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writer-room · 4 years ago

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Well, Could’ve Been Worse

AO3

Summary: No sane person would be calling at this house if it wasn’t important. His phone said it was two in the morning. Lovely. His phone also said Tim was calling. Also known as: not a normally sane person. If Tim had gone on another frenzied Red Bull-induced investigation and gotten himself stuck again, Kon was gonna kill him. Also known as: Tim makes stupid decisions when on a caffeine crash + sleep deprivation. Kon, sadly, has to deal with that at the worst hours.

Kon’s powers were...weird. Unstable, if you wanted to be specific. Not as bad as it used to be, but it still wasn’t the same as Clark’s. Thank you again, Luthor.

Which means that if he’s conscious enough to check every now and again, he can do the whole ‘call my name and I’ll be there in about four seconds’ schtick, but it didn’t go so well when he was asleep. Cassie said he slept like the dead, to which Bart insisted that if there was ever food involved, he’d be wide awake faster than he could run across a room.

Both were ridiculous, but whatever.

Tim, at least, had tried to assure Kon that surely Clark couldn’t hear disasters going on when he was asleep. Tim wasn’t one who was often wrong, but Kon was willing to play a risky betting game on this one.

It made sleeping a little anxiety-inducing for a while, knowing that if something happened. he wouldn’t know anything about it until he woke up. Tim had said that it was normal to hate sleeping because of hero business.

Kon always thought of that comment every time he caught Tim awake at ungodly hours for days on end, staying up purely because of caffeine and spite. He should probably bring that up sometime.

The point was, Kon didn’t hear things when he was asleep. Which could be a good and bad thing in its own right. He isn’t, however, impervious to an obnoxiously loud ringing going off by his head.

Kon snorted as he woke, his phone ringing eerily sudden in the quiet of the Cave. He groaned, sitting up from where he’d passed out on the couch in the Cave. He suspiciously remembered something involving Cassie and arm wrestling landing him here, but he was too tired to care about that now.

His phone was on the ground beside him, a wonder nobody had stepped on it, especially Bart. It rang painfully loud, though that was probably because it was the first sound he’d heard in the past...however many hours it’d been. Kon resigned himself to slowly reaching down and pulling his phone up as he leaned against the arm of the couch. No sane person would be calling at this house if it wasn’t important.

His phone said it was two in the morning. Lovely.

His phone also said Tim was calling. Also known as: not a normally sane person.

If Tim had gone on another frenzied Red Bull-induced investigation and gotten himself stuck again, Kon was gonna kill him.

That’s a lie, he wouldn’t. Cassie, however, would kill him if he told her. So he could probably settle for that.

With a sigh, Kon mentally prepared to hear incoherent rambling he’d need to find Bart to interpret, and accepted the call.

“It’s two in the morning, Tim.” Was the first thing he said, letting his annoyance seep in.

“It’s like, two twenty-four,” Tim’s voice rasped over the phone, far scratchier than normal. “So if you woke up at normal times like everyone else, this wouldn’t be as big an issue.”

“You are not the person to be telling me how to go about my sleep schedule.” Kon scolded lightly. “So I sleep in till noon, so what?”

“You woke up at three--” Tim cut off with a series of coughing coming through. “--p.m yesterday.”

“Not the point,” Kon muttered. “Why are you calling? I thought you were still in the Cave?”

There was shuffling on the other line, and Tim’s voice came through more faded, like he was further from the phone.

“Oh, yeah, left a few hours ago on patrol,” Tim wheezed. “Thought I’d be back before Bart woke up. He’s been wakin’ at like...six a.m or something.”

“Tim,” Kon started.

“It was barely a patrol,” Tim puffed. “More like...doin' rounds and...grabbing something from Denny’s.”

Tim’s words were slurring here and there. He did so a lot when he started having caffeine withdrawal or was coming down from a Red Bull rush. Or was sleep deprived. None of those options were comforting.

“Did you find some villains?” Kon inquired, praying that there was a less ridiculous reason he was being woken up so late. “You need backup or something?”

“Woulda called like...the headquarters if I did, dude.”

Yeah, something was wrong.

“What’s this all about, then?” Kon asked, swinging his legs off the edge of the couch and standing. “Where are you?”

“Okay, okay,” Tim mumbled, his voice closer to the phone now. “Uh, you know...the Denny’s...but it’s by that weird tiny mall with the Starbucks?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m about...two streets over from that. By a bustop. Don’t worry, don’t worry, street lamps are out.” Tim assured quickly.

“The street lamps are out?” Kon repeated.

“Broke ‘em.”

“Course you did,” Kon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stood up. “Seriously, man, what’s going on? What happened?”

“M’fine,” Tim lied, poorly. “Just don’t like...tell Cassie. She’ll kill me. With her eyeballs.”

“Tim, I’m way too tired for you to dodge around questions right now.” Kon groaned. “What happened and why do you need me? If you're not answering this outright, I’m hanging up and going back to bed.”

That’s also a lie. A bad one, at that. He’d probably stay on the phone all night if Tim needed him to. Though he’d definitely try and wake Cassie or Bart to help him out, he’s not that loyal.

“I was getting to it!” Tim whined, and oh wow, he must really be delirious. Bart was gonna be so mad if there weren’t any videos later. “I just kinda...wasn’t payin’ attention n’ stuff.”

“Paying attention to what?”

“The road,”

Kon froze.

“What?”

“Got hit by a car,” Tim slurred. “S’cool though, got outta there fast. Happened like...five streets back.”

“What the hell, Tim?” Kon nearly dropped his phone, remembering last-minute to grab his jacket off the floor as he started to race to the nearest exit out of the Cave. “You need to start with the ‘I got hit by a car’ part, not correcting what time it is!”

“There was time,” Tim mumbled. “I’m not dyin’ or anything.”

“You were hit by a car.” Kon stressed, already in the air. Thank you, inhuman speed.

“But I’m not dying,” Tim said simply. “Doesn’t count. Just hurts like a b--”

“Hang on, I’m nearby.” Kon talked over him, landing on a rooftop. The streets had grown recognizable fast, and thankfully, if Tim was right about his coordinates, he wasn’t that far from the Justice Cave. Probably wasn’t smart to fly at ridiculous speeds at two in the morning when he was barely awake, but he was too preoccupied to care.

“Oh, cool.”

Kon shoved his phone in his pocket as he flew down from the rooftops, far slower this time. He scanned the streets quickly, almost skimming right over the bus stop Tim was at. The lack of light, plus his darker costume, was not helping matters.

Sure enough, Tim was where he said he’d be. He wasn’t even sitting on the bench. More like dramatically draped over it with his arms keeping him upright and legs strewn behind him. The nearest street lamps had been shattered, probably with whatever Tim carried in his utility belt these days.

And Christ, Tim was a mess.

He must’ve been wearing a concealer, or it was extra pronounced tonight, because he had heavy bags under his eyes. His hair was a mess and falling into his eyes, his mask slightly askew. His costume wasn’t in awful shape, but his cape was twisted around so that it hung sideways rather than regularly situated on his back, and he had a few small tears here and there. Aside from the palms of his gloves, those had bigger tears. Plus he had scuffs of gravel and dirt.

And blood, there was blood, too. Blood on his hands, knees, and smears on the side of his face. But all in all, he looked more dazed and bruised than anything.

“No big deal, huh?” Kon said, crouching down beside his friend.

“Had worse,” Tim mumbled, resting his cheek on the bench. “M’just tired, really.”

“That all?” Kon sighed, taking off his jacket as he debated if it would be worth it to patch up the small amount of bleeding he could see.

“Breathin’s being weird, too.” Tim added, as an afterthought. “Think I fractured something.”

“Of course you did,” Kon groaned, reaching out and turning Tim around so he was sitting upright, leaning against the bench.

Tim hissed in pain at the movement, eyes shutting for a moment as Kon paused, anxiously looking him over.

“Please don’t tell me you broke a rib,” Kon begged, more to himself than Tim as he reached out to feel his side.

“Ow, ow, ow!” Tim yelped, cringing away.

“Hospital,” Kon decided with a nod and a grimace. “You need a hospital.”

“I’m Red Robin,” Tim complained. “Can’t go to hospital. Dad would kill me.” He insisted, dramatically thunking his head back on the bench and throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Medical attention, then.” Kon said. “At least until you pass out so we can take you to a hospital when you can’t complain about it.”

“You're so mean,” Tim whined, shifting his arm slightly to give Kon a glare. “Bart wouldn’t treat me like this.”

“Bart would probably be having a panic attack.”

“S’why I called you,” Tim mumbled, slumping down and off the side of the bench, leaving Kon to jump and support Tim’s head before it conked against the concrete. “Cassie woulda yelled at me.”

“She’s definitely going to yell at you now,” Kon agreed, gently keeping his hand on the back of Tim’s head as he pushed him back upright. “How did this even happen? Don’t you have ridiculously fast reflexes or something?”

“It was a hit n’ run, I know it was.” Tim rasped, weakly shaking a fist.

“You said you fled the scene.”

“Was still totally a hit n’ run,”

Kon sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to win this argument tonight. None of the bleeding was concerning, so instead he settled for dumping his jacket over Tim’s shoulders. He also picked up Tim’s phone from where it’d been discarded on the pavement, shoving it in one of the jackets pockets.

“Pretty sure you're just too tired to notice anything,” He muttered quietly, scooping his arms underneath Tim’s knees and back.

“Was gonna get more coffee, swear it.” Tim mumbled, letting himself go completely limp as Kon picked him up. “Came outta nowhere,”

“Next time I catch you pulling all-nighters, I’m sitting on you till you get proper sleep.” Kon threatened, giving Tim a half-hearted shake as he rose into the air.

“If you catch me,” Tim said cheerfully, giving a crooked smile.

Would’ve been a lot more charming if it weren’t for the fact it reopened what was apparently a still-healing cut on his lip.

Not that it was charming to begin with. Injured best friend, not the time. Kon shook his head.

“I’m Superboy, it won’t be hard.” Kon boasted, flying at a grudgingly slower speed back to the Cave. It probably wouldn’t help Tim if he went back at the same speed he arrived, the base wasn’t that far, anyway.

“You miss things all the time,” Tim huffed, raising a weak hand to presumably poke at Kon’s face, but ended up just flailing it around.

“Psh, not that often.” Kon rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, you do,” Tim insisted, letting his head hang back, staring upside-down at the ground below them. “Obvious things. Miss ‘em all the time.”

“Like what?” Kon pressed. “And you're not allowed to say anything about the Justice League, they don’t count.”

Tim went quiet. Kon wondered for a brief, terrifying moment, that Tim really had passed out from his adrenaline rush before they made it to base. But then Tim raised his head and he could breathe easy.

Tim stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed. It was his ‘I’m not sure if you're being sarcastic or actually an idiot’ face, which, honestly, could be better classified as ‘I’m judging you for being an idiot’ face, considering the circumstances he used it in.

Kon met his gaze, more than a little curious. Normally Tim would’ve started rattling off all the things he’s oblivious to on a daily basis. The hesitation was...well, not normal. He chalked it up to Tim being loopy from his whole ordeal.

“Stuff,” Tim decided, his head falling back to its original position so fast that Kon cringed.

“Descriptive,” Kon sighed, grateful for the sight of the Cave, speeding their flight.

“Shut up, I’m tired and broken.” Tim mumbled, his voice laced with drowsiness.

“Then maybe, and here’s a thought,” Kon said, landing just outside the Cave. “You don’t go days without sleep to the point you get hit by a car of all things.”

Tim opened his mouth to protest, but Kon talked right over him.

“I know, I know, it’s very difficult to ask of you.” He said, his playful snooty tone lessened by the smugness that seeped in. “But with the right routine, I’m sure we could figure something out.”

“You sound like a horrifying combination of Alfred and Dick.” Tim grumbled, no less limp as Kon carried him inside the base. “I wish you had your sunglasses so I could break them--wait,” Tim raised his head again, squinting at Kon. “Where’s your glasses?”

“Didn’t really have time to grab them after, you know, you woke me up at two in the morning and stalled in telling me you were bleeding at a bus stop.” Kon snarked.

“It was two twenty-four,” Tim muttered quietly, drawing his arms up to his chest and looking away.

And dammit, Kon was almost convinced Krypto was rubbing off on Tim too much. The guy looked like a puppy after stealing food from the table. Which, frankly, was something Kon would also do if he had to eat the same thing every day. Clark hadn’t seen it that way, but whatever.

Kon held back a sigh, shuffling through the hallways. He could probably put Tim on the couch, right? Christ, Cassie was gonna bite off his head for waking her up.

“Just be careful, alright?” Kon murmured, resituating Tim in his arms. He got slippery after a while. “You don’t need to be up at all hours of the night to patrol,” He said, frowning to himself.

Tim reached up one of his arms and looped it around Kon’s neck, aiding Kon in holding him properly. His face turned to the side and pressed into Kon’s chest, huffing.

“You have your family to look after Gotham at night, anyway. That helps, doesn’t it?” Kon added.

“S’not the same,” Tim mumbled, his voice muffled.

Kon would’ve argued, really, he often does, but tonight just wasn’t the night. Tim was too battered for much of anything to sink in, and honestly, he was still tired. And he was pretty sure if he spent another ten minutes around Tim with nobody else to buffer, his common sense was going to finally kick in and make him start freaking out even more.

“At least take someone with you,” Kon settled on, craning his neck down so he could press his nose into Tim’s hair. It was still frazzled and greasy. “Bart’s already awake at ungodly hours. Jinny’s down for almost anything. Hell, I’d come with you if you asked.”

“You’d come without me asking.” Tim muffled, and Kon swore if he could see Tim’s face he’d be smirking. “Besides, you complain.”

“I complain, but that doesn’t mean I won’t do it.” Kon huffed, slowly moving his head back as he came to the couch he had, previously, been having a rather nice sleep on. “And honestly, if someone like you can end up getting hit by a regular car of all things, you probably shouldn’t be out on the streets on your own.”

“Piss off, it’s a bad night.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Kon rolled his eyes, slowly leaning down so he could place Tim on the couch.

“Ow,” Tim groaned, his arm tightening around Kon’s neck as he was set down, his other hand coming up to fist the side of his uniform.

“Scale of one to ten, how bad can you guess it is?” Kon winced, slowly slipping his hands out from under Tim.

“Mm, well, it's not broken.” Tim slurred, refusing to unwrap his arm from Kon’s neck, leaving the super to awkwardly bend forward. “Probably just cracked. If it was broken, I would've lost a lung by now.”

“Ah,” Kon hummed anxiously, raising a hand to unwrap Tim’s arm from him. “That...is a nice thought.”

“Just told you it wasn’t broken,” Tim grumbled, glaring up at Kon as his arm was pried free.

“Your way of being comforting isn’t the best,” Kon admitted with a tilt of his head, stepping back. “Now you stay here, alright? I’m gonna get Cassie.”

“Say your goodbyes now,” Tim groaned, pawing at his face until he caught the edge of his domino mask. “After today, I would’ve been better dumped in a ditch.”

“It’s still nighttime,” Kon reminded.

“Details,” Tim waved his free hand, the other peeling off his mask and letting it fall to the floor.

“Whatever, just don’t move.” Kon warned, pointing a finger close to Tim’s face. His eyes were unfocused and hazy, and the sight of that only added to the pit that was opening in Kon’s chest.

“Aye aye, captain.” Tim mumbled, giving a half-hearted salute before letting his arm dangle off the couch. The other came up to clutch at the jacket still around his shoulders, turning his head into it.

Kon has never so badly wished he’d taken his phone out of his jacket earlier so he could take a picture. Never, he swears.

And, of course, he also wished Tim wasn’t injured. That was the main issue here, really.

Kon hesitated, stepping around the couch and glancing back. Tim was never known to stay put when asked, but it seemed this time he was being merciful.

One friend down, two more to survive.

Could’ve gone worse, he reasoned as he creeped (in a poor attempt at being quiet) down the hallways towards Cassie’s room. A car was nothing. Except for a reminder that, unlike the rest of them, Tim wasn’t superpowered--but that was an anxiety for Tim to get offended about later.

And if Tim woke up hours later in a hospital, with Dick on the other line and Cassie seconds away from cracking the rest of his bones herself, at least Kon could rest easy knowing that he wouldn’t be pulling that stunt again any time soon. Or at least be more careful. He’d take what he could get.

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1zashreena1 · 4 years ago

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Angst Fluff Whiplash -14

18+, m/f, technically OCxDiego Jimenez [Power]

Summary: What does an apex predator do after confessing undying love? Princess is about to find out.

WARNINGS: Ridiculous descriptions and ‘the code is more like guidelines’ outlook on grammar. Is it OOC if the character was given essentially zero development in canon???

Non-descriptive sexytimes, the L word, criminal activities glossed over, relationship building, plus size woman+fit man, Anxiety, This one is all feels and

I Am So NOT Sorry.

THE TIME HAS COME

A/N: Princess took on a life of her own and has essentially become an OC. There are infrequent mentions of her description (specifically as plus size) and her actual name in later pieces (its Bicki). She started as self-insert so she looks like me (plus size, white, short, blue eyes, curly hair). If that is not your thing, I totally understand. And do not feel obligated to read this, I will not be offended!

I’m not a fan of “plot” so be aware that most of this series is just meandering through their relationship, angst-fluff-smut whiplash style. But with dick jokes.

TAGLIST: @chelsfic @symbiont13 @nicke0115 @bunnykjm @rosee-sensuelle @girlpornparadise @mandoplease @heresathreebee @xxsteph-enrixx @jetiikad @joalsglasses @mutantcookiesecrets @demoncatstone @squidlywiddly87 @lockedoutofmyotherblog @poeedamerons

"I don't know, Lisa. He won't tell me. Not until this weekend apparently? We're supposed to go shopping."

"Honestly, I'm scared. I mean, there's the whole how did he get a passport FOR me dilemma. Then the part where he knows I don't like surprises. And he said he was calling my sister!"

"Oh my God, she could tell him anything! Please don't tell him about the Backstreet Boys phase. I'm going to have a panic attack."

"Of course he would tease me about it for eternity!"

"What? Watch what words? What are you talking about?"

"Do not hang up this phone! Do you even love me?!? Lisa? …. Hello?"

You toss your phone down on the bed and heave a huge sigh. Your very own BFF, abandoning you like that. Luckily its your own phone and not the insane cell Diego got you because it bounces off the other side of the bed and smacks into the wall before admitting total defeat to gravity.

You stand there staring at your open suitcase. Your typical items are in there already. You don't need any toiletries. Or makeup, now. Or bras. Or underwear. Fucking hell, its like I already moved into the penthouse with him.

… Could I do that? He already basically asked for it. He keeps telling me to quit my job and let him spoil me for real. You wring your hands together while rubbing your lips against each other and being bombarded with intrusive thoughts. Yeah. Until he's done with me and then I have to start all over. At 35.

But its been almost a year now that you've been seeing Diego. What does that even mean, "seeing" him? You think about how the last few months have been so… easy. He practically lives in New York now, their territory split. He opted to control the East Coast and let his sister deal with the logistical nightmare of receiving the imports.

He has been a lot looser since then. Faster to laugh, quicker to goof around, less likely to do anything as hard as he used to do. The distance from Alicia has allowed him to really flourish in every aspect. And he's beautiful with it. The laugh lines and the soft brown eyes wreck you every time.

He says he wants to keep you. Take care of you. You finally believe that he loves you. He has made so many improvements in communication. Hell, he read books on how to be with someone on the spectrum. Do you understand it? Hell no. Are you going to take it and run? Fuck yeah dude. I love him and I want to keep him.

And now he wants to take you on a trip. A surprise destination. Out of the country with a mostly legal passport. You don't doubt that you'll be safe with him. Your parents were a little concerned when you told them since they've never even met him. And they saw him on the national news that time he got arrested by the Feds, so that really inspires confidence.

Your middle sister Lynne and niece Halley accidentally met him that one afternoon about a month back. And they have not shut up about it since. Diego this, Diego that, blah blah blah, paid the restaurant bill in cash, yadda yadda, took us all shopping to a Coach store and then got Halley some crazy new sold out Nikes. Diego had been delighted to be surrounded by a gaggle of giggling girls enjoying his spoiling attentions. Just like always, Diego went to the max and charmed them silly.

It was like having an out of body experience to see Diego with them. You couldn't really fault them, he swept you off your feet with no problems. He was grinning and joking the whole time, making raunchy comments with your sister and encouraging your niece to be assertive (unnecessary according to her soccer coach and the 'Most Aggressive' trophy). He fit right in with them. Afterwards he had asked if that was what it was like to have normal siblings and your heart broke thinking about what his childhood had been like with his sister.

Which brought you back to the here and now. He had mentioned off hand that he was going to call your sister. Maybe you should text her. She might know something.

Maybe you should just pack your bag and trust him.

Your Diego Cell chirps and you dive for it on the nightstand. Is he okay? Please don't be hurt.

Its a pic of him. In the shower. With his own hand wrapped around himself. You choke on air and have to sit down.

I miss you Princess

Holy. Shit. Its been almost a year that you have had unrestricted access to that incredible body and your reaction is still the same. Before you can respond another text arrives:

SOON

The attached pic is just from squinty eyes up.

You burst out laughing at him. You love that he is secretly a nerd about internet stuff. His appearance would never give that away. Time to be ridiculous right back.

Don't make me lick your eyeball

You are a crazy person laughing to yourself alone in your bedroom.

You are so weird

Yet there you are, lusting after this weirdo

You shoot back.

… Am I the weirdo??

No. Still you.

I would threaten to bite it.. but you would like that

Well now you have to

Oh my God. You're fairly certain you could do anything to this man and he would think it was sexy. Its a novel experience.

Can we eat dinner at home tomorrow? I don't feel like wearing a real bra

You know the answer to that.

YES. NO MORE BRAS EVER AGAIN. BE FREE

… no panties?🙏🥺

You can see the hopeful puppy dog eyes clearly.

A for effort babe. One of these days you might get your wish lol

...Are you panty free right now?

Wow. He is really trying here.

I'm packing.

Your pic is a heap of tangled thongs dumped on top of Tiny Murder Panther.

💜🔥😛

He would find that hot. Fucking nympho.

Lemme finish this so I can go straight to the airport tomorrow

Fine. But I am pouting

You do not doubt that.

Don't care. Still love your stupid face

You cannot believe you just sent that.

Princess.

Mi amor.

Diego's good little girl.

You shudder with the praise. You can hear it in his voice, as if he were right here with you.

I love you

Dream of me?

Oh baby, if you only knew. You sigh wistfully.

Always, baby

---------------‐---------

The flight is uneventful, thankfully. Your maxidress with a built-in shelf bra is stupidly comfortable and you actually take a nap.

The plane has barely come to a stop and you already have on your silly lambswool lined Ugg flip flops. You had argued with Diego about these (Why would flip flops need a warm fuzzy lining??) but he had won by sticking one in your face and ordering you to feel. It didn't take a full second for you to snatch them both from him and cuddle them to your chest. His pleased smile full of dimples was worth all the subsequent teasing.

You slip on one of his previously stolen shirts in a metallic lilac color and roll up the sleeves so you have use of your hands. Bending at the waist, you flip your hair over and fluff it back up from the nap. What was that he had said? Oh yes: Wild and thick, just how I like it. The memory makes you bite your bottom lip and smile.

Bastian is waiting for you on the tarmac. He takes your bag and kisses you on the cheek in greeting. "Hey, sweetie. Nice shirt, is that new?" His knowing grin is infectious.

You nuzzle into the collar with a laugh. "Thanks! My boyfriend gave it to me."

Bastian chuckles as he opens the passenger door for you. "Oh, honey. That is not all he is going to give you." He closes the door while you roll your eyes smirkingly.

The ride to the penthouse is uneventful. Well, as uneventful as Friday evening rush hour traffic can be in New York.

Bastian waits until the song is over before lowering the stereo volume. "We're supposed to pick up dinner. Any requests?" He drums his fingers on the steering wheel while you sit at the red light.

You ponder the options. "What kind of a day has he had? Meetings? Tours? Disciplinary action?" You ask Bastian thoughtfully. Sometimes when Diego has a bad day he likes comfort food. Mostly a giant heap of rice and beans next to homemade tortillas, he isn't so picky about the variety of meat.

Bastian glances at you out of the corner of his eye before warily answering, "There was a… termination… at a construction site this afternoon that took longer than expected. That's why he didn't come to get you, he wanted to shower first."

You keep your eyes focused forward to look out of the windshield. "Okay. How about Jalisco's then?" Comfort food it is.

Bastian nods and adjusts course to obtain those tortillas.

‐--------------------

The instant the elevator doors ding open Diego pops up from the sectional and comes straight at you. Your giant sidestep to let Bastian pass is barely completed before Diego is slipping those big hands under his own pilfered shirt to crush your body to him. Your arms go around his neck like a reflex, like this is their natural resting place. He leans his forehead down onto yours and kisses you so very gently.

"Mmmm. Hi." You murmur softly into his beard. Those bottomless brown eyes look over your entire face before coming back to your own. His smile is huge, those dimples make your pulse trip. He blinks slowly down at you, just like the big cat you nicknamed him after.

"Princess. How was the trip?" He always asks you this. You still aren't sure if its just culturally specific manners or if he is requesting a review of the flight crew's performance. Either way, your answer is always the same.

You pull him back down so you can cuddle into his neck. "Its better now that I'm here." He rubs his cheek against your own and purrs directly into your ear in response. Your body's reaction is immediate and decisive. You shiver in his arms and your nipples peak to full attention.

Except this time is different. With only a bralette and the dress's shelf bra Diego can clearly feel what just happened in real time. His eyes are comically round as he peers down at your cleavage in pleasant wonder.

"Oh. I like this outfit." His hands rise up your back to crush you further into him. You chuckle and rub your chest on his firm pectoral muscles. He watches hungrily as your compressed decolletage rises higher yet from the added pressure. "New rule to match the bedroom pants bar, no bras in the penthouse. Fucking magnificent, bonita." He licks his lips after making this proclamation.

You throw your head back and laugh joyfully.

‐----------------------

As it always does the weekend passes too quickly. Its already 1:00pm on Saturday when you two finally come down from the bedroom.

Diego is delighted to hear that your time-off request was approved for the trip. You had told him not to worry about it, your boss always kept her word about this stuff.

That’s when he pulls a ridiculous pith hat out from under the couch. It looks like it came straight out of a Looney Tunes cartoon about a big game hunt on the African savannah. You lose your entire shit and laugh until you do that silent clapping seal move.

Diego keeps repeating, "Wait, stop laughing. Stooooop." But he isn't faring much better. You finally wipe the tears and calm down enough to take it from his limp fingers while he chortles a few last times.

"Baby. What. What the fuck. What fucking is this??" You plunk the hat on your own head and Diego collapses facedown into your lap to gigglesnort uproariously. "Stop. Stop laughing. Stoppit!" You smack the back of his head lightly until he comes up for air.

He closes his eyes and composes himself. You take the opportunity to plop the hat on his head.

"Oh my god, that is so sexy!" You declare in high dramatics.

He grabs your hands and leans in very close to explain. "You need this hat for our trip." Your eyes narrow in suspicion. "You will wear it for our safari quest…" he pauses for dramatic effect and your lips twitch in suppressed amusement. He leans closer yet and captures your stare. His face is hilarious, you can tell he is biting his cheek to keep from laughing. His eyebrows are drawn down in concentration but his eyes are widened in mock excitement. He sucks in a deep breath to exclaim, "To locate palm trees in the wild!"

He laughs as he puts the hat back on you.

You blink a few times in shock. Palm trees? You're going somewhere with palm trees? A tropical locale. Palm trees. Beaches. SWIMSUITS. Your sudden panic must show on your face because Diego's laughter dies off.

You blink furiously, but its too little too late. The tears burn as they well up in your eyes and spill down over your cheeks.

He reaches out to cup your face. "Princess?" His tone is an even mix of concern and fear. "Bicki? What?"

You shake your head 'no' and throw yourself into him. Diego catches you and hauls you into his lap. You curl up against his chest and sob quietly. He pets over your hair, open handed strokes so his fingers don't tangle in the curls, and soothes your back while you shake. Rubbing his nose against your temple, he kisses your cheek and whispers, "Do you want to write?" His gentle care only makes you worse. "...so that is no." He looks crestfallen. He buries his face in your hair and breathes heavily.

Your tears are slowing and your chest is finally beginning to loosen. "Dieg-" you hiccup, wrapping both hands around his forearm. You wheeze a few times before trying again. "I. I. Where? Where are we g-going?"

He sighs deeply before answering. "Nowhere. I won't take you somewhere you don't want to go. I should have known better. I-" He snaps his jaw shut so fast that his teeth click together.

Tilting your head back, you try to catch his eyes. Diego won't look at you. "H-hey, please." You cup his jaw and pull him down to you. He comes, but the motions are stilted. "Look. Please, baby. Let me s-see you."

When he finally meets your eyes it breaks your heart. That chocolate gaze is disappointed, hurt, frustrated even. You wiggle around until you're straddling his lap. He just holds his hands out of the way, not hindering you but certainly not helping either. Standing up on your knees to lean your forehead against his, you reach for his hands and bring them to your chest where you lace your fingers together.

"Baby. I want that." Your nose rubs against his as you speak. "I want to go everywhere with you. I never thought I would ever get a chance like this. To travel? To go somewhere tropical? To have someone who loves me enough to do this for me?" You're crying again. And so is Diego? A little??

He brings your joined hands up to tap your chin. His face is adorably conflicted when he speaks, "You… want to go?" You nod slowly. His eyebrows lower as he tries to make sense of this. "Then why do you cry? Are they, the uh, is that 'happy tears' ?"

Your hands shake in his. "Yeah. Happy tears. I just. I was overwhelmed. I'm sorry." He huffs out a sigh. You continue, "Its almost like the super intense emotions short circuit my responses and I guess my default is panic crying? I don't know."

Diego huffs at you again. "Please stop that. I'm going to have a heart attack." There is a hint of real annoyance in his voice but his lips curl up at the corners.

You free your right hand to reach up and brush his wet lashes. Why did something this little bring him to tears? "Baby, is everything okay?"

He leans into your hand, then turns to kiss your fingers. You giggle, you can't help it, his beard both tickles and delights you. He smirks at you, "It is now, Princess. You should get dressed so we can go."

But you're not done here yet. "Where are we going on the trip? A place name, not foliage that may or may not be present."

His Cheshire cat grin is intriguing and mildly worrisome. He gives you one word, "Xcalak." And then watches while you access your mental map and pinpoint the exact location.

It takes you a moment but you find it with a gasp. "Costa Maya? Like Caribbean-sea side of Mexico??" He nods and you immediately start in with 20 Questions. "Are there cenotes? Is the water really those unreal colors? Is the food amazing there? Can we see ruins?"

Diego cups your face to stop you. "Whatever you like, little girl." With a kiss to your nose and a smack to your ass he ushers you upstairs to get dressed.

-----------------------

The shopping is less traumatic than normal for you thanks to Diego making enthusiastic innuendo nonstop and feeding you between stores. You find sandals, and flip flops, and little slip-on sneakers. All kinds of flowy maxidresses and flouncy skirts paired with new tank tops in buttery soft fabrics. Cover-ups and kimonos and huge airy loose knit sweaters get rung up with linen pants and shorts you actually feel comfortable wearing.

But swimsuits? A disaster. Everything that fits your hips is way too big for your ribcage. Tankinis big enough to go around your middle are about a foot too wide around your chest. You try some maternity stuff… amazingly there isn't any chest support. That confuses both of you for almost 20 minutes while you discuss it over croissants and various iced beverages (coffee for him and some kind of hot chocolate slushie for you).

Then you look across the street and inspiration hits. One of the stores you order bras from is right there and has bra-sized swimwear in the display window. Diego turns to see what stole your undivided attention from him and slaps his hand down on the table in celebration.

You aren't sure which one of you is more excited to get into the store. But while you run around exclaiming at all the things that come in your size Diego stands in the doorway and gawks. When you circle back to check on him he just points to one display wall.

There is lacy, frilly, corseted lingerie. In. Your. Size.

He demands one of everything that fits you and isn't red, brown, or yellow. You don't even argue.

The store does alterations and makes very good recommendations. The sales clerk is impressed with Diego's input, she comments that he really does seem to know your body well. You flush with it, glad that he isn't close enough to hear that. You leave with three bags and seven personalized swim outfits under construction. One is ready to wear and you keep reaching into the bag to touch it in wonder.

Diego notices but just gives you a raised eyebrow.

"This is the first time I've ever felt good about how I look in swimwear." You confess quietly.

Diego wraps a massive arm around your shoulders and tucks you into his side while you continue down the sidewalk.

--------------------

Sunday is a mess as you try to make pancakes and Diego tries to remain physically attached to you like an excessively attractive barnacle. The pancakes are either burnt or still batter in the middle. Leftover carnitas and tortillas to the rescue. Diego teases you about the kitchen failure all day because this is the first time he has witnessed such a thing.

You doze on the couch under the pretense of "reading". Diego rotates through his laptop, cell, and the soccer match on ESPN+.

Until his phone rings.

You both tense up. Only one person calls him instead of texting. He takes the phone into the office to answer his sister. You wait on the couch to see which Diego you get back: silly tickle fight Diego, sad puppy dog eyes Diego that requires cuddles, or angry Diego that needs to fuck you through the nearest horizontal surface.

The elevator dings and Julio comes in with a tray of coffees. "Ay, Gordita. Buenas tardes. I got you the hibiscus thing you like." He greets you with a big smile, then looks around when he doesn't see Diego on the sectional with you.

Hopping up to help him carry stuff, you point to the office in indication of Diego's location. Julio makes a face, "Hermana perra?" and you simply nod. Julio takes Diego's iced coffee and bites the bullet for you. The door closes softly behind him.

You munch plantain chips and slurp hibiscus lemonade until they come out. Diego just looks tired when he comes back to you on the couch, coffee in hand. You open your arms in invitation and he plops next to you with a sigh. Cuddly Diego it is.

He doesn't tell you anything and you don't ask. Everyone watches the match mindlessly. Diego snores softly in your lap while you pet his hair.

He rides to the airport with you but you forbid him from coming onto the plane with you. He is already making this harder than it has to be with his big brown eyes and clingy hands.

"Baby." You breathe into his hair while he snuggles into your neck in the backseat of the SUV. "Its only a week. We do this every week." You pet down his bicep and immediately regret it.

"I know." Diego huffs into your skin. "Why don't you just quit? Let me take care of everything." You go through this almost every week now, too. He nuzzles you, the sensation makes you reconsider his proposal. You pull his head up by a fistful of soft hair and look him in the eye. He blinks guilelessly at you.

"Number one: No. Number two: Stoppit." He laughs at your fond exasperation. "Okay. I'm gonna go. You stay on the ground."

"Fine." He whines. "But I am going to send you a dick pic the moment that plane takes off." He crosses his arms as if daring you to tell him no.

You cup his stupidly attractive face in your hands for a kiss. Okay, several kisses and 27 minutes later, you respond, "Send me one every day. Its my favorite dick." His startled laugh makes you feel very pleased with yourself.

He pulls you into his arms again to kiss you one last time. His beard scratches and you sigh into him. Finally that tongue retreats and he rests his forehead on yours. His voice is low and rough, his hands squeeze tight on your hip and thigh, "I love you, Princess."

Will that ever stop hurting? You close your eyes against the burn of tears but smile with happiness. "I love you, Diego." You pop the door handle before you open your eyes to see him watching you, jaw tense. You stick your tongue out and he breaks into a smirk. With a laugh, you slide out of SUV and walk to the plane, determined not to look back.

When you get up the stairs the pilot greets you, but his gaze shifts behind you. Turning around, you see Diego standing outside the SUV, arms crossed and trying to look so not soft. You smile and mouth Bye baby, he gives you a short little wave. You duck into the plane before you can start crying.

The wheels are not, in fact, off the ground when the phone chirps.

‐-----------------------

The trip is a few weeks out and there is some kind of emergency at the San Diego docks the next weekend. So. You don't get your Murder Panther fix.

And your coworkers notice. They spend all day Monday strolling past your cubicle, straining their necks to see if you're wearing new shoes or some fresh bling. Finally someone has the nerve to ask how your weekend was.

You find yourself blinking back tears. I miss him so much. This is ridiculous, he just texted you at like six this morning. But its not just the conversation you miss, now is it? You miss that big body crowding you into the corner of the couch. His soft curls under your hands. That beard on literally any inch of your skin. Draping yourself over shoulders wider than your hips and knowing that not only can he take your weight, he likes it.

He says he wants to keep you and you desperately want to keep him. Why do you fear this? Is it just his profession? The risk? Oh god, how do you even go about introducing him to your parents??? Diego can be all kinds of charming but he can be a real asshole, too.

And they know what he is: A criminal. For your boomer parents he is the living embodiment of Public Enemy Number One.

Grand Theft.

Money Laundering.

Arson.

Murder.

International Cocaine Trafficking.

HE IS A LITERAL DRUG LORD.

You lay your head down on your desk and try to keep it together.

Your Diego Cell chirps.

Your laughter bubbles up until it comes out of you without your consent. It turns hysterical and you realize you need to leave the office suite. Now.

In the bathroom you stare down at the phone as it lights up again with another message.

Miss my Princess💔👑

How? How is someone who can do all those illegal things so nauseatingly sweet to me?

And then it hits you. Illegal. You didn't use the word immoral. Illegal. You think back to how everyone you see working directly for him is well into adulthood. No children. There are a few women but they are not being sold by him, they are there by their own free will. And he has never laid a hand on any of them, they're just as comfortable around him as the men are. No sex trafficking. You saw someone give their resignation last month. The dude walked away with a suitcase of cash for a decade of trustworthy service. Its a better retirement plan than what I have.

Have you seen him assault people? Yes. You've seen him stab people. Carve off someone's ear because they weren't listening as assigned and it cost the Jimenez Cartel a shipment. You've seen him push an informant down an empty elevator shaft. Choke a man into unconsciousness with his bare hands when you were disrespected.

And you still love him. Not a single one of those incidents weighs on your conscience. Your morality is a dingy grey 12 year old men's undershirt that you should just throw away but you're definitely going to cut into rags to keep for cleaning when it comes to Diego.

The cell lights up again.

Mi amor 💞😍🍑🏝✈⏲👙

You don't know what's worse: His excessive and ridiculous usage of emojis or the fact that you understood.

Look what came

The attached pic is a few pieces of your new swimwear. They look gorgeous, you can't even tell where the alterations were done.

You have to try on all of them. And show me

Of course he wants his own personal show. You feel desire burning low in your belly. Its been a year and not once has he ever shied away from your stomach rolls or hinted at weight loss. He never questions the food you order. And while the two of you have chuckled about shapewear he has never mocked you for using it. Or seemed disappointed when you opted not to wear it. He tosses you around like its nothing and prefers for you to sleep on top of him. Its not that he loves you despite your weight, he loves it as part of you.

-------------------------

Its now Thursday and the desk drawer where you keep your purse at work is vibrating. He knows I'm at work. If he calls right back I'll answer him. You try to keep your Diego Cell out of sight at work or you'll never get anything done. Plus your coworkers are always dying to catch a peek of your infamous sugar daddy/boyfriend.

Yeah. Boyfriend. Keep practicing that. It feels good.

You finish the insurance call and hang up your headset when the vibrating starts again. Your next door cubicle neighbor pops around the divider to advise you to answer that before he comes down here and abducts you.

What deity should I pray to for that??

You snatch Diego Cell and march out to the hall. Poking the green button, you answer the call.

"Baby. You okay?"

"Princess! I… yeah. I'm not hurt."

He sounds odd. There is definitely something going on here.

"What's up? You need me?"

The silence stretches.

"Yes. Please?"

Diego sounds very uncomfortable. It causes you physical pain.

"Well, you have me. What is it?"

You can hear him swallow and in your mind you picture him looking away, hiding some soft emotion shining in his eyes.

"Baby?"

"Here. I am here. I just. I just wanted to hear you."

Something is very wrong with my Murder Panther, you think.

"Babe," your voice is soft, you're trying to ease him. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

He huffs and you can hear him scrape a hand down over his face. "I know you are at work. And I should not have called. But."

His voice trembles, even over the phone you can hear it. He's afraid.

"Diego. If you need me, then you have me. Tell me, baby." You try to be reassuring but you also really need to know what is wrong.

"I would like to come down there." His declaration is overly formal. You wonder who he is trying to impress. Its certainly not me.

"You… want to come down here instead of me going up there this weekend?" You're trying to make sense out of any part of this conversation.

"I…. grrrrrrrrr." He growls in frustration. Between English being his second language and your sensory processing issues, this is not an uncommon occurrence. He sucks in a deep breath and charges forward in an emotional rush. "I know you're working, but I want to come down there because I miss seeing your face." Before you have a chance to answer he adds, "Pick me up? At the airport, after work? Please, Bicki." His voice cracks at the end and his inhalation is ragged. Your heart implodes.

"Diego. Baby. Of course. Of course I will. I can be there by six." You have a mental flash of how dirty your bathroom is, all the clothes you have laying around, and the vacuum you haven't touched in over a month. Diego needing me is more important.

"Good. Good. Yes, I. I will text you. When I land." His voice is raspier than ever, low and gravelly.

"Sure. I'll be there." I'll always be there.

"Okay. You… you should go." You can hear his determination. You can visualize him squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw, taking on the Jimenez Cartel persona.

"Hey." He grunts in acknowledgement. "I love you." You blurt it out before you have a chance to talk yourself round in circles. You can hear voices in the background.

"And you. You as well." The call ends, but you know.

---------------

You're sitting in your car at the little regional airport second guessing the coffee you got when the phone chirps.

Here

Springing out of the car, you wave to the security guard as you trot past. "Hey Jim, I just have to grab someone real quick. That's okay, right?" You wave vaguely back toward your car parked in the fire lane. There are only four security guards who work here and they all know you at this point.

Jim laughs but waves you on. "Go get 'im, sweetie." Jim must be pushing 90 by now, he doesn't care about traffic laws.

You enter one of the two sets of automatic doors on this entire building and cross through the tiny lobby. There. You can see his dark hair and ridiculous shoulders over a completely unnecessary row of potted plants. He must hear your echoing footsteps because his head whips around in alarm, but his face relaxes into a wide smile. He lengthens his strides to come around the stupid plants, hands automatically reaching out for you.

"Diego." You laugh breathily and fling arms around his neck. He smells so good.

He crushes you to his chest and buries his face in your neck. "Printhesss." He murmurs into you, slurred because he refuses to remove his mouth from your skin.

Turning your head to kiss his cheek, you moan shamelessly for him. He surges back upward to capture your lips and kiss you with mild desperation. That devious tongue sweeps over the roof of your mouth before curling up behind your top front teeth.

Your entire world narrows down to Diego. Chocolate. Tastes like the smoothest Belgian chocolate in existence. He smells perfect, clean but definitively male to you. His silky button-down is smooth under your hands, stretched taut over muscle. Those massive hands gather you closer, molding you to that big, solid body. His beard scratches your face in soft tickles when he alters the angle of the kiss just so.

"Goddamn." A woman's voice exclaiming somewhere behind you catapults you back into the here and now. Which is a dinky little regional airport in rural central Pennsylvania. You know, a very public location in a very prudish area of the country. Fuck.

You pull back and Diego's hands shoot up to the back of your head. Holding you in place, he leans his forehead against yours with a contented sigh. He rumbles softly to you, "Take me home."

You feel so silly seeing Diego in the passenger seat of your Corolla, he just seems so out of place. "You can adjust the seat however, nobody really sits there. I just put it all the way back to make sure you can get in without cracking your head." You sound nervous even to your own ears.

Diego turns to you with a response but his attention is captured by the cup holders in the center console, specifically the Dunkin Donuts styrofoam cup. He points to it, then looks up at you with a slow grin. "Princess. Is this for me?"

You flush but can't stop the embarrassed little smile so you cover it with sass, "Well, it sure as hell ain't for me." You start the car and give Jim a little wave. He winks and gives you two thumbs up. Yeah, I'm aware that you saw that kiss too, old man. Everyone saw that shit.

When Diego reaches for the coffee his fingers brush your hip. The contact burns and you suddenly remember that you have not touched this beautiful man for well over two weeks. Apparently he remembers, too, because he wraps that huge hand around your thigh with rather a lot of force. Right hand slapping down to cover his, your heart rate jumps through the roof. Did I take my blood pressure pill this morning?

"Don't." You choke out.

He rumbles softly next to you, purring with conceited pleasure. "Did my Princess miss Diego?" He asks you with an incredibly pornographic voice.

"Oh, fuck you." Your answering groan is also obscene. So glad the windows are up.

His hoarse chuckle makes your thighs tremble. "You're Diego's good little girl, you will." He's right and you both know it. You would ride him right here in your own damn car if he demanded it. You have a problem.

He lets you redirect his hand to the coffee with only a little resistance. "Focus." You hiss.

"Me or you?" Diego quips.

"Yes." You declare.

Diego's guffaw is contagious and you don't even try to hold back.

Your apartment always seems like an adequate size until Diego is inside. No, bad Bicki. Do not say it like that. His presence just sort of… lounges about in a vaguely threatening but highly attractive manner. Much like the actual man on your couch. You tried to pick up dinner on the way but he just wanted to 'go home'. You are disgustingly happy that your place feels like home to him.

Diego had flopped on your couch immediately and hasn't moved since. Something is very definitely very wrong. There were bursts of your Murder Panther in the car, but he has been just subdued overall. He had turned your stereo up and smiled faintly, watching you sing along. He had also complained that the stereo in your car sucked (Agreed) and this was unacceptable. You're sure he'll do something ridiculously extravagant to remedy this.

You try to give him the remote, he takes it but doesn't do anything with it. You offer him food, both junk and something home-cooked, all you get is a shrug. You putter around for a while, picking things up and sighing before putting them down somewhere else. His dark eyes watch you, unfathomable.

Finally you disappear to the bedroom only to return in your pajamas. This he likes, perking up and blinking rapidly. "Okay, I know you brought something softer than those jeans, so get comfy so I can order shitty pizza and cuddle you."

His jaw drops in momentary shock. Then he scoffs, "I do not cu--"

You cut him off, "Yes, you do and yes, you're going to. Up. Now." This has to be hilarious. This short little woman in overly long pants barking orders at the massive man who heads an international drug cartel. Well, its either hilarious or fatal. I'm about to find out.

Diego looks around, as if someone else might secretly be here to witness him be a little bit submissive and moderately soft. He raises his chin in a tiny show of defiance. "Fine. But I am showering first." He glares with this proclamation, daring you to contradict him.

You throw your hands up in the air. Why the fuck would I have a problem with that?? His eyes follow your hands, like a cat when you try to point out a bit of food but all it does is rub your finger. You sigh, resigned to your fate. "Of course that's fine, Diego. You know where everything is, have at it."

You watch his butt as he walks away to the bathroom.

The pizza actually isn't shitty and Diego eats half of it by himself. When you offer him the cinnamon dessert sticks he shoots you a calculating look. You split the contents, pulling two sticks over to yourself and piling up the rest in front of him. His delighted grin is decidedly not calculated and you lose track of time watching him enjoy dessert.

He's beautiful like this. He wears a soft, silky t-shirt that is tight enough to help you get through the nights you spend alone. His hair is a riot of fluffy curls, free of product and clearly trying to break free of gravity, too. He hasn't shaved for at least a few days and that salt and pepper beard is filling in nicely. His face is unguarded, expression open, those laugh lines and dimples you love make frequent appearances.

After dinner you lay all over each other in some weird we-have-intimacy-issues approximation of cuddling. It works so you don't question it. He has his laptop and you have your tablet and together you have sporadic conversation. Its comfortable.

Until Diego asks you a seemingly innocuous question that you know is very nefarious:

"What color do you like in cars?"

Your eyes narrow so much that you have trouble seeing. "...Why." Your low tone might be frightening to anyone else.

He looks at you over the laptop screen, brown eyes innocently wide. "Just curious. Your car is green. Do you like any other colors?" He slowly pulls the laptop closer to himself to subtly cover the screen with his bulk.

"Diego." You slowly put down your tablet and start leaning toward him. He has nowhere to go, propped up in the corner of the chaise end of the sofa. "What. Are. You. Doing."

"Will you let me take care of you? Just in this one way right now?" He licks his lips, brow furrowed in concentration. Building desperation shows in his eyes and you can't fight that. You don't want to win this.

"Let me see, baby." Your sighed acquiescence has an instantaneous effect. Diego drops the tension from his shoulders and opens an arm to you in invitation. You crawl up him to cuddle into his chest, wedged on your side between all those muscles and the back of the sectional. From here you are stationed directly in front of the laptop screen.

He is looking at cars.

Armored cars.

Armored, bulletproof, explosive resistant cars.

What. The. Fuck.

"Diego, what the fuck is going on?!?" Your apprehensive demand sets him right back on edge. You can feel him go tense underneath you. The laptop gets shoved onto an empty cushion as you throw yourself over him. Tiny hands land on those broad shoulders with extreme force as you use all of your deadweight to trap him. Below you, Diego shakes but you can't tell if its from anger or anxiety because his eyes are scrunched closed tightly. "Tell me why I need a fucking bulletproof car!"

He surges up into your face to match your volume, "She knows! Mi hermana perra knows about you! Alicia found out about us!" You lurch back in shock, but the steel hands on your hips stop you from retreating. His voice is hoarse, louder than you've ever heard him, and its terrifying. Your fear must show because he releases his grip on you like it burns.

"WHAT?" The ramifications here could truly be lethal. Alicia has already tried to set Diego up to take the fall when they were arrested almost four months ago. You know she has scorned Diego's familiarity with his men in the past, that is why he handpicks them personally. To Alicia, everyone is disposable, even her own brother. Her only loyalty is to herself.

Diego's hands come up in an aborted reach for you. You're still too shocked to move. His face crumbles in agony and he blinks furiously, hands balling into fists. "Everything I have ever wanted she has ensured I never got. She, she manipulates me into destroying everything I touch. I will not let her hurt you! I refuse to allow her to break us, mi amor!!" His volume has steadily escalated until he is yelling.

He's afraid. He is afraid that he will lose me. The realization emboldens you enough to take his hands in your own, bring them to your chest, and press them close to your heart. You trust that he won't hurt you in his rage. You don't fear him, this dangerous, powerful, ruthless man that you love.

His hands open to slide up your shoulders, curl around your neck, and his thumbs glide over the pulse point under your ears. He brings your face to his own, his expression twisted up with fear and anger and possession and love.

"You are mine! And I will keep you!"

You realize everything that you have been debating with yourself, all of your pro versus con lists, your stupid little dry erase board covered in sticky notes with your fears, your scribbled timeline of events and possible future predictions, none of it matters. All you care about is the man in your arms. Diego is the most important thing in your life and you can't imagine a life without him. If you had to give up everything to keep him, you would do it in a heartbeat.

Your hands grip tightly around his wrists and you consciously straighten your spine. Expression hardening, your eyes open to meet his anguished gaze.

"I want black."

The armored 2020 Camry is delivered that Sunday. You thank him for finding something inconspicuous with an upgraded JBL sound system and he compliments your understated color choice of Black Sand Metallic. By the time you drop him off at the airport that evening you've managed to replace the new car smell with something better and you're thankful that the leather seats just wipe clean. Monday morning in the parking lot at work, however, is a literal ordeal.

---------------------

The next two weeks feel like they’re seven months long. You clock out at noon on Thursday to a chorus of your coworkers making vaguely lewd remarks and howling with laughter about your vacation. 'Two whole weeks on a beach in Mexico with an absolutely loaded hottie' is what they've been repeating gleefully all week.

You turn around and walk backwards to give them finger guns, "Yes," then you reach down to adjust your pants, "And YES." Their squeals are contagious and you're still laughing when you burst out the front doors to drive home.

You turn the volume waaaay too high in the car so that your teeth vibrate and it feels like you're having heart palpitations. I love this fucking car and I love that man.

There is a rental Tahoe parked in the grass next to the huge gravel driveway at your farmhouse, but he left the second assigned parking space next to your Corolla open so you can park The Beast (as you have affectionately named your new ride) appropriately while away. When you get out of the car you glance up instinctively, Diego is standing outside your front door on the small third floor balcony laughing.

"Are you deaf yet, Princess?" He hollers down in amusement.

You flip him off with the middle finger that wears the gemstone ring he gave you while yelling back, "WHAAAAT??"

His laughter fades as he disappears inside, leaving the door wide open to let out all the cold air. Were you raised in a barn?? Close the door, the electric bill-- You cut off your own thoughts when you suddenly remember that you haven't been paying that electric bill for the last six months. Nevermind.

Before you can start up the stairs, Sara, your first floor neighbor, appears on the porch with their toddler. "Hey stranger!" Sara waves with a big smile and the kid does the same but with some kind of unidentifiable kitchen utensil in hand. "That is your boyfriend, right? He had a key so I didn't think it was your ex but I wanted to make sure. I mean, from what I just saw it is your boyfriend. Also, holy shit, that's your boyfriend?"

If she says the word 'boyfriend' one more time I'm going to spontaneously combust.

"Uh yeah, definitely not my ex. Sorry, I forget that you guys haven't really seen him before, I meant to tell you he was coming." You can feel your face burning and it isn't from the August sun. Sara fans her own face with a hand while mouthing 'he's hot' like you're somehow unaware. You forge on before she can start gushing aloud. "We're actually leaving on a trip tonight so I'll be gone for the next two weeks."

Now Sara drops the kid and scrambles over to whisper fiercely to you, "Oh my god, seriously? Where are you going? Wait, this is the same guy you've been going to see in New York, right? How long has it been, like a year? Is he taking you on a trip for your anniversary? I don't even know his name. Oh my god, that is so sweet!"

Okay, down girl. You're not sure who you're trying to will into being chill, Sara or yourself.

"Um, we're going to Mexico. And yeah, he's the guy in New York. It's just a vacation." You don't even touch the relationship questions with a ten foot pole. You glance up but Diego is still inside, Thank fuck.

Sara hops a little in excitement. "I'm sooo jealous!" She squeals. "You have to take a ton of pictures! I need to see! Oh my god, I bet you guys are such a cute couple!" You nod and start backing away, trying to wave goodbye so you can climb the stairs and then climb Diego. "Ooh ooh, wait, what's his name?" Sara hisses conspiratorially. "Does he speak Mexican? Is he Mexican!?!"

You suddenly remember why you tried to move away from this area. Repeatedly. "Yeah, he's Mexican and yes, he speaks Spanish." You sigh. Sara nods but continues staring at you expectantly. Fine. "His name is Diego."

Sara makes a stupid face like this is a rom-com movie. I cannot take anymore, you must shut the fuck up. "Okay, okay. I won't hold you up. But seriously, we can have a 'pics and wine' girls' night when you come back!" She waves maniacally before snatching up the kid and skipping back inside.

I can't think of anything I would like less. Oh hell no.

You climb the stairs in record time before she can come back outside and start talking again.

Bastian, Julio, and a third man you don't know are in your living room. You do not care and your vague wave shows it. You can hear Julio's warm 'Gordita!' greeting as you spin around and march to the bedroom.

Diego is standing at your bed, tucking TMP into your small duffel, when you burst through the doorway and continue at full speed directly into him. He laughs breathlessly but holds steady against your weight. "Princess. Are you ready?"

You take overflowing fistfuls of his shirt, bury your face in his chest, suck in a huge lungful of air, and shriek at full volume.

"Uhhh...that is a yes, si?" He mutters uncertainly above you.

You rear back to look up at him with a smile so wide it hurts.

"Oh good." His hands come to your shoulders while those beautiful brown eyes sparkle. The dimples and laugh lines come out as he absorbs your infectious excitement. Your hands shoot up to his hair to yank him down so you can crash your mouths together with bruising force.

The effect is immediate. He moans loudly and crushes you against him. You dig nails into his neck and you lick your way into his mouth, his hands snake down to your ass to hold tight. Your left leg comes up as you try to wrap it around his hips. With a pained groan he rips those lips off of yours and pulls back. Undeterred, you move on to assaulting his now bared throat, moaning like porn come to life.

"Princess," he gasps, "You have to sto-- uhhh, yes, bonita. Your fucking tongue." You're too busy licking his adam's apple to pay attention to words right now. "Nooo, mi amor, please, lo siento, stopstopstop." You get in one last nip of his collarbone as he pulls your head back via a handful of ringlets. His pupils are blown wide and he's panting hard. You stare longingly at his delectable mouth while making pitiful whines.

"Please, baby, pleeeease. You're all I've thought about for days. I need you!" You try shameless begging, you're certainly not lying. Petting over his shoulders and down that solidly muscled chest, you shudder and try to pull yourself back to him.

He closes his eyes with a grimace. "Flight! Fuck you on the flight!" He croaks, then yanks your hair harder than you like. The pain clears the fog just enough for you to blink back to awareness. You nod jerkily and step back. "Have to leave now to get there before dark." He explains in a rushed huff. You blink as you remember how time works.

"Right. Yeah, right. Okay. Okay." Straightening to attention you yank off the cardigan you wore for the air conditioning at work, leaving you in a tank top and ready to be productive. Focus on not-dick.

Diego shoves your favorite notepad in your face so you can see your packing list and not him. The distraction works. He has checked off every item in each categorized list but left the strike through action for your completion. You lower the notepad until you can make eye contact with him and intensely whisper, "You know I fuckin' love you, right?"

He laughs so hard he has to sit down on the bed.

You go through every bag, touching each item and crossing it off your list one at a time. He did it. Everything but you.

"You know I don't need TMP, right?"

"Why?" He squints up at you from where he lounges across your bed.

Your face heats up and you clear your throat. "Well, its, I'm. I have, uh, you. So I don't need anything else." The realization of how true that is in every sense gives both of you pause.

Diego surges upright to cup your face and bonk your foreheads together just a little too hard. You giggle and he huffs.

"Mi amor…" he sighs for you, eyes closing in pleasure. You 'mmmmm' in response. Then his eyes snap open and he growls an order, "Get changed so we can go!" And punctuates it with a stinging slap to your ass.

----------------------------

You spend the flight with your face pressed to the window, vibrating in excitement, except for a brief intermission of seven orgasms in the bathroom.

The unknown third man is Joey, Bastian's boyfriend. Joey is even quieter than Bastian and just as cute. They're not overly demonstrative but clearly comfortable moving around each other. Joey works in "Packaging" and does an admirable job of ignoring his cartel drug lord boss being snuggly. Julio naps.

The customs agent at the Cancun airport looks you up and down with wide eyes but stamps your passport with no questions. Its a five hour drive to Xcalak but Diego is adamant it can be done in three. You give him an eyebrow question which he dismisses with a vague wave, "They paved the road all the way to the southern border last year."

Uhh, they what now? You understand soon enough. The drive drastically changes outside of Cancun. The scenery is both beautiful and heartbreaking. There are occasional mansions with armed guards, high fences, and SUVs like your own current ride. Mostly though, its shacks and people on foot or riding bicycles, weaving to avoid stray dogs and huge iguanas. Could I handle this as my daily reality?

The first time the road sidles right up to the ocean you have a small meltdown.

"Is that what I think it is?" Your soft whisper is accompanied by a shaking hand pointing to the left. Diego, crammed into the middle of the backseat between yourself and Julio so you could have an unobstructed view, indicates an order for Bastian to pull over. He reaches across you and pops open your door. You slide out with his hand on your lower back and take about a dozen steps to the lapping water. Diego appears to your right, watching you intently.

"Its gre-e-e-en!" Your stuttering squeal is accompanied by happy tears and you fling yourself into Diego with joy. He laughs at you, but hugs you back just as tightly.

----------------------------

The first week passes in a blur of amazing food, warm green sea, fruity drinks, and shirtless wet Diego. And so many orgasms that you can't keep count. Diego is all over you non-stop, more than he ever has been before (Astonishingly). Its incredible and you feel like the only person in the world. If he's not molesting you then he is at least touching you; keeping you in his lap, holding your hand, cuddling and petting and snuggling like a man obsessed.

You love it. You love him. You love this life.

On Saturday he lets you lead him through the tiny town, your Spanish improving by leaps and bounds as you try to navigate the streets and alleys and shops. The four years of high school Spanish actually prove useful as you manage to complete a purchase all by yourself. Your playful mock smugness evaporates under the blazing desire in his eyes.

He drags you back to the casita in a much shorter and more direct route than you took upon earlier departure. You're marched directly to the bed and he puts one massive hand in the middle of your chest to gently push you down onto your back. There is something different about this, something important in his eyes. Your voice is high and soft, "Diego?"

He climbs up between your legs and leans down to kiss you senseless. It goes on forever; soft lips, scratchy beard, silky tongue, and nothing but the taste of Diego. Your moans and sighs are mixed together, there are moments when you can't tell who is making what noise. His hands are shaking as he strokes every inch of newly bared and sunburnt sensitive skin while undressing you.

It takes repeated attempts, but you finally get him naked, too. The sight never fails to take your breath away. All that soft, and now freshly tanned, skin is like velvet to your touch. You're mesmerized by his muscles flexing and then evening out as he moves above you. He finally gets your linen pants untangled off your left foot and flings them across the room with unnecessary force. Your soft peals of laughter light up his face and it brings tears to your eyes. You reach a hand out to him, "Diego. Baby."

He comes up over you, threading fingers into your hair, kissing you slowly and thoroughly. You can feel him against you, fire hot and mouth wateringly hard, but he makes no move to take you. Your eyes open in hazy confusion as the kiss ends. Diego is watching your face, blinking back tears.

He is holding your head still, hands like steel. Whatever this is, he needs it. And you want to give him everything he needs. Forever.

You're captured by his eyes, bottomless, soulful, and hungry. His raspy voice is soft and trembling with desire. "I love you, Bicki. I want everything. Forever, Princess?"

Your chest compresses and your heart implodes. Scalding tears escape when you blink and you're nodding before you even know it. "Yes, Diego. Yes, baby, I'm yours."

Your back arches off the bed as he comes home and brings you with him.

-----------------------

You wake up crushed under Diego. The sun is still up so you might be able to talk him into going out for dinner. You rub your cheek on the huge bicep doubling as your pillow and Diego sighs directly into your ear from where he is spooned up behind you. Oh yeah, we should have done this waaaay sooner.

He nuzzles your neck just to incite squirmy giggles and you don't even fight it. "I have something for you, Princess. Stay here." He pulls away and you whine about the loss of your pillow. His low chuckle burns you alive with want. "Stay like that. Do not move." You obey while you listen to him rummage around behind you.

He comes around to your side of the bed, still completely and unabashedly nude. Hell. Fucking. Yes. You love it. He hands your glasses over and you slide them on to take in the now high definition view of naked Murder Panther. The view disappears as he kneels down next to the bed so you're on eye level. His expression is very peculiar.

His hands slowly come up to reveal a small box of black velvet. Time slows to a halt as he opens the box and presents it to you.

Inside is a ring. Gleaming in platinum and sparkling with three tastefully large princess cut diamonds.

Its an engagement ring.

Diego is proposing.

He swallows hard and rumbles gruffly, "Now remember, you already said y--"

You cut him off with a shriek. "YES! YESYESYES!!"

In the time it takes him to blink twice with surprise you're on him. Arms around his neck, you throw yourself into his lap. He topples backwards and you ride him to the floor, already bawling hysterically.

He stares up at you in shock as you nod furiously and cry all over him. "Princess. You… you are certain?" If this were any other time you would be howling with laughter at his huge eyes and lax jaw.

Your answer is stuttery but determined. "Y-y-yeah. Put it-t-t-t on me already!"

He laughs in delight at your order and the imperious presentation of your shaking left hand. The ring glides on easily, a perfect fit. It gleams up at you blindingly. After a moment of admiration you lace your fingers with his and sigh at the union. His other hand comes up to roughly brush away your tears. "I know you do not like labels so much… but, you will be my, my married... Person. Thing?"

You stroke his bearded cheek in return, thumb lingering on that dimple. With a hard gulp you dive in head first. Fuck it.

"Yes, Diego. I will be your wife."

----------------------

The next time you wake it is dark out. You reach for a phone on the nightstand to your left and jump when you find one with a loud crack. Diego pops upright behind you, instantly on high alert. "Princess?" He hisses while covering your body with his own.

You gigglesnort, then meekly answer him, "I forgot about the ring and whacked a phone. Everything's okay, baby."

He sighs so deeply that his breath ruffles your hair. "Jesus fucking christ, woman. You are a menace." He flops down on top of you and snuggles back into your warmth.

You reach back with your left hand and grope blindly for his face. He licks your fingers as soon as they're in reach and you stuff them into his mouth as retaliation. He just sucks languidly.

"Mmmmmm, I'm your menace, baby. And I have to pee." He nips your fingers but rolls over to free you. You slide out of the bed and stretch your arms high while arching your back. Diego groans painfully. "What?"

Diego rises to all fours on the bed while the sheet slithers off of him. "You forget that other people can see without glasses, huh?" You cock your head and realize that you have a shadow.

It's a full moon. And I just stretched naked in front of a sliding glass door. "Oh. Huh. I guess I do forget. Oops. I'll be sure to keep that in mind now." Your seemingly tame answer is directly contradicted by the exaggerated roll of your hips that makes your butt bounce when you walk off.

"Fucking menace, woman." Diego growls as you push the bathroom door shut with a trill of laughter.

You never do go back to bed but you do wind up on the beach in front of the casita to watch the sunrise. Julio finds you both snuggled together late the next morning, still asleep on the covered daybed under the palms while the rising tide comes ever closer. At least Julio has the decency to cover your bare ass with a beach towel.

-----------------------------------

By the time you think to check your phone gallery you have… 1,792 pictures. WHAT THE FUCK.

You scroll through the pics, there are a lot you do not remember taking. Was I that drunk or did Diego take some of these? One is a close up of your ass from below wearing a string bikini, I knew I wasn't that drunk. The next pic is Diego asleep on a lounge chair, one arm curled up above his head, muscles glistening in the sun, and swim trunks so low on his hips that it's almost obscene. Immediately following that is the same pic but with your own face photobombing about three inches away from the camera and giving a thumbs up with your left hand so your engagement ring is prominently visible. Oh yeah, I remember that one.

There are videos, too. The first one is Diego making lewd comments while you twerk in the ocean for about ten seconds. Okay, that's par for the course with us. Next is you successfully backflipping off of Diego's shoulders into the green water to everyone freaking out. Shit, even I'm impressed with myself. After that is video of you gagging through a dish of octopus at some restaurant. Both of you are clearly visible in the shot so Julio must have had the phone. Betrayal.

There are tens of dozens of the two of you in various poses and outfits, both disgustingly happy and blatantly in love. There's even a role reversal shot of Diego sprawled across your lap, one enormous arm wrapped around your neck and his knees over your own arm while you grimace and he laughs hysterically. The table to your right is covered in empty bottles and mostly finished drinks. An entire subsection depicts you asleep like you have a stalker. You count no less than 29 of you two trying on increasingly ridiculous hats in random stores.

You can't even keep count of all the close ups of a smoldering Murder Panther. You feel no guilt. Aren't you supposed to be ridiculously attracted to your fiancé??

Fiancé.

You have a fiancé. Your fiancé is Diego. You are engaged to Diego Rafael Jimenez.

I have to explain this ring to everyone. They'll have questions about him. People will want pictures. How do I explain what he does?? Oh my god, there's no closet here. I have to… find somewhere. And I can't I can't. Its-

Your head jerks upright when something touches your hair. Its Diego. Kneeling on the floor in front of you, he has unfurled a sheet over you to block out everything, and he waits there, watching you. Before you realize it your hands are reaching for his shoulders, just the feel of him, warm and solid under your hands, calms you.

Slowly, his right hand comes up to cover your left. "No closet, Princess." His huge fingers grip yours tightly. You nod a little. He just watches you, eyes guarded.

"Ask. Go ahead." You mutter. You can tell from his posture that he is uneasy, apprehensive.

He locks eyes with you and his gaze is intense. He curls all of his fingers around your left ring finger. "Still yes?"

The fear in his eyes breaks your heart. Your voice is shaky but determined, "No. You can't get rid of me. I'm your problem now, baby." His expression would make a meeker woman cower in fear, you laugh weakly.

He settles down on the tile floor in front of you, with the sheet over both of you. Its like four in the afternoon and I am sharing a blanket fort with my cartel boss fiancé while on vacation in Mexico. What even is my life? His elbows are on his knees, chin in hand. He studies you for a minute, you stare right back. He raises one eyebrow and you sigh in capitulation.

"I don't know how to just be happy. I suck at it." You shrug but reach for his face. Diego nuzzles into your hand while you stroke your thumb over his beard.

"Habby isz nawt a berb." He slurs into your palm with a soft kiss.

The epiphany is like a cinder block to the brain.

He's right. I don't have to 'do' anything. I'm happy right now. I've been happy every time I'm with him. And no one had to exert any effort.

People can define themselves. People can define their relationships. Why can't they define their own normal? I can make my own rules. Especially with someone like Diego as my partner.

His one eyebrow slowly rises as he watches your thoughts play out across your face. "You back?" He asks with a hidden smirk, you know its there from the way his eyes crinkle with laugh lines.

"Yup!" Is your decisive answer. Diego licks your palm. "I got better places you can lick, baby." You answer his smirk with a waggling eyebrow.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of play wrestling and inappropriate noises.

-----------------------

You do, in fact, go on a safari. Of sorts. Tours of ruins and jungle and cenotes, lots of side quests because the both of you are easily distracted by pretty colors. You probably added another thousand pictures of various palm trees to your gallery. The hat makes multiple appearances.

Diego has to ship a crate home to New York because he bought you too many souvenirs. You laugh and tease him when he wants to pick out things for your middle sister and niece, until you hear his logic.

"They were nice to me." He murmurs with a little half-shrug, "It was like being in a real family for a little bit." He studies the bins of painted shells on display in the little store with way too much focus.

You spend a moment deliberating before you decide to reach out and touch his elbow.

"Hey," your soft voice brings his gaze your way momentarily before he goes back to ceramic turtle magnets. You take his hand with your own right and rest your left hand on his chest. Diego looks down where your ring glints in the light, then up to your face. "You know you're going to be part of that 'real' family, right?"

Diego's boyish little smile is heartbreakingly adorable.

---------------------------------

The flight home is much shorter than you want it to be and you spend most of it asleep on Diego. At one point you wake up to see Bastian and Joey cuddled up together napping. When you look up from where your head is resting in Diego's lap he is already looking down at you with an unreadable expression.

"What?" You whisper softly. You stifle a yawn and blink repeatedly.

Diego strokes one big hand over your hair and grips your jaw firmly. With a huge toothy grin he answers, "Mine."

"Uh huh. How many times you need me to say yes, baby?" You smirk up at him with an arched brow. He seems to be reveling in hearing you readily admit your commitment to him.

He considers your question carefully while his other hand trails down the front of your body under a blanket. I don't remember having a blanket earlier. Finally, Diego settles on "Every day. At least seven times. Seven is a good number, right Princess?"

Your body jerks as his fingers press between your thighs with steady determination. Your eyes flick over to Bastian and Joey, still out cold. You make a show of wiggling around to get comfortable, and, surprisingly, that involves spreading your legs. "Yessss." You hiss up at him.

Julio reclines his seat and exaggeratedly covers his face with a new hat.

Seven is a very good number.

------------------------------------------

Your first day back to work is a circus. You don't think twice about your normal greeting as you enter the office suite. You swipe your badge with your right hand and pop the door, then wave 'hi' to everyone. Like usual. With your left hand.

There is an excessive amount of squealing that makes you second guess going into a female dominated field. The whole day is a wash because you have a steady stream of people passing through your cubicle. You're glad you had the forethought to curate a photo album of appropriate images to show your coworkers despite Diego's repeated attempts to sneak a dick pic in there somewhere. You most definitely included the glistening swim trunks lounge chair picture. Squealing intensifies.

Everyone comments on the hat and you're forced to tell the story of the hat. How you once told Diego that you wanted to see palm trees, 'But like, in the wild.' And Diego had laughed so hard that he fell off the bed only to pop back up wheezing about a 'Palm Tree Safari' until you smacked him in the face with a pillow. Your coworkers think it is just disgustingly adorable that he never let you live that down.

Your coworkers have questions:

When is the wedding?

Where are you having it?

What kind of dress do you want?

What are your colors?

Are you going to do flowers?

What about the cake?

Who is your maid of honor?

How did your family take the news?

What about his family?

Are you going to New York?

Will you take his name?

Oh shit. I forgot about the whole 'wedding' part of this.

#damnit diego #murder panther #rough me up then dick me down #24 fucking 7 hours in this house #zash writes #all the feels #so gross #soft murder panther #melty princess

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thanksjro · 5 years ago

Text

Eugenesis, an Overview: Let Me Get Weirdly Serious About This Book For A Sec

HOLY SHIT WHAT A RIDE.

So, let’s recap what we’ve learned over the last 282 pages.

In 2001, James Roberts published nearly 300 pages of fictional prose, based in the established franchise of Transformers, specifically the Marvel UK comic continuity. This novel tells the story of the Transformers, in their dwindling numbers, being attacked, not by their opposing factions, but by an outside force hellbent on revenge. Those who are captured by this force- the Quintessons- are stripped of their very individuality, forced into servitude until the moment they die of exhaustion. Everyone is pushed to- and in some cases beyond- their limits, the horrors of a literal genocide beating down on them like a tidal wave. Only by casting aside their differences and banding together can they hope to survive the nightmare that is the Eugenesis Wars.

But people don’t really talk about all that, even though it’s a majority of what the book’s about. No, people only talk about what happens after the Quintessons are defeated. People only talk about the robots getting pregnant, because honestly it is the most bizarre thing.

Not because the idea itself is terribly odd- I mean, at least it’s in line with the lore the comics set up. It’s bizarre in how we get to that point. All the torture, all the suicide and death and depression and destruction of entire belief systems, leads up to these robots getting pregnant. Almost like that was the whole point. And considering that this story is presenting to us a bridge for the gap between the classic Transformers and the Beast-Era ones, it could have very well been.

I won’t say fetish, because that doesn’t feel quite right, but our dear author seems to have a sort of… obscene fascination with the concept of mechpreg. A fascination that will carry on well into his career as a professional comic scriptwriter, setting readers on edge for the duration of his run with IDW.

Comparing Eugenesis to More Than Meets The Eye and Lost Light, you get an interesting view of Roberts’ growth, as both a writer and a human being. Eugenesis is the work of what Billy Joel might call an "angry young man”, focusing on the despair of wartime and the futility of one’s struggle against the flow of time and mortality. The theme of time only being perceived as linear, and being in actuality an unending plane where all moments are equal and eternal might seem oddly specific, but it’s reflected upon by multiple characters within the story of Eugenesis. Perhaps this is why he has Brainstorm and Perceptor collectively and completely jack up time itself in the Elegant Chaos storyline.

Character moments sprinkled throughout the narrative give us a glimpse of the relationships that would be written later on- some of the most compelling scene writing happens between Quark and Rev-Tone, two original characters who have such a delightful dynamic between them, they very quickly became some of my favorites. You truly believe that they care so strongly for one another, they would do just about anything to keep the other safe. And they do, in a couple cases.

Then there’s all the death. There’s a lot of death in Eugenesis, and none of it is by way of natural causes- you’ve either got suicide, murder, or suicide-by-way-of-murder. You really see Roberts shine in these death scenes, both then and now, as he captures the utter, raw tranquility as one stares down their own demise, and on the other side of the coin, the complete annihilation of one’s very heart as someone they love is destroyed. It’s downright poetic how he handles these scenes.

Still, there is a difference in how the aftermath is handled. When someone dies in the MTMTE/LL run, there’s always meaning and purpose to it- nobody dies just to die, and those who are left behind are left at least something to comfort them.

A message of love.

The return of a friend.

A chance to keep living.

A chance to be a better person.

You don’t get that in Eugenesis. In most cases, there’s no salve for the wound, only more hurting. There’s no time to even mourn, as the fight rages on and on and on. Any happiness pulled from the narrative for the characters is laced with a bittersweet understanding that these folks probably aren’t going to make it, and they’re just as aware of that fact as the reader is.

And yet there’s something kind of beautiful about that, in a twisted sort of way.

Eugenesis is a sort of love letter to those dark thoughts hiding in our heads, those deeply scary intrusive visions of everything we care about being ripped away from us. It’s a book make up of catharsis, of hurting that begs for some sort of outlet. The characters in this story are lost, and scared, and hollowed out before the mass extinction even arrives, and are put through wringer after wringer, like some sort of distanced facsimile of self-harm.

Perhaps I’m reading a bit too into this, but with how intense things get, with self-insert characters no less, I can’t help but wonder if the James Roberts who was writing Eugenesis truly needed this outlet in more than just a creative sense.

Which isn’t to say that there aren’t issues with this novel just because it was a vessel for catharsis. Pacing can end up going so rapidly it feels as if you’re being pushed towards the edge of a cliff, then stutter to a halt to the point where continuing on feels like an absolute slog. But it always seems just as you’re about to put the thing down and give up, something completely thrilling, completely insane and powerful and profoundly attention-grabbing happens, pulling you right back in. If nothing else, this book demands one’s attention.

There are also some other, more interesting issues with Eugenesis. Issues I wasn’t really expecting to run into. To highlight one such issue, we’re going to play a game.

The game is called Guess That Character Design!

Hey Transformers fandom, got a new quandary for y’all to fight over. Forget the Frenzy/Rumble color debate, forget the Bombshell/Skywarp is Cyclonus debate, it’s time for the What The Actual Everloving Fuck Is Quark Supposed To Look Like debate! Do we follow the comic and its script, which show him as being either about on par with Rev-Tone and Mirage or taller, but fails to note any sort of color because it’s in black-and-white? Or do we follow the novel, which states he’s short exactly once, and crimson? And if he’s red, where did the blue paint chips come from in Part Five? They sure didn’t come from Rev-Tone, who I know is mostly red- not because the novel told me, but because I’ve seen art of him outside of this. Honestly, other than him having big honkin’ shoulders and a bust to match, nothing about Quark’s visual aesthetic is concrete.

Now, I could tell you all about his quirks and mannerisms, how he holds himself, how he talks, how he interacts with others, all sorts of stuff. Nothing wrong with the writing there, characterization’s great! I just couldn’t tell you for the life of me how his body is supposed to look. Rev-Tone’s in the same boat, except it’d be even worse without the helpful input of some friends. Did you know he has a visor? Because I sure as shit didn’t until someone showed me. It’s never mentioned in the book. You can barely see it in the prequel comic art if you’re looking for it, and the script is less than helpful to me because I’m not Matt friggin’ Dallas, nor have I had the pleasure of reading Transtrip. All the information presented in the novel about his looks involves his mouth.

Hell, some of the writing in Eugenesis seems to imply that he actually just has normal eyeballs.

What I’m getting at here is that Roberts leans a bit too much on the reader knowing exactly as much as he does about the characters, the plot points, the lore. And he knows A LOT about Transformers.

This book essentially requires the reader to have the wiki open with multiple tabs at all times. Roberts put his heart and soul into the prose, but the world-building had his nerdy little brains smeared all over it, because there are some obscure references in here, not to mention the sci-fi jargon. You basically NEED an internet connection to get through this- I’ve never read a novel that pretty much forbid an acoustic reading, but here it is, in all its glory.

Eugenesis is a dark, morbid, conflicted story with the oddest little bright spots in it. Within five pages, you’ll go from some of the most horridly bleak death scenes to someone accidentally burning a hole in their hand like a cartoon character. But never once, in nearly 300 pages, does it ever stop trying. It may not succeed in what it’s attempting 100% of the time, but goddamn does it go as hard as it can. This isn’t something that was done for money, or fame, or anything like that. Eugenesis is a passion project in the purest sense, and you can really feel it in the way it’s been crafted. For all the frustration it put me through, never once did I think “man, this guy just doesn’t care.” The ambition Roberts shows in the prose, in the world-building, in all the funny little moments that show just so much personality within the story, truly were harbingers for what was to come just a decade later.

Ambitious. Bleak. Brutal. Weird. Ultimately unforgettable. That’s James Roberts’ Eugenesis.

But let’s get to the heart of the matter, shall we? The one question that truly matters for any novel: is it worth reading?

Well, that depends.

If you had a hard time with the darker parts of MTMTE/LL, I really couldn’t recommend that you read Eugenesis. You will have an awful time, because most of it is Grindcore x100 levels of depressing and brutal. There were a couple points where I had to take a break because things got so intense- and I’m not exactly squeamish. Maybe stick to a breakdown- like this one!- or try a group read-along. Friends make everything better, after all.

If you like Roberts work and want to see where he came from, like I did, I highly recommend you find a copy- digital of course, there are only a few hundred physical copies in existence. I recommend you find the 2nd edition, which includes Telefunken and fixes some of the more glaring continuity mistakes and typos.

It’s a good read. Just... it’s a lot at times.

Like, a lot.

Up next-

Oh, what? You didn’t think that was it, did you? This url is way too sweet to just be done with so soon.

Next, I’ll be taking a gander at Children of a Lesser Matrix, which is something that was never finished by Roberts, but is still floating around the internet because hey! It’s the internet.

If anyone has any other somewhat obscure writings from JRo, feel free to send them my way. Especially if you have any of the TMUK zines from back in the day. I wish to consume all the works.

#transformers #jro #eugenesis #recap #maccadam #Hannzreads #incoming analysis #overthinking about robots #text post #long post

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punkandsnacks · 4 years ago

Text

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Thirteen; Delirium.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Masterlist-

Trigger Warnings: !!! illness and swooning again in this chapter !!! Fever type dreams that get spooky and deathy

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

Kylo was losing his mind.

It’s been known to happen to vampires of certain ages. Possibly ones even older than him, if any such do exist. Alive so long they start to rot and fester in their own bodies.

Brains blown and shattered apart from all the violence of things they’d done. Drifting and flaking apart like much too dried clay. The horror of the acts some vampires committed to feed. Not everyone could face or stomach it for so long. Drove them cackling into the worst sort of madness.

He’s seen men fall apart too. Mortal men. He’s seen entire armies and countries of men perish. Losing their heads to the last breath, infected with illness, or pox or the plague.

Deformed and rotting away already, before death had even come to them. Life clung on to them like some leeching disease. Decaying their bodies before their spirit had left their flesh.

He’d seen scores of roguish men who’d dallied with pox ridden girls. Perishing with no control nor use of their bodies and no eyesight to help them. He’d seen many many men succumb to it for some cheap penny’s worth of indulgence with some infested whore up against a tavern or brothel wall. Those men end up as dribbling and demented fools. Turned into deformed madmen.

It was hell. It was as close to any hell as he’d seen. The Black Death. He can remember that aswell. That rot.

How it bittered the air of every rust red Italian street. He’d been in Italy, in when it first struck. The hacking wet of sloppy coughs until blood comes frothing up.

Bloated bodies of peasants - men, women, children and infants - swelled green with festering flesh, dumped in the river, clogging up the Arno. Crows pecking at the bobbing corpses, ripping off flesh and eyeballs like wet peeling paper.

So many bodies-

Worse than ever, Kylo remembers the stench of plague. Rotting meat writhing with maggots, but candied with something of the human flesh, somehow. He’ll remember it for eternity. That cursed stench of putrefaction cloying the rivers and streets. It would stay seared into him for all his time still to come.

He recalls how some walled themselves into their own homes. They stayed inside to fester. Or drink themselves to death. Or pray. The illness took all of them before too long - faith or no faith. He could hear the wails of the nearly dead bleed through the thick red walls.

Blackened fingers, the fever and the boils, the salty sweat of rot and the reeking decay of death in every house. Everything the sick body excreted, be it sweat, spittle or breath, exuded an overpowering stench that he will never forget.

Whole towns emptied. Abandoned. Their population now lay rotting in the swallowing of the soil.

The doctore de la peste roamed the streets with their unseeing round glassy-eyes. In their beaks packed with sweet dried roses, mint leaf and carnation petals. The sickle of it trailed behind them like smoke cutting through the gloom. The ripe perfumery of plague.

By the end. The river was overrun with corpses. Couldn’t see the water for the rotting swill of flesh and bones. Rats scampering over them feeding. Gnawing. Birds plucking out what they liked to feed on.

It’s enough of a sight to make a man want to put out his own eyes with a red hot poker after seeing such illness, pestilence and misery.

It’s happening to him right as of now; in fact. Losing his mind. He’s certain.

They could mark this, 1816, as the year that he relaxed his firm hold on his sanity. It only took a thousand and twenty seven years.

It only took the sight of his sweet dove, in his bed, writhing and sweating with fever. Delirious and dangerously ill.

She collapsed after dinner and he swept her upstairs right away. Mrs Jones sent a note for the local doctor. Sent their bravest rider out on Erland, into the storm by the safest road. Jomar fetches her a cold cloth from the anteroom. Kylo can’t leave her side. He won’t.

He sits on the bed and watches over her diligently. When Jomar returns with a bowl of icy cold water, stands it on the bedside and wrings out the cloth. Kylo takes it from his offered hand without even casting an eye in his direction. He takes the sopping linen and pastes it across her clammy brow.

She’s splayed back in his bed, weak and insensate. To hell with liberties. He took the gown and shawl off her himself, and bundled the white cotton and red velvet sheets over her. She sank back onto his pillows. Sprawled limp.

Her lovely pale face sheened in sweat. Whole body shivering and her breathing was shallow. Brow creased and wrinkled up in pain.

Kylo’s sitting near. Pulling sticky strands of hair off her cheeks. Hating the sight of her like this. He’s banked the fire and had extra blankets put on the bed. But he’s unsure. He’s never sat at a sick bed for a mortal before. Well- not like this. He’s attended a death bed. But here? He doesn’t know what to do. How to act.

Her eyes are open but she doesn’t see him. He’s certain she can’t see him or anyone else in the room. She’s dazed. Lost to sense.

And he’s frantic. He’s mopping her brow but he doesn’t know what good that might do. She keeps twisting her head away from him. Fingers twining into the sheets, fisting them in her hands. Gasping and shuddering breath. Her chest is moving up and down so fast it hurts him to see this.

Mrs Jones timidly knocks on his bedchamber door. Kylo’s voice is strained when he answers the knock. She comes in. Her face pinched and the very sight of it hurts Kylo’s nonexistent heart.

“The doctor can’t attend her, my Lord. He’s trapped a county over delivering a baby.” She says breathless and pink from running up the stairs. Her skirts still picked up in her hands.

That was Kylo’s last hope. He dismisses her with a curt nod. Not ill tempered at her news. Merely overshadowed by this whole room. All this grave pressing silence and illness.

The very air in here feels tense. Made dry and hot by the fire. Stale with human exertion. And Still. So still with anticipation and uncertainty.

Jomar returns with another icy bowl of water, a fresh cool cloth. Kylo reaches and swaps it for the clammy warm one. She groans and tries to twist away.

Kylo soothes her. “Dove. It’s alright it’s alright.” He hushes her as she fidgets and tosses around. Knees tugging under the blankets. Hands still fisting in the sheets. She’s whining. She’s pleading with him. The hysteria has gripped its nasty hold tight.

“No... no. Ugh. Please. No.” She gasps. Head looming far back. Neck stretched out. Dewy, and by the darkened light of his room, her long supple neck and throat is now shimmering amber. Kylo’s hand take the cloth away and she sighs a lungful of a groan in response.

“She’s not talking to you My Lord.” Jomar insists. “It is the fever.” He assures Kylo.

His butler is now washing his hands in the water jug across on the dresser. Scrubbing soap and his nails with a harsh scratching brush that sizzles at his skin. He dunks his hands under the cloudy milk of the water and washes away the soap suds.

“What do I do?” Kylo’s pleading to them both. To Jomar and Mrs Jones. He looks like a little dark haired boy. An infant. Helpless and terrified.

Sat there, teetering on the edge of his bed, starry silver tears in his eyes. It might be the only time they’ve seen him truly weak or scared. Wracked with agony with something even he can’t control.

Powerless to help the woman he loves.

Mrs Jones knows of that look. She sees the russet sparkle in his Lordships eyes. And it aches her. Sees the pain in his creased brow and displayed in the openness of his face. He is used to having power over so many things - this is not part of his influence. It does not share in being intimidated by him as most things and people usually do.

This vampires one weakness; terror for the frailty of mortality. That she could and might slip away to a place beyond his mighty reach.

Jomar crosses back to the bed, takes her wrist and feels for her pulse. His clever kind hands were cool on her feverish skin. Still she shivers in his grasp. He fixes his gaze downwards as he holds her frail arm. Returning it gently to her side when he’s done.

“Her heart rate is very fast.” He says with veiled emphasis. He then leans up and peers over her face, gently cupping it to see her eyes. “Her eyes are unfixed also.”

“I think it may be an affliction on her lungs. A chill caught from the rainstorm.” He suggests to Kylo.

“How do we treat her?” Kylo’s demanding with every note of his voice laced with hope.

Jomar shares an anxious look with Mrs Jones. “We don’t. Your lordship.” Jomar tells him gravely.

“We can only wait now for the fever to break. But we can do everything within our power to make her comfortable.” He insists to his Master and friend. Laying a kind hand on his shoulder.

Lord Ren looks up at him. Lost in his gaze. His silver bangle catches the light. A darting glimmer. Like a silver scaled fish swimming in dark inky waters. His butlers hope and goodness always shone great through the darkest of times.

Jomars bronzed eyes melt for him like crushing gold honey and warm cocoa. Tries to bolster him kindly for this devastating news.

“Is there truly nothing I can do?” Kylo chokes out. His voice hadn’t the bravery to rise beyond a whisper. He just had to watch her suffer like this? Twisting and delirious and unconscious with fever.

“I’m afraid so M’lord. In the meantime-“ Mrs Jones says. Crossing the wide dark room to the window. Batting away the crimson drapes. The battle axe she was is on the warpath. She’ll see this right. Kylo wouldn’t trust anyone else.

“We might try to keep her cool. Fever burns you up something wicked. So I won’t have her stifled. Loose blankets are best. And we are to mop her brow and her neck every hour. On the hour.” She commands. Jomar nods in agreement.

“I’ll see to some laudanum for her relief, from the medicine cupboard.” He insists. Bowing his head to Kylo before slipping away.

Off out the door. Picks up the lit candle holder in his hand from the side. The long ivory taper of it flickers a warm marmalade in the dark of his Lordships crimson room. Kylo watches the glow of it, and him, disappear down the dark hall. Swallowed up into the blackness of the house.

The treads of his boots crushed silent and dead on the rug in the corridor. The hazy fog of champagne yellow coated the walls of Hellford like thick gold dust. Shining off every polished wood door and dark floorboard. Grows fainter and fainter as he moves away.

Kylo turns back to his dove. Takes the cloth away. Re-wets it. Puts it back on her brow. He takes it away again once the cool is gone. Replaces the cloth with his own cold hand. All of his fingers dwarfing most of her head. He slips around and cups the nape of her neck and she rolls her solid head onto the arch of his arm.

She’s so warm it almost burns his hand. His chest aches to feel her that way.

She protests at the cold. “Leave me.” She sobs. “Leave me alone...” She cries. Eyes shut. Denying him the alluring cloudy grey gaze of those eyes he admires so much.

“I will do no such thing...” Kylo says lowly. Stroking wet tamped hair off her forehead. Looking at her flushed cheeks which burn hot. He presses the back of his hand to them. To soothe them. The crinkle in her brow lessens a little at his icy touch. The only time his coldness has ever come in handy.

Mrs Jones grabs the bowl of water from next to him but before she scurries downstairs to replace it she offers. “Your Lordship, I can send for a maid to sit with her. If you need some rest.”

“I will stay.” Kylo presses. “I won’t leave her side until this wretched thing breaks.” He insists with stony determination.

He looks back to Iris. Cupping her cheek in his hand. Watching her breathing pant rapid. She leans into his touch.

With no clear action before him, other than to comfort her. His mind, denied of a task, emptied of all things, now fear began to fill it.

Mrs Jones says nothing. But she gives him a trembling look of affection that attempts at bolstering him. She takes the bowl and she too pads softly out the room. The creaking whine of the door being softly shut was the final announcement to their being availed of company.

Kylo turns back to her. A terrible weight squeezing down on his chest. He’s sat at a fair number of deathbeds in his life. He’d watched some human friends fade away. But that was certain. War or disease took them from him.

This is not certain and it’s killing him all over again.

It’s that night on the battefield in the snow again and again again. Draegan finding him. Coming across Kylo as he lay dying. The burning dripping searing blood leaking down his side. His wound was by the abdomen. The worst way to die. It could take days. The white hot agony searing his bones in acid all over again. Scarlet snow. Scarlet wet snow everywhere.

He can remember cool slender fingers cupping his neck. The whisper across his cheek like a kiss of the icy north wind. “You know you will not survive this.” He explained. Unsticking Kylo’s leather gloved hand from the wound that ran along the entire side of his stomach. Silver eyes, like precious moonstones, looking at the blood laying black and thick on his palm.

To the very last. Kylo fought like a warrior. When he often had resolved, as a Viking soldier, of pondering his own death. He had envisioned a glorious end. Sword in hand cutting down his enemies until his very last breath.

He never imagined in his wildest dream that death would smile handsomely at him first. Never believed he’d be side by side with the devil - and that he would love him with the passion of a thousand burning suns.

Never thought he’d love again - until he laid eyes on this beautiful creature. He lusted for her first of all. That instant carnal attraction. But that had masked how she truly made Kylo’s soulless body ache to love her.

She brought him to his knees. And now he’s choking on his grief.

“Please don’t leave me, Little Dove.” He begs in a whisper as she writhes and sweats into his bedsheets. Gasping and dulled.

“Don’t go to the one place I can’t follow.” He begs. Laying his big hand over where hers was limp and stretched out atop the velvet covers. His hand dwarfed hers utterly. But his touch was so gentle. Unsure.

“I told you if anything happened to you. It would kill me.” He says. Looking at her earnest face. So dewy and flushed.

“I meant my words. Iris, If I have to spend an eternity without loving you then, I-“ His throat claws up. Suffocating his words. He shakes his head.

He brings her limp arm up. Back of her clammy hand pressed to his mouth. Nuzzles a kiss to her skin. Tastes the salt of her sweat. Tastes her agony. He’s certain it reflects his own.

“I won’t leave you.” He vows solemnly. A silky whisper that he speaks into her skin. He always takes his vows seriously.

Treads rattle louder in the hallway. Coming back to the room. Jomar enters again with the bottle of laudanum and a spoon to hand.

Kylo will be the one to feed it to her. He gently cups her face and slips the silver spoon to her lips. An oddly intimate act. He feeds the opiate into her mouth, she twists her head and some of it runs down her chin. Kylo wipes it away with the cloth. Taking up the task of the lowliest maid. Seeing so tenderly to her in her illness.

He’s calmed a little by the fact of the laudanum taking away any pain she might be feeling. Her breathing settles. As does his worry.

He retires to the chair by the fireside across the room. The same deep wine red velvet as covers his bed. He pulls it close to the end of his huge four postered bed. Drapes hanging heavy down all four mahogany posts. Protecting the pale infirm form of her within. He’ll watch over her from his bedside. Cradled in the comfort of the chair.

Some ineffectual matronly mama of the ton may argue that this was most improper. A single man watching over the bedside of an unmarried girl. Worst still- an unmarried girl on the brink of an engagement.

Kylo snorts to himself. Wondering if the deuced snotty boy of a Sergeant would even care that his intended was gravely ill. Probably only cared that she had fallen ill in Kylo’s manor.

It didn’t matter that she was unconscious and insensate. She was in the very room with a man who compromised her honour, and Hux’s. Making a fool of him. In in Lord Ren’s very own bed, no less.

Well. Not that either of them were in any fit state to be compromising the hell out of each other. But he doubts strict society will see it that way. This was enough impropriety just being within touching distance.

One thing that does prevail upon him a tiny shred of bright happiness in all this darkness. Is the fact that he knows how desperately fuming this whole situation would make Iris’s mother.

Him protecting her. Rescuing her. Keeping her safe. He’s sure the old harpy would be frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog knowing where her daughter was. She’d likely spout out nastiness, how it was all a concoction for the dashing dark Lord Ren to seduce and spoil her eldest daughter. To ruin their hope of an advantageous marriage.

Little did that termagant know, but it was far too late for that.

Iris was worked her sweet steady way under his skin from every outing they’ve shared. Every look across a crowded ballroom. Every touch of their hands, gloved or not. Their dance. Their kiss. It was the inferno that brought their affection and regard for each other to a fever pitch.

She trembles whenever he comes close. When their eyes meet he always feels the delighted shiver that runs the full length of her spine. The blush that prettily decorates her cheeks. Finer than any jewellery he could bestow on her gorgeous body.

Funny how such a thing as her blush made him think of so many things.

It made him want to whisk her away in the dead of night. Back to Bavaria. Install her there as the Lady of his castle. Sharing his land. Sharing his title. Lady Ren. He’d have her dresses tailored by the finest Dressmaker in Bavaria.

Dust off the family jewels and then bedeck her in them. Head to toe. Nothing less would do for her. She’s suffered such a life of penury and scraping together to make her as bait to men for marriage. He’d see to ending that sad facet of her life. He’d let her choose what she wears. Whether or not she had to pay calls or deliver baskets to the infirm.

He’d let her lounge in a boudoir parlour, reading books, and accomplish nothing in her day apart from having a sumptuous oiled bath if she so desires. He just wants to see her happy.

He’d open the whole castle for her to explore room after room. Every tapestry. Every oil painting and marble statue. Every suit of armour he’d fought in over the years. Stood proud and polished silver on display. All of it he’d let her have.

How he misses it... his home. Ranlor Castle.

He misses the way the castle feels to step into. The scent of it. The edifying old thick stone halls of musty brick and how the smell of green and pine like the forest surrounding it, seeps in every window. Hanging upon the very air.

He misses the warmth of the fur pelts on his bed on a stormy night. The sky flurrying with snow, wind howling at tiny lead crossed windows. He was so used to hearing the wolves cry out for the moon in the woods at night, as he fell asleep in his big soft bed. Missed the way flame and shadow danced up the thick exposed golden-bricked walls. It lulls him to sleep.

The locals rightly call Ranlor the ‘devils rock.’ A dark superstition has long lingered over the land ever since Kylo had been in residence there.

Named because of the way the - many - turrets either end of the castle rear out the landscape like two sharp pale fangs. Looking over all the local villages and tenants. The shadows of those turrets reach far and wide. Everything is eclipsed in it’s shade. Grisly things were said to happen too, in his woodlands. Strong men go missing and not even so much as their bare bones are ever recovered.

Local folk legend blindly believes when the moon is full, that devils roam the woods. Black wolves turn into foul hungry demons with claws, ready to hunt upon the flesh of men. When the moon is its full eye of pearl in the sky, people are warned to stay off the forest. And stick to their homes. Bolt the doors and draw the shutters. Cower in their beds and listen to the wolves howls rise faintly over the snowy horizon. Piercing through the snow.

Kylo’s work providing for his lands and Ranlor’s tenants so ably puts shame to most of the rumours.

He is a generous Lord and master of the lands. Nothing is beyond his notice. He holds a ball for the local villages every year, near Yuletide season. Amidst the bitter winter. The staff bring in great log garlands made from the holly in the forest to decorate the hall. They serve brandy and punch and Kylo mixes among everyone to see how their year has been as his tenants.

If families struggle, too many mouths to feed. He absolves their rent. Ensures they are kept stocked with food from the castles own kitchen to tide them over- He has no need for it after all. His servants eat handsomely too, Kylo makes sure of that.

If bouts of illness flourish among his tenants and among those less fortunate than him, he puts up the money for the doctors bills. He takes care of his own. Even if they are not his kin. They are under his protection on his territory.

He is remarked on being a very gallant and fair man. No one on his land would dare observe that he was frightening and cruel.

Only if he is gotten on the wrong side of that is. If poachers steal from his lands and steal the food supplies belonging to his people. Or if he sees any drunken men take advantage where they shouldn’t with a passing maiden, outside the taverns. If a violent and ill tempered brute of a man who drinks his families wage away, so much as dares to raise a hand to his suffering wife or children- then does Kylo reveals his nasty side.

He’s sure there are still gossips that believe the superstition of his home. In local taverns at night over pitchers of ale, some men lean in, to whisper and wonder and gossip if he is entirely as human as he seems.

He rarely eats. Never drinks to excess. Had never taken a wife and he doesn’t dally with whores. He stalks the forest alone most nights. They sometimes remarked that he was not human. There was little humanity about him. But they never suspected for a moment that the bloodthirsty demon unleashed by the full moon, was in fact him.

The reason some of the bones of missing men were never found? Because Kylo drains them of the blood and leaves the drained corpse for the hungry wolves to tear apart.

Kylo ruminates on memories of home as he watches the firelight kiss across her pale form on the bed. Her breathing still shallow.

“I’d so much like for you to see Ranlor. Little dove. You’d adore it.” He says. Speaking to her as if she were awake to hear him.

He tells her about the forest. About the bitter winter gales that blow through. And how it thaws so prettily in spring. Woods full of blue hyacinths and pink scented stocks. Sugary and sickly perfume of them in the warm pine of sun-baked air.

He tells her how she’d like the wildflowers and the baby roe deers and the lake when it’s warm enough to swim in. To dip into the fathomless sapphire ink of water. The graceful swans that dance across the blue waters surface.

He tells her she’d like the local life. Much like here, people were humble and simple. Salt of the earth. People who make no pretence to be more than they are. How refreshing he finds that compared to all the Janus faced civility. Velvet draped over daggers, and dripping censure that falls from lord’s and ladies mouths, in a savage English country ballroom.

He describes the villages nearby. On the road to Ranlor. The tall narrow houses built of walnut timber and smothered in white paint. Closely set together on cobbled grey streets. Some of the neighbouring villages were walled cities also. Keeps from medieval times. Set high up in the rocks.

Quaint little hamlets were dotted along the Bavarian alps near his castle. He tells her of the nearest one to Ranlor.

Brimming with taverns boasting the most excellent beer and joints of game, roasted on a spit, a flagon and a hunk of meat for no more than a half a gold florin. Cafes and shops there were, a florist also. He recalls the waxy punchy-coloured tulips and how they always always always caught his attention in the window. The striking eye-catching scarlet of them. He likes seeing it, as he often rides past on Erland. Or in his rattling big coach.

There were coffee houses, bakeries and patisseries selling Austrian cakes and puddings. Butchers or other general stores selling the local cuisine of smoked or cured meats and sausages and cheeses.

The spectacular wares always for show in the haberdashers window. Great voluminous hats with sprouting great feathers and dripping trimmings galore. Her silly sisters, he fancied, would adore to see such fine frippery. And most of all, there in that precious little village that somehow has found a warm place in his heartless chest, there are always vendors with their braziers, hawking roasted or candied nuts around the town square.

He tells her how touched he was in her gesture of giving him a paper bag of roasted chestnuts, the day after they first met.

He admits something to her then; of how he doesn’t often indulge in human food. But those he did eat. The buttery sweet burn of them reminded him of home. Lifting his nose to the bag to smell the smoky nutty scent sent him ricocheting right back to thoughts of that little Bavarian village. It touched him profoundly in more ways then he could say. She could barely spare the capital to buy them and she bestowed on him, such a gift.

She bought it with her last penny and that truly astounded him. He was a veritable stranger to her then. He is so much more than that now. She’s so much more to him. And him, to her.

Kylo will see out this lonely frightful night. He watches over her. Hopes the morning will bear better signs. Hopes that the tumultuous storm passes.

It dies well enough. By the pale pink of a wet lilac and gold dawn, shining over the windowpane and into his chamber. Shrouding his sickbed in rosy gold, she is unfortunately in much the same state. Unchanged. Not progressing nor worsened.

He sits and keeps a diligent eye on her. Had done all night. He requires little sleep. And so he talks to her. Mops her brow when she starts sweating again. Jomar and Mrs Jones flit in and out. Bringing provisions. And fresh cold water. More laudanum.

Mrs Jones brought him a plate of roasted meats and a glass of wine. It went untouched. She takes it away without saying a word. Gives the scraps to the hounds.

Jomar checks on her every few hours. With his slight grasp of medical knowledge. They try sending for the doctor again. But he is still unavailable. Fixing broken bones from men caught up in last nights storm. Kylo curses the inflexible man every name under the sun.

He doesn’t even retire from her side to take luncheon. Mrs jones had tried to tempt him with a grilled chop at breakfast. And still he refused. Tempted him with roast capons and a carafe of wine now, and still he declined. He’d gone longer without food before in his time. It wouldn’t hurt him. Three years he’d once gone without indulging.

“You need to keep your strength up. My Lord. You’re no good to her if you starve away to skin and bone.” She chides as she carries out another bowl of water. Refreshing it.

“Hardly likely.” Kylo’s insisting. Tugging at the rumpled linen of his shirt.

Sleeves rolled and cuffed. Waistcoat he shrugged off some time in the night. Just in black braces, dull boots and dark breeches now. He’s sure he’ll be a malodorous wretch in need of a shave and wash. But he won’t leave her in this crisis. He won’t so much as go to splash cold water on his face. He’s not leaving this room.

Hellhounds with glowing red eyes and slobbering gnashing teeth, couldn’t drag him away.

Mrs Jones makes a move to put a matronly hand on her hip and chastise him some more. But there comes a groan from the bed.

Kylo leaps from his chair and bolts across to her. “Dove?”

He seeks for her hand. He listens to her breathe.

It was now a shallow drag accompanied by a slight rattling wheeze when she breathed. The affliction had spread to her lungs. And he knows the opium will have suppressed her lungs as a result.

A trickle of blood leaves her mouth and smears on the pillow. A wheezing hacking cough comes from her. It’s such a weak sound it hurts to hear it. He mops it away with the damp cloth. Smears at her pale cheek in its wake.

“Oh no. God no. Iris...” He seeks louder. Trying to see if she responds. She’s limp as ever. Lost to him. Blood leaking from her lips.

“Fetch Jomar.” He orders urgently to his housekeeper. She runs for the door and brings back the Butler. He checks her over and his face is grave.

“Your lordship. Her temperature is rising and I believe it appears as if the infection is worsening.” He says softly.

Kylo’s face falls. His throat bobs with worry.

He knows she’s strong. She can temper the foul spitting words of her mother. She can temper this. She must. Or he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“Will she die?” Kylo asks outright. Face like steel. Eyes wet.

“I’m not a doctor. My Lord. I cannot say. But she needs a miracle to fight this affliction that’s taken hold. It looks like consumption.” He tells honestly.

Kylo nods. “I’ll call you both if you are needed again.” He dismisses them.

They file out the room with sorrowful faces. Such a sweet girl. And their Master is clearly so cut up by seeing her in such a state.

Kylo wraps his fingers around her hand.

“Fight it little dove.” He urges her. She was shivering earlier. But now she’s stilled. Sweating and clammy. Burning up more than ever. She was getting worse.

“Please. Please fight. You’re so strong Iris. My god, you don’t know how strong...” He begs as he cups her hand and one hand cradles the side of her face.

“The first time I saw you, I saw your strength. Your resilience. You held your head high even though you didn’t want too. I felt your pain. I felt your back breaking under all that strain.”

Her head stays limp on the pillow. Eyes blind to anything. Shut in unrest. He wishes more than anything that there was something he could do to aid her before this got even worse.

She looks pallid. Ashen. More so than before. Sweating buckets and more blood leaks out her mouth. He wipes it away with the fresh handkerchief Jones left by the bed. He looks down in his hand and sees the sticky red staining the white cloth.

Like a bloodied paw print in the snow. It doesn’t even call out to his hunger. He’s too beyond it. This is too perilous. Too serious to measure his animal instincts.

Blood.

The room grows cold. All warmth drops as if the sun had been snatched out the sky. Kylo feels the chill pinned along his skin as a ghost of a phantom breeze sweeps over him.

His cool blood turns to prickling ice. The candles on the bedside flicker, the fire wanes. He knows what comes next. He hasn’t felt this in centuries. He hears the voice, as crisp and as sharp as frost in his head. The voice like silver coins and honey dances into his ear. Notes as fine as a dark deep concerto.

“Your blood, My fierce one. Or have you forgotten. All life is in the blood.” Comes Draegan’s soothing mellow voice.

The tone that was like feather down and silk to listen to the way he crooned. Every part of his manner was charming. The deep of his sharp eyes was piercing. Intoxicating.

Kylo’s not been alongside mortals as Draegan had. He was a healer. Though he was a demon, he always conceded that there was no death without life. All life as such, is therefore to be treated as precious. Humans fascinated him. And he moved freely and happily among them. Whereas Kylo scorned most all of them.

He strides from the bed to his unused escritoire across the room. Situated by the window for light. Not that he had any letters to write or close acquaintances to send them too. He considered leaving notes for Iris but there’s always a risk his letters would be discovered. He’s got a stack of them all written - tied up with a grey silk ribbon and hidden away.

He rifles through his drawers until he finds it. A knife. A silver dagger with a weighted carved handle. He rounds the bed again, crosses to her and sits near her hip. He holds out his left hand and rips the knife across his index fingertip.

Crimson beads up. He holds his hand aloft and watches it drip. Looks back to Iris and gently cups her face.

“I know this won’t be pleasant. But it will help.” He tells. He doesn’t even feel the sting of pain. It’s nothing to him. Nothing to the pain of seeing her suffer like this.

He gently holds her cheeks and rubs his bloodied fingers across her dry lips. Smearing crimson onto her tongue. She frowns and tries to move her head away, mumbling in distress. But Kylo doesn’t relent until he’s sure his ichor coats her tongue. Slips silken down her throat.

He takes his hand away and rubs the blood from her mouth that spilled down her chin. Leaving her as pale as she was before. The rose of her cheeks still glares awfully bright.

He bunches the cloth around his hand. He’ll heal up in no time. He wishes he could say the same for her. Only time will tell...

He holds her hand. Strokes over her dainty little clammy knuckles. “Twice now he’s saved you.” He remarks to her.

“If I didn’t know him any better....” He sighs, trails off in his words. The very breath gets punched from him. To what end could Draegan be saving her? Whatever for?

One idea occurs - it’s because he’s felt all that she means to him.

That tears agony at him like animals claws tearing down his chest. Shredding flesh. When he thought how he turned his back on him, and scorned his love. And here he was, centuries later, calling out to keep her safe. To protect her.

Kylo lets himself feel shamed.

Ashamed for the ways he bypassed his feelings for Draegan, and let anger fill him so completely up instead. Now he’s met Iris? He understands what he put Draegan through when he left. Because she might leave him now, and he thinks he might just wither away to ash, to nothing, for agony of loving her so much. Unable to help her through this pain.

Though now, perhaps he’s given her the catalyst to help her fight what ails her. He can only wait. And pray.

He paces the room. Paces and then sits. And then he’s treading worn holes in the floorboards again.

Before he knows it, night falls again. He watches out the window as the sun bleeds into blue.

Night washes a filmy indigo over the landscape. Trees turn to dark gnawed fingers of branches. The grass shimmers with evening dew and the pond out front in view of his window, turns to gloopy blue ink.

He stands with his back to her. Surveying the view out the window. Arms folded behind his back. He’s listening to the fire crack and the wind groaning outside on the cold glass, splashing hard against the house. And suddenly she speaks. Gasps out. Cries out.

“So cold.”

He whips around fast. She’s twisting from side to side and he sees the fire sheen off her brow. She repeated herself “It’s so cold...” He hastens to the bedside and takes her hand again. “Iris?” He asks.

She’s still dazed. Still delirious. Twisting her head on the bed.

“Snow. And blood. Why is there....so much blood...” She frowns. Her face all contorted. Her palms knot her fingers into her pillow. She’s writhing again.

Kylo looks down at her. Puzzled.

Her reality had became quickly spliced with odd fevered dreams.

Snippets of actuality broke through the haze. She felt herself fall after she stood up from the armchair after their intimate dinner. She dropped but her body didn’t hit the floor. She’s moving again. And those lovely strong arms of his, are around her.

She’s burning. Was she on fire? That’s what it feels like. She’s dripping sweat and trying to claw at her dry throat. Loosen her strangling clothes. Get some blessed sweet cool air on her skin.

A cold chest she’s cradled into again. Widest muscled chest she’s ever beheld. And she’s moving. Her eyes are shut, it’s all dark, yet she feels weightless. Being carried.

Then it all goes soft. She’s laying on velvet as gentle hands guide away clothes from her body. She’s aching so much her bones ring with it.

She tries moving but she feels cemented. Every word she tries to croak is difficult. Making speech is like trying to let thick hot syrup drip off her sticky tongue.

There’s this pain in her lungs. A thousand knives stabbing in when her chest expands. Kind hands touch her arm and her head. Their warmth scorches her already blazing skin. She tries to wriggle away. But she’s too weak. Her body won’t comply to the requests of her mind.

There’s feather and down at her back. It crinkles and crumples, and she’s relieved the bed is so cool. Something bittersweet is dropped down her throat. Trickling down her melting tongue. She barely feels the rest. She drifts in and out.

And the thing is, she’s not entirely sure she’s alone. She hears voices. A voice. Dark, deep, like a granite walled cave.

She can’t feel much. But she feels cold thick fingers wrap around hers. She knows who those might belong too.

The fire in her blood doesn’t stop. It doesn’t wane. She feels like she’s drowning and she’s not even in the rain anymore. Prickles and knives and all manner of horrible sharp things stab at her chest. Spears, lances, thorns and needles.

It feels like her lungs rattle with poison and shards of broken glass. She wants to cough but it’s too much for the infirm state she’s in.

In between her swimming head and trying to crack open her heavy eyes. Between bleeding crimson and a blazing twitching flame she can make out very little.

Time and sensation are lost to her. But she feels how someone diligently holds her, cups her face, cool on her cheek, feeds her spoonfuls of water so she doesn’t dehydrate. Dribbled water and laudanum - spiced with honey and saffron to cut the bitterness - down her neck with a cold silver spoon perched on her lips.

The dreams are the worst. She dreams about rain. About rivers and heavy crushing things, tar, black and rotten, squirming on her chest. Crushing her.

Of fangs ripping pale flesh off bleeding necks, how that haunts her. Wine red blood and she’s laying in a sticky hot pool of it. Unable to move.

Foul black demons with claws and leathery black wings and red eyes, drooling maws with gnashing teeth rip at her nubile skin. She screams but no sound comes. They throw her screaming into hell and brimstone, and the flames lick higher around her.

She’s dying. She must be dying. She can see it. Lying under a chiffon veil draping her body. Dried white flowers, rustling and dead sweet, are placed on her chest. Hands crossed over her chest. A figure in hooded cloaked black looms over her.

She squirms. She tries to bat them away. Tries to twist out their reach of these monsters. She calls and begs them, but to no avail. Cold splashed on her again. On her brow and on the back of her neck. She sighs and gladly welcomes it.

A low melodic buzz murmurs in her ears like a thousand bees zipping and bobbing about her head. She can’t understand what it is. But it’s somehow a nice sound to listen too.

It causes a gentle hum to seep into her aching bones and calms her heavy head. It’s like a balm. Salve on a wound. She doesn’t realise that it’s Kylo talking to her.

When the fire in the hearth across the room crackled and spit sparks up the chimney, it felt like splits opened in her skin, forming like cracks in stone, and insects crawled out. Black scurrying beetles, She started itching at her arms. Clawing. But nothing was there.

The cold soothe of her harbinger of peace is there to hold her hands and stop her nails raking her flesh away.

More voices move around her. Tumbling around the air in the room. Cracking and snapping like zapping silver lightning and thunder. The mumbling grows in volume. Slithering along her spine. One of her arms feels like it’s been left in ice water - it’s where he’s holding and kissing her. Begging her to fight it. Pleading with her.

She’s so tired. So wrung out. She just wants all this pain and fevered madness to stop. She’s soaked through to the sheets and her skeleton grates with ringing hot agony whenever she dares to move. She’d cry if her brain would grant her that meagre request.

Her lungs have worsened. She knows it. Filled and clogged with dry sand, and salt. Sluggish and wet like a briny beach. It rattles when she breathes, and something she can’t name dribbled out her mouth. Drooling onto the pillow. She doesn’t know that it’s blood.

She only knows that she’d quite like to fall away to her fever dreams and never come back.

Iris so wants the lingering darkness to take her.

However, one tiny shred of her feels cheated; she would’ve so liked to kiss Lord Ren again. One last time. The nicest thing that’s ever happened to her. She’d have liked to have tasted his kiss and drown in his loving attentions just one more time. Just one.

It didn’t seem like a lot to ask of fate. Seeing the crummy hand it had dealt her in her wretched little life, thus far.

Time passes. She’s not sure if it’s seconds, or minutes. For all she knows she may only have been lying insensate for an hour. Or it may have been days. Weeks. She can’t focus. She could have been lying stretched out there for Methuselah’s lifetime. She’s none the wiser.

Then something else happens, something unexpected. Something wet is pushed past her lips. Only it isn’t water. And it isn’t the bitter saffron alkaline of laudanum.

She doesn’t recognise this taste; it’s salty sweet. Hot metallic, and a blend of sour-saccharine burst. She doesn’t recognise it. It’s not unpleasant. But it’s not what she’d describe as palatable.

She tries to twist. But her head is thumping and those flames are curling at her toes again.

And then some distinctly odd things begin to happen. Even more odd than demon dreams or the bugs crawling out crevices in her skin.

Where she swallows, the substance dropped in her mouth starts rolling down her throat. Carving away the pain in its path.

Before long it reaches her swollen lungs. Slowly. One by one, each knife and needle, shard of glass, spear and lance is dragged out of her. Pulled away. Tugged out her pinching flesh. Relaxing her ribs.

Gradually, all her pain lessens. Stickiness in her lungs, grating of her shallow heavy bones. It all fades. Agony slowly dies like a starved candle flame.

The unknown liquid rolls through her like milk and crushed honeycomb. Ambrosia nectar. It tastes like gold. Like sunshine warming her bare skin after feeling nothing for months, but cutting winter frost.

Fever dreams start to come back in full force. And they feel more real than before.

She opens her eyes and there’s suddenly snow. It’s cold. It’s so very cold she’s shivering. Standing there, looking around a milky snow blotted forest.

The trees around her reach vast, thick and tall. Trunks wider than her body. She cranes her head and she can’t even judge the tops of them. It’s just foggy grey up above. Heavy snowfall closing in.

But all around her there are splotches of dark seeping in the snow. Dark jagged shapes lay misshapen in the thick thick icy drift.

She feels it all. The squishing shift of the powder beneath her feet. Cold little stings of flakes melt onto her cheeks and eyelashes. Turning to tears that rain dewdrops down her skin. Her breath spirits silver out her mouth.

There’s no stars up in heaven. No moon. Not tonight. Nothing to cast over this glum gloom and darkness.

Noises patter and clang in the distance. Metal scrapes and hollow clashes. She peers around her and that’s when she comes to realise what all those shapes are...

Bodies.

Laying dead and still in the snow. As far as her eye can see. Men lay broken and scattered across the forest floor. Clad in simple dark armour. All wearing the same crimson coat of arms: blood and death litters them. That is their uniform.

Crimson is still shimmering down the bark. Splashed there from the slash of swords across parts of anatomy she didn’t want to think about. She cannot imagine how her brain can conjure up such carnage. Such mayhem and suffering.

Seeing a thousand, or more, dead men, pulled and carved to pieces. Violently separated from limbs, or heads or legs. Bleeding into the snow. Slumped sat against trees or piled on each other. Some studded with arrows. Some not.

Splayed where they’ve fallen. Viscera exposed, stubby limbs chopped in half. Throat slit. Holes punched in their chests and bloodied organs tumbled out. Some men held it in their arms like dirty washing. It’s an awful thing to witness. Such savagery.

What kind of beast could cause this? Could leave men dying and dead in this horrific way?

She scans around. Unable to fathom it. These poor souls. Mouths gaping. Eyes wide and staring, unseeing, at the clouded heavens. Like sticky pearls shimmering in the dark. Death hadn’t been long in taking them. The blood leaving them is still warm. She can feel the blaze of it under her feet. Melting the snow.

She sees no movement in the trees. Save for the snow heading down from high above. Settling like natures own confetti on all these fallen soldiers. Weeping over them, yet nothing else can be done but show them to their graves.

Then she does make out something.

A tall, lean, and strong figure moves through the trees away from her. Strong trunks of long legs. Sinewed arms. Even in his dazzling armour. Slender. So slender and elegant for a man. Most men lumbered. This one practically glided.

Though he is scarcely standing out amongst them. Silver and white. Clad in brilliantly kept armour. The only thing that stands clear is the crimson splattered across this soldiers body. Gleaming down his silver armour. He comes to a standstill.

If he was the last man standing; she suddenly realises with horror exactly what that means in odes to all the death surrounding them.

She moves slowly towards this destination. Somehow desperate for a look. In the dim, she steps carefully and slow over the slaughter of mangled bodies and crimson hot snow. He has his back to her. Now she can’t see his face.

She crosses this battlefield. Comes closer and closer. As if stalking a cautious stag.

He was devastating in his height. Lean but not a man to be mistaken as being powerless. A long bloodied sword drips from his left hand. Even in this suffocating slim darkness, the curtain of white hair spilling long down his back is entirely obvious. Like a silk curtain. It’s braided too. Twisted into intricate plaits. Fixed with silver cuffs and wound with jewellery.

There are silver coiled serpent decorations wound around some of his braids. They gleam in the night like far off stars. He moves as devastating as a supernova.

If his hair moves like silk, so does he. Movements so supple yet languid. Certain. A great degree of confidence.

He turns his head. She hopes to catch a glance of his profile. Wanting to see if his face is as handsome as his hair, or his impressive built frame.

She’s curious. Somehow this is familiar for her; this white haired stranger.

He turned only a fraction. Not enough for to show her anything. Not his face. Not his eyes. Though it seemed he was looking in her direction. She’s been caught.

She freezes entirely and a smooth voice dances like honey wine and satin across the butchered dead and the snow.

“Go back to him. Little spark. He’s waiting for you.... this isn’t how we meet.” He tells her.

She cannot contest. She can’t even fight. Or speak. White fog swallows her up. Clouds her eyes. The blood and the soldiers and the snow falls away. Like she’s being dropped out of a white haze and sent tumbling down to mushy blackness. Spat out of heaven.

She falls. Jolts. Her heart leaps in her chest as adrenaline spikes through her body. She gasps...

And then, miraculously, she finally wakes.

She stumbles back to life with a rattling gasp. Kylo didn’t even hear it. It was nearly ten at night. He’s sat by the fire in his bedchamber, watching the logs within crackle and sinking and burning to amber and ash. Unaware that she’d opened her eyes until;

“Kylo?” Comes a weak little voice from the bed. Her voice.

He stands and turns so fast his head swims. “Dove?”

He strides so quick for the bed it makes her dizzy. He frets about stupid things, like the fact he hasn’t washed and shaved. He’s been too occupied in his avowed duty of sitting and watching over her sickbed.

He kneels by her side. Happily cups the cheek closest to him. Her eyes are clear, hooded, but clear. No longer shimmering bright with fever. And her cheeks have calmed. Less glaring red heat, now just a kiss of pink.

He places his knuckles on her forehead and had never been more relieved to feel her cooled. She shuts her eyes and smiles. Appreciating his touch. Savouring it.

“My god. I thought I’d lose you.” He insists quietly when she opens her eyes again. He takes her dear sweet hand and kisses it.

She takes a lot of energy to swallow and unsticks her dry cracked lips to answer him. Smiling. “Might I trouble you for some water?” She croaks. Her voice a strained crackle bleeding out her throat.

He pours it himself. Hands it to her. Helps her sit up a little and tip the glass to her parched rosebud lips. She takes dainty gulps of it. Drains the glass and has enough. It’s not overly cool, but Iris swears it’s the best thing she’s ever drunk.

He mops her brow again when she’s finished. Wipes the wet coils of hair away off her brow. It feels awfully nice and even though it’s shockingly intimate. She relaxes back onto the damp pillows and lets him comfort her.

“How long was I?-” She seeks.

“Two days, little dove.” He tells her gently. Placing the linen cloth down where it belongs. She swallows again. Refinding her lost voice. “It’s almost eleven at night.” He answers.

“I’m afraid I’ve been a dreadful imposition on you.” She starts. Picking nervously at the covers.

Kylo’s smiling again. Yesterday everything had been so grim he thought he’d never crack a grin ever again.

“Think nothing of it. I’m merely happy to see you so well recovered.” He says as he squeezes her hand tighter.

She casts her eyes for a second over the way his chin is flecked in onyx stubble. The way shadows linger under his eyes like heavy saddle bags. His hair doesn’t look unkempt. But his shirt is rumpled and faded cologne lingers around him. He’s been worried about her, than his appearance.

“You need rest and sustenance. Fevers leave you weak. So I’m told.” He reaches for the head of the bed and pulls the bell cord. The hidden crimson panel of fabric that called down to the kitchens.

“I wouldn’t turn down a cup of tea.” She sighs weakly. Beaming gently. No self respecting English woman would dare seek after anything else so fortifying.

“I imagine my housekeeper will furnish you with a banquet.” He suggests.

“How do you feel?” He seeks. It hasn’t escaped her notice his hand still twines through her own. It feels awfully nice. Cold. But not repulsive. She felt his touch even in her fevered state. It’s calming.

“Like I’ve been kicked by a horse.” She sleepily admits.

“Jomar said the affliction was on your lungs from the sound of your breathing. Do you need anything for pain?” He asks.

“I Thank you. I am well. I cannot deny the fever was.., draining. But, it was the vivid nature of the dreams I couldn’t stand. It all felt so, real.” She confesses.

“Delirium can be an odd beast.” Kylo agrees. He’s suffered blood delirium before. And that was like his own skin trying to willingly crawl off his own bones. It was beyond dreadful.

“The most odd one was... wandering through a forest. After a battle, I think it was. Horrible. Such death and slaughter. And then I saw this man through the trees. A tall man in silver armour...”

Kylo’s eyes are glistening dark. She carries on.

“He spoke out to me. I could never forget his voice it was-“ She searches for a word. “Melodic. Nearly. Utterly enchanting. And he had this hair, very long hair. It looked like white silk.” She explains.

“What did he say to you?” Kylo’s asking. Knowing full well what she saw.

“Told me that someone was waiting- And it... wasn’t how I would meet him?....” she declares. Finding the whole thing bizarre. Then again; what sense could be made out of perplexing dreams?

She looks bewildered. But Kylo knows the truth in it. He knows the various demons and reasons behind her channeled thoughts. His blood had taken its toll too.

“Dreams are confusing at the best of times.” He states in comfort. She nods in agreement. But she looks like she barely has the strength to hold up her own head.

She clasps his hand back. Her fingers and little strength she possessed, held onto him. “I’m very glad you were here.”

“I’m always there for you. Iris. And I always shall be.” He promises.

“What I did, scampering out into the rain like that. It was so foolish of me. And I don’t like to think of myself as acting like a fool.” She starts.

“I thought I was going to die it hurt so much. But I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t want to leave this earth - without kissing you one more time.” She explains.

“I know I shouldn’t say it. I shouldn’t even think it.” She swallows weakly.

Twines her fingers through his. Clutches onto him all the more. Showing him the depth of her affection that she had always smothered deep down. She doesn’t want to suffocate it anymore.

Kylo sees the wet of tears in her eyes.

“I’m very glad of your improprietous wishes. They well reflect my own.” He admits. Kissing the back of her hand. He wouldn’t throw himself and his passions upon her whilst she’s recovering in a sick bed. He’s not that much of a letch.

The door creaks open across his chamber and Jomar is the one to answer his summons. Kylo twists around where he is knelt. And when his butler sees his smile, and the calm of his expression. He hears his sigh all the way across from the door.

“Might Miss Ashton have a tray of tea and some of that broth Mrs Jones had cook prepare?” Kylo asks.

Jomars smile lightened up the whole room. “I shall fill the kettle myself. Your Lordship.” He beams. It makes Iris smile wide too.

“Thankyou. Mr Jomar. You’re very kind.” She rasps across to him. He nods a grateful smile.

“Ever your attentive servant. Miss. You got his Lordship to crack a smile for the first time since the dark ages. I feel like we ought lay roses at your feet.” He insists.

“Just the tea. For now.” Kylo reiterates.

“And might I ask you keep an eye on Miss Ashton whilst I retire to my washroom for a moment?” He informs.

“Yes of course. Your Lordship.” Jomar steps into the room and aside so Kylo may pass.

He squeezes her hand in comfort before he slips away. Off to go shave and wash himself and redress in a clean pressed shirt. And new breeches and small clothes. He felt quite rumpled in his current dress.

The kind butler lingers by the bed. Handing her some more water even though she hadn’t requested it. She needed it. He could tell.

“You all like his Lordship a great deal...” She comments.

Jomar can’t deny it.

“We love him. Miss. Though he may be stubborn and pigheaded sometimes. And most think him to be arrogant or savage. We are, all of us, so very proud to serve his house and his title.” He insists with not so much as a hint of false note to his tone.

“He depends on you a great deal. It’s nice to see a man and his butler on such friendly terms.” She states.

“We do make fun of one another. But it is enjoyable in its own way. He teases me. I rib him. And demand a payrise if he steps too far over the line. I have to remind him of his place...” He jokes in detriment. It draws a laugh from her.

“If I may speak candidly. Miss Ashton. And do censure me if it is above my place to say so; but he admires you a vast vast deal. In a way I have seldom seen of him.” He openly admits.

Iris’ heart feels like it wants to burst. So crammed full of potent emotion. It made her chest glow warm.

“I could never censure anyone for such a admission. Mr Jomar.” She gives him a wobbly smile so full of love. Moved by his plea.

“And I feel you should also know he hasn’t left your side these past two days. Hasn’t left this room. He administered medicine. Water. All himself. He didn’t even take the time away to eat or bathe.”

Her eyes water. “So you see? He really is the most stubborn man. I doubt he’d have let that illness take you either.”

“Most stubborn.” She agrees. And she cries happily. Heart so bursting full at the seams, of love for him.

Seeing how much his staff admire him. How he’s surrounded and inundated by people he warmly regards. How respect from either party cuts both ways.

He’s the most honourable man she’s ever had the good fortune to meet. She can’t ever imagine how or why she had once considered Lord Ren a monster.

For her heart is quite sold to him.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

11 notes · View notes

fistsoflightning · 4 years ago

Text

14: hero’s journey

prompt: part || masterpost || other fills || ao3 mirror

word count: 4813 (i DONT want to talk about how long this is)

You are not simply a hero, but this is still your journey, and the parts of you are waiting along the way. All you have to do is take them.

DRK shenanigans, anyone? Note: distinctly not canon-DRK things ahead, hopefully still keeping the same emotional sort of weight? Also, second person POV! There’s no spoilers because this is just me going off on a tangent :P

Someone had noted—an age old teacher, perhaps, memories inlaid deep onto your crystal—that grief causes the greatest oddities to occur. Simulacrums formed of it weren’t so uncommon as one might be led to believe with a surplus of aether and enough love turned sour.

You just weren’t expecting to be one of them.

Like wildfires, you expect to fade back into the darkness of the abyss easily enough; the hands of such a young knight wouldn’t be able to bear being stained so pitch-black, you think, not when she glows with Halone’s blessing and something even more. Her hands leave freezer burns over the facets of your crystal, frosty fog forming as she keeps training, keeps hunting down more and more aevis until there’s nothing left. Even Ishgard’s worst blizzards fail to stand up against the winter storm of her fury.

Must be some sort of rebellion, violent and reckless as it is. You sit back (as much as a distant flame in the abyss can, anywho) and wait until the worst of her temper fizzles back into snowmelt—which, obviously, doesn’t happen like you assumed, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, now would you?

(When you hear the truth of it, crystal fed enough blood and aether to reach out further than just from the little knight’s pockets—when you hear betrayals and exiles and my brother is dead because of your Braves, Alphinaud, what more do you want from me, your realization shows itself in coldflare and dark light, wrapping itself as best it can around someone so blessed and “loved by the gods” as your ward.

Though you need her more than she needs you, it still doesn’t hurt, you think, to cover her armor in a veil of darkness, even when her shield sings of nevermelting ice and wraps light around her anyways.)

But eventually, it does; Lumelle—you find out her name from a man willing to jump in front of inquisitors and magical spears alike for his beloved friends—her enraged grief bubbles off into a quieter sort at the beginning of Ishgard’s new dawn, and you are left by her bedside when she falls into a sleep after destroying a wyrm with grief that, really, wasn’t all that different. (Besides the whole eternal lifespan and eyeballs of power, and the wyrm’s sibling being eaten by Lumelle’s ancestors thing. That had thrown you for a loop.)

And oh, you expect it to end there, your tale that of accompanying a girl who didn’t need you so much as she needed closure; fading after protecting someone so bright would be an honor.

...

(But there is no rest for the righteous, now is there?)

...

Your next chapter opens in the palms of someone already acquainted with bloody hands, and though the little time spent out of Lumelle’s hands has left you wanting for your senses yet again, it takes hardly any time to figure just what this one’s deal is.

(Her hands shake whenever she sees her party’s astrologian—so small, her head is practically the size of your ward’s fist balled up—and the thought of Vylbrand sours every conversation like milk left to rot. Y’shtola utters the word crone and the spike of earthquake panic you both feel lets you understand the jumble of misremembered nightmares that still haunts the warrior so far north from the place.

When she almost drowns herself in the memories, asking the sea to take her back into her arms, you are the one screaming the entire time—not because she is taking you with her, no, but because you can feel the summer breeze and hear the quiet pond rushing about the housing district looking for her, and you do not know what you’ll do if her death reignites Lumelle’s tempered anger.

The scholar cries out her name just as she falls too deep; Syhrwyda, you remember—you’ll force her name onto this damned crystal if you have to—and the breath of relief you sigh when the white mage forces the ocean to spit her out is all but audible.)

You expect her to let the little supernova cut her down, cleanse burns with blood and old aches with a trip into the abyss, because if Lumelle’s aches were screaming freezer burns then the gentle warrior’s are a quiet erosion. Even dripping blood can wear down a mountain, with enough time, and with a Calamity come and passed, the proof burned onto her skin, it is more than enough to see this mighty willow fallen to the skies opening up and pouring a tsunami’s worth of suffering in retribution.

Both you and her close your eyes when the axe comes swinging down, kneeling on the ground in pain. You do not expect it to be swift or painless like the rumors say of guillotines and execution, but you hope it is anyways.

And yet, and yet, the blade does not come.

(Part of you wonders: would the girl shrouded in fallen moonlight have done the same thing, if she had seen what Syhrwyda had seen? Would she, knowing that the choice was submission or death, have still seen her friend and ally in the woman that burnt her childhood with naught but a single incantation?

It matters not. There is no turning back time, and she has decided to give her friend a boon.)

It is not metal that comes, but a flurry of stars calling a lost sailor home instead, so potent that her magic seeps into your crystal as she collapses against your ward’s shoulder, whispering I’m sorry, I can’t, I won’t like little wishes made upon falling stars. You don’t know if you imagined the croaked it isn’t your fault or if you simply missed the mumbled movements, but Syhrwyda’s aether settles in time with the stars bursting across her skin and you know that your time with her will come to an end soon.

When she sets your crystal by a small crystalline lamp, you hum in amusement, letting yourself slip down into the abyss once more as the watery blue light ripples off the bookshelves.

…

(Who are you?)

(No one of consequence.)

…

You find yourself more confused than before when the scholar picks up your small crystal, facets gleaming brighter than before but still dulled from decades of being frozen under Ishgard’s snows; nothing about him sings of the same pain like the last two. He pockets your crystal easily and you wonder just what use he’ll find from you if he has no abyss of his own to draw from, no font to gather his strength for him to find.

(You miss how quiet he is in the din of everyone and everything else, tuned up to near painful when you open your eyes again. You miss the words he reads, the spells he crafts, the spared glances to his usual tome. Nothing about the man betrays it; hardly anything he does seems to suggest even a hint of regret, grief long since frozen over and forgotten of a home he’d long lost.

This was never an easy road—traveling down into the abyss and to rise back up again—and you do not expect easy wards, but the scholar—)

Even deadly waters can be calm at the surface, deceiving depths holding something stronger, and when he rises to meet the Illuminati and the (not their) primal, you start to see the signs of something lurking in the water and strain to open your eyes, drained as you are so close to Alexander.

(You should have noticed how he balked away from poisons, preferring to sit far away from the rogue; you should have felt the gentle ripple when Mide mentioned Alexander’s purpose and wondered more.

It is too late for regrets, but it is not too late to stop this man, whose hands are too gentle and weary, from falling further into something he did not truly want.)

Are you daft, you whisper, and it’s not the best thing you’ve ever come up with but it’s the first words you’ve truly spoken to be heard. Like the rest, you expect your words to fall on deaf ears—stubborn people, the ones that have found you—but this time the scholar stops. Lingers, the precipice of a typhoon brewing up from the bottom of his soul. Do you truly think this will work?

“Not completely,” he says, his voice a quiet rumble as his small carbuncle shimmers and shakes its way into existence; part of you wishes you were strong enough to do the same just so you could shake the fluff out of this man’s brain to where it belongs. “But it might, and even the smallest chance...”

What of your friends today?

You don’t know what you expected, really; the scholar clams up and so do you, a connection cleaved in two as he walks away from the hand of the giant primal, stone in hand, and you are too exhausted to try and pry his heart open wider. Convincing him to let it all spill forth is harder than convincing a rock to move on its own, so you don’t try.

This time, when you fall back asleep atop a book with a soft leather cover, you desperately hope this is the end of it.

…

(Did you know them, too? Did they lead you to me?)

(In a way, yes.)

(Then you can stay, for now. Just… keep quiet.)

…

And of course, it never is.

It’s hard to describe your next awakening as anything but a bolt of lightning straight to your center, with how much aether rushes through your crystal and into the abyss. Too fast, too quick, like a flame burning too hot too soon. From freezing to the fiery depths of hell, you think incredulously as you reach out, looking to just who might be so dangerously close to tipping too far.

You don’t expect to find the timid white mage staring down at your soul crystal, red eyes and all.

(In a way, perhaps you should have known it would happen; the man was too damned reserved, all flower petals and no bark, the look in his eyes when he saw someone injured too intense for simple worry. He hates bloodshed yet makes his career in it all the same, and you’ve been held by Lumelle so tightly that you felt his magic—summer’s night bottled into a cure, blooming flowers pressed over scars, and you think nothing could be kinder than the way he loves.

Shame that you forgot that sometimes kindness is forged in the abyss.)

You’re sure he doesn’t mean to keep your crystal at all—hells, he sets it at the bottom of his satchel before he goes running off to join the fray in the same place that nearly killed him, the damned martyr—but you get taken with him regardless, and you see just how badly he’s dealt with it all. You don’t retort as snarkily as you might have with Duscha; your current ward is like paper thin glass, and you worry that if you push him he might break into pieces so small not even the sun’s light could find him.

In fact, you’re not sure what will happen if you make yourself known at all. He doesn’t seem strong enough to handle the idea that his guilt is making a simulacrum manifest.

(If you truly wanted, you could make him a fine dark knight. Teach him how to take his love and turn it into strength and protection stronger than anything the realm’s elements might give him, no matter how loved he is by them. Stain this white mage in dark.

But you see his dreams, sometimes—you never had found your way into dreams before, but with someone practically bleeding their life aether onto you, a simulacrum fueled by memories and pain, it’s hard not to have new experiences—and his hands are always coated in blood. His own, someone else’s, his mother’s, his father’s…

You choose not to take him through the abyss. You don’t want to know if he’ll still be there when you walk out.)

Finding someone that might be able to help someone who very stubbornly doesn’t want help is… a lot harder than intended. There’s not too many people… happy, with your ward; not after Baelsar’s Wall, and the man that Lumelle sent flying. You faintly remember a name—Caelestis, or something—but you care little for details and more for solutions, so you keep peering outwards and looking as best you can without fully peering into their heads.

That is, until that someone comes running at the white mage like a teal tulip some sylph chucked at you with the force of a demon.

(He introduces himself to everyone as Haruki, but you can’t help but call him Ruki after one too many trips into A’dewah’s head—Dewah, he says, and you don’t know much about Seeker names but you know that it means more to your ward than it does to anyone else—and you think you can get him to help, even if A’dewah himself is trying to avoid him like the plague.

Especially because he’s avoiding Haruki like he’ll die if he doesn’t.)

It takes a few minor illusions and a trip to the Steppe (you didn’t know how to do these before A’dewah, you think as you practically lead a trail of hints from the Enclave to the tree A’dewah’s stuck himself in) but Haruki’s always been smarter than he might look (you still can’t get over the peacock feather of a mess his hair is) and eventually, eventually, your plan comes to fruition.

You don’t try to listen when they talk, but the rush of relief in A’dewah’s aether and the slow transition of summer bottled up tight enough to crack glass to the light warmth of, say, a greenhouse in full bloom tells you all you need to know, anyways.

(Doma is freed, soon after, and the Warriors are called back home, to Ala Mhigo’s war, but you look one last time out to Doma and see the last moments of A’dewah’s goodbyes, and of course it’s Haruki he tells last. His eyes burn like a solar eclipse, and you think if it weren’t for his son—so small and brave, callouses already on his fingers—he’d come back with you.

You think it might be puppy love, somehow, but you take one last look at what you know and think that maybe he’s just tired of being left behind, of being the last one. Might be love, might be wanderlust.

It doesn’t matter. You still have to leave, even if it hurts.)

On the ship’s journey back through the Sirensong Sea, A’dewah finally acknowledges you, in a way.

“Thank you,” he murmurs to no one in particular as he ties up his hair tighter. His eyes aren’t reddened from crying anymore—just the unfortunate lot of his mother’s eyes being blood red by nature—and you think you can rest, now.

So you do.

…

(Don’t you understand to call for help?)

(I can manage.)

(So sayeth the Weapon of Light.)

…

From one firebrand of a caster to another, you think as your crystal gets put into Valdis’ open palms—you learn her name early, this time, instead of just before the climax of the story—and though her aether is quiet you know well enough that it doesn’t mean there’s nothing hiding behind it.

(It’s the same sort of longing for something long past, you remember. Duscha’s aether had a similar balance to hers, even if Valdis is mostly umbral shade and hardly a hint of water among the flames she pulls into form. Where Duscha was restrained she is explosive, and you don’t need to look too hard to find the root of the issue.

The thing is: you’re too exhausted.)

You’re lucky she doesn’t fight closer to the front line, like Lumelle or Syhrwyda, because you can hardly summon a shadow at this point—perhaps you were played the fool by A’dewah’s tears into doing too much, not saving enough.

But then you look at Valdis and think she might be fine on her own, eyes still lit up and hopeful. Spitfire in her hair and embers in her eyes, already burning like a flame that knows how to rise from her ashes already.

There’s something to be said about youth, maybe, and you sigh as you close your eyes and hope to wake when she needs you.

(The thing is: she doesn’t need to.)

…

(... Hmph.)

(If you’re expecting an apology, you’re getting none from me.)

(I do not need—)

…

Your next venture leads you into the hands of someone so astrally aspected you don’t know if you can even summon the strength to peer outwards. Their aether and yours conflicts so greatly that it’s hard to tell if the abyss is flaring up or dying down, really, but you try regardless.

You will eternally be glad you do not have a face, because the pure shock when the face you see is one that was supposed to be long dead is not a face you’d ever like to see.

Lumelle had been your catalyst, and the little machinist before you the cause; you didn’t think he’d survived, somehow, even if you saw the monk that supposedly fell with him. He’s brighter than you’d thought he’d ever be, as close to the abyss as his sister was, and then you realize—

He truly doesn’t need you. His eyes still gleam on their own, not shrouded by something buried deep. If Duscha’s abyss was well hidden enough for you to mistake it, there can be no mistake here.

When he keeps your crystal close, anyways, you close your eyes again, thinking that perhaps this time you won’t be needed like before.

And for the most part; he doesn’t.

(There are times, surely, when a speck of darkness flickers into the light that fills his aether, but you hardly need to look at it to tell it’s over something silly. A flame that will flicker out soon enough. You don’t lift a finger over that.)

In a way, his hands are a restless reprieve. You cannot sleep, truly, because if you do you don’t want to know how much your crystal’s facets will fade, but there is nothing for you here, either.

So. You watch.

…

(But. Don’t you want?)

(I already want enough. I can get by.)

(Doesn’t mean you should.)

…

The rogue plucks your crystal from Elwin’s bag, a shadow in the night, and you hardly realize the change until you’re set by a pack of crystals. You nearly think to panic—what disaster do you have to reconcile now, tired as you are—but then the rogue whispers like he already knows.

(Maybe he does. Every rogue you’ve seen through other eyes has always been a bit sharper than they make themselves to be.)

“Take a breather,” he hums, flipping his daggers in the air and watching them glint in the dim moonlight. You think you might know his name, uttered once or twice in passing, but you’ve hardly begun to rest from your time in Elwin’s bright hands and aether that it’s slipped you by once or twice already. “Ye’ve helped us out. ‘S high time we pay back, hm?”

I do not do this for payment, you sigh, but his aether is the easiest of them all, really, more comfortable than even Valdis’ despite the light chill of it. He doesn’t respond, merely whistling as he walks along the metal pathway—Garlean territory, and he’s so calmly strolling through it?

You don’t choose to rest, even though you could, and keep an eye on the man anyways.

(It’s worth the trouble, you think when you shroud him in shadows, narrowly avoiding the gaze of some wisened soldier who knows the tricks of the trade. Even if nothing’s gained in return.)

…

(They’re...gone. They’re gone, gone, what do I do now—)

(Breathe. You’ll find them again. You always do.)

(But what if I can’t this time? What if I find them only to lose them?)

(You won’t.)

(How can you be sure?)

(Because you want to find them. I’m still here, aren’t I?)

…

There isn’t so much of a rest between leaving Tehra’ir’s palms and falling into the monk’s own, really; not when the rogue collapses alongside Valdis and the man with the eyepatch after some reverberating call that shook even you, incorporeal as you are. If you’d a physical form, the pain behind your eyes would be overwhelming; the sensation of being ripped from one’s body must be horrible, but even more so being torn from the very aether that keeps you.

Either way, the Elder Seedseer drops your crystal into their hands when she comes from the infirmary with a grim look on her face.There is something so familiar about this new bearer, aether so tempestuous and yet… calm. Leaving you contented and wanting all at once.

You don’t know what use you might be to them, either, but if you belonged in the hands of your past seven bearers then you are at home in theirs, lightning crackling from their skin to your crystal’s surface with great ease, for two non-metallic things.

(There is nothing I can do, the Seedseer murmurs and the sharp ache that immediately takes over the dull pain in their head echoes to you and oh, you understand more than ever now what you must help resolve, head spinning as the abyss flares and rages around you.)

You are there for everything after; when they flee to the Steppe, when they hole up in the empty house, when they take Ochir and fly across the mountains until Lunya calls them back home. Your crystal is usually hidden away in their pocket, safe in the leather pouch and buttoned into the cloth of their pants, and never once do you feel ignored, sitting in mutual silence. There’s nothing to be said, really, because their loss is just as much yours.

Both of you grin when you finally, finally make it past the gates into the First despite the horrid circumstances you have been brought to resolve, because it brings you both one step closer to finding them again.

(At first, you think they’ll be just fine without you, that you might be prudent to fall back dormant once more in face of the terribly draining light. At first, it seems like the others might just be a day’s journey away. The Exarch may be hiding things, but if the Scions are scattered then so too are the wayward Warriors; nothing so difficult as pulling souls back across the rift, yet.

Hah. When has anything ever been so simple?)

The journey is the hardest it’s been out of your eight travels, really; whether it be from the Light or from the constant confusion and grief that they struggle to pull from you do not know, and you keep your eyes open when they cannot—especially after Malikah’s Well.

(You are not the one fighting—never have been, even on that odd occasion that you’ve been able to force your way out of the abyss—but in Eulmore you see the flying eater’s wings seconds before they come crashing down on your bearer’s back with talons and when you reach out, for whatever banal reason, it is not darkness that springs forth.

At first, you think it a trick of the Light, because the last time you saw this shield it was back when you were still convinced you were ephemeral, but the next time you reach forth your ward’s wounds are healed in a burst of crystalline lilies.

You are not so stupid as to think this is your own strength, but they have not been with you for so long that you can’t tell what else it could be, what could be more than the others you have traveled with.

Oh, how blind you were.)

Here, down in Amaurot, it’s harder than ever on them but the easiest it’s been for you, and when they start slipping you have to drag them back to their heels again, lest the Light breaks free and both of you end up dead. You don’t have anything else to give—you do not have Lumelle or Syhrwyda’s inhuman strength or the healer’s prowess of A’dewah or Duscha, too incorporeal to give support like Tehra’ir or Elwin and too loud to stay as quiet as Valdis—but you are there and that has to be enough.

(If Zaya themselves is not whole enough to be worthy in that Ascian’s eyes, then you will find the missing parts that make them whole and bring them home, because in your eyes there is nothing more than them and the little family you’ve somehow managed to pass through like a hand-me-down, and if you and the friends that remain are not enough to guide them through Hades’ abyss then one of them will be.

And the funny thing is; you do, because the missing parts of their soul were the storm in you.)

The final days of Amaurot are harrowing; you are there when Zaya nearly falls to a bird demon, of all things, and you are there when the tempest of aether above a simulacrum of Emet-Selch’s world nearly shatters you into a million stars. It is less you taking the reins and more you standing by their side, the shadow in the light of falling stars that pushes forward when they cannot.

You think Ryne and Y’shtola can see you, can see the glow of seven crystals at Zaya’s side, but it matters not when Emet-Selch still refuses to take reprieve of the abyss and see the merits of something different from what he knows; all that does is that you are by their side, a shade in a city of simulacrums.

(How funny is it, that in his grief Hades dipped into the abyss just as Zaya did in theirs?)

You don’t remember much of what happens afterwards. There is a blur of light, a man’s voice—seven voices you recognize as the abyss flares and takes you back, because there is no space left here for darkness, not now. You expect to die, somehow, because you’d been fighting for so long in a place that threatened to swallow you whole and keep you there even if you followed Zaya resolutely, Hades taking you in his grasp and shattering you just to prove that they are nothing.

There’s a moment of clarity—when dark overtakes light once more—and you take the chance to stretch yourself out, to cover as many people as you can tell are here because Hades’ claws glow with something terrible and you will not lose anyone now, not when you’ve found yourself in them. Even Urianger, even Alphinaud, even Thancred, who is yalms and yalms away from Zaya—all of them have become too precious to lose, too beloved to let be harmed, and if Hades’ form is large then you will become the event horizon that swallows him.

(If you disappear here, it will be worth it—you have served your purpose as a shield, gouged on aether and memories as you are, and if you can give them even a moment more the price of your existence, as much of a simulacrum as you were, it would have been worth the trouble.

If Hades wins you don’t know what you’ll do.)

But he loses. He loses, and you go home as small of a flame as you were when your journeys began.

And when all is said and done, your crystal ends up on a necklace of thin chain and leather, held close to Zaya’s breast. Dark lightning crackles over the shining facets, finally polished to its prime like it was all those years ago when your last owner died; even then, you don’t know if you can ever come back again, really, exhausted and drained and frayed as you are.

It matters little, those ifs and maybes.

(“No matter where you go,” the gunbreaker says, and you can feel Zaya’s soul warm, cracked as it is—or maybe that’s yours, feeling a bit like your own promises are being voiced through his. Ardbert, the bloke, smiles from behind you, and the little part of you that knows exactly how you and he are similar grins wildly. “I will be there, guarding your back.”)

When they need you next to pull them from the blackest of nights, you’ll be there to see the beautiful dawn they bring in return. There is nowhere else for you to go.

…

(I’ll have to leave soon. Heroes don’t stay, you know.)

(Well, you do.)

…

From the depths of the crystal, a quiet light shimmers brightly, and you are reminded of home...

Action learned: The Brightest Dawn.

#ffxiv #my writing #tales from the blue #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2020 #elie's ffxivwrite2020 #a'dewah tia #duscha vesnasch #elwin de lipine #lumelle de lipine #tehra'ir naphto #syhrwyda maetityrbwyn #valdis otoel #zaya qestir #solo'ing bardams mettle on monk was not my best decision to date but the voiceless muse is still fucking gorgeous #i *had* to use it. my reputation as steppe simp was on the line #long post

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corpse--diem · 5 years ago

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Organ’s Out Of The Bag | Morgan & Erin

Summary: Morgan interrupts Erin at work, eats her organs, and learns about the family trade. When: Week of 5/4 Featuring: @mor-beck-more-problems

There wasn’t a “How To Operate An Illegal Organ Trafficking Business For Dummies” book to help Erin work out the best system for organizing and storing frozen organs. Shocker. Buying a second industrial cooler would have been as expensive as it was suspicious, which made trial and error the only real option. It was tedious, and there was probably still a better way, but she’d found her groove. Hollowed, block-like shelving units had been attached to the far end of the wall. Other items were stored on top but she could lift the face of each one, almost like a locker, to fill and empty as needed. Only she knew where the latches were and only she could open it. A small feat, sure, but you had to take your wins where you could get them. Maybe she was finally getting the hang of this? That was a thought that should have sat more uncomfortably on her mind or deterred the smirk on her lips. If she had a spare moment at all, it wasn’t for that kind of introspection.

With her music loud and her focus set, she made quick work of it. Saran Wrap, label, and onto the next. Just another Tuesday. One more load to go and she could break for dinner. A figure filled the doorway when she turned, startling her backwards while some instinctive part of her reached for the knife in her back pocket. “Jesus Christ, Morgan…” she huffed out, freezing before she pulled out the blade. “You scared the shit out of me. What—“ she narrowed her eyes, her panic doubling in that moment. “You’re not allowed down here.”

After the video incident, Morgan hadn’t expected Erin to be someone who was okay with hanging out with her newly dead and only semi-feeling self. But aside from the body horror, Erin thought she was ‘cool’. Maybe Erin lived with death in a way that kept her from feeling it. Maybe it wasn’t a tar pit for her. Maybe it didn’t even pull, but could just...sit its ass down and let her be. Erin had her life pretty together, right?

Morgan traipsed up the entrance of the Nichols’ house since Erin had said she could just come in, but there was no sign of her, or any life going on in the house. So she turned instead to the lower levels where they had passed through for the ritual. She found her bent over a table with...organs. Bags and bags of organs. Morgan stayed put, hand over her stomach, her mouth watering. At least one of those was a heart, and those were thick enough to remind her of meat sometimes. But there was the whole other question of what they were doing here. Morgan didn’t know a lot about mortuary work, but there were too many different kinds laying around near each other for it to have anything to do with her ‘clients’. And if it wasn’t that, than maybe--

Erin turned just as Morgan reached for a bag of brains and a pair of eyeballs. She smiled, bright and sheepish. “Hi…” She drew out the greeting as long as possible. “We had plans. You said I could come and show you more weird zombie things?” Her gaze slid sideways to the table. Stars, it all looked so good. “I knocked, you didn’t answer,” she went onto explain, popping one of the eyeballs in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “And since I already knew my way around…” She shrugged and swallowed the eyeball, popped the other one into her mouth, doing her damnedest to savor it before she stuffed the whole table into her mouth. “So, anyway, what’s with all the random dead organs on your table?”

Fuck. Erin had completely forgotten about their plans. Not that she wasn’t excited for some extreme body horror and manipulation. Between the lack of sleep, the mimes lurking around every corner, and maintaining her day and night jobs, things were slipping through the cracks. “Sorry,” she shook her head, moving to turn the music off. “I got caught up in--” she started to explain, until she was watching Morgan pop an eyeball into her mouth like she was sampling an appetizer. It wasn’t bad enough that Morgan saw the goods, she had to snack on them too. Five minutes in and she was already out a couple hundred bucks. This was off to a hell of a start. “Stop that!” She ran for the table, collecting the rest of the saran-wrapped organs in her arms. Fuck. Fuck. “I was about to put them away,” she answered, aware that it was more of a nonanswer. “They’re not hors d'oeuvres so can you just--try to refrain?” She huffed, moving to the freezer. Glanced back, unable to feel just a little uncomfortable at the thought of being alone with an apparently snacky zombie. “I thought you just were into brains, anyway?”

Morgan backed away from the table, frowning as she cradled her snacks to her chest. “This is me trying!” She whined, mouth still half full. This wasn’t a good time to wonder if whatever species this had come from actually tasted better than the rabbit eyes she normally had, but the pull in her, the wanting, was so much she closed her eyes to enjoy the last gummy chunks sliding down her throat as she finished it off. “Um, so, funny story? Brains make my world go round, but dead bodies and viscera are like...well I never did even soft drugs when I was alive, but I can’t help myself. I’ve stuck my face straight into a dead baby deer. It’s like true love...in uh, you know, gross...foodie sort of way.” She swallowed the last of the eyeball, feeling embarrassed. Then she remembered that Erin was the one with the zombie buffet on her table. “You never answered my question. What are you doing with the zombie buffet on your table? This doesn’t look all that much like Funeral Director of the Year stuff.” She opened the brain bag and started to munch on that next.

Erin couldn’t help but stare with vague fascination as she watched Morgan explain herself, chewing on a half eaten eyeball. “I’ll try to remember that next time, then,” she winced a little, watching her money go right down Morgan’s throat. Nothing that could be done about it now, anyway. Flustered a little at the question, realizing Morgan wasn’t about to let up. “Well--I was saving that one for you anyway so, please. Enjoy,” she nodded towards the human brain she was already feasting on. A little sarcastic considering she was helping herself again but more genuine than not. Fuck. This wasn’t at all how she’d anticipated this little visit to go. With a long sigh, she pulled her rubber gloves off. “It’s--complicated,” she said hurriedly, clearing her throat. Had she ever actually straight up told anyone about this? Nic, Marley--hell, even Nell just knew. No explanations had been necessary. “And I’m a damn good funeral director. This doesn’t change that.” Her fingers tapped on the silver table and she eyed her carefully. “If I tell you, this stays between us, right?” Morgan was smart enough to probably figure it out at this point, but the assurance didn’t hurt.

Morgan continued to frown, miffed that she was on the pointy end of the sarcasm stick when she had been asked to come. What was she supposed to do, stay at the door all night and go home sad? But Erin seemed frazzled beyond being interrupted. Morgan’s dig at her above-board job proved that too. Morgan was even beginning to feel bad. She tilted her head, trying to get a better read on Erin. “I’m a zombie, Erin. I know all about awkward secrets to keep.” She started to edge closer, plucking a chunk of brain matter off to chew on. And, holy shit, she had to know how long this one had been left sitting and at what temperature, because it made her taste buds melt like burgers used to--but there were more important things to deal with. Erin had some kind of organ stockpiling problem, and maybe a ‘oops my friend knows I’m into some weird, sketchy looking shit’ problem. “If it helps, it looks like you’re running some kind of under the table organ pantry. So either I’m right, and I just made your job easier for you, or I’m wrong, and you have even more reason to correct me. But...you just saw me eat eyeballs and I used to sell people shiny rocks I transmuted out of garbage. I’m really not gonna judge.”

Erin chewed on the inside of her lip as Morgan spoke. Yep. Of course she figured it out. What the fuck else was a mortician doing with a bunch of unlabeled organs saran wrapped in the embalming room? All signs pointed to shady. This was entirely her fault, which bothered her the most about this whole thing. She fucked up. Forgot their plans. Something had to give, eventually. It was bound to. Juggling businesses, murderous mimes and actively trying to not be a shitty friend was a dangerous game. But she trusted Morgan, as much as that was worth. Had to, considering how calmly she was chewing on Mr. “Mr. Reid’s dearly departed brain, after taking out his eyeballs in less than five minutes flat. “Organ harvesting and trafficking, actually,” she corrected her, taking a deep breath after she said the words out loud. Just rip the bandaid off, right? Felt wrong on her tongue for more reasons than she cared to think about. “It’s--” she shook her head, glancing down at the table again for a moment, then forced herself to stare back up at Morgan. Fingers thrumming against the table again, her nerves alight. “My dad got into it before I took the business over and I got stuck with it because he couldn’t handle it. Please believe me when I say this isn’t something I ever wanted.”

Oh. Oh, this was something serious. Was Morgan still a person who knew how to take on serious things with new people? She was feeling okay today. Sort of float-y in a way that made a distant part of her worried, but she wasn’t tired. Not like she was on other days. But this whole—thing Erin was tearsely explaining wasn’t something looked suddenly less like a dirty secret and more like a two ton brick she’d been hauling for too long. Morgan could at least understand that feeling, even if the rest of the situation confused her. “Shit,” she said. “That explains some of the vague trauma you mentioned. I can’t even imagine…” She stepped closer, more confident now that she wasn’t in trouble, “Can ask if—I mean, is it going well? Are you...going to be okay?”

Relief came with the confession like an exhale. A momentary reprieve to that tension knotting in her chest for months now. The inhale felt just as horrible as it always had. The knot settled back where it knew it belonged in Erin’s chest. Morgan wouldn’t judge. She wouldn’t rat her out. But there was something unsafe about having it out in the open like this. A little bit of control was gone and that almost felt worse than the deed itself. “Good as it can be, I guess? It was a little rocky at first but--I’m getting there.” She tossed on a smile, raising a brow at Morgan. “Don’t worry about it. Just try not to eat my merchandise? Those eyeballs you demolished set me back a couple hundred dollars,” she teased, a chuckle in her voice to hide the very real pain there. Dale was a good scapegoat for that kind of thing anyway--the big oaf was as heavy handed as they came. She leaned against the table, glancing between the brain in her hands and Morgan’s gaze. “Is… that your first human brain?”

“Oh. Oh, shit!” Morgan cried, face dropping with dismay. “I really couldn’t help it. That’s not just like, me being weird. I can probably get Deirdre to reimburse you? I don’t have to mention the eyeballs, or the brain, if you don’t want, but I uh...don’t think she’d mind it either.” It was a little too late with the brain, so Morgan took a sheepish dip back into the bag to pull off another chunk. It was halfway up to her mouth when Erin said the word human. Morgan looked down at the brain again. “Oh,” she said, voice squeaking. “So that’s why it tastes so good.” She continued to stare at the brain. From the size of it, she probably should’ve known it wasn’t just some deer. But holy shit. You’d think there’d be fanfare or at least a good shock of agony over baby’s first lite cannibalism. But it had just been a really yummy brain, no more interesting than another until she’d tasted it. “Uh...yeah. If that’s what this is...yeah.” Was it bad, that it didn’t mean anything to her? That the only thought she’d had was how yummy? Sure, deer and raccoon and cow brain were nice. But this was steak. Or cheesecake. For all that it looked the same, the taste was enough to have let her feel good about something while she’d chewed. Then another question came to her. “Not to be gross, but are these...was this…” she jiggled the bag in her hand. “...One of your clients?”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Erin finally gave a genuine laugh, shaking her head. Was that one of those zombie quirks? Like how amputated body parts turned to goo? “I actually really was saving that brain for you.” She had to admit, she was a little surprised at Morgan’s hesitation. This was a funeral home. No way she could’ve thought animal brains were more readily available than an actual human’s. Didn’t deter her, she noted, when her fingers dipped back into the bag. “Well,” she said, starting to pull off her blue scrubs, raising a brow. “My clients have some organs to spare. Waste not, want not?” She offered with a shrug. It was more difficult than she anticipated to keep her eyes off of Morgan. She looked the same, and if it wasn’t for the brain food she was gobbling down, it would’ve been impossible to see anything different about her. But she was eating a human brain. She knew what happened to some of the parts that left her basement, but this was the first time she’d witnessed it first hand. “Doesn’t bother you, does it?” Another pause as she tried not to overtly stare anymore. “You know, I swear I didn’t invite you over for this but--if that’s something you think you’d want on a regular basis, I can definitely help you out.”

Morgan looked down at the brain. She was still waiting for the horror to set in, but mostly she was worried what Remmy would say, or Deirdre. She’d only given her animal brains so far, not even an offer or a suggestion of anything else. They wouldn’t blame her for an accident, but liking it, enjoying it---Morgan saw herself split and cracked between two lenses. One monstrous, one that simply was. ‘Don’t eat the humans’ was the number one thing she heard from hunter types. It was even a question she remembered asking herself. Do they eat people? Do they hurt people? As if it made them inherently better, safer, if the answer was “right.” But here she was, some poor guy’s insides already in her stomach. And as much as she was troubled, it took effort to maintain. “B-bother?” She asked. Shrugged. “Does it bother you? You seem pretty chill with me eating in front of you, all things considered. I mean, would you really….supply that sort of thing? For me?”

There was some kind of internal struggle going on behind Morgan’s eyes. Was this weird for her too? She’d been snacking on them like Erin was going out of business. “I don’t know, maybe I should be more bothered,” she shrugged, running a hand through her hair. “But I fished them out of the guy, you know?” Maybe it was like how a butcher didn’t have any trouble selling even the most obscure parts of the cow. In this case, she was simply more familiar with the human body. “Doesn’t bother me,” she confirmed, giving her a smile to cement that. “Brains are a little more expensive, just so you know. But yeah. This is what I do. It wouldn’t be a problem at all.”

“You...did all this yourself? And the guy still looked like himself at the end? With the--” Morgan motioned to her skull. “I’m usually in a weird...zombie haze whenever I’m eating out in the wild, so things like being careful don’t really make it into the thought process. But...bones are hard. If you get it really wrong, you get a bunch of gross pointy bits in the food. Worse than eggshells in your fried rice. What do you do to get to the stuff and humpty-dumpty them back together?” But something else snagged her mind more than her curiosity, pulling her back. “You really mean it? About the not weird and the...supply? Just, you know, for sometimes? Really?” She wondered how expensive Erin was talking here.

“The brain’s usually always taken out during an autopsy, along with the rest of the organs.” Erin explained. “They all get tossed into the visceral bag, which then gets tucked into the stomach cavity. Makes my job easier because then all I have to do is take them out and pack them up.” This would make the whole process way slower and harder if she had to go in every time and dissect them herself, she knew that much. Her brows furrowed at the thought of Morgan out there in the woods, running around and crushing animal skulls. “Yeah, I mean it. Can’t have you out there chasing after squirrels or whatever all the time, right?” Wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. She shrugged. “My boss usually likes to charge a higher fee but I don’t mind cutting costs. For friends,” she smiled.

“Oh, wow. That’s...one way to do it.” Morgan realized with unsettling clarity that she had never thought of the mechanics of death before. When she had lost her parents and her friends, she had been too wrapped up in the loss and unfairness of it to remember there was something practical, even mechanical to death. Even in humans, with the rituals and the preservation that kept the flies and maggots at bay, there was something. A process detached from all that they had meant before the last breath went out. It wasn’t bad, or hurtful, it was simply...after. Morgan came out of her thought to look at Erin, steeped her whole life in this strange, thankless care. It was essential, even as it rattled and stung the rest of the world, her clients. She didn’t even have much of a chip on her shoulder about it, she just continued, and found a way to make “after” work for other people too. Well, maybe not “found,” but she was still at it. And now that the shock of discovery had worn off, she didn’t seem that ashamed about it. A rush of endearment filled her and she ran to Erin, brain still jiggling in the bag and pulled her into a crushing hug. “Thank you, Erin,” she said. “You’re a really good friend, you know that?” She lingered there a moment, trying to fix words to how...fine all of this seemed. Not normal, they wouldn’t be hiding in a basement if it was normal, but fine. She pulled away, backing up to hop on the table, taking another handful of brain. “You wouldn’t have heard from somewhere about how human brains taste, would you? I feel weirdly like...playing board games. And listening to the radio. Like there’s a hockey game on? I don’t like hockey, but if you know where to put one on--” She gave a thumbs up and took another bite of brain. “But, also, I’ve lost my foot like twice this week. If you wanted to check out weird things my bones can do still.”

Erin looked up just in time to brace herself for the shorter woman hurling herself at her. “Oh, you’re--,” she huffed out a laugh, genuinely struggling to catch her breath. For a moment it felt like she had just ran into a wall with arms. “You’re welcome,” she finished, briefly wrapping her arms around her. Morgan was a lot of things Erin was still trying to properly grasp, but she was a good one. Chaotic, but good. That much she did know. She held her hand to her chest when Morgan pulled away, laughing despite herself. “I’ve never thought to ask,” she answered honestly, leaning against the same table Morgan was perched on. “How does it taste?” When she started to prattle on more questions, things so specific to the man in the ziploc bag in her hands, she couldn’t help but stop in her tracks. “Don’t tell me you’re suddenly craving a tall, crisp IPA now too?” She asked, glancing back and forth between Morgan and the bag. His widower had carried on about the man’s favorite things to her just that morning before crying into her shoulder. “You don’t mean you’ve literally lost your foot, right?” As soon as she asked the question, she couldn’t help but realize how very wrong she probably was.

Morgan shrugged. “Rich. Like, a good medium-rare burger. Or like, cheesecake? It’s good. Rich. My mouth is literally watering eating it.” She took another bite. “Ew, IPA? No, I mean, I can’t taste anything anymore, but I came from Houston, and our beer culture is way to evolved for an IPA. Are you saying--” She eyed the brain pointedly. “I actually kinda know Mr. What’s-his-name? When I eat him?” She shrugged, a little uncomfortable. Having real, meaningful parts of people in her head wasn’t something she was sure she liked. But stars, whats-his-name tasted good. “Ooh, but actually, I did mean literally.” She kicked off her flats and wiggled her bare toes. “I don’t have anything to break them with, but if you got anything fancy in here, you can knock yourself out. Like--” She pressed them against a chair leg, more and more until they crumbled and bent over in a way toes normally shouldn’t. It was a satisfying sting of pain. She flexed them again and they righted themselves before both their eyes, only a little dislocated, really. She smiled up at Erin, kicking her legs with a little satisfaction. “I mean, when I ran into this scary eye-hands critter, I just lost the whole thing. And with the killer clams. But we’re good as new now!” She looked around the room for wherever Erin kept her music. “I do kinda mean it about hockey though.”

“Mr. Reid drank IPA’s,” Erin corrected, a slow smirk on her lips as she watched her. She didn’t have any particular thoughts about beer. Beer was beer. Some of it was good, some of it was bad, but it all got the job done in the end. She couldn’t help but stare as Morgan seemed to crush her toes, then flexed them back into shape again. “Whoa,” she said in genuine amazement. An idea sparked and she turned, digging into one of the cabinets. “Yeah, over there,” she said, pointing towards a radio across the room. She pulled out one of her biggest, thickest trocars. This wouldn’t hurt her right? Erin smiled, raising a brow. “Hey--can I try something?”

#wickedswriting #chatzy #chatzy: morgan #organ's out of the bag

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kimsngmn · 5 years ago

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Moonlight

(there’s no gif of both them so please enjoy fetus minho!)

Minho x reader x felix

Angel au

warning (s) : Tons of cursing

fluff and a tiny of angst

2.5k words

The bright moon shines brightly. Every step I go, it’ll always there, no matter where I run off to. The white sky moves quickly with the wind violently hit me. Just like that, the once shining brightly that’s been there for me, it's just gone. No words, just painful feelings in the chest that’s eating me alive.

Dragging myself to school probably the hardest thing to do. The amount of stress I get from the finals is better worth it. It’s like, I’m not sure that if I’m tired of not working hard enough or I just tired and want to give it up. Everything goes back and forth. You arrive at school, Study for a couple of hours, break time for an hour or even half of the hour. Then continue the study. Again and again.

Walking to the school’s bathroom and see my reflections in the mirror is exactly horrific. The amounts of eye bags and dark circles are getting clearer. But, hey, for school right? Sometimes I just wish that someone would like, help me to lessen my burden. My mouth lets out a soft sigh and goes to the routine that has been set up for everyone.

“Hey!” A deep voice got my attention as the hall chattered with voices from other students. After all, it’s the time where everyone goes back home. That voice belongs to a boy who taller than me, with freckles scattering all over his face. With his plump lips, he starts to speak again.

Honestly, if I could wish on something, and one of it will be to listen to his voice. It’s like, his voice is that deep enough to make people flutter on inside. And I have to say, His puberty hits him like a truck. A tiny boy that I know from the next door is not sure exactly like this person.

“Earth to Y/n?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh boy, the finals kicking in your ass, aren’t they?” He chuckles as he thought of it. Probably amused how lost I looked.

“Shut up, Felix.”

“Let’s just say that-“

“Nope” I cut him abruptly with ‘p’ popped at the end.

“Oh come on, ” Felix whiny and purposely make his voice higher with his eyes suddenly become the biggest wide eye ever he made, it scares me to think that his eyeball would fall out.

“Felix, I love you, but I hate you at the same time, would consider that might be, it’s a dumb thing to do?”

“I will kick your damn ass one day, Lee Felix,” I muttered as I tried my best to not scratch myself with all those thorns that on trees all around me. Let’s just say, Lee Felix, my best friend that I would trade with money, decided to be a freaking adventurous at midnight where both of us have classes the next day. He barged into my room without my permission and abruptly wake me up after I just slept? He, my friend, deserve a big ass kick ever.

Just to find a flower? I mean it’s just a legend. No one knows whether it’s real or not. I swear, there is one of the days where my eye rolls become uncontrollable.

The Moonlight Flower is a flower that has five petals decorated with dark purple-blue along with white dots that looked like a star.

People told us that, if anyone found it and wish upon it, his/her wish would come true. But, it comes with a price. It was unbearable pain and thus, the price equal to wish that must think carefully.

I lost Felix in the middle of the forest and I’ve no intention to search for him. Since this forest once our playground, there’s no such thing for us to get lost in this forest. But it does get lonely without him.

Man, Can I just finish this quick? I need to get back and sleep. That’s all I need. I mentally beat myself up for actually accept Felix’s quest out of nowhere.

The wind breeze makes my heart in peace. And I almost thankful for Felix to bring me out tonight. Almost. The forest itself, not entirely dark because the stars are there to brighten up. My walk has been softly rather than hurried up. Somehow Felix’s word makes me think those flashbacks that happen suddenly out of nowhere.

“I wonder what it feels like to wake up knowing you’re in love with someone who loves you too,” Felix asked me as he kicking those tiny stones while we’re walking back home.

“I’ve never been in a relationship before, but, someone told me that, if it’s meant for you, not even the seven skies and seas could keep you from it.”

“I see,” He said as he looks up to the sky for a while before he turned his eyes and smile at me.

“It could be any relationship, right? Till then, wait. No, Always. You have me until every last star in the galaxy dies, you have me. And I’ll be here for you.”

The sounds of crickets can be heard from every direction and the wind breeze now gone and its cold dead end. The star also is gone, somehow, the forest itself becomes deadly.

I’ve calculated every measurement that I needed, just in case someone or any animals attack me from behind. Every each of the step causes silent, it was an uncomfortable silence. I could feel tense and at this time, I wish Felix is here from the beginning.

I keep turning left and right. Hoping that I am alone instead of having thoughts of strangers follow me. Life of full surprise right? Out of fear, I just found myself a legend flower; the moonlight flower.

Oh great, now what I am supposed to do? Wish on it? How?

As I get near to it, it softly glows and for sure, it’s let out a sweet scent. It’s mesmerizing.

“I wish I have someone that I can call mine” I quietly muttered as I cupped the flower. Not sure what am I supposed to do, but, at least I did something right?

“I’m sorry but what?” my titled a bit as my face full of the confusion of someone that happens or barges, in my house. Not only that, he has these wings attached to his back. I’m not sure that felix threw a Halloween party without I know about it.

“For someone who good at academics, you’re not that bright, aren’t you?” His dark brown orbs stare at me along with his lips curled into a smirk. Cocky ass.

“Excuse me? I didn’t ask you to sassy out of me? I asked you, who the hell are you?”

“Well, sweetheart. As you can see, I’m an angel.” He said as he turns around to show off his beautifully craved wings. His voice for sure getting more arrogant.

“Great, now where’s the devil then? Did he run away because you’re such pain in the ass to handle with?”

“There’s a line there, little human.” His eyes sparkle with darkness and the whole atmosphere goes cold instantly. “Try your best to control your pretty little lips to not cross it” He whispered into my ears as he bends down a bit to have face-to-face with me. His eyes still glow dark, but his smirk still there.

“Minho. Lee Minho. That’s my name. And, I’m here because of your wish.”

How is that even correlate with what I wished for?

Minho said it’d be fun. Fun my ass.

Minho lays down on the couch making him feel comfortable as his feet rest on the armrest. His whole outfit of an angel that he claimed now turned into a dark grey hoodie with sweatpants. His fascinating wings are gone too.

“Hey,” I said softly, as I walk from the kitchen after heard Minho’s groan in pain. The nearer I get to him, the faster my heartbeat goes. Just to realize that he is having a nightmare.

I sit down near to his face as he’s comfortable laying on the couch. His face clearly shows that he is in pain. My heart speeds up as I try to touch his face with my finger. The electric shocks linger in my body as Minho’s cold finger touch with my wrist. His eyes still shut.

“Don’t. You’ll hurt yourself if you’re trying to figure me out.” His words contained a warning and sad as his eyelashes go up revealing tears that being held back.

My heart just dropped.

The morning comes and Minho is gone. Half of my heart feels happy when I found that Minho is not there, laying on the couch. While the other is pain and sadness. It was wild, thinking where Minho could have been in this huge city and even if he goes out somewhere, does he even have money to buy something? Why? All those questions make my head spinning around and around.

It pissed me off. To think someone that I just met last 2 weeks, claimed himself as an angel could make me worried like this. Because he’s the first one to make my heart torn apart like this. And I hate it. I hate this feeling; the hopelessness. No matter how hard you try to get rid of this feeling, it’s always there, haunting you until the end.

Among those 2 weeks, I learned that how lovestruck can he be when sees stray cats. And it took lots of energy to hold him back from chasing those cats. Not to mention, he is a pain in the ass to take care of but he always is there. What an angel you are, Lee Minho. Being able to make me speaks about the pain that I’ve been holding on.

As the rain trickles down my face, that’s when I realize that I’m outside with rain all over me, running like a crazy person. Searching for him. Asking everyone what have they seen Minho by describing his tallness, his hair color, and the outfit. Hoping, desperately. Someone saw him walking here or there. Who gives a damn about the school, when you just lost someone that give an impact on yourself.

Now I’m left with unwanted feelings and a mind that won’t stop thinking about it, but despite all this, I still have hope. Hoping that he would be there at home, worry about me. Was that another wishful thinking? Or just useless hope?

The rain won’t stop its tears so do I. Until someone stopped me by holding me tightly from behind and his head are low enough to whisper my ears.

“Let’s go home.”

It’s him.

God. Please. Let this feeling last.

Both of us changed our drenched clothes in more comfortable clothes. I am mad, for leaving the house without letting me know, make me feel this emotion all over the place and make me feel like worthless without him by my side. What’s exactly wrong with my heart? Since when my heart becomes this soft?

As I arrived in the living room, I see Minho playing with his fingers. Is he nervous? Well, he better be for making me worried about him. His hair still drenched with water as the rain falling harder as both of us walked home. Sitting next to him, while waiting for him to speak first. What if he didn’t talk first? Should I-

“I’m sorry”

Eh?

Minho takes a few deep breaths before continuing. “I’m sorry for making you worried about me, and I-I don’t have any excuse for that. It’s just, I bought something for you and I kinda forgot to leave a note as I abruptly left the house. I don’t even have your number to call you in the first place.”

Minho briefly looks at me, seeing that I didn’t make any effort to move or speak, he decided to continue anyway.

“When I saw you running from another side to another, just to find me… it just makes me feel this whole new emotion that I never felt before. Like, you looked so vulnerable when that person told you that he never saw me before; It makes me want to protect you and never want to make you feel that sadness ever again. It’s so-“

“Then don’t leave me” My small voice opened up as I interrupted him. My eyes now focused on him, I can see that his shoulders tensed and his face was shocked, but it was gone a few seconds later. A hope rising in my heart.

“I promise you. That I’ll never leave you alone ever again.”

Both of us shared a smile and laugh all night. We are getting to know each other and surprisingly, both of us have a lot in common. He would tell me, how dumb others angels that he had to handle with. And somehow, both we relate to each other so much. It’s scary, but at the same, it’s nice to have someone that could be related to you so much.

Like a soul mate.

“You know, you’ve been so happy these days.” Felix pointed out as both of you walked outside of the school entrance.

“That’s…great? I guess?” I answered him back, unsurely.

“Well, Y/N I known pretty busy with homework, assignment or, not forget your own best friend's birthday. But go off I guess?” He replied with a hurt tone lies within those words.

Shit. Shit.

“Omg, No, Felix. Sweetie. Happy Birthday!” I said happily, but seeing his face does break some pieces in my heart.

“Oh, no, no. I’ll treat you with food. Come on, Felix. Don’t ignore me like this.” He walked away as I desperately try to talk to him.

How can I forget his birthday? What a great friend you are, Y/N.

Try my best to at least at the same pace on him while walking, it does make me why I hate P.E so much. And this boy, freaking athletes in our school.

“Felix”

No answers.

“Felix!” At this point, I don’t even care. My hands caught and intertwined both our fingers and run towards any place that both of us can talk peacefully. And hopefully, he wants to talk.

“Mind reminds me why are here again?” Felix broke the silence that surrounding us for a while. Running away from the crowded place and go to places where almost no one there, do make you feel peaceful for a while. Our fingers still intertwined tightly as I don’t want to let him grasp go.

“Just…Nothing. I just want to be here. Alone with you.” I answered it, still walking side by side with Felix. My head still finding any excuses to give to Felix about how can I forget about his birthday. Little did you know, Felix’s heart just burst out by how tight you hold his hand.

What should I do now?

#stray kids #stray kids felix #stray kids imagine #stray kids scenarios #Lee Minho #Lee know #Lee know you know bcs im dying rn #lee felix #almost typed little felix...#lee know scenarios #felix scenarios #stray kids lee know

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lovemesomerafael · 5 years ago

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Destroying The Planet To Save It Chapter 32: Fuckin’ Hell, Steve

Chapters 1 - 30 Chapter 31 Read It On AO3

“The doctors say you’ll make a full recovery, but it’s going to take a while.”

“You don’t sound too happy about that,” Tony replied carefully. He knew when Pepper was pissed.

And Pepper was pissed right now.

“I’m not. That’s a long time to have to wait before I can kill you.”

“Now, see-“

“You know what, Tony? Don’t talk. Nothing you can say will make what you did any less insanely reckless. And if you tell me you love me, I can and will throw you out that window. If you loved me, you would think about what it would do to me to learn you’ve been shot three times in the chest.”

“Getting shot wasn’t in the plan-“

“In the chest, Tony.” She skewered him with her scowl.

“Sorry, Pep,” he murmured quietly.

Something in Tony’s voice made Pepper look a little closer at his face.

“I’m sorry, Pepper. Truly.”

The moist sincerity in his deep brown eyes struck her. He still looked scared. Had since he’d been shot, she imagined. Certainly since he’d been stable enough to be flown back to New York and the medical floor of his Tower. He also looked sorry, and exhausted, and vulnerable. She knew that she was the only person in the world he ever let see that side of him, and it tore at her heart. There wasn’t any thought or volition, only movement as she flew to his side to throw herself into the arms he held open.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

She took a moment to choke down her sob before whispering back, “I love you. I love you so much. Please don’t leave me…”

“I won’t. I’m not. Shhhhhhhhh.” Tony stroked her hair as she cried. He didn’t bother about his own tears.

He’d really cut it too close this time.

In the room next door, Steve was cradling Sharon in his good arm as she snuggled next to him in his hospital bed. She wasn’t defending him, though. She was just letting Bucky shout at him and call him a dumbass about ninety-seven different ways as he paced back and forth at the end of Steve’s bed. She was even laughing sometimes, which Steve didn’t think was necessary.

Of course, he’d known this was coming, and he knew Bucky wasn’t actually angry. This was just the way Bucky needed to bleed all the residual fear out of his system. After the way Steve had acted following the quinjet crash, Steve supposed, it was also Bucky’s turn.

But he was kinda outdoing himself at the moment.

“So you fucking tell the guy to shoot you? What in the jumped-up hell is the matter with you, Steve? I gotta be with you every fucking minute to keep you from doin’ this kinda shit?”

“Sorry, Buck, I didn’t-“

“I’m a hundred years old, punk, my heart can’t take this anymore. Hell, you’re a hundred, too, which means you shoulda grown out of your idiot phase a few decades ago now!”

“Look, Tony was-“

“You know how close that bullet was to your heart? Major blood vessels? I got news for you, pal, the serum didn’t make you bulletproof. You can still bleed out. You been to war, you’ve seen how fast that can happen. Fuckin’ hell, Steve!”

“Bucky, stop.”

“No! I’m gonna bust your chops, and you’re gonna lay there and take it, because you do this every time! Every fuckin’ time, you gotta go wadin’ into trouble until you’re in it up to your eyeballs, you dumb knucklehead. You go barrelin’ into a room and take on a coupla gorillas with guns, and you tell one of ‘em to shoot you? I’m gonna fuckin’ shoot you just so I don’t gotta deal with this crap anymore!”

Steve couldn’t help it. He started to smile. He knew that was just gonna make Bucky madder, but he simply couldn’t keep it in. It was so good to have Bucky back. So good. It ached, how warm and familiar and right this felt.

“If that’s a smile… Sharon, you’re gonna hafta move, because I’m gonna slug him.”

Sharon believed him. So much so, that she got up from the bed.

“No, Sharon, we were comfortable-“ Steve complained, but Bucky was already by his side, fist cocked and eyes full of fire.

He wasn’t really going to hit Steve. Probably.

What Bucky did instead was bend down and gather Steve’s massive shoulders in his arms, pulling him up from his pillow until Bucky was crushing Steve to his chest. Which hurt like a bitch.

“Bucky, ouch! Watch it!”

“Shut up, you big baby. You did it to me and I had broken ribs, which hurts way worse and you know it,” Bucky’s voice rumbled in his chest against Steve’s ear.

For a minute, Bucky just squeezed Steve, while Steve tried to breathe through the pain.

“Fuckin’ hell, Stevie,” Bucky grumbled, and Steve knew the mandatory ass-chewing was about over. Bucky had finally yelled himself out.

*************

Tony Stark knew how to throw a party. Everyone knew that. What everyone didn’t know is that, closet romantic that he was, he also knew how to throw a wedding. Which was to say, let Pepper do it. Tony knew his limitations.

Okay, he didn’t, but he knew this one.

The Avengers’ upstate Compound was set amidst a few acres of lush land, beautifully maintained. There was an outdoor area that got used frequently when the weather was nice, like today, which featured a brand-new gazebo of rustic-looking local wood. It was decked out in tulle and flowers, lit softly and well by a thousand twinkle lights and additional, indirect lights. Pepper said the lighting for the event had been designed by the best team she could hire. She also said it cost Tony dearly, but she thought it was worth it.

Tony didn’t know anything about any of that, he just knew that he could see and hear the minister just fine, and he’d never seen Banner… glow like that. Tony smirked. Poor fuck’s got it bad. But then he looked at Catherine, and he couldn’t really blame Bruce. She was stunning. And she sure seemed to be head over heels for Banner.

He pulled his right arm in its fashionable black sling closer to his side and twisted to look around. Damn, when did the Avengers all get so paired off? He supposed he shouldn’t feel the slight sense of superiority he did, because Pepper was sitting right next to him, and he was clinging pretty tightly to her hand at the moment.

Natasha surprised him. There was something about her lately. She was no less dry and supercilious, no softer or more emotional, just… different. Tony couldn’t have explained how her public interaction with Clint had changed, but it had. In some indefinable way, although they weren’t given to public displays of affection, it was obvious they were a couple. They hadn’t denied it when Tony had finally asked about it during a team dinner, but they also hadn’t volunteered any information. Tony knew Clint, though. He was no doubt dying to talk about it. He was just forbidden to, at least in public. Tony made a promise to himself that he would corner Clint later on tonight and get him drunk. Make him spill. Meanwhile, Clint sat looking damn handsome, Tony had to admit, in his suit, next to Natasha, who was somehow managing to radiate both deep satisfaction and hair-trigger ferocity at the same time. Neat trick, that.

There were fewer than fifty people sitting in the chairs set up in front of the gazebo, with their silk covers in the soft light green Catherine had insisted on including in the wedding color scheme. She swore it wasn’t a joke, just an acknowledgement that she meant it when she vowed “For better or worse.” Pepper had mixed it with a delicate pink and cream, and the setting was truly spectacular, but in a quiet way that fit the couple. It was definitely overwhelmingly romantic.

The combination of such a small number of guests, with the overall taste and beauty of the event, somehow made it more sumptuous. Bruce and Catherine didn’t care about that, they just wanted their wedding to be intimate. They wanted to share it with those they loved and cared for, while keeping their privacy from the merely curious. Neither of them denied the additional fact that keeping the event small meant it could happen more quickly. They’d waited long enough for the marriage that had been inevitable since their mutual friend Andris, who was here tonight, had goaded a grad student into pitting them against one another in a seminar in Munich.

Sam had trouble appreciating the decor, however, because all he could see was Anita. Her floor-length, halter-topped gown was entirely appropriate even as it showed a lot of skin, the flowy fabric a light shade of teal that made all that skin glow. She had complimented the fit of his suit more than once, but he felt invisible next to her, as beautiful as she looked. That was fine by Sam. All he wanted to do was be near her, focusing on her long, toned arms and watching her appreciate the romance of the evening, waiting for the next time she would smile at him.

The ceremony was fairly brief, and beautiful, and to no one’s surprise, Steve cried the most. Bucky was merciless about it, but he was the only one who could get away with that. Sharon found it adorable.

Sharon found pretty much everything about Steve adorable. She hadn’t yelled at him – much – for getting shot. She’d just said about a thousand prayers of thanks that it wasn’t life-threatening, and that the serum allowed him to heal so quickly. This was Steve. This was the man she loved completely and forever, and he also happened to be Captain America, which was a dangerous job. So be it. She would just pray a lot and make sure he knew, every moment, how much she loved him.

When the sunset ceremony was over, there was nothing left to do but make sure to say a few polite words to the few guests – close friends and family members – who weren’t either Avengers or S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. That done, Steve took Sharon by the hand and leaned over to whisper, “You wanna go for a walk?”

Like Sharon would say no to a man who looked like that in a blue suit.

Steve grabbed two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Sharon as they meandered along a flagstone path. Sharon hadn’t spent any time here at the Compound, so she was happily surprised when the path led past the ornamental shrubbery into a small, unexpected outdoor seating area. It was surrounded by fairly tall flowering shrubs that Sharon didn’t know the name of, which made it a private little oasis. For Bruce and Catherine’s wedding, burning torches had been set at each corner, giving the space a warm, magical glow. They sat down close together on a stone bench and took a few sips of their champagne.

“You know, I was born in 1918,” Steve noted.

Sharon blinked and shook her head in wonder. “I know. Crazy.”

“Yeah. It was a different time then, in a lot of ways.”

Sharon nodded, her eyebrows bunching just a little. Where was he going with this?

“I’ve tried to catch up.”

“You’ve done an amazing job. I can’t even imagine what it must be like for you.”

“But there’s something I got wrong.”

“Oh?”

Steve took another sip and leaned his head a little closer to Sharon’s so he could look in her eyes. “Some things are fashion. Some things are… I don’t know… progress, let’s say. And I get that people have different beliefs and values. I also get that some of the beliefs and values we used to have when I was a kid were wrong. Unfair. Hurtful, even.”

Sharon nodded, just waiting for him to get to the point.

“But some weren’t. And I think I made a mistake, trying to be modern. In fact, I know I did. And I know you won’t see it this way, but I disrespected you, and I’m sorry.”

“Steve, what are you…?”

“I love you, Sharon. I’m always gonna love you, and I know that. You’re so much smarter than me, and wiser, and you’re completely successful in your own right. I’m so proud to be with you. Plus, you’re beautiful and sexy, and…”

Steve set down his champagne and pulled something from his pocket as he knelt on the lush grass before Sharon.

“Steve-“ she gulped.

“I love you,” he repeated, taking Sharon’s left hand in his. He lifted it in his right and, with his left, showed her a simple gold ring with a single diamond that sparkled in the light of the torches. He lowered it until he held it just off the end of her left ring finger. “I love you, Sharon, and I don’t just want to live with you, like being together is just convenient, or temporary. I want to marry you. I want us to be a family. I want to make you my wife so that you, and everyone else, will know how much you mean to me. How much I value you. Sharon Carter, will you be my wife?”

Sharon’s breathy, “Yes!” was barely audible against the soft backdrop of music and voices coming from the wedding reception.

Steve took his time, carefully setting the ring on Sharon’s finger. She noticed that it fit perfectly, and wondered how many professional spies had been involved in making that happen. Then Steve looked up again, the tears welling in his eyes a match for the few spilling down her cheeks. When he kissed her, he cradled her face in his hands, like something precious and infinitely delicate.

It was a long time before she’d finished telling him how much she loved him, and how happy she planned to make him.

Pepper had arranged for a small dance floor to be set up in front of the gazebo, where the chairs had been for the ceremony. While a state-of-the-art soundsystem had played appropriate music through the ceremony and wove a quiet, elegant spell throughout the sit-down dinner that followed, now a live band was set up in the gazebo. Sam and Anita had been on the dance floor since the moment Bruce and Catherine invited everyone to join them while they had their first dance.

Although he had no illusions that anyone would be watching them raptly, the way everyone was watching Sam and Anita, Clint didn’t want them to. He wanted to dance with Natasha, close and slow, and maybe whisper some sweet nothings to her from time to time.

They’d danced together before, of course, but not since they’d declared themselves a couple, officially and permanently. Clint found himself fighting his emotions, lest he outdo Steve’s display during the ceremony. The woman he held in his arms felt entirely different from the Natasha he’d danced with a hundred other times in the presence of the Avengers. This Natasha held him close. She smiled into his eyes and nuzzled his jaw. She leaned into him, melting her body to his and closing her eyes. There was nothing vulgar or conspicuous about it, although he was sure that they held each other and interacted like lovers, whereas before they had danced as close friends. But the subtle change, for Clint Barton, was everything.

“Stick a fork in me,” he murmured into Natasha’s ear as he guided her gracefully through a turn.

“Such a strange expression.”

“Mmmmm. But it fits. Me. Now. I can’t think of a single thing I want. I am completely content in this moment.”

“You have a low bar for contentment, Barton.”

“No,” he corrected her. “I don’t.”

He heard and felt, rather than saw, Natasha smile. When he felt her pull him just a little bit closer, Clint realized that he could, in fact, be happier than he’d been a second before.

“I can think of some things I want,” Natasha said during the next song, tipping up her head to whisper some of them in his ear.

“I don’t think I should do that to you in front of Catherine’s mom. She’s gotta be at least eighty.”

“I agree. But I want it now.”

“It’s Bruce and Catherine’s wedding, Tasha. We can’t leave this early.”

“We’ll come back. After. And if you can’t disappear without anyone noticing, Barton, I’m going to start questioning your spy skills.”

“Ooh. Gauntlet thrown.”

“Yes.” She backed a step or two away from him and, with a smolder, said, “Don’t keep me waiting.”

With that, somehow, she disappeared into a very small crowd.

Sam and Anita hadn’t spoken much about the future. They hadn’t had much time. But since returning from Argentina, they’d learned of Steve’s plan to create a second Avengers base on the grounds of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in D.C. Their future seemed to have sort of taken care of itself.

“Barnes has a place in D.C. already, says there’s plenty of room if I want to live there, too. I might take him up on that, at least for a while. It’s been a while since I lived in D.C.”

Anita wasn’t able to respond right away, because this was the part of the dance where Sam held her hand over her head while she did a series of complicated twirls around him. When she snapped back into his arms, their chests colliding solidly, she was smiling.

“Well, maybe now’s the time to tell you what Coulson said to me while we were talking earlier.”

“Yeah? Something happen?”

“He’s promoting me. I’ll still be in the field on special assignments, but I’ll be training more.” She looked flirtatiously up at him through her eyelashes. “And part of my job will be ‘liaising’ with the Avengers.”

“Oh, you know how I like to ‘liaise’,” Sam grinned.

“And you’re very, very good at it.”

Anita watched appreciatively as Sam executed some intricate steps that took them across the whole dance floor. Which was tiny, but it was still an impressive display of his grace and his fine physique. “Damn, Master Sergeant,” she breathed.

“You like that, huh? Plenty more where that came from.”

“Good. Because you and me, we’re gonna be doing a lot of dancing.”

Sam’s face was alight as he replied, “I can’t tell you how much I like the sound of that.”

With that, he tightened his arm around her waist and led her through smart, brisk turns that caused her gown to billow out around their legs, to the delight of several onlookers.

Bucky had been covering for Steve for a while now. He knew, of course, what was happening. Hell, he’d helped Steve plan what he was gonna say. So every time someone asked where Steve was, Bucky made sure to tell them he had something he needed to do, and would be back soon. He wasn’t sure why he felt relieved when he saw Steve and Sharon, arm in arm and looking like they were walking a few feet off the ground. He’d told Steve a hundred times how stupid it was to even consider that she’d say no. But it was nice to know he’d been right. Huh. Little Stevie, marryin’ a bombshell like Sharon. How about that?

He gave them both a smile big enough to convey his congratulations, then decided to go seek his own bombshell. He knew that Steve and Sharon wouldn’t announce their engagement tonight. Tonight was about Bruce and Catherine.

Which, incidentally, was who Joss was talking to when he stepped up next to her and handed her a glass of champagne. He himself had switched to beer after the toasts were over. He moved the bottle to his metal hand and interlaced his flesh fingers with Joss’s.

“It was perfect. It’s all perfect. I think this might be my favorite wedding I’ve ever been to,” Joss was saying.

“It’s definitely mine,” Bruce agreed, mooning at his new wife who, Bucky noticed with a grin, mooned right back.

“Ugh. If I wanted that much sweetness, I’d have another piece of cake.”

Neither Bruce nor Catherine bothered to respond to Bucky’s gentle gibe other than to laugh happily. At that moment, a table full of Catherine’s relatives called them over. “Bride and Groom duties,” Catherine apologized, and led a starry-eyed Bruce over to the table.

Joss turned to Bucky, standing very close in the soft glow from the thousands of twinkle lights woven through every tree and plant big enough to support the weight.

“Have I told you how gorgeous you look in that suit?” She asked, smiling up at him.

“Three times now. But it’s nice to hear, especially coming from you, when you look like that.”

Bucky tilted his face toward hers and kissed Joss softly, and for a long time.

“Will you dance with me?” He asked.

“Every time you ask,” she responded, and given the look on her face, he believed her. She looked as moony as the newly-married couple. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder whether he looked like that, too. Truth to tell, he kinda hoped he did, so Joss would know how he felt.

Modern music wasn’t the same, and people didn’t learn to dance anymore, but Bucky could make the music work, and he was so good at leading that Joss was becoming a pretty good partner. Bucky had also spent a few very romantic evenings giving her dance lessons. Not a few of the wedding guests watched the two of them on the tiny dance floor, oblivious of anything beyond the music and each other. Steve smiled as he caught sight of them. People watching Bucky own a dance floor was nothing new for Steve.

Joss eventually decided it was time for a break, although Bucky could have gone on forever. He wasn’t sure whether that was a dancing thing or a supersoldier thing, though, so he didn’t mention it. He simply squired Joss to a table as far from other people as he could, and went to get them drinks. When he returned, she had a thoughtful look on her face.

“Uh-oh. What’d I do?” He asked, purposely using that grin he’d been told was irresistible enough to get him out of anything.

“It’s nothing bad. I don’t think. I’m not really sure, actually, because I don’t really know what it means. I’ve been wondering whether now is the time to talk about it.”

“Ah. That.”

Joss nodded as she sipped from her beer bottle. “Bucky, you bought the row house I live in.”

“Uh-huh. I did.”

“But why?”

“Because I love it. You know how much I like that house. I also happen to have a stupid amount of money, which I never spend. I’m gonna have to spend a lot of time in D.C. now that the Avengers are gonna have a permanent base there, so I need a place to stay. So that’s that. Oh, and by the way? You don’t have to pay rent anymore.”

Joss frowned. “I don’t know how I feel about being a kept woman.”

“Personally, I feel great about it, but if you object, then fine, pay rent. But I’m not letting you get rid of the historical aspects of the building.” Bucky suddenly sat up a little straighter and scrunched his eyebrows together. “Wait. That building’s not much older than me. Did I just call myself historical?”

“Sweetie, you’re practically an artifact. It’s part of what makes you, you.”

Bucky took Joss’s hand and they knitted their fingers together on the table. “Once you go centenarian, you never go back.”

“Pretty sure that’s true. At least for me.”

“Do I need to keep you away from nursing homes?”

Joss almost choked on a swallow of beer laughing at that. “Well, I like a pretty specific type of centenarian.”

“Just need to keep you away from Steve, then, huh?”

“Never been much for blonds,” she answered, leaning toward Bucky with a significant look. “I have a thing for guys with dark hair.”

“Wow. That is specific.”

“Mmmmm. Probably explains my sparse dating history.”

“Yeah, not a lot of hundred-year-old guys with dark hair and guns running around,” Bucky agreed thoughtfully, not entirely successful in smothering his grin.

“Don’t forget knives.”

“Those, too. You better stick with me, Joss. Your dating pool is… wow. Small.”

She cocked her eyebrow at him. “Are you asking me to go steady?”

“I think that was the fifties,” he answered, and brought her hand to his lips. Bucky kept his face serious as he said, “Me, I’m askin’ you to be my best girl. Whaddaya say? Will you?”

“Yes. Oh, hell, yes!” Joss cried, and Bucky let out a little yelp when she threw herself into his lap.

Tony had been putting off this moment all night. It didn’t actually have to happen tonight, but Tony was feeling like tonight was a night of getting things resolved. Bruce and Catherine were finally married, and he was pretty sure Cap and Sharon were engaged. Steve had sought Tony’s advice about diamonds earlier in the week, and Tony sincerely doubted Cap was thinking of getting his ear pierced. Besides, Tony had seen the ring on Sharon’s finger and the way she and Steve were both beaming joy all over the place like wifi. It felt like the right time. And Tony was just buzzed enough.

He strolled around the outdoor area, checking out Sam and Anita showing some seriously impressive moves on the dance floor and saying hello to everyone who caught his eye as he walked among the tables. He purposely avoided catching Bruce’s eye, because he really didn’t want to be thanked again for giving them this wedding. It made him uncomfortable, for one thing. And for another, Tony was just as happy about Bruce getting married as Bruce was, because it meant he wouldn’t be haunting the tower, moping around like Eeyore off his meds anymore. When he finally reached Steve, standing at the edge of the lit area watching Sharon dance with Bucky, Tony just stood next to him, sipping excellent whiskey and trying to find his voice.

“How’s the chest?” Steve finally asked.

“Eh,” Tony shrugged. “Got another week in the sling, but I’m doing physical therapy now. In a pool, which I kind of don’t think is a real thing, but it’s nice.”

“It’s a real thing, Tony.”

“Maybe. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, you know. Everything.”

Steve made a questioning hum.

“You, um, took a bullet for me.”

“Always said I would.”

“Yeah, well, I always say I’d have Barton’s back no matter what, but if we were bein’ chased by zombies, I’d trip him in a heartbeat. People say stuff.”

Steve’s look was so sincere, he was so honestly trying to figure out whether Tony was joking, that it was really quite challenging to maintain a straight face.

“Look, I’m trying to thank you here, Cap. I’m trying to say that I… I got in trouble, and every one of you came to my rescue. And then you, you let that asshole shoot you to keep him off me, and you fall on me like a fucking human shield – you seriously weigh a ton, by the way, don’t ever do that again – and it… changed things. They were changing anyway, but…”

“What things?”

“I told you that I’d never get over seeing my teammates, my friends, at that airport. That whenever I look at you, I see… Well, you know what I said. But even with my verbal gifts, I’m never gonna be able to tell you how good Barton and Natasha looked when they ran into that room at the dam like the fuckin’ cavalry. Except, you know, in tight leather. And then you…”

Tony turned to face Steve fully. “Thank you. You called everyone back, and they came. The same people from the airport, and they dropped everything. For me.”

“Well, Sam had already started his mission, so…”

“Even Sam. The minute his mission was done, he commandeered that Air Force jet to get back here, even though it got him in all kinds of hot water. That mess is still not sorted out.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah,” he mumbled, frowning as he looked for words. “Yeah. Because we’re a team. All of us. You and me, Tony.” Steve peered deeply into Tony’s eyes as he said that, willing him to understand. “I almost cost us that. And it was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. I know that now, and I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I understand now. I understand why you did what you did, and that it was the right thing for you to do. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. I told you I understand now why you had to go after Barnes, and I do. And it’s not just about the Winter Soldier stuff, what they did to him. Now that I’ve met him, seen you together… I didn’t give you any choice. That was something you had to do, and you couldn’t do it alone. I understand that getting the others to help you, that was something I made you do. I made them do. And I’m sorry.”

For a moment, the two stood looking into one another’s faces, nodding almost imperceptibly because, finally, they each understood what had driven the other to do what had seemed, at the time, unforgiveable. But then the moment stretched, and Tony began to shift his eyes around Steve’s face, and then to things behind him, and Steve began to fidget, until, mercifully, they both realized the ridiculousness of the moment and began to laugh. They embraced, once again as brothers, and it felt like, at long last, a huge chunk of the world shifted back into place.

As they made to go their separate ways, Steve said over his shoulder, “You understand I’ve always said I’d take ‘a bullet.’ One. So, you know, now that I have, you might wanna be more careful.”

“Okay, one: I’ve already had that lecture from Pepper. And two: you’re still an asshole.”

They turned and walked away from one another, both smiling and dabbing at their eyes.

Bruce and Catherine called it a night when it was still fairly early. They were exhausted from the demands of trying to make sure they spent enough time with each of their guests, and they were leaving early the next morning to fly back to London. One of Tony Stark’s wedding gifts had been to fly Catherine’s mother and the other members of her family who had attended the wedding to and from England on one of his jets. Bruce and Catherine were going to accompany them, then go on to honeymoon on Sardinia.

He insisted on carrying her over the threshold of their apartment in the Compound, although they were planning to live in the Tower so that they could continue their respective work. She laughed, entirely unable to be anything but ecstatic in this moment.

“I insist that, from now on, you call me nothing but Mrs. Banner. I’m going to make everyone call me that. I might even change my name to Mrs. Banner.”

“I think you just did that. Mrs. Banner.”

“Oh. You’re right! How clever of me!”

Bruce laughed as he laid her on the bed. “Are you drunk?”

“Yes. Drunk on love. Drunk on happiness. And, yes, perhaps, just a wee bit drunk on champagne. Are you going to take advantage of me?”

“Well, I-“

“Before you answer, you should know that I’m going to take advantage of you. In case that’s relevant.”

Bruce flopped down on the bed next to her, so that both of them were collapsed on top of the bed covers, still in their wedding clothes, including shoes. He gave a long groan that was a mixture of about a hundred things.

“I guess I’m a little drunk, too. I don’t think it’s taking advantage if we’re both drunk.” He turned his head to look at his wife, smiling like a dork when she turned her head to look at him.

“I love you. I love that you’re my husband.”

“Me, too. Are you really going to be Mrs. Banner?”

“No.”

Bruce hummed a bit in disappointment, but kept smiling.

“Doctor Banner,” Catherine corrected.

“Wait, really?”

“Really. You don’t object?”

“No,” Bruce said, sitting up. “I don’t- I mean, it might get a little confusing sometimes. But I think that would be… Am I a troglodyte because I really love the idea of you sharing my name?”

“Maybe. But you’re my troglodyte now. So come over here and snog me, Dr. Banner.”

“Aye aye, Dr. Banner,” Bruce practically giggled, as he eased himself down over Catherine.

“Gads, we’re sappy. Glad no one can hear us.”

“Friday can hear us.”

“Yes, Sir, Dr. Banner, but I’m not listening,” came Friday’s voice from wherever it was Friday’s voice came from.

Bruce and Catherine were already kissing too deeply to devote much attention to laughing.

The lights in the outdoor area where the wedding and reception had taken place had been off for a while now. The mess was still there; Pepper no doubt had a crew coming bright and early to deal with that, but they’d all suspected the party would last into the wee hours, and it had.

Steve had known, somehow, that he’d find Bucky out here, standing looking up at the stars, the glowing tip of his cigarette going bright occasionally as he inhaled. Steve took a step onto the dew-wet grass, wanting to see how close he could get to the silhouette he could barely make out in the gloom before Bucky noticed him. As expected, that one step had been it. Without turning around, Bucky grunted, “Can’t sleep?”

Steve grunted and shrugged a little. “Too keyed up still. Sharon’s asleep, didn’t want to disturb her.”

Bucky grunted back, then handed Steve the pack of cigarettes. This was the only time Bucky ever smoked after the war; late nights when he couldn’t sleep. Steve never smoked, but as he had with Director Coulson that afternoon on the roof of Stark Tower, he pulled one out of the pack and accepted a light from Bucky’s war-era Zippo.

“Told ya’ she’d say yes, lamebrain.”

Steve almost coughed as he snickered. “The polite thing to say is congratulations.”

“Ain’t ever been accused of bein’ polite,” Bucky smirked. “Still, I do congratulate you. You got way luckier than you deserve, pal. Sharon is a helluva girl.”

“Yeah.”

“No way you deserve her.”

“Absolutely not. Gonna try, though.”

“You do that. ‘Cause you fuck it up, I’m on her side.”

“Don’t blame you.”

They smoked for a while, looking up at the stars and across the Compound grounds, where an early-morning mist was beginning to form.

“You’re gonna be my best man, right?”

“’Course.”

A few minutes later, Steve asked, “Joss OK with you buying her house?”

Bucky shrugged. “Seems to be. Insists on payin’ rent, though. Wants a lease so I can’t throw her out on her ear if I get mad at her.”

“She doesn’t really think you’d do that?”

“’Course not. But she’s smart. It’s a good idea.”

“You really like her, huh?”

“I do. Ain’t ready to ask her to marry me, but…”

“You just met. Anyway, you don’t have to get married just ‘cause I am. Everyone already knows I’m twice the man you’ll ever be.”

Bucky’s low chuckle felt like a thousand other times they’d stood together, smoking in the darkness. Another deeply companionable silence descended that lasted until Bucky lit up another cigarette, and Steve accepted a second. That, too, was familiar. Steve didn’t want another cigarette. He doubted Bucky did, either. But they both wanted a few more minutes of this quiet, unquestioned bond and the complete understanding between them that had never needed many words.

“How the hell’d we get here, huh, pal?” Bucky asked halfway into their new smokes.

Steve shook his head. “Damnedest thing, ain’t it? Glad you’re here with me, Buck. Real glad.”

“Well, someone’s gotta keep your dumb ass outta trouble.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#The Avengers #Captain America #The Winter Soldier #Bucky Barnes #Steve Rogers #Natasha Romanoff #Black Widow #Sam WIlson #Falcon #Tony Stark

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furbyq · 6 years ago

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oh my god it’s a bad idea someone has probably already done before with terrible results. but that’s my sim secret, i’m always terrible, so here we go.

when i posted that thing the other day, or last week or whenever, this is the post i wanted to make. i had written most of it and saved it in my drafts, but i thought maybe it wasn’t a good idea. thinking about it today, i’ve realized i don’t really care. i may still delete this post or hide it later, so get your looks in now.

there’s basically 4 hate secret archetypes:

you’re shit

your cc is shit

your sims are shit

and my favorite,

you did this thing unrelated to sims, don’t do that, it’s shit

some people who receive these secrets don’t deserve them. i can’t say whether or not i did, since i am biased, as i am me. but there are a lot of people i’ve seen get picked at who really don’t deserve it and cannot take that kind of rejection from the community. everyone who has ever gotten a hate secret that they felt was unfounded needs to remember: you don’t just have to take shit your entire life from people who treat you like trash. you can also rare back like a horse and hoof them in the face.

so what i’m going to do in this post is go back through all the secrets i have saved that were directed towards me and critique them on how founded they were. and perhaps how nice they looked.

at the same time, i’m going to tell you exactly what i felt about them when i first saw them and exactly what i feel now. and i may not be very nice. in fact, after having written the rest of this post, i wasn’t nice at all.

chances are, the people who made the secrets did the right thing and stopped following me or looking at my blog a long time ago. and that’s a very healthy thing to do, i’m proud of them. however, possibly, the people who submitted these secrets might be people i know and have talked to, or still talk to. the problem with simsecret is, you never fucking know. maybe i submitted one of these and don’t remember. that’s right, i was me all along.

now, first of all, i must commend this person on making an aesthetically pleasing secret. i mean, the part that they added actually matches my old blog theme a little bit. however, i have to dock points for lack of consistency in that second pooklet. i’m not going to give grammar too terribly hard of a time, because i’m not going to complain about people who may not be native english speakers. i have no way of knowing. but consistency? you get an 8/10.

let me explain you a thing. when a lot of people start posting in any community, it’s easy to be nervous about people critiquing your personal choices. for me, this was a big stumbling block. i emulated pooklet and azaya because their games looked good. they were two people in this community that fanned the flames of my love for ts2 into a fire that will burn for centuries.

this was also when pooklet had just released their lovely templates, which i still use, and they are likely to be the only templates i use until the day that i make my own. milkshape consistency is important to me and diverse facial features are important to me (keep in mind, this was before custom sliders). i would like to think that i evolved as someone who can make sims that look distinctly like my own, despite being based on someone else's templates, but everyone is entitled to their opinion.

nothing is ever going to please everybody. i could release a lovingly crafted piece of cc every day for the rest of my life and someone would complain about me clogging up their dash instead of unfollowing me. but to someone who is new in the community, criticism like this is much more harsh than you may intend it to be and may have an amplified effect. derivation is common in the start of new hobbies, even you probably derived at some point.

the second secret that was specifically aimed towards me is so low effort, i would give it a 3/10. or a 6 out of 9, you somehow fucked it from both ends by making this shit off-center.

first, if you have a similar opinion, you may need to learn the fact that i may prefer to view different things with my eyeballs than you do. since i only have my eyeballs, and not yours, i tend to pick colors i like.

you may think to yourself, “well, why did you make that top area of shirt a different color to the bottom area of shirt??”, and i will tell you, they are not both shirt. the top part is a jacket overlay or some shit. it was a different color on yuxi’s original as well. as for the color choice, i just liked them. especially the middle one, which i tested colors on for half an hour because i knew i wanted to keep that minty jacket and i had already used too much purple.

what does using colorblind as an insult accomplish in this context? you are criticizing something that, if i actually had it, would be a type of disability i could not help. say it’s shit, and say it’s shit to my face so that i know not to share these things with you.

at least use better colors. my colors are notoriously eye-searing but that red is about to give me a goddamn aneurysm. 6/10.

i don’t know how to break it to the original maker of this secret, but much like the tooth fairy does not exist, perfect humans also do not exist. why are you holding me to a higher standard than other people and then discarding me the moment i do something you personally do not like? you liked me. i fucked up. you liked me less than if someone you disliked did the same fucking thing?

in 2015, adfuck was a shitshow, but it is nowhere near the shitshow it is now. i also always provided a secondary link without adfly. i did that shit where i made it smaller for a couple of posts. i did the scum thing. i thought it would be lucrative and help my situation a tiny bit. a dollar earned from adfuck was a dollar i did not have before, and if you’re dying from starvation a dollar will save your life.

the subtext is, if you were afraid of viruses, you should have used the non adfuck link every time. if you were like me, and you had downloaded a thousand things from behind mandatory adfucks with your block disabled before the skipper (the adfly skipper, not like, a sea captain or anything) and hadn’t had a problem, you could very easily toss 1/1000 of a cent to a creator whose work you liked.

my stance on adfucks have changed drastically since 2015. i would never do it again because of its more clear association with viruses and the fact that i do not enjoy knowing that i could’ve made other people’s lives immensely shittier by being complicit in fucking up their computer. but i did do it, and no amount of apologizing is going to change that.

for future record, if you ever find one of my old, reblogged furbyq-sims posts, never click the shortened link. use the non adfuck one. i would have to push link shorteners every single nanosecond of my entire life for it to ever pay anything of substance, and i refuse to promote shorteners anymore. i will never cash it out, so clicking the links is a waste of time. since i deleted furbyq-sims, i cannot edit the links out. do not click them.

do note that during my run with adfuck, i received 579 total clicks that registered as ‘valid’ or what-the-fuck-ever. those clicks amounted to $1.53 USD. when people use adfucks, be aware that they are doing so to make, probably at most like $5 USD a month if they get thousands of non-blocked clicks. it is the definition of pointless. the danger element is enough to put most people off, the shitty pay should take the rest of them, and yet.

“hey, stop spamming” “hey, to resolve this, spam more” what do you fucking want from me?

again i’m pretty sure this person is not a native speaker, so i’m not going to poke at the grammar more than to mention that contradiction. you got your point across very well. remember to add a white outline to your text next time. 7/10.

let me tell you, desperation will make you do things that may not make sense to anyone else at the time.

think about this: my mom has serious lymph node deficiency that contributes to her getting pneumonia frequently. she’s on an oxygen concentrator at this time. now, oxygen concentrators are the thing that you get when a person needs nearly full-time oxygen. you don’t get a million tanks, you just get a single concentrator, which requires continuous electricity to work. ring ring it’s the electric company, your power is getting turned off tomorrow. you call hospice, hospice is like “well we can get a notice to them in like, two days” so you panic. you scramble for what you believe at that moment is the most important thing, regardless of whether or not you are right.

people who are in need will generally get help to some extent on the internet if they are brave enough to ask. but when it is a dire thing, you will reblog the post as many times as it takes to soothe your profound panic. every time you reblog, maybe one more person will see it. maybe that person will reblog, someone will see that and send $5 your way to help. you have got to keep things like this moving, if you do not ask you will not receive anything and dead posts are as good as not asking.

i don’t mean to sound overly terse, but i do sound that way for a reason, because some things are worth being terse over. and i hope, i hope to whatever deity may actually exist, that you never have to be in that position, where you know exactly why i did what i did. because it means you’re living in hell and it is no place to be.

i know this is an undertale reference of some kind. i don’t understand it, i haven’t played the game. if you’re going to say something mean to someone, maybe you should use your own words instead of formatting cryptic bullshit that includes the word 'garbage’. 3/10.

if you’re going to insult someone, be specific. because when you insult someone, you wield a sword. when i get stabbed, i want it to be a killing blow to my heart and not some lukewarm stabbing about in my midsection. fucking kill me or leave me alone. those are the options, pick one.

people in the sims community make custom content. and some of it is great, and some of it is shitty. and sometimes, both of those things can come from the same person, because everybody in the entire world has off days. i’m not going to say my shit is great, but i have made things i am proud of. proud that i took the time to make something and it paid off, and i realized a creation that would not exist without my existence and efforts.

other times, my stuff has been shitty. you are not obligated to download what you don’t like, and i’m sorry that me taking up 500 megabytes of the entire internet to host my shit on impacted your life so much back in 2016 or whenever the fuck.

after some angry secrets, it’s good to end on this one. it makes me laugh every time i see it. 9/10.

i’m going to address three points in this picture, but i’m not and have never been mad at this one. whoever made this secret, inbox me. you’re my favorite motherfucker.

when i made the phantom rage skin i had a picture of a man who had very speckled vitiligo saved as inspiration. i lost that picture when i cleared out old files, but this model, genesis castillo, is very similar to the vitiligo pattern that man had. there are a hundred winnie harlow skins. there were none like this where the vitiligo was not evened out with makeup. i then paired tones 1 and 10 and 2 and 8 for contrast, but the 1 and 10 one looks much odder in the low opacity parts, like camouflage, someone said once.

as someone who has a skin condition, i know how emotionally traumatic they are when they change your appearance drastically. i cannot empathize with any traumas of vitiligo that are directly tied to people of color being affected by it because i am not a person of color.

if i offended anyone who has vitiligo, i am genuinely sorry. my intention was not to make a ‘costume’, it was to make a virtual representation of a type of human being that actually exists. i hope that learning from this experience and using that knowledge to the best of my ability in the future is enough to undo even an iota of damage that was done.

point two, what is wrong with the middle sim? what is wrong with the middle sim? what is wrong with them? they have a mole? they’re wearing two head accessories? what is wrong with them???

point three, the bebebrillit hairline conversions weren’t terrible. fitting shit to the different hairline shape is difficult, so it can lead to some weird edges. at the time i took the previews for the hairlines, i didn’t have a ton of hairs in my folder. i just started doing nouk hairs. i needed to take a picture of the high fashion ponytail, so i killed two birds with one stone. this is not a combo that i played with, thinking they fit together like jigsaw pieces. it was a preview and it even showed that the hairlines did not work with every hair.

also,

there was a mythical 8th secret (yes, there were actually fucking 8 of them, i’ve averaged 2 hate secrets a year which i consider a life achievement). it was a picture of my first ts4 skinblend with the word “hideous” or “this is hideous” or some shit on it. it had the word hideous in it. that secret was deleted before i could save it, but i still remember it. and i can’t even be mad, i mean, they’re right. 10/10. best secret. it wasn’t a secret at all.

i actually can’t remember why it turned out so shiny, i think it’s because there were like no skins close to what i wanted and i tried handpainting before i knew how to.

in conclusion, please, in the future... stay salty, stay mean, continue hiding behind anonymity, but either grow a sense of humor or commit to what you’re doing instead of hurling balls of infernal bitching gently at my face.

#negativity //#questionable ideas #i felt like using an inspirational quote on the header #do you like it

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reivenesque · 7 years ago

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Requested by @lovelylittlegrim for the @teenwolfexchange

1. (Thiam) A fluffy fair fic. In which Liam takes Theo to his first fair/carnival and they have their first kiss.

Umm, not so much the fluffy fic I planned on when I started and it may or may not be their first kiss. I honestly didn’t know where this was going until I arrived there, but I hope you enjoyed it regardless *hides* I haven’t written a humour fic in ages I could feel my funny bone creaking with disuse as I was typing.

All’s Fair that Ends Fare

One of Liam’s earliest (and fondest) memories was of going to the seasonal fair with his mom and whichever boyfriend she was dating at the time. The only thing Liam really remembered about the guy was that he was a huge dick and pissed at Liam for being forced the tag along because the baby sitter cancelled at the last minute. As a result, Liam made it a point to do his absolute hardest to be the worst little shit to the guy behind his mom’s back and the most innocent angel when she turned to look at him.

The date didn’t last the night. The guy stomped off in righteous fury muttering about annoying children and stupid fairs and his mom was left in confusion staring at his retreating back.

They spent the rest of the night just the two of them going on rides and playing games, and even though his mom put on a smile when she looked at him, Liam could tell that she was hurt, but at the time, his cold little nine-year old heart didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was that the guy was gone and he had his mom all to himself again.

Adult Liam eventually came to the realization that he was a terrible, shithead of a child.

But then his mom met his stepdad and the man didn’t run away no matter how much Liam tried to chase him off, so all in all, it worked out for the best in the end.

“This milkshake sucks.”

The very first words spoken between the two of them in the merry compound of the town fair that night.

“It’s free, so shut up and drink it, asshole.”

God, Theo could be such a negative Nancy. Often times Liam forgot that he was actually Scott and Stiles’s age because of how petulant he could be. But then he remembered that neither Scott nor Stiles acted Scott and Stiles’s age so that was a rather pointless train of thought to have.

“Why are we even here? If I wanted to spend my night grinding up against the smelly sweaty bodies of half the population of Beacon Hills, I would have gone to a club – where they have air-conditioning – and alcoholic beverages instead of this… watered down gluten free soy whatever,” said Theo, swirling around the white liquid in the see through plastic cup in front of his eyes and staring at it suspiciously.

“It’s not gluten free or made of soy,” he said, exhaling exasperatedly.

“Well it might as well be,” said Theo petulantly. “How come you’re having juice then?”

“Cause I wanted to get you something special! Now shut up, Theo. We’re here to have fun tonight, and we will have fun even if it kills you,” said Liam.

“Sounds like fun already.”

Liam ignored him. “What do you want to do first? Which ride do you want to try?” he asked.

“How about that one?” said Theo, motioning towards the open gate at the far end of the field under the neon green sign that said ‘Exit’.

“Hilarious,” he said, his face completely straight and his mouth downturned in a frown.

It wasn’t how he’d originally planned on spending the night, but the funfair was in town – with emphasis on fun, and he was bored as hell – Scott was away on a bro-date with Stiles and Mason was away on a date-date with Corey, and Liam who was at that moment on a sad-date with him, himself and no one else, was feeling particularly left out. Plus he’d recently come to learn that Theo had never been to a fair before. Obviously the Dread Doctors weren’t big on the fun kind of activity that didn’t involve suffering, mutilation and death.

“What about the haunted house?” he suggested. He was pleased to see that it piqued Theo’s interest.

It was also a pivotal moment in which historians somewhere down the line would jot down in their tiny little notebooks as the moment Liam vowed to never take Theo into another haunted house ever again.

The screams of terror were not out of place, obviously, it was a house designed to scare the living crap out of the faint hearted. What was out of place was the sight of the people in ghost costumes, some covered in prosthetic fur and fake ears and fangs and other limbless figures covered in blood running out of said house in absolute pant-wetting terror, shoving each other aside and stepping on toes in their hurry to escape.

Theo’s cackling laughter beside him was like the sound of nails on a chalkboard. Theo was the nail and his face was the chalkboard.

“That’s not funny,” he said, turning around just in time to see Theo’s glowing yellow eyes reverting back to the dark blue and his fangs retreating back into his gums.

“Come on, it’s a little funny,” he said. “Don’t be such a sourpuss, Liam. If I wanted to date a boring, disgruntled old man I would have asked out Derek. Or that old guy that lives at the end of the street that likes to throw sand balls made of cat litter at people who walk past his house.”

Firstly, Liam was absolutely offended by getting compared to a disgruntled old man. Secondly, he hated to admit it but it was sorta funny, but he wasn’t about to confirm that fact to Theo, the guy was insufferable enough as is.

“So? How about it? Are we here to have fun, or are we here to have fun?” he asked with a smirk.

“I don’t know what that even means,” said Liam, furrowing his brows.

“Think of it like Troy,” said Theo, reaching over to circle an arm around Liam’s shoulder in a way that was suspiciously intimate, one hand motioning out towards the sky as if he was trying to get Liam to imagine one of the unlimited – and most likely illegal – scenarios he had cooked up in his head. Whatever he was about to say, it was bound to be bad – people were probably going to end up in tears, or dead, or both. “The best way to get in with the enemy, is to get in with the enemy,” he said, punctuating each word like a different intonation would somehow make the meaning different.

“Once again,” said Liam, “Please speak English.”

“You’re the history nerd, Liam” said Theo – completely ignoring the indignant tone Liam used when he repeated the word ‘nerd?’ as a question, greatly offended, “You know this stuff right?”

Liam scrubbed at his face tiredly. He kind of had an idea where this whole thing was headed, and he didn’t like it – or did he? He hadn’t decided. He didn’t want Scott to be disappointed in him and that was definitely what was going to happen if he went through with what he was inevitably about to go through.

“Create havoc from the inside?” he asked, turning his eyes to look at Theo, only to see the insufferably smug gaze already staring back at him. He really wanted to punch Theo in his stupid face at that moment, either with his fist or with his lips. He hadn’t decided that either.

“I knew you were smart, Liam. I’m impressed,” he said.

Liam tried to keep the blush from spreading across his cheeks at the praise. But as it is with Theo most of the time, he knew to take it with a grain of salt. Theo was only super nice like that when he wanted something in return. “Shut up, Theo,” he said, elbowing him in the ribs. “So… what do you have in mind?”

“A thought just came to me.”

“God help us all,” said Liam with a sigh.

“What if we did both? Have a little fun while taking these people for everything they’re worth? I mean, the hammer game? Come on, we could beat that out of the literal park without breaking a sweat.”

“That’s cheating,” said Liam.

“Well good thing I’m here with Liam, and not Scott, right?”

Liam let out a half exhale-half groan type of inhuman sound. “Scott’s going to kill us both when this is all said and done you know?”

“Seriously, Scott would never harm one soft, moisturized strand of hair on that perfect little head of yours. And even if he does, we’ll have a lot of kick ass stories to tell in the afterlife.”

“I don’t like this plan,” said Liam.

“You don’t have to,” said Theo, “You just have to… you know, have fun.”

Liam knew that word was going to come back and bite him in the ass. He thoroughly regretted every life choice he ever made that lead him up to that point in his short sad life.

“Yeah, fun,” said Liam in an over-exaggerated mocking tone.

Everything was on fire.

Children and adults alike were crying; bawling their eyeballs out and screaming in horror.

There was the sound of a gleeful cackle in the distance over the white noise and the small explosions still going off in the background.

Theo was picking bits of glass and pie crusts out of his hair with Liam beside him, doubled over in laughter.

“That was awesome!” Liam said through his mirth. “Who knew exploding pie could cause such devastation! That’s something they definitely don’t teach in chem class.”

Theo couldn’t keep the pleased smirk off his face. “Living with mad scientists for as long as I did, you’re bound to pick up a thing or two.”

The backdrop, the once upright and proud House of Mirrors was in shambles; its wall barely hanging off the hinges and surrounded by almost half a foot of broken glass on the pulverized ground.

“I hate to admit it,” said Liam, “But I don’t think I’ve had this much fun… well, ever. We’re both about to be killed by my dad, Scott, Melissa, Sheriff Stilinski and half the population of Beacon Hills – but, this is definitely the best night of my life.”

“You could say,” said Theo with a wolfish grin, “That we went out with a bang.”

The sound of sirens pierced through the veil of the night, approaching the once upright fair, now several heaps of rubble – some still smoking and smoldering, with parts of blown apart teddy bears strews across the ground like there had been a horrific murder on Sesame Street.

“I think that’s our cue to amscray,” said Theo, smacking Liam on the arm with the back of his hand; both their eyes looking towards the incoming source of the noise.

Liam didn’t turn to meet Theo’s eyes at first, the cogs of his brain and conscience working overtime trying to override his instincts of self-preservation and will to live. He exhaled once before squaring his shoulders.

“No point in us both getting caught,” he said as the whinnying cruisers made their way into the compound, one blaring vehicle after another. “Save yourself… I’m going down fighting.”

Theo furrowed his brows. “Why do I feel like I’ve heard this before?”

“Just go, Theo. I’m not running away.”

He could hear Theo’s frustrated groan beside him but the guy made no move to leave. He opened his mouth to speak again when he turned to look at Theo, but the words were barely out of his mouth before he felt Theo grab him roughly by the side of his face, pulling him close. Everything around him slowed down to a crawl and the sound of the sirens became muffled noises in the distance when he felt Theo’s cool lips crashing down onto his.

The kiss was haphazard and sloppy; Liam wasn’t sure where to put his hands and Theo still kind of tasted like the terrible milkshake he had earlier. He could feel the heat from the car’s headlights shining on his back, illuminating them brightly as the cars pulled up to surround them like a barricade. But the moment he found the pocket of comfort inside himself and his hands found the perfect curve of Theo’s back that sloped down and back up to frame his perfect, perfect ass, Liam couldn’t think about anyone or anything else in the world anymore.

There was only him and Theo in the moment surrounded by the police cars and what sounded like helicopter rotors flapping in the distance and the only thing Liam could think was that it was a very Thelma and Louise type of scenario, which was pretty rad.

He decided in that moment that he wanted that movie to play at his funeral. He wondered if he had enough time to write out a will.

If he had a pen on him he’d definitely scribble it down on Theo’s butt cause quite frankly he didn’t want to take his hands off it ever.

At least not until he heard the sound of someone clearing their throat very close to their vicinity and the familiar stern voice saying the word, “Boys,” in a very crisp, no nonsense tone. It was the biggest of turn offs a person could ever hope for.

Liam found his tongue flicking out to lick at his red and heated lips the moment he and Theo pulled apart.

Sheriff Stilinski’s unamused face was the sight that immediately greeted them.

“Sheriff,” said Theo with a nod as a greeting.

The Sheriff’s reply was a gonad shriveling glare that he shot the both of them.

“Explanation. Now.”

Liam and Theo shared a look before launching into the most abysmal, incoherent, inconsistent explanation that somehow involved the song Extraterrestrial, a bottle of hot sauce, two cans of skimmed milk and the Ace of Diamonds – at the same time.

The Sheriff looked like he was seriously considering murder in that moment which he said as much. “I would honestly kill both of you right now, but then I’d be sparing myself the joy of watching your dad –” he pointed at Liam with a stern finger, “– and Melissa McCall –” he said pointing at Theo (who all of a sudden looked much less amused and slightly more concerned) – “Kill both of you. Slowly. Hell, if I’m lucky I might just get in on some of that action; Scott too. As a matter of fact, we’ll make a party of it!”

“Excuse me, Sheriff,” said Theo suddenly and Liam wondered if it would still be considered manslaughter of you killed a person in front of about half a dozen officers of the law. He vehemently hissed at Theo to ‘shut the hell up’, which unsurprisingly went unheeded. “Would it help any if I said that I was offended by their terrible portrayal of werewolves? I mean, what kind of self-respecting werewolf plays basketball?”

For the record, no, it did not help any.

Getting slammed into the hood of a cruiser while having his arms being yanked behind him and cuffed with cold hard steel was honestly not much fun. It was slightly more fun watching it being done to Theo and seeing the way his face scrunched up in pain. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough to get the insufferable asshole to shut up.

“I didn’t know you liked it rough, Sheriff.”

“Shut the fuck up, Theo!” he found himself hollering across the distance.

And Liam had such a positive start to the day too.

To say that his dad was livid would have been like saying a whale was a very big anchovy. He wasn’t allowed to leave the house or have any contact with the outside world at all. His only means of communication was eavesdropping whenever his dad was watching the news to hear whether there had been a reported murder in Beacon Hill or news about a dead body of an eighteen year old male, dark hair, blue eyes, insufferable attitude, washing up on the shore.

There wasn’t.

The silver lining (as Theo –god rest his soul – would have said) came a few days later when it came to light that the fair had been a front for an underground drug ring. They used the fair as a cover to move from town to town making and selling meth, and apparently, the highest concentrated amount of it was found inside the milkshake stand. Liam felt a little bad when it occurred to him that he might have gotten Theo a glass of methshake instead of a milkshake…

Sheriff Stilinski came personally to deliver the news to him and his parents. So not only was he off the hook for the shenanigans he and Theo pulled, the both of them were also getting commendations from the Mayor for thwarting a massive criminal organization.

Once he was freed from his house arrest – his dad was not so much pleased by the sudden turn of events as he was relieved – the absolute first thing he decided to do was to go see Theo (or what was left of him anyway).

Frustratingly enough, the guy seemingly came out of it completely unscathed.

“Tell me the truth,” he said straight out of the gate, “Was this whole thing intentional, or just a massive coincidence.”

Theo’s smug grin gave nothing away. “Of course it was intentional. You think I’d really wreck that much havoc on such an innocent establishment?”

“Yes,” said Liam immediately with absolute certainty.

“Okay, fine. It was a bit of both, okay? Something didn’t feel right in that place but I couldn’t put my finger on it, so I thought, what best way to get to the bottom of it while getting our kicks at the same time?”

“Right,” said Liam skeptically.

“Why do you not believe me?” asked Theo, feigning hurt.

“Cause you’re you and your middle name is ‘trouble’.”

“That’s a gross oversimplification,” said Theo.

“Oh really?”

“My actual middle name is ‘chaotic neutral.”

Liam couldn’t hold back his snort. “You’re right about the chaotic bit but there’s absolutely nothing neutral about you.”

“Please, Liam, I’m the most neutral person you know. Who else can play both sides of the field with as much skill and grace as me? Besides you, that is – I mean, between me and Hayden, that’s like opposite ends of the spectrum in more ways than one.”

“You’re really full of yourself, you know that?” said Liam, rubbing at his face with his hand.

“But that’s why you love me,” said Theo with a smirk.

“I do not –”

Liam was silenced completely by the lips that came down to meet his.

And so, all’s well that ends well, or in their case, it helped being the luckiest motherfuckers alive cause Liam was pretty fond of being alive thank you very much.

The one thing they could both agree on was to make a blood sworn oath to never talk about the Ferris wheel hot dog incident to anyone ever, dead or alive.

The End.

#teenwolfexchange #thiam #theo raeken #liam dunbar #teen wolf #reiven fics #reiven teen wolf fics #fics: all's fair that ends fare #reiven gifts

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