion put on this afternoon, groaning in relief as her feet are bare once again. “Yes… but I don’t really know how, it’s second nature, I guess. Maybe focus on me and see if you can send anything over?”

Her telepathy only works one way, thankfully. They would have been in for a bad time if Hircine could have read his thoughts since the beginning.

Dragging Hircine over to the couch, which isn’t that easy because his actual body is shockingly immovable when Astarion goes to push her forward, he makes her sit so he can attempt this special form of communication.

Across from her on the couch, they lock eyes as he concentrates, willing his thoughts into her head.

‘Can you hear me?’ — No response from Hircine.

‘What about now?’ — Nothing again.

There’s a chance it’s not even possible, what with their bodies changed, but gods damn it, he wants it to work. Feeling frustration well in his chest, Astarion gives it one last go, forcing a message to Hircine, demanding she hear it.

‘LISTEN TO ME!’

Instantly, she crumples in on herself, clutching her head with a gasp. “Agh! What the—Is that what it feels like when I speak to you? Oh my gods, that hurt!”

Oh, maybe he went a little too hard. “I—No, it’s never hurt me. The first time was alarming, but no pain accompanied it. I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t play with it lest I inflict some real damage.”

“I think that is a good idea, Husband.” She presses fingers into eyes for what he can only assume is relief from whatever he just assaulted her brain with.

Being called ‘Husband’ by his own voice is weird… and maybe a little arousing. Astarion chews on one of his very soft lips, willing the thoughts away so they can return to their more serious problem. “Do you think Lexi can… help us?”

Stretching back upright, Hircine shrugs. “I don’t know. I forgot she’s out of the manor until tomorrow, so we might have to wait. Maybe we’ll turn back on our own in due time or maybe the slaad egg is buried in one of our bodies so we’ll die horribly and not even have to think about it.”

“I’d rather not die to a fucking frog demon bursting out of my chest, Hircine.”

She waves his concerns away. “We would have known already if it was inside us, trust me. Let’s just endure what we can until Lexi returns. She can fix anything.”

Tsk, for Hircine maybe. Lexi sure wouldn’t mind Astarion becoming a host for any assortment of things if it meant getting him away from her lady.

How are they going to pass the time like this? He could read, but he feels like that will open his mind up for more of Herma-Mora’s disturbing vocalizations. No wonder Hircine is so scattered all the time when she has multiple people clamoring for her constantly, inside and out.

Actually, there is—

His stomach growls, loudly, demanding all of their attention. There’s an emptiness inside of him, nothing like his thirst for blood which is all consuming and constant, but a slight nagging sensation that could be easily ignored—for now.

Hircine smirks, all fangs. “I guess I haven’t eaten in a while.”

“I—No, I guess not. What should I do?” Astarion places a hand over his flat stomach, feeling small vibrations from within as it growls yet again.

“Well, you should eat. That’s what I do.”

Eat? Like real, normal food? His mouth begins to salivate. “I can eat whatever I want?”

“Whatever’s in the kitchen, but yes.” Hircine laughter is bright.

Jumping to his feet, Astarion runs for the kitchen with Hircine trailing close behind him. “What do you like? Pick it out for me so I can try it!” Two hundred years of starvation and he can finally, truly eat again. Gods, he cannot wait to be full and satisfied—happy!

As she digs through the ice chest, Astarion looks over her shoulder to see what Hircine is grabbing. “Do you want a full meal or to just try whatever you want?” She asks.

“Give me anything! I want it all!”

So maybe getting their body’s swapped, while not ideal, isn’t so bad. To eat again, to live again, even for a day, is wonderful.

If only it were his own body.

Fruits and berries, sweets of all kinds, cheeses, crackers, dried meats and bread are set on the counter. While Hircine plates them, Astarion paces back and forth behind her, in absolute disbelief of what he is about to experience.

The hungers of (wo)man have returned to him.

“Sit,” Hircine requests, and he all but throws himself into a chair at the small table in the kitchen. He could request they eat in the dining room for a proper experience, but Hircine hates that room so the kitchen will have to do.

The plate is put in front of him, a veritable feast for his senses with its assortment of choices.

“What do I start with, love?” He glances at Hircine before staring back down at the food, barely bridled excitement boiling over.

Sitting across from him, her lips twist with consideration. “How about starting slow with a cracker? Take a nibble, see how it feels.”

He’s eaten plenty of times over the past two hundred years. It always tastes like ash, but eating gives the appearance of non-threatening normalcy and there’s nothing that mortals love more than bonding over a shared meal.

Taking one of the crackers delicately between his fingers, Astarion inspects every minutiae of the crisp food product. The surface is rough and maybe a touch oily, colored a light tan with toasted edges, along with some flecks of some unidentifiable green thing littered throughout.

“Rosemary,” Hircine clarifies as if reading his mind.

He likes rosemary, the smell of it at least. It's what he uses in his perfume to mask the scent of his undeath.

On an inhale with the cracker close to his nose, he can detect the rosemary, along with salt and the yeasty scent of baked flour. His stomach rumbles loudly this time, a plea for him to take a damn bite.

The cracker is brought to his mouth, barely pinching the corner of it between his teeth, breaking off a crumb to taste.

Just that small piece is an explosion of flavor in his mouth, the rosemary and salt a perfect combination of savory delight.

The rest of the cracker is gobbled down, and now having eaten something, his stomach cries out for more.

Hircine really likes berries so he goes for one of those next.

Astarion is not prepared for the tart burst on his tongue when he pops a blackberry into his mouth, a trickle of its juice running down his chin.

Alternating different flavor profiles each time, Astarion pairs food that probably does not go together based on Hircine’s disgusted expressions but she lets him do as he pleases until the plate is completely clean.

He's stuffed. Full. Sated. No desire to eat another bite lingers.

A dream come true.

When he stands, he pats his hand over his stomach finding it no longer flat. There's a little paunch now from having his fill and honestly, Astarion kind of likes it. “Look at this! I'm full!”

Hircine smiles up at him from her seat, very much enjoying his excitement. “Indeed you are. I definitely gave you a bit more than I'd usually eat but it doesn't hurt to indulge every now and then.”

“And indulge I did. Wow, what a feeling and I—Now, I'm so…” He fails to find the words.

“Tired?” Hircine supplies. “When I eat a lot, I want to take a nap.”

Hmm, a nap doesn't sound so bad but there are other things on his mind. “That sounds nice and all, pet, but could we go to our room? I want to look at myself in good lighting.”

She points at her face and he nods.

Astarion will see all of him.

In the bedroom, lamps are lit and the fireplace is set ablaze. Hircine dutifully sits on the couch, still as a statue, while Astarion buzzes about, pulling at the soft silver curls set atop his real head, tracing his fingers over the high point like the cheekbones, nose, brows, shoulders, everything and just admiring those beautiful features.

She lets him work in peace with eyes closed when he isn't staring longingly into them, careful to not interrupt his joyful wonder of relearning his face. What a perfect girl, his wife. Astarion would reward her but in their current predicament, that might be a struggle.

He's pinching and bending the tips of his real ears while sitting on her lap when Hircine opens her red eyes, searching him out. Her voice is quiet and hesitant when she speaks. “What if… we’re stuck like this?”

That is the thought he is not ready to fully confront.

Inside the manor, they can make it work, hide away practicing their mannerisms to present themselves as they should be, that is until Hircine gets called for by the matriarch and then Astarion has to present himself before her, playing the daughter.

Iimithra would see through the farce immediately, but if she can be avoided, then they could prolong the inevitable—or escape perhaps.

What the family will do to them could be manageable, even for frail little Hircine—he hopes, she’s escaped Lolth and death near one hundred fifty years this long.

No, his worries lie with Cazador. His wife understands to a degree what happens now when he is forced home.

She would break the second Cazador laid his hands on her, in Astarion’s body or not, and that is not the fate Astarion wants for Hircine. He won't see that hard-earned smile wiped from her face.

For now, there is no plan. They will wait, enjoy the night as is until Lexi returns and then they will do whatever they need to survive, just as he's always done.

Cradling her cheeks in his hands, Astarion smiles before placing a kiss on Hircine’s nose. “We will be fine. I'll make sure of it, my sweet love.”

And fine, they will be.

“Could you do something for me?” He asks as he pulls back a bit, staring into her gorgeous ruby eyes.

“If it's within my power.”

Getting up, Astarion takes her hand, attempting to help her to her feet, but it's really all for show when this body is weaker than a rabbit. A few steps are taken away to give them enough distance so that Astarion can capture his entire body in view. “Alright,” he begins, “can you copy my movements? I move this hand,” his right hand shakes before he points at her opposing hand, “you move that one, as if I were looking in a mirror.”

Her pale eyebrows raise up high and then Hircine nods. “Absolutely. Show me what you want.”

Astarion places his hands on his hips, standing up straight, and Hircine follows suit quickly, imitating him wonderfully, just as his perfect girl should. He turns his head left and right slowly, watching as she does the same so he can see every aspect of his body in whatever way possible.

A soft, no-teeth-bared smile is given with Hircine performing impeccably. Is that how Astarion smiles at her when she’s being cute and sweet? No wonder she turns into a puddle for him all the time.

Next, he morphs his smile into a seductive grin and Hircine follows as well as she can, lips twisting up so a hint of fang is revealed, eyes narrowed slightly, head tilted to the side… Dashing. Handsome. Stunning.

Gods, I love that face, and it's all mine!

They strike poses, some silly, some serious. A hand here, a foot there, ‘No, no, the leg should go like this!’ before they go in for some really dramatic looks, kneeling down in a crouch as if they're sneaking their way through the room silently, bumping into each other and collapsing into a tangle of limbs as they laugh.

They kiss briefly and Hircine doesn't immediately pull away in disgust, thank the gods.

“Thank you for indulging me, pet.” Astarion says as he tucks some of the wispy curls behind her beautifully pointed ears, propping himself up over her large body.

“Anything for you, Husband.” Hircine smiles, fangs and all.

He's ready to go in for another kiss when a new, very strange feeling encroaches onto his happy high. A slight pressure, a need to get rid of something. “Hircine, I feel weird.”

“Weird how?”

They both sit up, Astarion now straddling Hircine's lap. “I don't know… It's here,” his hand slides over his stomach, “I think or maybe lower.”

Her mouth opens, then closes, and opens again before her tongue runs over a fang. “Uhm. I think you have to use the restroom…”

Cold dread coils within Astarion’s gut. “Fuck.”

#astarion #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bodyswap #astarion ancunin #astarion fanfic #ao3 fanfic #astarion fic #body swap #he's obsessed with himself

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wifetomegatron · 1 year ago

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i want to spoil megatron ( imagine, megatron / reader, first contact au)

My head is about to split open after my exam, but I can't stop thinking about what it would be like to spoil Megatron. To shower him with affection, gift him with luxury, and drape him in all the finest silks — mulberry and tussar, hand-picked and crafted from mollusks living in the deepest trenches of the Earth and worms hiding in the highest corners of the conifer forests. A part of him would be against it.

It was wrong. He refused for fear that such amenities were born out of inequality. You tell him that while such disparity exists in your world and that everyone should campaign against it and give relief when they can, you were not a billionaire controlling the flow of commerce, the railways, or the traffic in the air. And so letting himself indulge in a part of your world will not poison the soil or kill the trees. It won't send anyone into the hospital if you were to commission a sixty-foot-tall ergonomic chair made purely out of titanium metal for him to relax on while he reads. It would probably give the architect a headache, but it wasn't like you weren't paying them handsomely. (And any engineer or scientist would be thrilled to experiment, take a look at Brainstorm.)

Such symbiosis is one example of how there is a way for the finer things in life not to come at the expense of someone's pain.

It could just be the little pleasures in life.

Such as soaking for hours on end inside your bathtub. The hot, rose-infused water engulfs your body as you embrace one another. The mist rising off the water flushed your cheeks and soaked his cables — laughter echoing down the marble tiles. You had fallen asleep against him twice, and he was happy to hold you against his lap with a servo cradled across your chin to keep your head afloat.

It could also be sinking against the king mattress; his weight supported by the metal inserted in between the frames. Megatron thought it was excessive. The cost of fusing a recharging slab with all the soft padding must be expensive, and yet you had waved him off, beckoning him to lay down — and never before did he feel like staying in one spot forever. And never again did you hear him complain, content in stretching his arm out in the morning to pull you close to him, secure and pressed against his chassis as the sheets pile around like clouds. He didn't know such softness existed, and you pampered him with more — bits and pieces of comfort he doesn't feel deserving of.

As if he had invaded your castle, Megatron felt like an outsider to a life of feathers and flowers.

And yet you insisted. Comfort, safety, stability — these must all be so foreign and new and strange to him. Eons of working in the mines, of conflict and war. If anything, you feel a little lacking in your generosity. You always want to give the best for him. And so you never refuse your lover, even when he sheepishly asks whether you could get him a few physical copies of his latest binge.

He woke up to construction workers greeting him cheerfully, installing shelves and chandeliers in the library you had bought overnight for him. Megatron could only gawk by the stairs, speechless as you walked back and forth to oversee the truckloads of books in the mansion's driveway. Is this what you wanted? You asked innocently. And the ex-warlord had to curl his servos to fight back the urge to pick you up and smother you. No, he'll find a way to thank you later.

For now, Megatron is overwhelmed with your love and how it flows endlessly, almost heady at how his wishes are only a snap of fingers away with you as his lover. Forever will the guilt linger and consume him, but the shine of your smile always seems to chase their shadows away — brilliant like the set of pearls hanging off your ears.

( basically, if megatron has a rich human s/o lol )

#this is just a silly daydream please <3 #transformers #idw #maccadams #transformers x reader #tf mtmte #mtmte #lost light #imagine #transformers hc #megatron idw #megatron / reader #first contact au #megatron

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year ago

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2009 Villa in Paradise Valley, Arizona is incredible. 5bds, 11ba, $20M + $108mo. HOA.

A huge sitting room has a gorgeous ceiling, massive fireplace and 2 chandeliers. There are all sorts of windows, halls and walkways in this magnificent home.

On the other end of the sitting room is this very large bar, and as you can see, there's an entrance from one of the breezeways.

The dining room is so big the table seats 14. It has a beautiful fireplace and the same gorgeous ceiling that the sitting room has.

Have you ever seen a kitchen like this? The backsplash is a slab of green marble, the island is massive, and the everyday kitchen table is in front of a huge stone fireplace and under a gigantic chandelier.

On this end of the kitchen is another huge island and mini kitchen that looks that it may be for lunch or breakfast. The stove is under an amazing exhaust hood. This kitchen has a brown marble backsplash.

Down some stairs is a fully-equipped wine cellar.

I would say that this is a library, and it's so large. Look at the palm leaves on the top of the columns.

The primary bedroom has 2 doors that open to a breezeway and it has a gorgeous ceiling and massive stone fireplace.

There is a lot of marble in this home. The countertops in the en-suite, plust the backsplash are a beautiful brown marble.

The rounded marble shower.

And, the square marble tub.

Isn't this a beautiful dressing room/closet.

And, this is the other dressing room/closet. I can't decide which one I like better.

The home has so many entrances, I wonder who goes around locking it up at night.

It also has marble-floored breezeways with columns and chandeliers all around the house.

In this entrance hall is another massive stone fireplace.

This room just looks like a game room or something. It has a great fireplace, too.

Here's another marble bath. There 11 of them. Can you imagine?

This must be the ballroom. The home is just so beautiful.

Even the cars have an insanely gorgeous garage.

Aerial view of the pool

How beautifully the house lights up at night.

What a stunning garden.

The home sits on 2.12 acres.

#villas #mansions #midnight dreamer #houses #house tours #home tour

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sabraeal · 1 year ago

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Remedial Lessons, Chapter 2

[Read on AO3]

Written for @kaedix's birthday!! Last year Kimber requested what become the first chapter of this fic, back when there were only a handful of people in the fandom who had even watched Soul Eater. But last summer the discord ended up watching Soul Eater as its summer shonen, so I was all too happy to continue it when she asked for a continuation this year!

This is hardly the first sepulcher that Shirayuki has been lead into since she started her time at Shibusen, but she’ll grant the professor this: it is the nicest.

“So what?” Obi huffs, parka hunched up around his ears as he takes in the bank of computers stretched along the walls. His breath mists in the air as he speaks, like swallowing souls in reverse. “You get like, four? Five G in here? Or did you just like…roll some fiber out here? You know a guy? There’s some people who could really use this kind of set up—”

“Etiquette demands that a host graciously welcome his guests into his residence, whether that be a professional office or personal home,” Lata informs then with all the enthusiasm of a wet blanket. “However, since it seems that you are determined to wear it out as fast as humanly as possible, I think we’ll skip over all that.”

Obi presses a hand to his chest; his parka lets out a soft pffft under the pressure. “I’m just showing interest, sir. Showering you with compliments. Really—”

“Asking for proprietary information.” The professor glances over his shoulder, glowering at where she lingers in the doorway. “Come here already. We don’t have all day.”

‘Here’ happens to be a marble slab; one large and smooth enough to accommodate Mitsuhide from head to ankle, the way most beds do. There’s quite a few of them in the room, most serving as flat surfaces for Lata’s equipment, but this one has clearly been left free, sterile as an exam table, though with the way it fits into that carved bier beneath it, Shirayuki suspects—

“Is that a coffin?” Obi coughs, circling it like a cat around a bath. “Just what are you gonna do with her on that, doc? Hoist it up to the ceiling? Let lightning hit her? Hate to break it to you, but she’s already alive.”

“Obi.” If there’s one thing Shirayuki has learned about Shibusen faculty, it’s that you don’t go around giving them ideas.

“What? I just want to get the scope of the work or whatever.” His hands slide into his pockets, slowing his stride to a casual creep. “If we’re going to have to run, I’d like to start now rather than after he’s got your all hooked up to his Doom Canon.”

“Oh, really. I’m not about to perform surgery on her. Or mad science,” The professor grouses, rummaging around in a drawer. “This place is hardly sterile. But you can’t possibly think I’m so naive as to take your word about her bloodline, do you?”

Shirayuki wrinkles her brow. “Why would I lie about that?”

“Why does anyone lie, girl? To get what you want.” Lata straightens, the honed edge of his body angling toward the stone. “Now take off your coat. This won’t take long.”

She glances down at the cold marble and suppresses a shiver. “But you haven’t taken your coat off.”

“Of course not. It’s freezing in here.” Clouds steam from his sigh as he turns to her, strung tight with impatience. “And I hardly need to take blood samples from myself.”

The tag of her zipper digs bloodless gouges across the fleshier bits of her knuckles. Two year ago this would have all come as a shock, but after a few semesters at Shibusen, she’s only thankful it isn’t a weirder bodily fluid. “Blood? Couldn’t you just—?”

Obi steps right between them, shoulders not squared to shield but hunched, potential energy all coined in his spine like a spring. “Uh uh, no way, doc. We said we’d let you poke around, not actually put a needle through her. Just because she’s a weapon doesn’t mean you get to treat her like an ob—”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Lata informs him, bored. “Now are you going to take off your coat, Miss…?”

“Shirayuki.” Obi angles a look over his shoulder, half are you kidding and half don’t feed the animals. As if she were some child sticking her hand through bars at the zoo, daring a tiger to chomp them off at the wrist.

To be fair, it’s earned. But this particular tiger is their best best for surmounting this resonating problem, and Shirayuki’s willing to risk far more than a nibble to keep from collecting another ninety-nine souls. Twice is more than enough. “And yes, I will.”

The professor doesn’t quite smile, but there’s a shift in his eyes as she bares the skin at her elbow; a deepening of the crinkles at their corners, a widening of his pupils. There’s a part of him that likes this, that looks at her twining path of veins and sees something beyond flesh. That devours this stretch of skin the same way she might a grimoire’s pages, reading fell knowledge in every drop of her blood.

“Good.” She’s barely set herself on top of the sarcophagus, wincing at the chill that seeps through her jeans, when Lata strides right around Obi and grips her wrist. Klaxons ring between her ears, telling her to dig in her heels and twist, but there’s only air beneath them now, an awkward angle between her and the nearest flat surface, and—

Just a pinch, a squeeze, and he’s stepped away, glass slide gripped between his fingers.

“Wha….huh?” she murmurs, watching as blood wells up from the prick. It lasts hardly more than a blink— Obi hands her a tissue, and by the time she’s wiped the bead away, it’s like her skin was never broken at all. A perk of the lineage, Lord Death had always told her. “You just needed a drop?”

“As much as I would love to sequence the entirety of your genome, I would prefer not to wait for the results— or waste the resources.” He hums, much more chipper now that he’s placed that slide into one of his machines. “Not when a specimen sample is much quicker and negligibly less accurate.”

The reasoning is solid, but still— “Then why did you have me take off my coat?”

"To see if at least one of you could obey an order.” The professor jerks his chin toward Obi. “Or if you were as much of a lost cause as that one.”

“Hey! I can sit and roll over as good as anyone,” Obi sniffs, dropping his coat over her shoulders. “If I wanna.”

They’ve hardly known each other a quarter of an hour, but already Lata is sending her long-suffering looks. “That’s the entire—”

His machine beeps, once, twice, like it’s impatient, eager to have eyes on the data flying across its screen. Attention Lata’s quick to give, scrolling through faster than even she could possibly parse, turning familiar words into flipped-bit gibberish. The professor, however, hums.

“Well, you are from Carnwennan’s lineage, it seems.” Shirayuki can’t help but notice that he doesn’t say daughter. Like somehow a hidden bloodline was probable, but direct progeny a stretch. “You’ll forgive me for doubting you. I’ve met Excalibur” —he grimaces— “and there’s not much resemblance. In either of your forms.”

Obi cocks a hip against the sarcophagus, making himself one long, lean line. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lata fixes him with the same sort of look a stern kindergarten teacher might give their most difficult charge. “Carnwennan was a dagger. And from what I’ve seen of Miss Shirayuki’s shape, she is most certainly not.”

One of these thing, his look says, is not like the other. “I suppose your father had his own lineage? Or should I assume he was a meister rather than a weapon?”

Her mouth opens, then shuts. Opens again, only to say, “I don’t know.”

There’s the vaguest twitch of that stern brow, the softest hum of intrigue. “Interesting. It was always said that Carnwennan was particular with her meisters, one must assume she would be even more so with a romantic partner. So who is he?”

“A deadbeat.” Obi says it like punctuation, the period at the end of a sentence gone on too long. He shifts too, crossing his arms and angling his shoulders, breaking line of sight between her and the professor. It’s effort she appreciates, even if it’s unnecessary.

“My mother is the legendary weapon,” she asks, each word weighed and measured, the perfect split between firm and fair. “Is my father really pertinent to your research?”

“Look around, Miss Shirayuki. Do you see a water cooler anywhere? A break room, perhaps? Coworkers?” The look he levels at her is downright withering. “Do I really look like the sort of man who would make small talk?”

Obi's smirk glints the way her blade does before it cuts. “He’s got us there, kid.”

There’s an inertia to overcome when it comes to her father; it’d been so much easier to not talk about it, to let everyone believe she thought he was dead. But now that he’s dredged himself up out of her memories and into reality, becoming more than just a character from the childhood she can’t remember, it’s…hard. Separating what she knows from what she feels is a job Shirayuki’s pretty sure she’s under qualified to handle.

“I don’t know much about him,” she admits, because that’s true. Maybe he raised her for four years, but she’s lived another thirteen without him, and that doesn’t make him any better than a stranger in her book. “He left me with my grandparents when I was little. I barely even remember his face.”

Also not a lie, even if it earns her some side-eye from Obi’s direction. She’d seen him for a day nearly a year ago; not enough to commit more than broad strokes to her memory. It’d be a miracle if she could even pick him out on the street.

Not that she’d tell the professor that. She’s already in danger of clucking tongues and piteous looks; something about parental abandonment bloodies even the hardest of hearts. There’s quite a bit Shirayuki’s ready to weather for this training, but if she has to endure yet another ethically dubious mentor trying to empathize with her, well—

“Hm.” Lata’s fingers clack across the keys, not even sparing her a cursory glance. “Interesting.”

“So.” Obi wraps his mouth around the sound, stretching it as long as the look he sends her. “That’s it, right, doc? You’re gonna help us?”

“I didn’t say that.” Lata steps back from his screen, one rigid line from the heels of boots to the whorl of his cowlick. “I study legendary weapons. As intriguing as it might be to study one of their progeny— however direct— Miss Shirayuki is not her mother. There’s no guarantee that her biometric data will provide any meaningful contribution toward my—”

“So you have other half-mythical weapons lining up to be a part of your experiment?” Obi perches on the sarcophagus like a particularly mischievous gargoyle. “Is Caliburn’s great-grandson going to walk through here? Excalibur’s ex-roommate? Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to find a guy who knows a guy who saw Kusanagi-no-tsurugi buying cabbages once.”

Lata’s mouth pulls thin. “Caliburn is—”

“—the same sword as Excalibur,” Shirayuki finishes, hurriedly.

“What?” Obi squawks, nearly toppling from his perch. “But wasn’t that the one in the stone, and then that lady in the lake or whatever gave that guy another one…?”

“That was a translation error,” she murmurs, flushing as Lata lifts his brows. “From when the troubadours in France began singing Arthur’s lays. Exacalibur was the sword in the stone. He just, er…broke. And the Nimue” — ah, she’s starting to sound like her uncle— “never mind. It’s a common mistake. He was still sleeping when it happened.”

“A better time.” Lata glares as if they were the ones who woke him.

“Huh.” Obi shakes a hand, like that might clear the air. “The point is, does how many legendary weapons is doc gonna meeting hanging around in some dusty ass old ruins? You’ve gotta need us as much as we need you. Maybe even more.”

If the professor was glaring before, he’s glowering now.

“You make a compelling point,” he admits, begrudging them every word. “Fine. I supposed it would be beneficial for my work if I helped you both with your resonance issue. But you’ll have to help me with my research,” he warns, as if that soured rather than sweetened the deal. “And not just your own contributions to my data— I need legendary weapons if I’m going to get anywhere, not just their…relations.”

“Well,” Shirayuki hums, struggling to keep her voice so even, so innocent. “I could always ask my uncle, if you really needed—”

“We can start with your training first,” Lata grits through his grimace. “I’m hardly that desperate.”

“Sounds like you’ve got yourself a deal, doc.” Obi sprawls himself across the top of the coffin, tapping at the marble slab. “Now which one of these are ours? You got a couple lined with Egyptian cotton or something? Maybe some memory foam? I don’t need a lot but I’ve got to be able to snooze in full Nosferatu.”

His eyes close, arms cutting up to cross over his chest— full Nosferatu, indeed— but Lata only grunts, “None of them.”

One eye peels open, skeptical. “What, the Cryptkeeper’s got guest rooms down here? A Best Western? It takes three hours to get here one way, there’s no way we can hike out and back every day.”

“Of course you can’t,” Lata scoffs. “I’m coming back with you.”

“Just like that, huh?” Obi’s no longer playing vampire, but he’s still sitting on the sarcophagus, shoulders stacked beside hers. “You’re not even going to ask us what the problem is first? What if it’s just a five-minute fix, and—?”

“If it were really some ‘five-minute fix’ then that idiot Shidan would have been able to handle it,” Lata grouses, already sifting through books to take with him. “And there’s certainly no point in asking your opinions on the problem. If you neither of you have managed to devise a solution by now, then I doubt that you have any meaningful insight to provide me.”

Shirayuki would have protested— if the professor didn’t have a point. Locating a reclusive academic was hardly the sort of option a reasonable person took as their first step. But after two years of reaching for resonance and having it slip through their fingers, Shirayuki was willing to try anything. Short of braving one of her uncle’s lectures, of course. “That’s not very nice.”

Obi tucks his chin, keeping his grimace between the two of them. “He’s not wrong.”

“Still,” she sighs, “he doesn’t need to say it.”

“Hey, what did he mean anyway?” She cocks her head, questioning, and Obi clarifies, “About how you don’t look like your family.”

“My uncle…” It’s her turn to grimace now. “Well, my mother doesn’t take after him, that’s all.”

“That gives me at least one answer about your father,” Lata grunts, heaving a trunk up onto his back.

"Really?" Obi drawls, rubbing at his shoulder. "I feel like I didn't get anything from that at all."

"I'm sure," the professors hums dryly, "that you're used to it. Now, are you two ready to go? We have quite a ways back, and thought I am experienced at traveling in the snow, I'd prefer not to do it in the dark.”

Obi heaves sigh, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Get a load of this guy, kid. Spends all this time packing up everything that isn't nailed down, then ask us to hurry up and--"

"Today, if you would." The words echo down the hallway, ghostly in the empty room.

"Yeah, yeah. We're coming." He rolls his shoulders, shifting his weight like a fighter right before a match. "Welp, you heard him, kid. One-way trip to Lilias, leaving now. You ready?"

Shirayuki doesn't spare a glance for the sepulcher behind her-- but she does pause for a shiver. Really, she'd thought she'd left these sorts of trips behind at Shibusen. "More than."

"Love to hear it." He holds out a hand as she starts up the rise. "Let's get out of here. Ladies first."

There's no hesitation as she takes it, hand fitting in to his like her haft snugs into his palm. "Let's."

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #soul eater au #ans #let me tell you coming back to this after doing a full rewatch #and then also do my first full read of the manga #extremely different experience from when I was writing the first chapter after rewatching 12 eps #also now everyone knew what i was talking about when i was doing my outline #and had OPINIONS #on obi & shirayuki as meister and weapon 🤣#i keep being like 'one day we will get to the parts of this fic where the romance come in'#but this time lata fully took over #no regrets

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themartianwitch-fic · 1 month ago

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Yours In Fractions - Ch. 3 - Overflow

Fic summary: After the invasion, Conner and M'gann re-connect with each other and themselves. (Set primarily between Seasons 2 and 3, with flashbacks. See pinned post for full fic's content warnings.)

[???, Team Year ???]

The glass against M’gann’s cheek melts away into something feather-soft and weightless, but just as cold. Her body feels weightless against it, but it’s not quite air. She feels it hold her, suspend her in itself; there’s kindness in it, or at least a welcoming yield to her presence despite how expansive it feels around her–maybe even because of it. Here, she can tell, she’s barely a drop.

She opens her eyes.

She’s not a drop, she’s a shard in an ocean full of cold white marble broken into pieces, and of all the shards, she knows that she’s the sharpest.

Atlantis, in ruins. This is how he perceives his psyche.

She did this.

“Wait, but this is–agh–”

Her throat constricts, and the weight of the ocean is in her lungs faster than she can think to make gills. It’s not real, it’s not real, she tells herself in order to push her airways back open–and even when this was real, she didn’t need gills. M’gann forces herself into a deep breath, at least on this plane; it’s somewhere to start. Physically, she knows she’s still–and only–asleep. Escape is as simple as waking up. She’s only just slipped into this–this time can be different.

Two already broken slabs before her shatter into a spray of dust. M’gann closes her eyes on this plane and begs her body to open its own back to reality, because she doesn’t deserve this. It was never her fault. What she deserves is the hologram, the honor of her memory having served as protectress of Kaldur’s mind, and her real legacy–

Tula descends out of nothingness and into form behind M'gann. Closing eyes on this plane, M’gann knows, is a token gesture at best. Nothing her mind generates can escape her perception because nothing in her mind takes any form unless she's already conceived of it. M’gann opens her eyes, and the world shifts to put her face to face with Tula, no choice but to engage. Tula’s hands curl into blazing fists as her mouth curls into an empty snarl. She’s no one, nothing, a memory of a memory, a visage warped to fit into a role that was never hers in life. Tula had always had a kind smile and sharp eyes, beautiful and perceptive–that, M'gann knew on her own, even before piecing Kaldur's memories back together with him. This Tula glares at her with eyes glazed over in rage, ready to take the two of them once again through motions automatic and thoughtless.

“I’m sorry,” M’gann says to Tula even though it’s not Tula, and isn’t even any part of Kaldur’s mind here–just part of her own now.

And to this part of her mind, the apology means nothing. Tula releases a shower of ice shards from the center of a sigil cast between her hands. M’gann takes hits the moment the first shards manifest and flies back through water that yields to her like air.

She feels it, just like before: hot and cold, almost electric shocks searing through her chest.

An unanchored wall amidst the wreckage catches her. The back of her head meets crumbling stone, more damage she can do just by being here–being anywhere. Even with the attack over, pain persists in wringing itself through her neck and shoulders as she drifts off from the wall. Okay, she wants to say, that’s enough this time, but she knows there’s no negotiating this. There can’t be, when she’s the only one that’s really here–all she can do is make a choice.

You wanna blame yourself, fine, but only if you’re willing to do something about it!

M’gann’s mind doesn’t give her any projection of Artemis to lean on other than that echo of her voice, but it’s something, and she takes it. She can’t be back here, hurting herself over and over instead of fixing things–

–Kaldur’s mind has already recovered, M’gann answers back to the memory. What else can I still fix?

What’s left that even should be–

More shards like daggers shoot M’gann back into the wall and immobilize her there, none piercing through her but each one bursting against her only for another to follow before she can react. Pain rips through her mind so brightly that for a moment, all she can see is white, but the flash fades in time for her to see the hot blue fire between Tula’s hands swirl and grow into a charging sphere of light. Given a momentary reprieve, her body–her form, at least, on this plane, suited and green with hair cast up in short, choppy waves–sinks limply down the wall.

She pulls enough strength back into her form to avoid meeting the wall’s fate: total obliteration as Tula’s full blast overtakes it. The shockwaves aid M’gann at first but quickly knock her off formation, turn swimming back into falling. With her heart racing now–mental or physical, both as far as she can tell–M’gann tries pushing her legs into forming a tail, but they stay separate and flailing as another beam churns and seethes to life in Tula’s hands. Gasping at the drag on her ankles, M’gann reminds herself that it’s not water, and that it’s as good as air–that it’s her mind and it's anything that she truly wants it to be.

Nothing changes at that thought but the force with which M'gann can will herself forward, but Tula’s next attacks at least miss her like the first. Parts of her surroundings crumble in small crashes, but the distance M’gann races to put between herself and Tula turns them muffled and dull to her ears. She slips behind a floating chunk of stone for cover, letting a sense of safety wash over her–only for a single gasp at relief to immediately make her sick.

She’s doing all this to herself–what good is hiding from it? What point, what use is there, and what help–

–What right does she have to want this to be over?

M’gann drops straight down as the next blast claims her cover. A smoke-like cloud of dust disperses above her head as chips of stone patter like raindrops onto her shoulders. The dodge was automatic; she knew exactly when the attack would come. Each time before has been a drill preparing her for the next, with no end in sight–

–Save for one end, she thinks as she continues to sink–one possible, permanent end, if that’s really what she wanted.

She could simply let it happen.

M’gann tenses to brace herself, curling her fists. Every part of this hurts. Every part of this, she hates–and every part of this hates her back. But no part of it would be worse than that.

She’ll do anything in her power not to let herself get close again.

The next blast doesn’t miss her. She lets herself cry out from it, rakes her voice pitifully along the coals of her throat as the pain burns her down to her bones. It’s a declaration to herself that she’s fully alive to feel it. Her form proves stronger than the stone–it doesn’t break, and the pain passes through it quickly–too quickly, and her form turns terrifyingly numb to everything but the feeling of falling again.

But a piece of ground rushes up to meet her in a momentarily satisfying crash. Her form lies in rubble, but in one piece itself, no matter how twisted and sore her limbs tell her she is. Nothing is over, not for her or her punisher; M’gann pushes herself back up onto her hands and finds herself unbroken, unbreakable to every extent that every part of her needs or hates it to be true–

But turning as pale as the color of the stone.

And as the color drains from her hands, so does the strength. M’gann’s form drifts back up on its own as if from a slow-motion ricochet, falling in reverse into position, into the inevitable.

Tula isn’t waiting for her because Tula is gone now. The figure that was Tula’s has shed its guise of humanlike skin to steal M'gann's green instead, and her clothes have shifted from yellow and light blue into a full suit of black and red. A dark blue cloak fans out around her like hair in water, though red hair still hangs short around her head, just in different waves and a different hue–and what was water slowly thins as the atmosphere dries and rusts itself into the very same red as her hair. Jagged white stone settles and smoothes itself into winding red cliffs. Atlantis–any piece of it–is gone.

M’gann’s hands drop down far past her hips as claws. It stings just as much to see herself floating above in that form as it does to feel herself weighted down into this one, but at least when this part comes, some guilt tapers off. There’s nothing now that her mind has stolen from Tula, or from Kaldur.

This is all hers.

M’gann’s punisher glares down at her from a Martian sky as if she’s an alien invader of her own mind. Power flares to life in her eyes in a sharp bright green even against the green of her face. She roars with a sound that’s barely human despite her shape, and behind red lips, her teeth still flash white.

A beam of raw psychic energy hurls M’gann down into slick, dry sand and sends her skidding into the shadow of a dark red cliffside. She groans in her human voice as her head rolls to the side, feeling the disconnect between the sound and her throat. The next attack strips her voice away completely–the force drives her through several layers of Martian rock, and all she has is the thought of wanting to scream, but her jaw cracks open to release nothing but breath. Breaking through the surface of Mars, her form falls freely in the open air for eternity in a moment, stone-like as every piece of rubble caving in with her.

But somewhere deeper down inside herself than where she already is, or so beyond herself that it escapes her own mind’s influence, she feels herself at least being able to squirm. The goal is to thrash, but the part of herself that can move at all won’t meet her more than halfway. The feeling’s left to be a fantasy within a world already imaginary, but a fantasy that refuses to dull her other feelings and drop her somewhere safer, like some fuzzy-lit room on Earth full of laughter–

–Her mind throws her down once again to the ground. Her limbs curl up towards her core before losing the strength to hold even that tension. Get up! M’gann shouts to herself without any voice to make it real. Her form grants her no motion beyond the closing of her eyes and the clenching of her teeth. Get up, she tries again. Get up, run, hide, do something, stop this, please, please, wake up!

M’gann opens her eyes again, at least on this plane. She’s dreaming. Of course. She’d almost forgotten she was dreaming, or at least what dreaming even meant. It doesn’t have to be a fight. She can let the images pass through her mind and wake up tomorrow on the other side of them as long as she accepts that they’re not real. The only power that they have is hers.

It’s the wrong thought to have as her punisher swoops down through the hole in the crust above, still wearing her face. The body M’gann is in still won’t move. To anyone else, the sight of an opponent sprawled out in the dust and stripped bare of all defenses would be a sign to stop, but M’gann knows herself far, far too well to expect that.

The next psychic beam rips a long thin gash into the exterior of a hollow cavern, and M’gann crosses her thin white arms in front of herself to block the oncoming rubble. The ground lets her pass right through itself before the impacts crumble it away, and this time she can propel herself down rather than freefall. The rubble falling with her simply passes through the taut but wide cavity of her chest whenever close enough–she’s not a part of it now. She’s felt it enough. She’s truly, truly, felt it enough. She lands gracelessly in a small crater but with wrists and knees now strong enough to support her, no matter how weak and tired they feel.

Bio-orbs embedded in the rock turn the blood-red world a soft yet bright blue-green. The small cavern she’s landed in is cold and empty beyond the freshly-fallen debris, but it’s a respite all the same from the battle and the pain. M’gann rises to her feet, and the motion comes effortlessly; her form could almost float without her even needing to will it. The thick air and heavy wash of color that pervades the space soothes, makes her feel almost underwater.

And then, more than almost. M’gann loses the ground beneath her feet and swipes at emptiness with clawed toes to try to anchor herself back into her small haven. She’s still under a planet’s surface, no doubt, but that planet isn’t Mars again–safe walls crumble around her and give way to another dead and broken Atlantis. M’gann’s punisher hovers above with eyes still beaming and a green form still cloaked in darkness–it’s at least the right form for her. Tula never ravaged a world, only died to save one, and Tula’s memory, even with every shred of grief and longing embedded in it, still held enough inherent good not to tear Kaldur apart–that had only been his cover, and only part of it.

It took an invader to cause this much destruction, and M’gann looks up at herself and seethes.

A sharp light floods her vision, then M’gann's a'ashenn body goes skipping across platforms of earth like a stone across water. The part of her that’s beyond herself gives her all these inklings of gasps and grunts and groans–she doesn’t know why. She knows that she’s hurt, but nothing feels wrong. Momentum finally releases her, and she slides backward into place below a towering gray-blue wall, jagged at its edges from being broken off from something greater. Maybe it was something sacred, she muses numbly for a moment as she lies in its shadow. Maybe it was something magic. Or mundane. It doesn’t matter. It was something that deserved to be made whole again, and to be left whole to begin with.

An energy beam rips another gash into the stone above her. M’gann’s arms won’t cross to shield her–it wouldn’t matter if they did. She knows either way that the rubble will just crush her without killing her. After all, it’s not real. It’s not substantial enough to make any real difference. M’gann can see right through the rubble even as it falls into place on top of her. Her punisher zips over to see the attack’s result only to look down with disgust when M’gann is still alive to look back at her. M’gann shares in the frustration. They could do this all night. They could do this every day and night until the end of time, and nothing would change.

She can’t keep doing this. She thinks it every time, but every new time proves her wrong. She’s tired of being wrong. She just wants things to be right.

M’gann rises to her knees. Dust and debris slide out from the cradles of the membranes between her arms. Hot seafoam froths to life under a broken marble pillar nearby, spilling out around the pillar’s edges and lifting the pillar off the ground.

No, says some part of her, but not the part that has control now. M’gann’s punisher extends a hand and takes telekinetic command of the pillar. Obligingly, M’gann’s head and shoulders start to slump.

No! No, no, no–

It worked when Artemis said it. It made things–made her–stop this, snap out of it–at least as long as she had to. But M’gann’s form on this plane has something else to say instead, even without a mouth shaped to speak the words.

[Do it.]

No!

M’gann’s punisher raises the pillar high over her own head, arms braced and body coiling itself back like a spring. It’s the last look M’gann takes of her. There’s nothing more to see.

No!

She just wants to sleep.

[Finish it.]

M'gann closes her eyes, letting the gesture mean something this time, willing her sight into black. It’s the same smothering, empty darkness she can imagine will be there when it’s over, when it's all that will be left. Oblivion. It'd solve everything.

[It’s what I deserve.]

But she doesn’t want to die.

“No!” leaves her lips in a way that feels real and leaves her gasping at the faint but blank sky above her. The darkness returns quickly as her eyes roll back shut, but it's shallow this time, a thin veil draping over her face and letting some light still peek through to her.

Her body might be floating. It’s hard for her to tell. All the same, it feels too heavy for her to move. Her head bumps into something soft then simply drops back into air. Neither motion does anything to interrupt the throbbing behind her eyes, and this is what she wanted, she thinks–concrete proof that she's alive. From the depths of her mind, she’s shot herself back up to the top, and through it, into reality. The sound of her victory rings sharply through her head, and each peal is another declaration: she's alive, she's alive, and she's awake.

And now that she's awake, it's the last thing in the world that her body wants her to be. The pounding in her head and in her chest demands relief. She squeezes her eyes shut tight, pressing back against the pressure, and sighs a promise to her heart that she won't move again for hours if it would only let her sleep.

But there's more agitation at her chest than just her heart, and more to the ringing in her head than just the recoil.

Her name. Fingers digging into her arm. Conner's voice.

M'gann groans. If she opens her eyes, she knows her head will split in two.

If it hasn’t already.

"M'gann, wake up!"

"Mm-mm," M'gann responds defiantly, shaking her head side to side as something else shakes her chest up and down, but mostly just in place. Conner's arm is at her back, she realizes. He has her. It's nice. She rolls her head against his shoulder.

She drifts only for a second before feeling her back hit the carpeted floor. "Mm?" she hums, confused, and rolls her head to her own shoulder. Conner was just there–if she's dreaming still, then this part has never happened. And if she's still in her mind, then she's not sure how she’s ever going to wake up.

That thought has no time to panic her when thick fingertips are suddenly pushing and pulling at her eye, letting sharp air in to tell her in no uncertain terms that there's nothing left between her and the waking world. M’gann squeezes both her eyes as tightly shut as they'll go and shakes off the touch, raising her arm slightly at the elbow to swat at the intruder, but letting her hand bounce back against the floor without actually making contact. There’s no need when the strange hand has already left her alone–or, not a strange hand, really, just a strange thing for him to do with it–

“–M’gann. C’mon,” Conner says as his thumb runs up the center of her brow. She gasps at the warmth of his palm against her temple–for a moment, it melts away everything, but the hurt is much deeper than skin or muscle, deeper than even bone. Keeping her eyes closed, she rolls her head against his hand and wills for his touch to keep her numb, but pain trickles back into the forefront of her mind and pools behind her eyes.

“M'gann."

His hand doesn't leave her, but he's angry, she can tell.

"Wake up.”

His voice shakes. He rolls her head back into facing him, swiping a wet thumb across her cheek. M’gann tries to open her eyes, but they’re insistent. Sleep. Nothing else. There’s no recovery without rest.

“I’m sorry,” she at least manages to say. Her lips feel as heavy as her eyes, but she can tell that she still has to say it.

“What’s wrong with you?” Conner says–M’gann thinks. Her head–ears included–suddenly feels full of cotton balls. She’s not quite sure what the question even means, but he sounds upset.

“It’s okay,” M’gann assures him, a shallow recess of sleep opening up deeper beneath her. “I woke up.”

A warm, empty darkness waits for her inside her head. Too tired to do anything else, M’gann simply lets herself sink into it–imagines smiling, though whether the thought reaches her lips or dies off below the surface is beyond her. But here, she can tell that this time, she’s safe.

///

A flash of headlights raises Conner’s eyelids. He finds his head leaned forward at an angle he didn’t choose for it; he straightens up his neck. Speckled shadows flitter across the white sheet over his and M’gann’s legs as raindrops keep streaking down the outside of the windowpane, but the fog of M’gann’s breath on their side of the glass keeps her freckles as the only patterns on her face. Her mouth hangs open wordlessly, a slack lower lip and the scrunch of her cheek pulling her upper lip up at a slant.

One solid snore flares and crackles at the top of her throat, breath whirring in her nose and then puffing out past her teeth. Conner holds his laughter for the next one, and when the next one comes, he lets out his own–however subtler–snort. Underneath the cover, he taps his foot against M’gann’s hip.

“Hey,” he breathes out softly.

As he expects, her face stays still and serene as it hovers in the light, draped on either side by hair that pools around her shoulders, slips down and rides the rise and fall of her chest. It’s all just bio-mass that she shapes to her liking, Conner knows, but at this distance, he could mistake her for sixteen again. Just as easily as he could himself.

The comforter in his hands doesn’t quite do its job–he squeezes his fists around white puffs with too much give and sighs determinedly. Outside, an engine revs as wet wheels seethe softly against the asphalt, and another pair of headlights passes by the window, pulling Conner’s eyes in its direction. He’s too used to space, he thinks, frowning; the inky blackness outside the Watchtower’s windows never budges and never looks back in at him. But the golden lot stretching out to the road and to the docks is empty now, too, again, save for the overlapping blurs and rings of light crowding the sky.

We fight for this, you know, the memory of M’gann’s voice echoes back into his head. This is it. This is life and love and… and everything, really, down here. It’s still ours either way.

I like your answer, he’d told her. Still do, he thinks to her now, looking back her way.

Old habit. She’s asleep. And even if she were awake, her mind wouldn’t be open for it, for him, Conner figures. That’s where they are now. Her legs laid over his are barely a warmth or a weight, but she’s there, and his hands stay full of comforter. Her breath is quiet again, and his ears go anywhere else: the waves sliding over the shoreline, the residual rumble in the clouds from the storm already passed, more engines, more wheels, other guests in other rooms–conversations, sleep, adrenaline–hearts. M’gann’s heartbeat hangs immovably at the edges of all of it.

People’s minds need to be their own, right? she’d asked him.

Conner scoffs at himself and pries his eyes away from her face again. It’s not a kind of problem that he’s used to. The old them slept chest-to-chest, legs wrapped in legs, hands in hands and shirts and hair and anywhere. Permission to let all of her, every sound and sight and touch, wash over him when she was there would have been like permission to breathe.

This is the new them, or at least, the newest. He’d stopped listening to her heart before.

He'd wanted her out of his head, after all.

And what La’gaan’s touch did in her chest, he didn’t want to know–didn’t want to want to know. Her cooing, fawning voice lilting through the air did enough inside his own chest.

You were right about calling him my ‘rebound guy,’ she admitted. I could have spared La’gaan a lot of trouble if I had just listened to you.

It’s nothing he didn’t know–or nothing he hadn’t hoped–but it’s still a strange thing to have dropped in his lap now, to hold now in his hands. He’s proud of her for owning up to it–less proud of himself for how good it still feels to be right. The tide pulls back from the sand in the distance, and he remembers the impact from his side of the punching bag sliding him back on his heels as sand spilled out onto the floor over the sound of a hiccup, not a roar. The split knuckles left behind after inflated arms deflated showed Conner exactly how thick La’gaan’s skin really was, just like La’gaan’s half-hearted growl when Conner had brought out the bandages:

“I don’t need this from you.”

“Take it anyway.”

La’gaan had snatched the gauze out of Conner’s hand, wrapped his wounds himself–slowly, drawing back his pointed teeth and slumping his shoulders in a sigh.

“Thanks… chum.”

Still don’t know what you’d see in a guy like that, Conner jokes alone in his head, rolling his eyes back to M’gann. Without her laughter to follow it, though, the joke falls flat.

Conner loses himself in her breath for a moment, just the sight of it. Motion self-perpetuating and self-contained. In arm’s reach but intangible. She could be static on a screen, and his eyes grow heavy as he stares, but something holds him up and out of sleep, keeps him staring at her, waiting.

She’s asleep. It’s over for the night. Whatever it’s been, whatever they’ve been tonight, is over. For now or forever, he can’t decide, can’t tell. He’d blamed the alcohol a little for the fun of it, but also to get the truth out of her–any truth, all the truth, whatever she would give him–

If anything, you bring out the… the truth in me, even when I don’t think that I can face it. If that’s the worst of me, then… I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorr–

Stop, Conner thinks at her in his memory, in his head, as his cheeks flare hot at her faraway face. Her hands lie limp and crossed at the wrists in her lap, and it takes every ounce of conscious thought for him to convince himself not to reach for her. Stop saying things like that.

He rips his stare away from her hands, but his eyes refuse to linger in the darkness of the room for long. They find their way back to her face, cool and soft in the window light, but his own face feels hot and brittle, eyes burning, teeth clenched–

I thought you were stronger than this.

He growls at the thought. It’s not what he means, not what he thinks–but explaining that to himself would be easier if he had said it out loud. Her strength–with everything that’s weighing on her, everything she’s still carrying–but even he knows when that strength isn’t a virtue. He thought she put it down. He thought he’d helped her when he finally said it–

–Cheeks still stinging, Conner breathes out, loosens his bite. He closes his eyes. An afterimage of M’gann lingers in his vision, however vague, and he breathes in, out again in time with how its pieces drift apart and fade. It’s easier when she’s already linked, but, concentrating, he fumbles through the dark inside his own skull until he can feel a place to push. Calling back the picture of her in his head, he wills the thought forward.

[I forgive you.]

He opens his eyes.

A single streak runs down the outside of the window, a fresh cut of light through the center of the glass. The rest of the world is as good as still. M’gann keeps breathing, in and out.

At least with her asleep, it makes sense that what he says doesn’t matter.

Conner closes his eyes again tightly, forcing the dark to flood in faster this time. His turn to lean a cheek against glass. It registers briefly as some kind of cold, then it’s nothing.

Two days.

A shiver hits him from the inside, runs through his bones.

M’gann reminds him that she’s there with a tap of her voice against his eardrum, a small hmnh in her sleep. Conner slides his hand forward until he finds the jut of her toes, and he squeezes, feeling more fluff than foot. All the same, he leaves his hand where it lies. The ocean fades out into drips off of streetlamps, thunder and engines into her breath and his, and then just his own.

The glass gives him distance. Just enough to hold him in and the rest of the world out.

Away.

Gone.

The white light coming down is his whole world now, just like at the start. The slab against his back keeps him upright. There’s no will in his limbs; the strength in his muscles is static, feels like nothing, means nothing. The urge to twitch a finger doesn’t make it down to his hand.

No.

He makes a fist in his head, then another, then again, then again. His hands stay flat against the slab.

No! he shouts behind closed eyes, closed mouth. Around him is all breakable–the walls, the glass–more grasps at fists. He thinks it through. It doesn’t matter that he’s alone. All he has to do is move. Just an inch. Just a push. Just like a heart, keep beating, keep pushing, keep being alive until he’s through–

A needle-thin prickling in his ears opens his eyes–the chime of a crack. A jagged white line ruptures through the case of light around him, draws in the empty dark outside it. He grits his teeth, holds his breath an extra second just to push it out stronger the next. The pressure outside presses back–the glass trembles. The crack grows new offshoots, white veins across his vision. His own veins throb in his wrists. His hands tremble like the glass–just a curl of his fingers, just one twitch into a fist, and he could do it. He can do it. It’ll pass. He’ll get through. He can do it–he can–he–

–A fist-sized hole in the glass breaks into view and knocks the breath out of him, lifts him limply off the slab and throws him to the top of the pod. Before his body can bust through it, it shatters on its own. The light splinters into shards around him; the dark becomes a dimly-lit haze and carries the broken glass away in a wave.

But the wave that launched his body up doesn’t send him back down. His hands hover at level with his shoulders now, and as he brings fingertips to palms, his fingers cut through little resistance. Something solid enough to feel, but not enough to grip. Over his head, he finds no sun; under his feet, no ground. The world floats around him in pieces: slabs of earth and marble, displaced tiles littered across the sky, whole pillars ripped from foundations. He's just one more thing suspended in freefall. His feet don’t need a ground–his body doesn’t need the sun. What destruction there was has already been wrought. What’s left in the brokenness is silence. Stillness.

He could float here forever.

Forever only lasts seconds–a flash rips through his eyes, and a scream burns through his head. Forever returns too fast–the silence and stillness become a gaping numbness, his body a dead weight again. He shakes his head, finds his breath, brings his fists down to his sides and blinks, thinks.

He’s not alone. A figure, bright and flowing, descends from the sunless, horizonless sky. Yellow and pale blue. Sharp cuts of dark red hair. Her own fists clenched at her sides, swirling light streaking off of them. Snarling teeth and icy eyes all but glowing.

“Tula?”

Tula’s name leaves his mouth, and the weight of the ocean fills his chest. His throat strains for power it doesn’t have–breath or a scream–and he throws his hands up, out, grasps for a line, for a rebreather, for hold of anything. Tula shimmers in his watering eyes. The sash at her waist writhes snakelike at her side then disappears behind her in a dark blue shadow. Her suit darkens at her chest and stretches out over her limbs. Conner blinks, and Tula’s face goes sickly yellow, then vibrant green, darker freckles spraying out across her cheeks and to the feather edges of short copper hair.

Conner reaches for her.

M’gann!

The thought itself sets light to the haze and crumbles the ocean into dust. A horizon stretches into view, brings floating white stone tumbling to the ground and rolls it into red cliffs. The sun hangs distant, a blue dot at the bottom of a yellow-gray sky. Conner hangs above it, holding his throat as air flows back in.

The world behind him goes bright green. He looks back to M’gann–he doesn’t find her. In her place, a screeching, sizzling beam of energy rushes at him, swallows him whole.

–And spits him back out. Conner lowers and uncrosses his arms without so much as a singe on his shirt or a tingle in his skin. M’gann is a momentary blip in his vision, a smaller flash of green–a crash below quickly steals his attention. Sand hisses and billows up like smoke at the bottom of a nearby cliff. The trail carved through the dirt leads Conner’s eyes to the body before the cloud can start to thin, and at first, all he can see is white.

And at this distance, the pointed white head rolling to the side could be any White Martian’s, but the weak groan that flickers in Conner’s ears is hers.

Conner dives. The world becomes a hot blur in his eyes–he squints to focus in. M’gann’s upturned claws tremble, then fall limp. Conner lands without dust, without craters–as he runs down the length of her skid through the sand, his feet barely touch ground. He crouches beside her. Her eyes stay wrenched shut. [It’s me,] he thinks to her, reaching for the white crest of her forehead.

His hand freezes as the sound of his own thought rings right back through his head, reverberates in pieces off every wall and surface around him–both above him and below him, a peal becomes a pulse.

Above him, M’gann descends, green fists at her sides, blue cape whipping up behind her head as hair flicks around her face like flame. Her eyes are blank with light–they narrow, and energy sears past their edges, charges into form between them as a cell of light. She raises her fists and roars.

“No!” Conner throws himself over M’gann’s bare white form. For a moment, he can see her teeth part for breath in his shadow. The next moment, her mouth is open wide in a soundless scream, and the ground below him is in pieces falling with her. Gravity leaves his body dangling over the chasm, the dark haze blooming wide as each layer of rock crumbles into the next. The white spec of M’gann's form vanishes into the dust.

Then a hot streak of green and a violent snap of cloak folds ripples past his head.

Conner growls, kicks off against air, and throws himself in after her.

[M’gann!]

No response; more echoes. The pulse of her presence thrums in every shard of rubble. But in the rust-red haze, a flicker of blue flags the red X on her back. Conner steers himself closer to her in his descent, thrusting an elbow, twisting his waist. His arms and hers align in his sight–his hands open for her–

[M'gann, stop!]

–His fingers curl around air. He tries again–empty fists. She’s solid in his vision. He tries again–his arms phase right through her and close over his own chest.

[M’gann, what are you–]

A ripple of her cloak hits his eyes but not his face, and M’gann slips farther ahead of him. Conner reaches out again–his hands don’t follow the thought. They snap back to his sides. Momentum leaves his limbs; in his eyes, he’s still falling, but his back feels a wall.

No, he thinks.

Light filters in around him–

No!

[Get up!]

As a distant shout as soft as a breath, M’gann’s voice grazes the surface of his mind. The light hits the dust–his vision blurs and frays into a white rippling haze. Static. Empty.

[No!] he shouts back to her, reaching, reaching–nothing, nothing. Each thought dies in his head. Each thought pulls his body further back into stillness–he holds his eyes shut to keep falling, to force the picture back. The ground never comes.

[Get up. Get up, run, hide]–M’gann’s voice only grows more frantic as it fades–[do something, stop this]–pounding thunder drowns her out, fast and rhythmic like a drum–[please, please…]

Conner slams his hand into the glass.

No air comes rushing in. His knuckles tell him cold, hard, wet, but no shards litter down as his hand slips along the surface. Something light and papery shuffles at his knees–the hand in his lap tightens around itself. A metallic glint–the door handle–the white block of the bed–his own shadow, smeared across its side–

–Carpet fibers prickle against his chin and cheek, matching the pins and needles already in his limbs. The thud of the floor against his skull catches up to him–no pain, but an impact. His feet finish sliding out from the window seat and drop to the floor. Holding his eyes open, he watches the static slowly fizzle all the way out of his vision.

When it clears, M’gann is at his side, body white and crumpled.

Conner claws at the carpet until his hands have their strength again. He blinks, and the white becomes only the comforter over her head. Conner shoves himself up onto his knees and wrests the sheet off of her, feeling it press tangibly into his grip. A half-awake thought over the thunder in his head says rip it–he shakes it out of his hand instead, tossing it aside.

M’gann looks out past him with eyes half-open, white light peering through. Her face is green–gray in the window light, but Conner knows it in any light–and her hair curls short around her jaw, framing bared, clenched teeth. The pounding of her heart drowns out his own in his head–his adrenaline, her panic.

“M’gann.”

She’s solid–so is he. The fabric of her shirt creases under his fingertips–small victory, he lets himself think. He rolls her onto her back, her arm dragging limply over her stomach. Her eyes stay half-open; she doesn’t blink. He shakes her by the shoulder. Nothing. “M’gann,” he tries again, both shoulders now. Face unchanged, her head rolls to the side. [M’gann!] he tries projecting with his mind–

She was there. Traces of her. Hot trails of her touch leading off over the edges. Conner blinks at a floating afterimage, rust-red flickering to green–

–M’gann twitches under his hands and lets out a sharp, breathy whine. Her eyes open wider, shining more light. Conner shakes off the why, the how, even the what–for now. He needs her awake–she needs to wake up. [M’gann, can you hear me,] Conner pushes out to her, concentrating, feeling for connection. The thought drifts out and dissipates. “M’gann.” Out loud again. He shakes her shoulder, lifts her arm, squeezes her wrist. [M’gann!] Another hanging thought. He clutches at her temple, rooting fingers in her short hair.

M’gann’s breath hitches. Conner’s hand goes slack. He waits for a response. Her eyelids flutter, and her chest jumps; she grunts as if from effort, or an impact. Her hands curl and uncurl. She rolls her cheek into his hand then out again, only vocalizing a hard gasp for breath once she’s staring back out at nothing.

Conner’s hand tenses around M’gann’s head again. Like a switch, the light from her eyes goes out as her eyes fall shut.

Conner jumps to his feet, teetering back but catching himself. That wasn’t him, he thinks determinedly, feeling fresh sweat between clenched cold fingers. It wasn’t him. The thought shifts from self-assurance into its own frustration. What he's doing isn’t working. His eyes scan the room for a solution, but there’s the bed, his boots, and the door. Some reflex says he has to get her out of here–it’s wrong, he knows that, but not why. How. What. Her touch was in his mind–that’s all he senses now, and all he sensed then–now that he’s awake, he knows it. He knows her mind. She pulled him in.

Psimon–Conner sweeps the motel for heartbeats and heat signatures, throws pulsating colors up into his vision–he wouldn’t know Psimon by either scan, wouldn’t even know what’s changed since before he fell asleep–he didn’t count then, but now, everything’s quieter. That’s all he can tell. Their guard’s been down all night–

–Civilians. Conner eyes the door again, a blur of murky blue-gray. He remembers to blink, and his sight returns to normal. Even if it’s her–especially if it’s her–he needs to get her out of here. And if it’s her, then she–

–She's not in control.

M’gann lies still and quiet again at his feet. Her heart beats softer. Slower.

Conner drops back to his knees.

“M’gann.” He strokes her forehead and jostles her shoulder. Still no response–from any part of her. His hand leaves her shoulder, but the tremor stays in his wrist. He can still hear her heart, but the sound isn’t enough. He waits to see her breathe.

Artemis in the sand–fake blood and a pill, Conner reminds himself.

But Wally in the white haze–a flash of light and then one fewer pulse, one fewer flicker of yellow and red.

M’gann’s chest rises. Conner puts his hand to his own head in relief and remembers to breathe, too.

Then M’gann breathes out a groan, tightening her brow. Her breath hitches and stutters, drawing her shoulders up to her ears. Her chest rises again.

The rest of her follows. A wave pushes at Conner’s knees, kicks up tendrils of M’gann’s hair, and tosses the comforter off the floor and towards the door. Space opens up between the floor and M’gann’s back, and she whimpers, grunts as her heels kick at air. Fighting the tug of telekinetic resistance, Conner pulls her to his chest. A pant already sets her own chest throbbing against it as her pulse quickens again. She gasps and throws her head back–her eyes open up wide and white again. Conner holds her head to his shoulder with his chin. Her body quivers like a plucked string; her voice catches in her throat, comes out in half-choked cries.

Then just as quickly as it rose, her body goes slack in his arms. Conner’s mouth forms around her name again, but nothing comes out. His eyes fall to the streaked glass of the window. Her body is too heavy and too light all at once. It’s still ours, he thinks idly in her words, waiting for a drop to fall, waiting for thunder. Her heart beats slower again, a missed half-second. A missed half-second. Another sets the pattern. She’s breathing, but there’s nothing–

There’s nothing he can–

–No. Conner’s hand tightens around M’gann’s bicep until his fingertips burn with a pulse–two pulses, hers and his own. He lets go and raises his head. M'gann's head beneath it drops back, white light flickering through her fluttering lashes. Conner raises a knee to prop up her back, and with his freed hand, he pushes her head into his, brow to brow.

If he can’t get her out, he needs to get back in.

Conner closes his eyes. [M’gann.]

“Ngh,” M’gann grunts out. Her breath hisses back in through clenched teeth.

[M'gann, listen to me.]

"Nnnn–" Her head beats in place against his like a heart, and she hiccups, gasps–sobs. Hot tears trickle into his hand at her cheek. Conner pulls his face back from hers. “Nnh–nuh-uh-agh–” she moans, then bites at air and seethes. More tears shine at the edges of her eyes, sending white streaks down the side of her face.

Conner shuts his eyes tight and brings her forehead back to his. [I know–] The knot forming in his throat makes even his mental voice snag. [I know I can get to you. Let me help you. Let me in.]

The world stays black behind his eyes. M’gann’s whole body trembles in his hands. The darkness in his head pulsates with her heart–her mouth still fights against the sound for a word. “Nuh–”

[–M’gann, please.] He drops his knee and rocks her forward, ignoring the quiver of his legs against the floor. [Please. I–]

“Nnn–unhhhh…”

A long hot breath runs over the skin of Conner’s throat, leaving a chill in its wake. Another doesn’t follow. M’gann’s brow falls flat under the curve of his forehead. His head throbs–his own heart. It’s all he can hear. His own breath leaves him. He opens his eyes. Hers hang open in slivers, lashes unmoving and light dimming.

“M’gann–”

“–No!”

M’gann shouts it to the ceiling, body rising out of his hands, light flashing out of wide open eyes. Her eyes roll back shut, and her body drops back down. Her head bumps Conner’s shoulder; it falls back over the edge of his arm, and long hair cascades down over his sleeve and skin. The green leaves her face as she gulps down air, heart pounding in time with hard, determined breath after hard, determined breath.

For a moment, it’s all there is to do. Hear her heart. Watch her breathe. Hold her. She’s alive. That’s all. She’s alive.

He knew that.

He knows that.

And now that he knows that, he needs her to be awake.

A determined breath becomes a determined sigh. M’gann’s body half-relaxes in his arms–he can feel the tension linger in her knees and shoulders, see her hold it in a crease between tightly-shut eyes.

“M’gann…” Any other name, any other word by now would have already lost its meaning. “M’gann, wake up.”

M’gann holds her body still and her eyes closed.

“M’gann.”

Nothing. Just her heart. Not sleep, but not panic. He shakes her. She groans and resists the movement, fights to keep her head in place.

“M’gann, wake up!” he shouts, rattling her again. Her arm pulsates in his grip.

“Mm-mm.” M’gann shakes her head once then drops it against his shoulder, sinks her whole body into his arms. In his hand, her arm feels thin and full of feathers–soft, yielding, too yielding, no comfort–too much give–

–Conner throws her to the floor. She barely makes a sound. Her head rolls to the side. She breathes–Conner sees it. Hears it. Everything. His skin prickles. His hands hover over her as cold and stiff as ice, ignoring commands. Move. Move. Draw back. Check her arm. Move the sleeve–rip the sleeve. He has to know. A bruise, and he won’t touch her again. A bruise, and he won’t touch anyone ever again.

A finger twitch breaks through. His hands still shake–he steadies them with fists, squeezing until he can feel the pressure under his skin release, until he can open them back up and trust them.

Rip the sleeve–Conner smacks himself on the forehead and pulls at his own hair. He knows. He knows how too much feels. There’s no bruise. He has to know that. He has to know that by now. No spike of her heartbeat–he would have heard her feel it.

Unless–

–Holding his breath, Conner reaches down to M’gann’s face and nudges one eye open between his forefinger and thumb. Her pupil shrinks–he thinks–she squeezes both eyes shut and shakes her head at him, and his fingertips don’t stay a second longer on her eyelids. He releases the breath he was holding. M’gann’s hand rises halfway off the floor and then drops back to the carpet–searching for him, maybe, but not finding him, and giving up. Conner lays his palm flat against her cheek, tear streaks on her skin now cold but not yet dry. “M’gann,” he tries again, softly. “C’mon.” He runs his thumb carefully along the hard crease in her brow. M’gann gasps, lashes fluttering–her eyes don’t open, but she feels him, he can tell. She presses back against his palm, digs into it–sweat-stuck bangs loosen from her forehead as she feels for the curve in his hand to fit her quivering brow into. A fresh beat of pain–quickening, shallowing–starts in her heart and her breath. She grits her teeth and pushes harder into his hand.

Whatever his touch needs to do, it can’t.

“M'gann." Conner says, stifling a growl. "Wake up.”

M’gann’s eyes keep fluttering. Every second, they keep not opening. Conner stares as if his stare could do anything more than his touch. He pushes M’gann’s head back to face the ceiling and wipes the tears left on her face before any more can form. [Wake up,] he thinks into an empty space in his own head. [Wake up. Wake up.]

“I’m sorry.”

Conner barely sees her lips move, but two tiny thumps of her voice hit his ears–not his mind.

A fire starts in Conner’s head, stinging in his eyes. Not sorry. Answers. What did this. What is this? Why aren’t you waking up?

“What’s wrong with you?” Conner manages to blurt out, lip curling into a snarl.

“It’s okay.” M’gann gives her head the slightest nudge back towards him, then stops. She smiles. “I woke up.”

She breathes out.

Conner watches her breathe back in, then out again. In, then out. In, then out. Sleep sinks back into her heartbeat almost instantly.

M’gann! starts on his lips. His voice doesn’t rise far enough up his throat to make it out of his mouth. He bites the insides of his lips instead. His hand touches down onto her shoulder, then slips off into the hair pooled around her on the floor.

Don’t think about how it looks, Conner tells himself, trying not to let his eyes soften on her heavy-fallen lashes or loosely-hanging lip–trying not to see another slip and I've lost her–trying not to see Mars, Atlantis, Tula–

–Don’t think about more than how it looks, Conner then adds, though he does the opposite. He keeps it all, holds it all in, and thinks. Whatever happened psychically has passed; it makes sense that it’d have drained her. His fingers part a gap in her hair laid out in the carpet. It's something–it's nothing. There's nothing left to do. Run her to the Watchtower, run her to–

–Genomorph City.

Conner jumps back to his feet and stumbles past the bed, hitting his hip against the corner of the mattress but not letting it slow him down. He dives for his boots. His balled-up socks pop out and roll onto the floor; Conner snatches them up, too, unpeeling one from itself and rolling it, still damp from the rain, back onto his foot before he can even sit. The other tears as he pulls it on–not a hole, just some oomph of the elastic. His boot still fits over it. He stomps both rubber heels into the floor as he stands. M’gann still lies unconscious in the spotlight of the window, chest rising and falling.

Genomorph City, Conner repeats to himself. How. It’s miles and miles away. They left Sphere at the Watchtower. The zeta tube near Palmer’s lab is the only one left after the Cave, and it’s too small. His bike in the shop still isn’t road-ready. There’s always on foot–in the air and on foot. Enough leaps down the highway, and–and if that didn’t wake her up, that’d tell him something.

I’m sorry, she said.

That told him nothing.

Conner kneels back down at M’gann’s side. Urgency makes room for caution, sits and stirs at the back of his mind as he slips his fingers between the back of M’gann’s neck and the carpet, inching them up to the base of her skull. Her head drops into his hand like an apple from a tree. He nudges her hips up from the floor and hooks his arm around them. She comes up weightless. He lets her slip just until the backs of her knees lock into place around his arm.

If he dropped her on the way there–

Conner shakes his head at himself, stomping a foot. He can’t think like that: what if I fail. He’s a hero–this is a crisis. He always has to try.

This is a crisis. The smile stays on M’gann’s lips. He knows panic, he knows pain, he knows adrenaline, he knows sleep–M’gann’s heartrate says nothing but sleep.

It’s okay, she said, forming that smile. I woke up.

Conner stands in the window light, holding her. The last straggling raindrops roll down the glass. I woke up–she woke up enough to tell him that. It’s okay, his mind plays back. I’m sorry.

If that’s the worst of me, then… I’m so, so, sorr–

Stop, Conner tells her in his head again. Behind his eyes, Atlantis still sloshes, and pieces of Mars still crumble. Tula was alive again, if only for a second. M’gann made him see it, made him think it–

Panic, pain, adrenaline–what hits his system now is close, and he knows it just as well.

Anger.

M’gann knew what this was.

Conner fixes his eyes to the window. He can’t look down at her. He’ll see her smiling in his arms, and he’ll let it go. He needs answers–deserves answers. The anger coils in his head and hands. There’s nowhere else for it to go.

The shoulder of M’gann’s sleeve crackles in his hand, too-slick hair slipping in-between his fingers. His grip gives him two options: drop her or hold on tighter.

Keeping his footsteps as even as her breath, Conner walks her to the bed. The mattress creaks faintly as her body settles into it. Save for her breath and pulse, it’s the only sound. Conner gathers the pillows and comforter from the floor.

Anger–he looks at her. His eyes soften as much as they sting. He doesn’t let it go, but he doesn’t hold on tighter.

He waits.

#young justice #supermartian #miss martian #superboy #m'gann m'orzz #conner kent #kon-el #megan morse #fanfiction #fanfic #chapter 3 #ch. 3 #yj #yours in fractions

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instructionsnotincluded · 8 months ago

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Do you have a snippet of Logan calling Rafe hot shot/buddy yet? 😂

I could do that! 🤣😉

18+ | MDNI | References to sex, flirting.

“Yeah, ok,” Logan rolled her eyes as she leaned over to rest her elbows on the Calacatta marble, eyes trailing across the veiny slab before she glanced toward Rafe, the oldest Cameron pulling open the refrigerator door, “whatever you say, buddy.”

It took exactly four seconds before Rafe turned his head, eyebrows furrowed, his gaze shifting away from the shelves in the refrigerator door to look towards her, watching as she rolled the Tootsie Pop around her molars, lips pursed around the white stick.

He slowly took a step back, the refrigerator door closing on its own as his frown only depended, one hand sliding along his hip, “Did…you just call me buddy?”

Logan cracked the Tootsie Pop in response, eyebrows lifting into her hairline, “Problem?”

“Um…” Rafe moved to stand near the counter across from her, his hands resting flat on the surface, “Last time I checked, buddies don’t shower together after having sex all morning…”

“Oh,” Logan pushed away from the counter, hand lifting to twirl her stick, “huh…good to know. I uh…need to make a few calls...”

Logan shrieked when Rafe closed the space between them quickly, one arm wrapping around her waist as the other pulled the sucker from her mouth, and just when she thought he was going to kiss her did he nip her bottom lip warningly, “Behave.”

Logan tilted her head back, requesting a kiss but Rafe only denied her, instead taking the Tootsie Pop into his own mouth before he released her, the open palm to his other hand lifting to slap against her denim covered ass.

#obx-chats #logan x rafe #fic: wilds winds

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manyblinkinglights · 2 years ago

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no one will install an ordinary tub/shower insert. I WANT an ordinary tub/shower insert. Both alternatives (tile, slabs of cultured marble) are DESPERATELY UGLY.

I just want a fuckening one-piece smooth rounded cheapo bathing zone!!! I am going to drop-kick cultured marble into the sun

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tiny-maus-boots · 2 years ago

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Queen of Hearts pt 16

A/N: coming back to an oldie but goodie for the moment.

The Bump

Aubrey

Aubrey paced the length of Flo’s living room with slow heavy steps as she replayed every moment of the last 12 hours. She went over every random choice and deliberate decision she had made with critical judgment just trying to pinpoint the moment she had screwed up so badly it had brought them all here to this moment. Chloe came down the hall with her head bowed and shoulders slumped, rubbing her face with her too pale hands.

“Doc…”

“I need a minute.”

The blonde woman gave a single nod and backed up a step and headed for the kitchen. She wasn’t familiar with Flo’s house but she didn’t have to search hard for what she needed. For a second she considered using one of the Cuban coffee pods arranged neatly in a display rack but figured Doc Beale would need to sleep eventually. Aubrey grabbed a couple of mugs and dropped tea bags into them.

The ritual of making tea calmed her in a way that pacing had not. Whatever she had told Stacie before had not prepared her for actually needing to pick her fiancée up at the police station. Especially after they had found Happy gasping softly for her last breaths. Pain and fury blazed hot in her chest and her hands shook with the effort to contain it all.

"Is that tea?"

Aubrey looked up with a start and nodded at Chloe. She hardly knew what to expect. If she lost Happy…

"Stacie in the shower?" Aubrey nodded again and slid a mug across the counter to the other woman. "Let's talk."

It was final sounding and Aubrey found herself almost hoping that Chloe would tell her she was out. Done. Cutting ties. And as much as she needed and valued Chloe…she would let her go.

"Is Happy going to live?"

Chloe took her time removing the tea bag from her mug and adding honey before she spoke. Her voice seemed as tired as Aubrey felt.

"Yes. But with complications. There is some nerve damage I suspect. Won't be able to tell until she's healed some and is ambulatory. And that. That's going to take time. Flo is sitting with her now."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I don't know if she will regain use of her right arm again, or walk properly. I closed 8 distinct stab wounds. She's going to be on a cornucopia of medication and physical therapy probably for the rest of her life. She has a long road ahead of them."

Aubrey's heart dropped to her stomach then gave a sickening lurch. Just then Stacie's reassuring warmth settled against her back. It brought her a comfort she didn't feel she deserved to have. Stacie’s still damp hair tickled her ear when their heads came together in a silent show of support for one another.

She would fix this somehow. Whatever it took. Chloe was watching her over the rim of her mug. Aubrey raised a brow in question but the doctor held her silence without the slightest indication that she was ready to talk. Aubrey took that to mean that Doc Beale was waiting to see how she would respond to this new information.

"I need to know exactly what happened today."

Stacie untangled herself from Aubrey and reached for the blonde's abandoned mug on the counter. Her fingers traced a thin gray vein in the slab of white marble almost absently as she recalled the events of a long night that wasn't nearly over.

"I don't really know what happened Bree. It all went so fast."

The blonde acknowledged that with a nod and reached out to give the other woman's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"It's okay. Start from the beginning and we'll figure it out together."

Stacie gave herself a slight shake to clear her head and sighed.

"Your drug guy, whoever he is, he gave the right info. Happy and I found Kodie at his place in Harborfront. It’s a pretty exclusive community which seems right for who he is but…” Stacie frowned and hesitated. Whatever she was struggling with she didn’t say. “I don’t know. It’s just a nice place, well maintained and secure. Neither of us expected any trouble.”

Aubrey knew the place. It was pretty swank and it was close enough to the port to make it easy for Kodie Grant to keep an eye on. There was no way a security guard’s salary could afford a place like that but she assumed Kodie was either using family money to pay for it or he had an off the books kind of side gig. She was betting on the latter.

“Did anything seem off to you? Anything, even if you don’t think it’s important.”

Stacie raised her head, lip caught between her teeth as she considered.

“Yeah. It was quiet. Too quiet for the time of day it was. There should have been more people around. Not even like people were in their condos but like the entire floor was empty.” Stacie shook her head. “It’s stupid. I can’t possibly know that. It was just a weird vibe I got.”

It was instinct and over the years Aubrey had learned to trust hers. She turned her head to ask Happy to run that down and find out who lived on the same floor as Kodie but she was suddenly reminded that Happy wasn’t there. It took the wind out of her lungs like a punch to the gut and just for a moment Aubrey felt lost. Chloe sensed her struggle and took out her phone.

“I’ll text Detective Mitchell and have her check it out.”

She nodded her thanks without even questioning the fact that Doc somehow had Beca’s phone number and was comfortable texting her. There wasn’t any time to focus on that but she filed it away for later, only the thoughtful look on her face giving away that she’d caught the slip.

“So then what happened?”

“It all went really fast from there. I told Happy to wait by the elevator while I got Kodie to open the door but when I knocked the door just pushed open and I saw him there on the floor. God, Bree…he was still alive.” She shuddered and Aubrey wrapped her arms around the tall woman. “I tried to put pressure, or, hold the cut closed but his neck…”

Stacie looked like she was lost in the memory of the moment and couldn’t see past the nightmare she had experienced. Aubrey gave her a gentle squeeze, reminding her that it was over and she wasn’t alone now.

“Happy must have heard me scream…I’m not really sure. My back was to the door so I didn’t see it. I just heard her and when I turned to ask for help…” Stacie had to stop and rub her eyes hoping to erase the images burned in her mind. “Some thug, Jesus Christ… he was right behind her and she didn’t even notice. I don’t know what happened after that, they fought, and he would have killed her if she hadn’t managed to get a shot off. I think. I know I heard it and his head…”

That didn’t seem right. She had checked Happy’s gear when Doc had cut it off her. She hadn’t cleared her holster and the safety was still on. There hadn’t been enough time for her to draw in that close of a struggle.

“And then?”

“And then I don’t know. Alice was there. She was all over me, I got slammed to the ground and cuffed before I could say a word.”

Hm. Too convenient. Too heavy handed. Too��Alice. Aubrey shook her head and paced the length of the small galley style kitchen. In the back of her mind she was aware of the little things. The bright yellow curtains, the cheerful ceramic mushroom salt and pepper shakers, and dinner for two left uneaten. Happy and Flo had been expecting an entirely different end to their day and it pained her to know she was responsible for that being taken away from them.

“Alice did this. She knew we were on to Grant’s kid somehow and had to tie up loose ends. It was a trap, and I let you and Happy walk right into it. I’m so sorry Stacie, this is all my fault. I gotta think…”

A quiet unease had settled in her stomach and she wondered where the leak had come from. Beca? Or was it Lou? She and Lou Divine had a long history, longer than the one she’d had with Detective Mitchell. She had known Lou when he was still using his deadname Luz Divina and a part of her couldn’t even fathom that he would turn on her now. Not with their history. But to think that Detective Mitchell had chosen to work with Alice? That was impossible.

She hoped.

Right now she wasn’t sure who she could trust. Chloe must have sensed what she was thinking because the cold façade of clinical detachment fell and her expressive blue eyes filled with emotion.

“Someone sold us out.”

Us. Not you. Somewhere along the line Chloe stopped counting herself as outside the family. A faint smile tugged the corners of her lips but it turned grim as she remembered what was happening. Stacie moved closer and wrapped her arms around Aubrey once again.

“Do you know who?”

“I have some ideas but I need confirmation first before I seal the leak.”

“So what do we do?” Stacie gestured to herself and Chloe expecting that they would both have something to do to help. “Do we call in backup?”

The silence was long before she finally cleared her throat to speak. She wanted to tell them both to run and hide and stay away until the dust settled. Hell, a part of her wanted to run and hide too. Her dad’s voice drifted through her mind and she straightened her vest and smoothed her tie. Take the hit, kiddo, then hit back harder.

She could do that. Alice picked a fight with the wrong bully in the school yard. Again This time it was going to bury her. Perhaps even literally.

“Stay here and help Flo. She’s going to need someone. Doc, as much as I hate putting you there, you have to go back to work. So far no one else knows you’re with us, if you change your behavior now they’ll catch a clue. I’ll send Hap…”

Stacie and Chloe found somewhere else to look while she faltered again at the loss of her right hand man. Aubrey swallowed hard, willing the tremors of grief threatening to make her lose her control to stop.

“I’ll send Lil as soon as she gets back from an errand I sent her on. Just go about your business as usual. You’ll never know she’s there but I promise she’ll have eyes on you everywhere you go. Keep the burner on you, if I call you gotta be prepared to move fast.”

Chloe looked started but she nodded and wrapped her arms around herself. She had plenty of people she could send to watch over Chloe but a dozen people wouldn’t be as good as one Lilly. She needed someone she could trust to watch the Doc, someone that wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever had to be done to protect her.

“What about you? Where are you going?”

“I need to talk to Lou. He owes me answers.”

“Not alone you’re not.” Stacie’s voice held just enough alarm that Aubrey gave a nod of agreement. “Take Beca with you if she can shake Esposito.”

“Alice won’t be out for long. She’s got backing, she won’t need the local police to cooperate with her case if she thinks she can tie me to something that gives her jurisdiction. She’ll want to finish what she started here so as soon as we can move Happy we’ll get her and Flo to the safe house in Riverside.”

Aubrey lifted the leg of her trousers and took her back up piece out of the holster and placed it in Stacie’s hands. They shared a look and Aubrey desperately wished she had the words to make everything okay. But she didn’t. And Stacie wasn’t asking for any platitudes. Aubrey cupped the brunette’s face, her thumbs ghosting along the other woman’s jaw in a light caress before she kissed her with a gentle passion. Just in case it was the last one for a while.

“Don’t open the door if anyone knocks, don’t go out. If you need me…”

“I won’t. We’ll be okay, you just take care of business.”

Oh she would. She definitely would.

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